With dazed obedience, she let her hands slide down his powerful chest, his tautly muscled stomach, his lean hips, till she found the essence of his maleness. His desire flowed against her fingers, silky and warm, and so potent it stirred an ache in her that was actually painful. And Jafar was experiencing a similar pain, Alysson realized. The soft groan that sounded deep in his throat told her just how agonizing he found the gentleness of her touch.
His arms came around her then. His urgent hands ran down the silky contours of her back, cupped her bottom, and hauled her fiercely close, making her feel the naked heat and strength of him.
"I want you, Ehuresh," he whispered harshly. "I want to do everything to you that a man has ever done to a woman . . ."
His lips claimed hers then, and there were no more words. His mouth mated with hers, their tongues meeting in hot, deep, writhing kisses. Passion flowed between them, dark and sweet, with a fierceness that was almost shocking. She felt the near-desperation of Jafar's lips, felt the seeking, the need, the wildness, and it touched an answering need deep within her. The sensual fire that burned in him, burned in her also.
Hardly aware of anything but that fire, Alysson submitted with yielding acquiescence, to the ungentle, prompting pressure that guided her backward. Lost in the dark honey of his kisses, she clung to him as he urged her toward the pallet. Then he was pressing her down among the soft pillows, following her, covering her, the heat from his body bathing her heightened senses.
"Jafar . . ." She only had time to whisper his name before he captured her mouth again with his, kissing her with such fierce demand that she was giddy. At his savage tenderness, she felt something wild and primitive wrench free inside her, like moorings ripped loose by a dark desert wind. It liberated an unknown, unexplored side of her, the side that was tempestuous, eager, not guided by reason, the deepest side of her, a wild and restless and questing Alysson Vickery. Feeling as if her spirit were soaring, she whimpered and strained against him, trying to absorb his body into hers.
Jafar responded with answering frenzy, his fingers delving into the riotous tangle of her hair, while his tongue plunged deeply into her mouth.
His mouth ate hers greedily, with a raw savage hunger that called to her. Warmth spread to her blood with a fierce, unbearable intensity, creating a wonderful, moist, aching weakness that pulsed in her most secret places. When an eternity later he allowed her to take a breath, she moaned, flinging her head back, instinctively offering him her throat and her breasts.
Without hesitation, he accommodated her, his lips moving over her silken skin. His tongue was a pagan lash of fire, leaving her hot and wanting. Her breasts hurt, swelled to his touch. Her body became taut and flushed.
And Jafar shamelessly encouraged her restless ardor. Hoarsely he whispered to her, disjointed words and phrases that made her quiver in response. She heard his murmured endearments as if from a great distance. Want had become craving. Craving had become need. Driving, desperate, mind-blotting.
Her hands roamed blindly over his hard-muscled body. She had never ached to touch a man this way, to be touched so intimately. She craved his possession, yearned for it, a yearning that would have shocked her if she could have thought beyond this moment. Once, the thought of such complete surrender would have appalled her. She had been afraid, perhaps even terrified, to lose herself in him. But his sensual, urgent caresses took away any possibility of fear.
She welcomed him eagerly, twisting her hips, arching upward as his fingers found the secrets of her femininity, stroking the hot, slick dampness, readying her for his taking.
Her eyes closed helplessly; her head thrashed from side to side in tortured longing. Yet the more feverish she became, the more he gentled his touch. Impossibly, he seemed to regain control as hers melted away.
Still, his need was as great as hers, she was certain. She felt his unchecked trembling as he gently parted her legs with his muscular thighs and prepared to claim her innocence. His hard body was shaking, throbbing with the passion he felt. She knew it, yet she could scarcely credit the realization that this proud, hard, ruthless man could be brought to his knees by desire for her.
In one dim, desire-hazed corner of her mind, Alysson felt strangely humbled. The ability to create such vulnerability in Jafar awed her, yet filled her with an overwhelming sense of invincible power. When he settled lower, between her thighs, she found herself responding with her whole heart, without shame or nervousness, straining toward him, lifting her hips to receive him, to join with him in a way that was elemental, natural.
Even so, his slowly thrusting entrance took her unaware, making her suddenly stiffen. She was breathless for a moment, from the sharp pain and from the impact of his invasion.
Jafar went still, gazing down at Alysson with such tenderness that she felt her heart swell with aching emotion. "Do you want me to stop?" he murmured in unmistakable English. But she was beyond comprehending that strange fact.
"No . . . no, please . . . don't stop!" Her soft gasp was a throaty imperative, a plea.
He smiled . . . a smile of such sensual brilliance that it warmed her all over again. "Never, Ehuresh."
Then slowly, with infinite care, he began to move again, scattering impassioned kisses over her face and throat and shoulders, pressing slowly deeper until her body yielded and took him completely.
Alysson exhaled slowly on a whimper of pleasure. She had not known how empty she was until he filled her. Had not known what rapture was until he became part of her. She felt an amazing sense of completeness that only Jafar could give her. The pain was gone now, leaving only throbbing, pulsing joy.
"Look at me," Jafar murmured hoarsely, but it was an unnecessary command. She couldn't have turned away if her life had depended on it.
He surveyed her flushed, love-drugged face as his hips withdrew and began another slow full thrust.
It was a measured, maddeningly gende possession that nearly drove Alysson wild. Hot and feverish beneath him, she watched the light and darkness moving in his eyes as his body played skillfully against hers, teasing and tormenting, deliberately arousing her to a heated pitch. Presently, though, Jafar was caught up in the same sensual need he had created in her. Laboring for breath, he gave up his lover's games and increased the tempo. Abandoning gentleness for mastery, he arched over her, his hips moving in and out in a hot urgent rhythm.
"My sweet tigress . . ." Jafar rasped as he surged into her with a fierce, tantalizing thrust. Her whimper of pleasure became a sob of joy. Gasping, she strained against him with frenzied abandon, moving in wild, joyous response to his possession, withholding nothing. For her this joining was a celebration of Jafar's safe deliverance from battle, a celebration of life itself. For him it was a reverent consecration of her surrender.
"You are mine," he whispered harshly, hissing his ownership against her ear.
Yes! She wanted to cry in answer, but her breath was stolen from her as the spiraling ecstasy swept her up in its vortex. All she could do was give herself up to the glorious world of heat and light and sensation Jafar had created for her, as in his arms she became fully a woman.
"Alysson . . ." Jafar rasped her name in a fractured whisper of passion as he joined with her in paradise.
The slow return to consciousness long, long moments later was a cautious affair for Jafar. He felt as though his body and soul had shattered in a million fragments, and he wasn't certain if they could be mended.
For a long while he lay there completely still, his body cradled by hers, not daring to move except for the slight effort to spare Alysson the bulk of his weight. His breath was coming in ragged gasps, his limbs felt hot and heavy and languorous, while the tenderness welling within him made his heart feel near to bursting.
At last he chanced movement, his lips brushing her damp temple, her soft cheek, the curve of her throat, as he waited for the pounding rhythm of his heart to calm.
The imprecise thought that came floating into his mind then was m
ore a vague comprehension than any conscious reflection: the surrender he had demanded of her had been given freely. And in accepting the gift, he had surrendered part of himself in return.
He had possessed and been possessed.
An imprecise notion, perhaps, but he sensed that for a precious moment in time, they had bonded together completely—physically, emotionally, spiritually. Had Alysson experienced that same soul-shattering union as well? Jafar was as certain as he was of his next heartbeat that she had felt at least physical pleasure. But had it been anything more for her?
Her soft sigh, part contentment, part exhaustion, wafting against his lips, didn't provide the answer he needed.
Jafar's own sigh was far heavier as tenderly he gathered Alysson's unresisting body in his arms. For the moment she had surrendered to him. For the moment she had yielded. But as he held her limp and sweetly sated form tightly against him, he had to acknowledge an irrefutable truth. The mere act of possession did not make Alysson his.
Part Three
Let it be known to all that
The storm of love can kill!
By Allah! if this be so, I have
Not long to live. The sun will
Never shine again upon me!
Berber poet
Chapter 18
Alysson awoke to the bustling morning sounds of the camp, alone but not lonely. How could she be lonely when she had the incredible memories of last night to warm her?
Reluctant to move, she buried herself more deeply in the blankets, missing the delicious heat of Jafar's body, the arousing sensuality of his caresses.
Jafar had left before dawn. With a soft endearment and a final kiss, he'd extricated himself from the drape of her sleepy body, whispering, at her murmured protest, some low explanation that she'd only half-understood about protecting her reputation and her uncle's sensibilities.
Now, as she stretched carefully, gingerly testing the sweetly aching muscles of her naked body, Alysson realized what Jafar had meant. It would be impossible to maintain appearances if he was found in her bed.
The thought made her smile. That a savage Berber warlord would be concerned about the sentiments of one aging, wounded Frenchman seemed totally incongruous. Yet she'd known for some time now that Jafar wasn't as savage and ruthless as she'd once believed. And she was immensely grateful now that he'd wanted to shield her uncle from the knowledge that they had become lovers.
Lovers.
Her smile softened with remembered pleasure. She had taken a lover. An incredibly sensual man who had carried her to the heights of fulfillment she'd never dreamed possible. A vitally masculine man who had made her feel richer as a woman than she'd ever felt in her life. The knowledge brought no shame, only contentment. She was a woman now; Jafar had made her one. All during the long night he
had shown her what it was like for a woman to be properly loved by a man.
He wasn't a gentle lover, except for the first time. He was fiercely tender, exotic, wildly exciting, as ruthless in his lovemaking as he was in war. He had possessed her thoroughly, asserting a mastery that had claimed her heart as well as her body.
Her smile abruptly faded. She could no longer doubt she was in love with Jafar, but those feelings were too new and fragile to bear full examination just yet. And the guilt that accompanied those feelings was too disturbing to dwell on. She had betrayed Gervase. Willingly, by her own choice. With the barbarian who had taken him prisoner, who had taken her prisoner, who had the power of life and death over them both. It was not something she could be proud of.
Suddenly restless, Alysson flung off the covers and promptly winced at the tender ache between her thighs. More carefully, she rose from the pallet and hurried to wash and dress, then helped Mahmoud pack up the furnishings and tent in preparation for the long journey ahead. All the while, she tried to discipline her thoughts, but vivid recollections of the warm pulsing rapture that Jafar had created with her last night were never far from her awareness. And when she went to find her uncle and Chand, there was a fresh sparkle in her eyes that belied the dark smudges beneath them.
Still, she managed to act normally until the caravan was nearly ready to depart and Jafar rode up on his black stallion. She hadn't counted on what the sight of him would do to her.
His eyes were like heated golden velvet as they gazed down at her, while the tender curve of his lips, as he smiled softly at her in greeting, made her suddenly remember the taste of his mouth and skin. Her pulse went wild.
Jafar had to be conscious of it, she thought breathlessly. The sexual awareness that arced between them was so powerful, so tangible, that Alysson had the impression the very air crackled around them. When his gaze riveted on her own mouth that was a soft bruised red, she knew without a doubt Jafar was contemplating very seriously kissing her right then and there. She found herself experiencing a flutter of emotions so new, so strong, so upsetting to her usual self- possession that she could hardly think.
"Good morning, Mademoiselle Vickery," he said evenly.
Only the hint of a husky rasp in his voice made his proper, conventional greeting at all palatable. How could he sound so formal when she could almost feel again the bold thrust of him between her thighs?
She must have answered, but she hardly heard his polite inquiry about her uncle's comfort. And when he asked about her own health, she murmured some vague reply that she only hoped was coherent.
"Are you able to ride?" Jafar finally said in a voice too low to be overheard by her uncle or servant.
Alysson gave him a blank look. "Yes, of course. Why shouldn't I be?"
His answering smile was both wry and intimate as his gaze slowly dropped to peruse her body. "I would imagine that mounting a horse just now could only add to any discomfort you might be feeling."
Comprehending at last, Alysson felt a scarlet blush rise to her cheeks. "N-no, I'm quite all right," she stammered, much to her chagrin.
"Very well. But you have only to ask and I will make other arrangements."
"Yes . . . of course . . . thank you."
He didn't kiss her, to her immense regret. When finally he rode away, toward the head of the column, Alysson stood there watching him, feeling wanton longing and a fierce disappointment, her body throbbing with unfulfilled desire.
She mounted her horse gingerly, with those same overwhelming feelings hammering at her thoughts, at her senses. She should be pondering what fate had in store for her, she knew—or more precisely, what Jafar had in store for her. But as she set out on the long journey, her mind was filled to the exclusion of all else with the memories of passion and the sensual, magical prowess of her savage Berber lover.
It took three full days of hard riding to reach Jafar's mountain home. To Alysson's surprise they traveled north and east, almost retracing their steps to the place where she'd spent the first weeks of her captivity. Leaving the desert behind, they entered the arid wastes of the High Plateau and passed the salt lake she had seen during her near-fatal attempt at escape. They were headed, it seemed, toward the distant blue mountains dotted with scrub. The first night they camped near the range of foothills.
Alysson slept alone, which only increased her frustration and longing. She was a jumble of nerves, being so near to Jafar without being able to touch him or kiss him or feel his hard body moving against hers. And yet she didn't dare show such interest in him, not with her uncle so near and with Chand hovering at her side like a mother hen. Chand had taken to scowling at her in silent disapproval, as if he somehow suspected her of harboring unchaste proclivities toward their Berber host.
The journey was just as tortuous for Jafar. He thought of her a hundred times a day; he wanted to touch her no less often.
For the sake of appearances, he kept his distance; he would not shame her before her uncle. Yet he watched Alysson from afar. Seeing her with the elderly Frenchman and her Indian servant, Jafar found himself envious of the easy playfulness in her manner, the loving familiarity betw
een them.
He wanted that same familiarity for himself. Merely possessing her sweet body had not been enough. Even her willing surrender had not been enough. For while taking her body had satisfied him completely, it had only left him craving more. He wanted Alysson with a single-mindedness that was nearly obsession.
And he would have her, for a time. He would keep her by his side until her uncle's wounds healed. Then he would force himself to let her go.
His selfishness was not honorable, certainly. Nor was it something he could justify to her. He'd seen the shimmering questions in her eyes, questions that he couldn't, wouldn't answer truthfully. The excuse of her uncle's health would have to suffice.
Yet that wasn't entirely spurious as excuses went, Jafar thought defiantly. He did care about what happened to the elderly gentleman, if only because he didn't want to cause Alysson further pain.
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