Lord of Desire

by Nicole Jordan

“The women of the Ouled Nail tribe range all over Barbary," he explained. "Their dances are famous in every city."

  "I would not have thought their men would approve of them dancing in public," Alysson murmured, recalling how protective the Arabs were of the female gender.

  "Their men not only approve, but encourage them." Jafar smiled when Alysson's eyes widened. "These women are courtesans, Ehuresh. They make their living dancing and selling their . . . ah, charms to the other tribes of the kingdom for a handsome price. In fact, their men think nothing of selling their wives and daughters for the money they bring."

  They were prostitutes, Alysson thought weakly. "How barbaric," she managed to reply.

  "On the contrary. It is all quite civilized. They provide a valuable service, and in exchange, earn money to bring home to their husbands, or collect enough for a dowry so they may marry."

  Disturbed, Alysson turned back to watch Fatum dance, yet as the slow expressive movements changed into a flaming, sensual frenzy, she couldn't help but wonder precisely what the dancer's relationship was to Jafar. She was grateful when Fatum finally finished.

  Fatum was replaced by a second woman with the same thin aquiline nose and fiery eyes, the same jet-black hair. This dancer, however, wore chalwar—full pantaloons of scarlet satin brocade—along with a fringed sash and a black velvet bolero embroidered with gold thread. On her head was a small black cap, and on her feet were red suede slippers. She also sported gold anklets in addition to the excessive amount of heavy gold jewelry similar to that which Fatum had worn.

  The new dancer's long black hair swirled around her body as she twisted her ample curves in an age-old pantomime of desire, showing to advantage her savagely beautiful and graceful figure.

  "I suppose you know her as well," Alysson murmured, unable to keep the waspish note from her voice.

  Turning, Jafar raised an eyebrow at her, observing her curiously. There might also have been a hint of amusement in his eyes as he replied, "Her name is Barca."

  He deftly changed the subject then, explaining the meanings of the various ritual dances. While Fatum had performed the Dance of the Handkerchief, this was the Dance of the Sword. Next an entire group of half-wild women of the Ouled Nail tribe came out to dance and sing of heroism and love.

  Then Fatum and Barca returned to dance more of the burning dances of the desert, sinuously undulating their firm young bodies, emitting a violent and savage sensuality. That, as well as their alluring glances at Jafar, Alysson found profoundly disturbing. If they had not yet known the ecstasy of Jafar's bed, they were certainly amenable now.

  Perhaps, Alysson thought, pressing her lips together, Jafar hadn't been lying when he claimed to have no concubines. With beauties like these at his beck and call, Jafar would have little need for a permanent stable of mistresses.

  Other than an appreciative interest in the artistry of the dance, however, Jafar paid little attention to the women posturing and swaying before him. And he paid no attention at all to the alluring glances cast by Fatum and Barca. Whatever erotic thoughts he had were solely focused on the young woman sitting beside him. Whatever arousal he felt was due entirely to Alysson Vickery.

  And he did feel arousal. Her nearness, her very presence, was like an elixir in his blood. Even now, although sitting quite still, she was so intensely alive that other women seemed tame in contrast.

  Involuntarily, Jafar shifted his glance to Alysson, letting his gaze caress her. She was so different from the women of his country, yet she didn't suffer in comparison. Not only was she as fiery as any impassioned daughter of the desert, she possessed the proud and courageous spirit of the Atlas highlands. Her very vitality inflamed his senses. That, and his own vivid recollections.

  He felt his blood heat as the image of her lying naked beneath him raced through his memory . . . her slender, flushed body, so shapely and supple and sweet-breasted. He wanted to have her that way again. He wanted her passionate. He wanted to pleasure her, to please her . . .

  Alysson chose that moment to meet his gaze. A mistake, she realized at once. In Jafar's eyes she saw an unsettling, smoldering possession that roused as acutely as a touch. Her breathing shallowed. The blatant desire in his golden hawk's gaze was too provocative, too naked. She had to look away.

  It startled her that desire could be born so quickly from just a simple glimpse, yet she couldn't deny the savage spark of feeling that flared between them—a fierce, primitive feeling of lust, of need, of want. She wanted him. With a desperation that was totally inexplicable, entirely reprehensible. Which only added further confusion to the tangled, bittersweet, complicated emotions she felt for Jafar.

  For the remainder of the performance, Alysson sat in tense, unappreciative silence, trying unsuccessfully to dismiss such disquieting thoughts of him from her mind. She was grateful when the entertainment concluded, for she thought surely the dancers would leave. Much her dismay, though, both Fatum and Barca sauntered over to kneel before Jafar in order to hear his praise.

  Alysson forced herself to murmur a polite compliment about their dancing, which Jafar then translated. For a full minute she even endured the sly glances and the not-so- subtle enmity of the other two women while they conversed with Jafar in his language, which she couldn't understand. Then abruptly Alysson rose and crossed the rooftop to the far parapet wall. She knew it was rude of her, but she couldn't bear to remain another minute while those two sultry beauties flirted with Jafar and made arrangements to share his bed.

  She was staring restlessly at the crowded streets below when she felt his presence beside her. Behind her there was silence; apparently he had dismissed both the dancers and the musicians. But the noise from below was no less diminished. It only served to scrape her already lacerated nerves.

  "Is this an example of your wild celebrations?" Alysson asked finally when Jafar didn't speak.

  "Yes. Often dances are held in the open air. Afterward the performances are followed by the ritual of Leilat el Gholta. The Night of Error."

  "Error? What does that mean?"

  "No one knows. Leilat el Gholta is a Berber custom which springs from mystic beliefs. The participants choose a partner for the evening and surrender themselves to debauchery for the night."

  Alysson felt shock coloring her cheekbones as she turned to look up at Jafar. "Do you mean to tell me your festival is little more than an orgy?"

  He stared down at her for the space of several heartbeats, his gaze dark and intent. But his smile, when it came, was the epitome of masculine beauty. "It is very much an orgy, chérie."

  Alysson caught her breath, diverted not so much by the implications of what he had just said, as by the wild and daring notion that had just entered her head.

  In fact, she was surprised to feel herself trembling. But it was quite cold, after all. As usual in the desert, the temperature had fallen dramatically with the setting sun. She tensed as Jafar reached around her to draw the folds of her burnous more snugly around her shoulders.

  "Come, you are shivering. I will take you . . ."

  His hesitation struck her in an odd way. Home, was what he had meant to say, she was sure. But she couldn't quell the erotic images his unfinished statement conjured up. He would take her.

  Mentally Alysson shook herself. Making love to her was not at all what Jafar had meant. Instead, he would escort her back to his tent, but like the previous night, he wouldn't stay. He would leave her to sleep alone, to bear the unbearable ache of physical frustration and unfulfilled desire. Then no doubt he would return here to enjoy the "valuable services" the exotic Ouled Nail courtesans were all too willing to provide.

  Unless she stopped him.

  The thought made Alysson clench her fingers till the nails scored her palms. Yet she had to acknowledge the truth. In one respect, she was actually no different from those courtesans. She wanted Jafar, wanted to give herself to him, to experience fully the passion that she'd only tasted in his arms that night long ago.


  Just then she heard shouting in the street. Alysson turned to peer over the wall, deliberately not looking at Jafar. "Are infidels allowed to participate in this Night of Error?"

  "I suppose so. Why do you ask?"

  She took a deep breath. This would not be the first time she had let herself be ruled by her wild and reckless heart. "Because," Alysson replied, keeping her tone light, "I find the thought of an orgy fascinating. Are participants allowed to choose any partner they wish?"

  She could feel Jafar's penetrating gaze boring into her. "Yes. There are no rules governing the choice. It makes no difference whether they are married or are strangers."

  "Does it matter who does the choosing, the man or the woman?"

  There was a long hesitation, before Jafar answered slowly. "No."

  "Well then," Alysson said, somehow managing to keep her voice steady, despite the excitement and sweet arousal that was flooding her veins, "if it makes no difference, I choose you."

  Chapter 17

  The din of the celebration increased as Alysson and Jafar made their way back to camp through the crowded streets. The noise was a direct contrast to the silence between them. Jafar had not replied to her claim. Indeed, he had not spoken a word since she'd made her abrupt announcement.

  Alysson had no idea what he was thinking. When she glanced at Jafar, his face was a collection of harsh shadows. He was not indifferent to her, though, that much she could tell. He had placed an arm around her shoulders to protect her from being jostled, while his other hand rested on the jeweled dagger at his waist. With him so near, she could feel his muscles coiled with a vital, dangerous energy.

  She herself felt calm, yet alight with a cold flame of excitement. Tonight would be different from the last. This night she would not sleep alone.

  The noise had abated by the time they finally reached Jafar's tent, so much that Alysson could almost hear the erratic beating of her heart. The oil lamp which had been left burning cast a welcome glow over the luxurious interior of the tent. Jafar escorted her inside, but then paused.

  Without a word, he turned back toward the entrance.

  Alysson felt her stomach twist into knots. "Jafar . . . wait!"

  He halted abruptly, his stance rigid, expectant.

  Alysson clenched her hands. All she could think about was that he would return to those women, that he would make love to those other women and not her. “Please . . . don't leave."

  An eternity passed before he turned slowly again to face her. Meeting his gaze, she could see a hard and beautiful vibrancy deep in his golden eyes. "I told you before, Ehuresh, that I don't want your gratitude."

  She didn't misunderstand him; Jafar thought she was offering herself because he had spared her fiancé's life. But it wasn't gratitude she was feeling at the moment. She hadn't even thought of Gervase in hours, which was perhaps shameful.

  "No." Alysson shook her head. She was immensely grateful that he hadn't killed Gervase, but the powerful emotions she felt for this man standing before her had nothing remotely to do with gratitude. "No," she repeated in a stronger voice. "It's not gratitude. I want you for myself . . . for my lover."

  How could he not believe her? Alysson wondered a bit desperately as she stood waiting for his answer. She held her breath while her fate hung in the balance.

  Finally, in response, Jafar reached behind him to loosen the tent flap. He let it fall, shutting out the rest of the world. "I wasn't leaving," he said quietly.

  Her heart began beating again; her breathing resumed.

  Both took up an erratic rhythm when Jafar slowly moved toward her. Standing directly before her, he brushed the hood of her burnous back from her face. With almost a kind of reverence, he buried his hands in her hair, savoring the silky texture. But his eyes were fastened intently on her mouth.

  Then he bent his head.

  His kiss was not gentle; in it she tasted heat, danger, darkness . . . a hunger that matched her own. Though Jafar held her head still so he could ravish her mouth, she offered no resistance. Instead, her lips yielded under his in lush invitation, while blindly her arms came up to encircle his neck.

  His teeth bit her bottom lip, gnawing gently, impatiently, provocatively, pulling the sensitive flesh into his mouth where he sucked it. A soft wild sound tore from her throat.

  Jafar reacted to that arousing little sound like a man gone mad. Dragging his mouth away, he frenziedly kissed her slender throat, which arched gracefully, then bent her back over his arm. Feverishly seeking, his mouth moved downward over her robes, to close possessively over the ripe peak of her breast.

  Alysson sucked in her breath. Even beneath layers of silk, she could feel the shocking warmth of his mouth and the immediate impact on her body; her nipple budded tightly, while a stabbing pleasure flooded her mind.

  For a single moment she let herself ponder how Jafar's other women had managed to survive such incredible sensations. Then she banished the thought. It was useless to wonder how many women had found paradise in his arms before her. For tonight she would simply cherish the extraordinary feeling of being the woman who inspired his desire.

  Careless of his headdress, she clutched at his turban, knocking it to the floor. Her grasping fingers twined in his tawny gold hair as she gave herself up with total abandon to the fierce delight of his embrace, to the sensual arousal of his caresses.

  It was a long moment before Jafar finally drew a ragged breath and raised his head.

  Dazed, awed, captivated, Alysson lifted her gaze to his. There was no pretense of charm within those amber depths, only smoldering fire.

  "Undress me." The harsh, throaty texture of his voice ran over her raw nerve endings like a sensual fire. "Not here," Jafar amended when she reached for the sash at his waist.

  Almost trembling, Alysson obeyed his command. Taking his hand, she led Jafar into the darkened bedchamber, where unsteadily she removed the jeweled dagger and let it fall to the floor, then unwound his sash. Her shaking fingers tangled in the length of cloth because she paid so little attention to her task. All she could do was watch Jafar. With his hair wild from her fingers, he looked rugged, barbarous, and so blatantly sensual that she thought she might die if he didn't kiss her again soon.

  But still she was too slow. When she struggled to remove his djellaba, Jafar took control. Impatiently he tugged it over his head, exposing his bare chest to her fascinated view. Awed by his masculine beauty, Alysson raised an inquisitive hand. She could no more have denied herself the need to touch him than she could have disavowed her next breath.

  Her fingers, tentative yet strangely brazen, spread across his chest, exploring contours and planes and textures. His silken skin, hot as fire, rippled over steel-honed muscles, making her ache with need.

  Her wondering touch affected Jafar similarly. When she made brief shy contact with his hard, flat nipples, the muscles in his jaw tightened as if he were in pain. Murmuring a soft oath, he stepped back, out of reach, to shed his remaining garments.

  When he was done, the sight of his virile nudity stole her breath away. Dazed, weak, Alysson remained completely still; she could only stare at his magnificent male form, at the blatant evidence of his desire.

  "Now, you." His voice was deeply husky now and edged with desire.

  Hardly knowing what she was doing, Alysson bent and removed her slippers, then her own sash. But when it came to removing her robes, she hesitated, instinctively shying away from exposing her nakedness.

  Jafar wouldn't let her desist, though. He kept his hot, glittering gaze fixed steadily on her, as if he would seek out all her secrets and destroy them.

  Trembling, Alysson complied with his silent command. This was not a night for secrets, after all.

  She heard his sharp inhalation as her slender body was bared to his gaze. When somehow she found the courage to meet his eyes, the boldness of his scrutiny nearly unnerved her. His eyes made a thorough sweep of her body, roaming over her nakedness, touching her more intimately
than his hands had done.

  Those golden eyes were unmistakably hungry, yet they hazed with a possessive look as he reached for her, the predator's gaze softened by need.

  Surprisingly, he didn't take her in his arms. Instead, his hand lightly feathered across her abdomen, then lower, to the lush riot of silky chestnut hair between her thighs.

  "Oh . . . God . . ." Alysson gasped as a shaft of pleasure streaked through her, a pleasure so intense that her weak legs nearly buckled beneath her. Helplessly she grasped Jafar's muscular shoulders to keep from falling.

  Yet he didn't stop his skillful, mind-destroying caresses. His features grew heavy with sensual pleasure as he watched her quivering response. Wondering if she could bear another moment of such exquisite torment, Alysson drew a shuddering breath into her lungs and closed her eyes.

  Numerous pounding heartbeats later, she heard Jafar's hoarse command as if from a great distance. "Touch me, Ehuresh . . ."