‘Tahira?’ Christopher flattened his hand over her hair, running it down her long plait to rest on the slope of her bottom. It was becoming a familiar caress, and it had a familiar effect, both reassuring and arousing at the same time. ‘Are you disappointed?’
She lifted her head, smiling up at him, for once caring not that he would see the sparkle of tears on her lashes. ‘I am overwhelmed. It is magical. If you’d asked me to describe my perfect oasis it would be just like this.’
‘Excellent, then we may now make your dream come true. Shall we?’ he said, gesturing towards the pool.
She hesitated, realising somewhat foolishly that he had taken her quite literally at her word. ‘When I said I wanted to swim in an oasis I meant—I can’t actually swim.’
‘It’s not too deep. You can walk over to the waterfall, the water won’t go above your waist. Or you can float. I can hold you. You’ll be perfectly safe.’
Tahira looked at the tempting waters of the oasis. She imagined the cool caress on her skin while Christopher held her. She thought of the delights she had read of in The Art of Love. ‘I don’t want to feel safe,’ she said, twining her arms around his neck. ‘I want to feel.’ She kissed him, licking into the corner of his mouth, running her tongue along his sensual bottom lip. ‘And I want you to feel too,’ she said.
‘Oh, but I do.’
She kissed him again. ‘Yes, but tonight, I want you to feel more.’
He stilled. ‘Tahira, we cannot... I cannot.’
‘There are many ways of making love,’ she said, ‘and many ways to reach the summit of pleasure together, a merging of passions but not of bodies.’
‘What on earth do you know of such things?’
She laughed, enjoying confounding him, excited by the spark her words had kindled in his eyes. ‘I’ve been doing some research. A bit of digging of my own, you might say. From a book.’
‘What book?’
‘The Art of Love. A most—a most educational tome.’
Christopher’s smile was sinful. ‘Theory has its place but I’m a great believer in the merit of practical experience.’
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Tahira said, ‘but first—don’t you think we should experience this beautiful desert pool?’
‘Oh, I think we can do better than that,’ he replied, unbuckling his belt and discarding his scimitar and dagger. ‘I think we should combine the two.’
Chapter Eight
Christopher pulled his tunic over his head, revealing a deeply tanned, lean and very muscled torso, his ribcage expanding as he raised his arms, the muscles of his stomach rippling. There was a smattering of dark-gold hair across his chest, which arrowed fascinatingly down to the belt of his trousers. His nipples were flat, dark discs, completely unlike her own. A scar, a pale, jagged line on his left side marred the otherwise sheer physical perfection of his body. ‘How did you come by that?’ Tahira asked.
‘The result of a slight altercation with a pasha’s bodyguard.’
Any other time, she would have asked him to elucidate, but right now, she was frozen, mesmerised by his body, so completely different from the illustrations in the explicit little textbook, so completely different from her own too. She wanted to touch him, but there was a world of difference between theory and practice, a world of difference between her fevered imaginings and the reality of this flesh-and-blood man.
‘Tahira, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. You can change your mind at any point.’
‘I haven’t changed my mind.’ Embarrassment made her sound as if she had. If Christopher thought for a moment that she was unwilling, that she needed persuading—she knew enough of his demons to be certain it would put an end to the prospect of having even a swim together. I would never, ever take such vile advantage, he had said to her. That discussion had brought their perfect night to an abrupt end. This perfect night had barely begun. She would not make the same mistake twice.
Tahira took a deep breath and unfastened the buttons which held her tunic in place. Blushing, but keeping her gaze fixed on him, she let the garment slither to the sand. There was no mistaking the flare of desire in the way his eyes widened, in the sharp intake of his breath as he looked at her. Her breasts would be clearly outlined under the flimsy chemise, she knew. As his gaze flickered down, she could feel her nipples hardening. He liked what he saw. She liked what it did to him.
Gaining confidence, she kicked off her boots. Her toes curled into the cool, damp sand. She waited, casting him a challenging look and he laughed when he understood her meaning, kicking off his own boots. His feet were surprisingly slender and very pale. Tahira took a step towards him, untying the sash which held her trousers in place.
Colour slashed his cheeks, but his hand caught her wrists. ‘Are you absolutely sure?’
She smiled then, knowing that her desire was reflected in her smile, confident now, despite her lack of experience. ‘Certain, Christopher,’ she said, and this time he believed her. His gaze was riveted on her hands as she untied the sash, letting the wide trousers drop to the sands. A sharp exhale again. He said her name, a low groan as he looked at her, clad only in her chemise and her short dizlik drawers, tied with lace at her knees. ‘Do you think this is a suitable costume for swimming?’
‘There is only one way to find out,’ Christopher said, closing the gap between them. Without warning, he scooped her up into his arms and began to wade into the oasis.
Laughing, Tahira put an arm around his neck. Laughter and passion were a heady mix, she discovered as she looked into his eyes, bluer than the water. A blue she would never forget. He held her high against his chest. She dared to brush the soft smattering of hair with her free hand. Rougher than she had expected, his skin hot to the touch. ‘Kiss me, Christopher,’ she whispered, her mouth a fraction from his.
He let her go, but only to pull her tight up against him. The water lapped around her knees, droplets splashed her back, but she barely noticed as he wrapped his arms around her. ‘Your wish is my command,’ he whispered. And then he kissed her.
She kissed him back with a new abandon, desire fuelled by confidence, not of experience but of certainty. He wanted her. That was all the encouragement she needed to explore his body, to run her hands over his bare skin, the rippling planes of his muscles, the skin first smooth then rough with hair, hot, then damp with sweat and the cool waters of the oasis. His breathing quickened like hers. His touch became more urgent as hers did, his hands on her back, her bottom, her breasts. His mouth on hers, deep, scorching kisses that made her moan, that made her frantic. His mouth on her breasts now, that sweet tug on her nipple that made her insides knot.
Their clothing was soaked through. Pressing herself against him, she could feel the hard ridge of his erect member, the potent symbol of his desire. That most intimate of unions was forbidden in every way, it was the line Christopher would never permit himself to cross, but she had already crossed a line. She would begin her wedding night a virgin, but she would be no innocent. There were so few ways in which she could rebel. It gave a sweet, lethal edge to her passion, to do this. One of the few choices she could make. Her secret. The man who would own her could never have this.
She kissed the man she had chosen with renewed fervour. Kissed his mouth and then his throat, and then his chest. His nipple peaked when she sucked on it. He moaned. He said something in his own language as he scooped her back up in his arms, staggering through the deeper waters to the cascade, soaking them both with spray in his hurry. She braced herself for the heavy fall of water, but it was brief. Behind the waterfall was a cave, the floor soft sand. Christopher set her down, and the kissing started again.
More kisses, and more as they sank to their knees, as he tore her chemise from her, to burrow his head between her breasts, cupping her, teasing her nipples, taking her to new
heights of delight. If passion was a colour it would not be the scarlet red of heat, it would be the blue of Christopher’s eyes, the gold of his hair. Glittering colours, sharp-edged, unforgettable.
They were entwined on the sand now, locked together, face-to-face, but as his hand trailed down her belly to the waistband of her drawers, once again he paused. ‘Are you sure you want to carry on?’
Her nerves returned as she reached to undo his belt, but she knew hesitation would be fatal, and she was determined that her satisfaction would not be one-sided this time. She tugged it open, shaking her head at him when he would have stopped her. ‘Christopher, I promise you, I want this.’
His chest expanded as he exhaled. His lids flickered closed for a tiny moment. ‘You know I will not...’
‘I know,’ Tahira said, sliding her hand inside his trousers before he could stop her. Silk and iron, the book had said, but as she wrapped her hand around the thick girth of him, there was no mistaking this for anything but hard, hot man.
‘Wait.’ Gently removing her hand, Christopher eased her out of her drawers, quickly ridding himself of his own trousers, before lowering her on to the sand. ‘By the stars, but you are beautiful,’ he said, lying down on his side to face her.
They were both completely naked. The sand was cool and gritty on her flank. The cascade was a shimmering, watery curtain which hid them from the world. It was intoxicating. Taking her cue from Christopher, Tahira ran her hands over his body, drinking in every detail of him, too absorbed by the rush of desire for shyness to take hold. Her touch made his breathing fast and shallow, just like hers. When he pulled her to him, her body instinctively moulded itself to his. Their kisses were languorous at first, their hands tentative, learning each other’s shape, but every touch seemed to ignite a tiny fire, and soon every flame was connected up, blazing trails from her breasts to her belly to the tension building inexorably between her legs.
When he touched her there, slid his fingers inside her, she shuddered, but when he tried to ease her on to her back she resisted. ‘Together,’ she said. ‘I want—please, Christopher, together. I know we can—that we cannot—but...’
‘We can. Do this much. Together,’ he said raggedly. ‘But I simply cannot...’
‘I know.’
She wrapped her hand around the hard length of him again, feeling the blood pulse as she stroked him slowly. Their mouths met in a tongue-tangling kiss, and her eyes closed as she surrendered to the rhythm he set, reassured by the way their breathing syncopated, that everything she was feeling he was too. She lost herself in his touch, in the tension mounting inside her, in the answering throb of him, the indescribable feeling of her climax, slowly building momentum, until it rushed up on her sending her soaring, making her cry out. Christopher’s harsh groan as he rolled away from her to spend himself added a new layer of satisfaction, and an odd sense of disappointment. Her body craved something more. Her body craved what he would never, for reasons which were still unfathomable, permit himself to give her.
Tahira forced herself to sit up. She did not trust herself. She would not tempt him to do what he was so certain would destroy him. Who was this man, that she had shared the most intimate of moments with? For a few seconds, watching his chest heaving, his breathing slow, she felt as if she was looking at a complete stranger. Then he opened his eyes. He sat up, pushing her tangle of damp hair back from her cheek and kissed her slowly, and he was Christopher again. Her dream man, who had tonight made another of her own dreams come true.
‘Thank you,’ Tahira said.
He laughed gruffly. ‘No, thank you. That is not what I had in mind when I brought you here.’
‘I meant thank you for granting another of my wishes. You have gone to a great deal of trouble to make them very special. And I know this wasn’t what you had in mind, I know that all you planned was my swim, but it is sharing all of this, together, that makes it so perfect. I hope you don’t regret it?’
His expression became serious. ‘Not if you don’t.’
‘Never.’ She smiled shyly up at him. ‘I thought the book exaggerated, but quite the contrary.’
Groaning, Christopher wrapped his arms tightly around her. ‘It would be better for both of us if this were not quite so—if I did not find you quite so—if our passion were not so—Tahira, you are soon to be married.’
‘But not just yet,’ she said fiercely, burrowing her face into his chest. ‘Please don’t tell me this is wrong. I am not yet another man’s property. This cannot be wrong, Christopher, it feels too wonderful to be wrong. Please, let us not spoil the perfection of this night.’
He heaved a sigh, but he nodded. ‘You haven’t even had your promised swim yet.’
Relieved, she leaned in and kissed him. ‘And you always keep your promises. Shall we?’
* * *
Tahira stepped into the waterfall, letting out a squeal of shock as the icy water cascaded over her. Christopher watched her as she tilted her head back, closing her eyes, her hair streaming down her back, utterly unaware of her beauty. Her body was silky smooth all over, the tradition here in Arabia, he knew, though until today had not seen in the flesh. He wanted to kiss her, to taste every inch of that olive-toned, sweetly scented skin, to lick into the hot, wet core of her. The possessiveness he felt was both misguided and inappropriate, he told himself, a natural consequence of what they had just shared, nothing more. And what they had just shared—was that wrong? He simply couldn’t bring himself to think so.
Tahira held out her hand invitingly. He stepped into the cascade, relishing the sharp sting of the water on his skin, cooling his ardour, which had been returning with astonishing quickness as he watched her. It had been too long, that was all. And they had so little time.
He turned away to rinse the sand from his body, and to keep his eyes from the temptation personified showering beside him. Not that he was tempted to test his control any further. Tonight had not been a close call, he had not at any point considered acting on his body’s most insistent urges, but it had surprised him how strongly they persisted, how much he had wanted that ultimate possession.
That word again. Tahira could never be his. What he wanted for her was freedom to be herself, and that was something she could never have. He could not ignore the direct comparison to that other woman whose wishes had been similarly ignored, whose fate had been decided by the selfish passion of one particular vile man. Tonight Christopher had proved once again that he was different, that his blood, tainted as it was, did not define him. He should be proud of that fact. He should also be thankful that Tahira’s life would at least be comfortable, if not necessarily happy.
But he could not be thankful. The days, which at times these last nine months had passed with excruciating slowness, now seemed to be galloping by with the speed of an Arabian thoroughbred. Something else he should welcome, for it was hurtling him toward the future he yearned for, the moment when he could finally bury his hateful past, but perversely, he wanted events to slow down. Though he was more than ready to wave goodbye to his amulet, he was not yet prepared to say goodbye to Tahira.
‘You look so serious. What are you thinking?’
The tiny frown between her perfectly arched brows warned him he was in danger of breaking the spell they had woven around themselves. He could not resist pulling her into his arms again. ‘I was thinking that it would be a crime not to make the most of the little time we have.’
Tahira smiled up at him. Her nipples were hard against his chest. His manhood, nestled between her legs, began to stir. She tilted herself against him, twining her arms around his neck. ‘I couldn’t agree more.’
* * *
Tahira could not escape the harem the next night, for Juwan had organised a dinner to mark the first birthday of her daughter. There were five long narrow tables set out in the formal dining room reserved for the C
rown Princess. Juwan sat at the head of the top table, not on cushions as would be the case for everyday dining, but on a low chair with a very high, intricately carved back. Flanking her were Tahira and Ishraq. Alimah and Durrah, as befitted the youngest of the princesses, were seated on the outside. The same pecking order was reflected at the other tables, set at right angles to the top table, which accommodated first Juwan’s ladies, then Tahira’s, Ishraq’s, Alimah’s and Durrah’s respectively. Tahira shifted impatiently on her seat. They had been at the table for two hours already, and the meal was not even halfway through. Though her little niece had been toasted with pomegranate and lime juice at the start of the meal, the talk had been all of the forthcoming new arrival, whom no one dared suggest would be another mere female.
She was dressed formally as the occasion demanded. A dark-blue silk underdress with long sleeves, plain save for the beaded cuffs, hem and neckline, which weighted it down. The cerulean-blue overdress was sleeveless, fastened by a row of gold buttons studded with pearls, trimmed with gold braid and pearl beading, and lined with the same dark-blue silk as her underdress. A wide sash in many shades of blue, also trimmed with gold braid, was tied tightly around her waist to emphasise the curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts. Thick white stockings and leather, beaded slippers curling up to points added to the heat and discomfort. Her long hair had been oiled and worked into a complex series of plaits which made her head ache, and the turban with its jaunty feather from which hung a filmy mantle of blue chiffon made it feel as if she was balancing a sack of sand on her head.
Her maidservant had assured her that she looked magnificent and even Juwan had smiled approvingly, but Tahira felt as if the entire ensemble was designed to constrain her, to remind her that all too soon her nights of freedom would be over for ever.
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