He took her nipple in his mouth and she moaned, her arms coming around his head, her body lifting to his, wanting more. Only wanting more. Inshallah, let there be more!
The love of man and woman—only Allah could give a gift so fine and rich.
Michael’s mouth teased her. His tongue and teeth raised small cries from her as his hands worked the small knot at her waist, slipped inside her trousers and found where the heat waited and built.
She opened her eyes and found him gazing down at her. His fingers stroked her, igniting small, broken gasps she could not control.
“The lovers will drink their wine night and day,” he whispered as his fingers found the source of her moisture, stroked, spread, eased themselves deep, deep, so deep it shocked her and yet there was more she wanted. She arched up into his hand, saw a smile—a true smile—blossom on his lips.
“What?” she gasped, her body catching the sliding rhythm of his hand.
“I see your pleasure.”
He leaned down to kiss her, lifting her hips to pull her trousers from her, then slipped free of his own.
She could not look away. She knew a man’s anatomy, but this was different. This was no rutting English doctor—this was a man in his glory, the starlight glimmering on his skin. A man erect and full of need, proud and ready even though he was wounded.
He came to his knees beside her and laid himself along her length, kissing her.
Her mouth, her neck. Time on her breasts, suckling so she almost cried with pleasure.
His hand urged her legs apart with a gentle touch, his body slid down hers, tongue in her navel, tasting, mouth-tongue on the secret parts of her body, exploring her darkness, tasting her, knowing her. Teasing her, as his fingers spread her, as his hands slid beneath her, held her buttocks, fingers spreading her cheeks, caressing, as all the while his tongue and teeth and lips found places she did not know existed, brought her to places she’s only dreamed did.
Higher. She floated above her body.
Higher. She was a speck of dust on the wind.
Higher, and she would scream if she could, if it would not shame her.
Higher, and the scream escaped. She was water pouring from a fountain. No control, just thrusts with her hips, her hands on his head, fingers buried in his hair as the waves of pleasure beat through her, as she lost herself and as he lifted himself from her and smiled once more.
Chapter 38
It was the most beautiful look in the world—Khadija, eyes wide and dazed with pleasure. She was natural, new, and his alone. No one had ever seen this look in Khadija’s eyes, Michael knew.
It was to be treasured, this look. Treasured and built upon. To only bring this woman pleasure—that was what was written. He’d known it since he first saw her, since even before, when Yaqub had shown him a picture of his sister.
He lowered himself beside her, stroking her skin, seeing her breath stutter in her chest. Her skin was erotic silk. A simple touch of her side brought him to hardness, a caress of her taut nipples almost more than he could bear.
“Shall we finish this, love?” he stroked her hair back from her face as he lifted himself above her. His length lay heavy on her stomach, pulsing as he anticipated what would come.
She swallowed, and a sudden boldness filled her eyes. “A condom?”
He chuckled and kissed her fiercely again. “Spoken like a western woman. But unless you have one, I fear that’s something we lack.”
She met his gaze a moment and he read her hesitation, knew this interlude was probably over. Then she surprised him by reaching down and feather soft fingers ran the length of him. He thought he might explode. He closed his eyes and groaned, heard her small chuckle.
“At last I find power over you.”
His eyes flashed open but there was only pleasure on her face, a joy that she could do this for him. Her small fist closed over him.
He kissed her as he kneed her legs apart. Her hands on him, made him drink deep of those rich lips, made him pull lower to take her nipple in his mouth, to bite down until she moaned.
In one swift move he raised himself above her, lifted her hips and ran himself over her. She wiggled in his grasp, opened herself like the petals of a flower.
Her eyes were huge, lashes fluttered as she waited, as he pressed himself further. Further, feeling her part before him, welcoming, soothing, sheathing him in her flesh and her eyes closed and her neck, her body arched, and “Oh” softly escaped her lips as the night disappeared.
He began to move. Slow, sensuous moves that would teach her a rhythm. He rested on his elbows, his mouth finding hers, finding her neck, trailing down to a damp nipple that jutted, tempting, into the air.
She moved with him, shifting herself to allow him entry, lifting her hips to bring him deeper and deeper until he was buried in her, lost in her, as her rhythm matched his.
Her hands came around his shoulders, trailed down his back and found his buttocks, pulling him into her, demanding he find his way deeper still.
He would oblige. He draped her knees on his shoulders and buried himself until the world might explode. He stopped and she ground against him, heard her breath ragged in his ears. Her little hands were on his hips, urging.
“Houri,” he smiled into her ear, and began his thrusts again.
Different this time. No more of the gentle probing, she was his now. His and she wanted him. Wanted him in her, wanted to be impaled on him, wanted each thrust and movement of him inside.
He moved faster, his back arched, his skin slick with sweat and her juices, his ears full of her cries, his name, her fingers on his hips, pulling, pulling.
She was warm around him, tight around him, he was where he should be, slicked with her, with him and her eyes were closed, and he wanted those lips, those breasts, those eyes. They were his, his alone and he would have her and have her and protect her forever, and sweet God could this go on forever, as he slammed into her, as she slammed into him and he exploded inside her with a yell matched only by her scream.
When he could see, she looked up at him from veiled eyes. Still inside her, he felt the small shudders still pulsing through her. He smiled down at her and saw a light bloom in her gaze.
“Michael.” Her hands came up to his face, trailed carefully down his chest. She pulled him down to her, ran her hands over his buttocks to keep him inside her.
Her walls throbbed and he hardened in response.
“What are you doing?” he growled in mock anger.
“Something I read about. All those medical books had to be good for something.”
She smiled innocently up at him.
Too innocently.
He pulled himself free and laid back beside her, his hands stroking her body. He could not stop himself. What the hell was he doing—had he done?
He’d just allowed her to do what he’d vowed he would not—get power over him. He’d allowed her to touch his heart.
The damned thing was, at this moment, with her breast under his hand, with her leg draped over his and the open wanting in her eyes, he didn’t care. For once he didn’t care that he’d probably killed himself, and everyone else as well.
Tonight all that mattered was this woman and their bodies and the fact they might not live another day. He might still kill her, though he doubted he had the fortitude.
She ran her hand down his slick length, smiled at him and dipped her head down his body, engulfing him in the sweep of her hair—pleasure in itself, and the skilled doctor’s fingers found him, her mouth found him and he was lost to the pleasure only two bodies can bring.
He stopped her before he came and lifted her up to his lap, ignoring the pain in his chest as she took him inside, as she rocked on him, his hands on her hips sliding up to her breasts, catching on her nipples, watching the joy on her face as she lost herself in pleasure under the stars and the wind caught her hair and spread it around her as if she was part of night itself until she came with a cry, and the pulsi
ng of her body set off his own great shudder and they collapsed together onto her jalabiyya.
He chuckled and pulled her onto him, her breasts against his injured chest, the taut nipples a teasing pleasure. Her moist body against his belly, her head tucked under his chin.
“Are you laughing at me?”
He shook his head.
“I was just thinking this is probably not the purpose intended for your coat.”
She was still a moment and then a soft laugh came from her—a sound that melted his heart. She should laugh more often.
“I think the blanket of night is enough,” she said.
Her breathing gradually slowed and he knew that she slept. He managed to snag one of the petu and dragged it over their nakedness, then lay looking up at the stars, trying to see what else they had written, before falling into a deep, sweet sleep.
He woke to Khadija’s shy smile as she tried to extricate herself gracefully from his embrace. Morning light filled the ravine with blue-grey shadows. The wind had paused as it often did between the inhale of day and the exhale of night.
She pulled the petu around her and scrambled to her feet, trying to gather her clothing, straighten the tangle of her hair, and not look at the naked desire her movement had created in his body.
He rolled onto his side and watched her as the petu slipped, revealing a shoulder, a half a breast, a length of thigh. It was better than any of the peep shows he had seen as a teenager, and more erotic.
She pulled a hand through her mat of hair and glanced in his direction. “You should wash and dress yourself.”
“Why? I’m not ashamed. I’m a man. I’m alive.”
He sat up, not bothering to cover his nakedness. If anything he felt better than he had for a long time, but that was a fool’s sense, wasn’t it? He was still left with the problem of a woman who knew his secrets, a woman he did not fully trust, but whom he cared about—too much.
He grabbed his salwar kameez and pulled it on, suddenly conscious of the ache in his side. When he stood she was fully dressed, the jalabiyya buttoned to her chin, a petu draped across her head, hiding the luxury of her hair. She collected fuel for a morning fire.
So it was to be like that. How quickly Khadija’s clouds hid the woman he thought he might—love? No, it was only simple physical need and the bond that came from close quarters and too many perils.
Not surprising that she pulled back from him. It said she’d already gained his secrets. What reason was there for her to continue to pretend? It must pain her not to be able to cleanse herself of his touch. He sighed and scanned the sky.
Soon. Best keep your mind on the mission, Bellis.
“We should move on, regardless of the daylight.”
She stopped. “I thought we’d rest another day. Give you a chance to rest.”
He’d already slowed them down too much. They should have ridden last night. Two nights lost and time was ticking—he’d tested his side—in more than one way. It was time to go on to Skazar and the Anjoman Pass.
Skazar: the place she would betray him.
Chapter 39
The village of Skazar sat in a broad valley at a confluence of rivers, caught in the confines of the mountains. Southwestward the land rose in great ragged, red steps up towards the Anjoman Pass and the green Panjshir Valley beyond. Here earthquakes rocked the land from the inundation of the Indian tectonic plate by continental Asia. Crossing the pass was the last hurdle—one Michael had done in a Jeep in one day—back in the days when this route brought ammunition down from the former Soviet states. Then there was only a dirt track that followed a river for part of the way, and then a hard scrabble over the high pass. Who knew the condition of the pass these days.
The town of Skazar was typical of Afghan hill towns. Flat-roofed houses spread along the river and the road. Many of the houses were in ruins—homes only to horses now.
After five days and an increase in elevation, here the typical white-limbed poplar and mountain ash were almost bare, the ground littered with their golden leaves and the air was chilled with the approaching winter. Dust over the brown-gold fields told of the last of wheat under final harvest. A few horses loafed in pastures and a shepherd guarded a herd of goats just downslope from where Michael crouched.
Khadija and the gelding waited back in the fold of the red hills while he scouted the town.
The enemy had done its best to disguise the fact they waited, but his trained eyes had seen the sun bounce from metal that should not be in a courtyard—not even in the courtyard of the fat Mujehaddin leader of the town who had gotten rich on the lapis trade that funneled through Skazar to Pakistan.
The Jeeps were parked under his porch roof to hide them from more than casual glance.
Once the Mujehaddin in these parts had been deadly enemies of the Taliban. The Mujehaddin leader, Massoud, the Lion of the Panjshir, had been martyred by Taliban assassins as a signal to the world of the jihad’s might. Once Michael had supped at the Skazar leader’s table, but time and profit made strange bedfellows these days.
Hashemi underestimated this time, though. Michael looked over his shoulder and his hands made fists. Do you know I know your plan, sweet Khadija? That I have not been lulled into walking into a trap?
He closed his eyes and leaned back for a moment, sun on his face. Last night, as if to wear him down, she had taken the initiative, removing his clothes, kneeling before him to minister to him until she pulled him down and shifted so she rode him to exhaustion and forgetfulness of the pain that ate at him.
At least the screaming no longer came into his dreams.
In some ways the sex was better than the hashish, but it sickened him more.
She had lain with him afterwards, cradling her small buttocks against his groin until he grew hard again and took her from behind.
Allah, she bewitches me.
But in the night he’d heard her crying.
Let her cry.
Having her in front of him on the horse was almost unbearable. He found his hands snuck under the folds of her petu, to cradle a breast as she leaned back against him. Dammit, his own body betrayed him.
This was the woman who had spat at him in Feyzabad. This was Hashemi’s harlot, that was all. He grimaced, not truly believing.
She was Yaqub’s sister and yet—he could not have been the first. She showed such bold willingness in her loving. Maybe she was Hashemi’s mistress.
Michael’s stomach twisted at the unfair thought. If only he could be sure his doubts were unfounded.
She was his. His smell was on her. Her smell was in him.
She was the enemy, no matter how she inflamed him.
Soon. So soon it must happen any day. That was what mattered.
He scrambled back through the rocks to the horse and the woman. His side throbbed. Damnation, just get supplies and get on through the mountains.
“Is it safe?” she asked.
She put her arms around him and looked up at him with those large, lustrous eyes. She’d placed her palm over his heart in a gesture of such intimacy his breath caught in his chest. Her skill as a courtesan could not be excelled by a professional. But then she was, wasn’t she?
He wanted to pull back, but that would make her suspect his knowledge.
“The town looks clear. I figure we might be able to trade one of the rifles for a horse and some supplies.”
He watched her face tighten.
Signs. Signs and clouds that shifted across her face like the landscape itself shifted. No one was as they seemed—at least not this houri with an angel’s face. He tasted bitter almonds in his mouth as he helped her onto the horse.
“We’ll ride to one of the houses on the outskirts and see what they can tell us before we chance town.” Dammit, keep your feelings out of your voice. You’re no novice at deceit.
He mounted behind her, ignoring the way her body fit so naturally to his as the gelding picked his way down the trail. He saw her scan the village
buildings as they came out of a copse of trees. Her jaw stiffened and she looked away from Skazar and back towards the hills.
“What is it?” The question felt brutal.
“Nothing. It just feels strange to be with other people again. I’ll miss being alone.” Such casual lightness.
“We still have the mountains to pass.” He nodded towards the heights. “Plenty of time for whatever you might have in mind.”
His voice was rough to his ears.
“Is everything all right?”
She half-turned in the saddle, the wind catching at the edge of the shawl and freeing small wisps of her hair.
“Clear as crystal.”
He looked back at the town, hating a world that could make them enemies. How could he ever have loved this land when it could do this to friends, to family, to lovers? It hurt to look at her, to have her so close and yet know she was someone he must push away. But here he would trap her. He would force her to be honest or he would leave her behind. Probably both.
Or kill her.
He’d thought long and hard to find the strength. If she lied he would find the coldness in his heart that had served him so well before, no matter what was between them.
He urged the horse towards a farm west of town and close by a river bed that was half-empty with the season. In spring it would flood, but now it would be easy to ford. At the front gate to the yard sat an old, bearded man in felted vest and black rubber boots. He smoked a pipe that gave off a lazy coil of sweet-scented opium. The people of the north often smoked the poppy to deal with arthritic pain, not realizing it was addictive.
“As-salaam ‘alaykum—peace upon you,” Michael began. The old man returned the greeting.
Michael dismounted and helped Khadija down.
“Sir, we’ve come a hard route from Feyzabad. We’ve lost a horse and would like to trade for another and supplies. We need to make it through the Anjoman Pass quickly. Could you help us?”
The old man waggled his head, than called over his shoulder. A younger version of him, in a traditional Afghan flat-crowned hat, came from an outbuilding, wiping his hands.
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