Robin Schone

by The Lady's Tutor

  She had vomited, she had urinated, and still she had burned. As she burned now.

  The slice of cake she had devoured had not been sprinkled with ground-up nuts; it had been sprinkled with ground-up insect. A blistering beetle, the countess had said, the sale of which was prevalent in both the East and the West.

  Dear God. Someone had tried to poison her sons. Instead, they had poisoned her.

  The pulsing darkness pressed in on her; it was as black as the beetle she had eaten. Gagging, she threw back the covers and slid her legs off the mattress.

  A hand tangled in the man’s silk shirt she wore in lieu of a nightgown.

  Elizabeth froze.

  The hand flattened against her spine through the thin silk, slid underneath the heavy weight of her hair, lightly caressed the nape of her neck. “Stay.”

  She shuddered. Ramiel’s voice grated along her nerves while the heat from his hand traveled to places that had nothing to do with her neck.

  “I have to go . . .” She bit her lip. “I have to go to the water closet.”

  “Do you need help?”

  She jerked away from the temptation of his hand. “No, thank you.”

  Silently, she padded to the bathroom and closed the door behind her. When she returned, Ramiel sat on the edge of the bed, holding a glass, unashamedly naked. He had lit the hurricane lamp on the nightstand.

  She blinked.

  Touch, smell, sight . . . all of her senses seemed to be focused on one place, and that place was between her legs.

  It was humiliating. She would not give in to it, no matter how great was her need. She was not an animal.

  The passionless years she had spent married to Edward suddenly seemed like a haven. Perhaps society was correct. Perhaps women were not meant to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh.

  Ramiel held out the glass. “Drink this.”

  She stared at the glass instead of his muscular brown skin. “You know what happened.”

  “I know what happened, “ he calmly agreed. “Take it. You need fluids.”

  “I am not thirsty.”

  “The more water you drink, the more quickly the cantharidin will be flushed out of your body.”

  She avoided his turquoise eyes, so solemn, so knowing. Obviously, he had experience with the poison she had ingested. That he should know the needs that it engendered made her experience all the more humiliating.

  “I have drunk gallons of water and I still . . .” She swallowed. “Burn.”

  “Then let me ease the burning.”

  Elizabeth’s heart did a somersault. “I want to leave.”

  Somewhere in the house a door banged shut. It was followed by the squeak of the four-poster.

  Ramiel padded across the floor until he stood in front of her. “Drink the water, Elizabeth. We will talk in the morning.”

  Her gaze traveled from the glass in his hand to the thick mat of dark blond hair covering his chest; it arrowed down to his stomach. His body was hard; a drop of moisture glistened on the tip of his manhood, ripe purple, like a succulent plum kissed by dew. The forbidden fruit.

  The heat rose in Elizabeth’s body until she felt as if she would burst into flames. She did not want water. She did not want to talk. Lashing out, she knocked the glass out of his hand. “I said I am not thirsty!”

  Crystal water arched through the air, then the glass tumbled to the floor and bounced on the Oriental carpet. A dark stain spread across the brightly dyed wool.

  For one timeless second it was as if Elizabeth were not there, as if someone else had perpetrated the small, senseless act of violence and then shock, anger, and fear, all of the differing emotions aggravated by the need that burned and throbbed in her body, swelled over her.

  Ramiel did not look shocked by her outburst. He looked regretful, as if confronted with an onerous task. Elizabeth was not being an obedient daughter or a dutiful wife or even a compliant mistress, that look said.

  “You lied to me, “ she said icily.

  His turquoise eyes darkened. “Yes.”

  “You said I would be safe with you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then there is no need to wait until morning. We have nothing to discuss. If waking your servants is too much trouble, I will find a hack.”

  “You knew when you came to me, Elizabeth, that I would not let you go.”

  The heat inside her exploded into a conflagration. “So you would kill my sons that they not interfere with your pleasures.”

  Between one blink and another, his hands whipped out. His fingers dug into her shoulders. “What did you say?”

  “My mother warned me.” Elizabeth should be afraid, but all she could think about was the heat of his fingers that penetrated the silk of the shirt and how they had felt lodged deep inside her body when he had found her special place. “She said that you would not accept another man’s children. You tried to kill my sons!”

  The breath whooshed out of her lungs at the force with which he hauled her up against his chest. “You don’t believe that,” he grated.

  His breath was hot; it fanned the fire already consuming her and it did not matter if she believed it or not. The day before, he had asked her if she would have come to him if it had not been for her sons. Earlier in the day he had said he would not be kept apart from her life when she insisted upon visiting her sons—alone. The poison was prevalent in the East. Ramiel had knowledge of it. He had known that the basket was intended for her sons—sons that interfered with his pleasure. It could have been he, she thought wildly.

  Averting her face, she pushed against his chest, but the crinkly blond hair covering it scratched her fingers and the heat of his skin was blistering. A laugh was born and died inside of her chest. All of this burning, aching need . . . from a bloody insect.

  Elizabeth snatched her hands away from his chest. “Let me go.”

  He hauled her closer, chest flattening her breasts, pulsing manhood jabbing her stomach, lips only a kiss away. “Tell me you don’t believe that.”

  She would die if he did not release her, yet he would not let her go and she could not bear his touch any longer. “Let me go!” she screamed, wanting to hurt him as badly as she now hurt. “I do not want you to touch me ever again! You were not there when I needed you! I do not want to want you!”

  There was no mistaking the look in his eyes. She had accomplished her goal. She had wounded the Bastard Sheikh.

  Why would he not let her go?

  “Tell me you know I would not hurt your sons,” he gritted out, breath scorching her face.

  If she acknowledged that, then she must acknowledge that her husband had attempted to kill her sons, his sons. Like her father had threatened to kill her. She was an adult. Perhaps her actions warranted some sort of reprieve, but her sons were only children. Surely no father would be so depraved as to hurt a child!

  “Never!” Reflexively, she brought her knee up to add greater impact to her denial.

  Ramiel’s eyes widened. He abruptly let her go.

  Elizabeth did not know what she had done to gain her release, but she did not stay to ponder it. Flying across the Oriental carpet, she opened the wardrobe that overflowed with masculine clothing save for the two lone articles of feminine dress, the royal blue skirt and matching jacket the countess had hung there when Elizabeth could only gulp air and try not to scream her need. Frenziedly, she shucked off the silk shirt that did not belong to her, nothing belonged to her, not in Ramiel’s house, not in Edward’s house.

  Suddenly, she was bodily lifted up into the air. Crinkly hair abraded her back; hard, moist flesh prodded her buttocks. And underneath it all was the heat that would not die.

  “Bahebbik.” Ramiel’s voice was a dark growl. The Arabic syllables sounded as if they had been dredged up from the very depths of his soul.

  Elizabeth squeezed her eyelids together. His heartbeat hammered against her left shoulder blade; it matched hers in rhythm. Please, God, do not let her lose the fragil
e control that was even now hanging by a fraying thread. “What does that mean?”

  “Stay and find out.”

  Tears spilled down her cheeks. “You were not shocked when my husband tried to kill me. You are not shocked by this. What does it take to make you feel?”

  “I feel, taalibba.” His voice throbbed in her ear, a bastard sheikh rejected first by society and now by her.

  She did not want to feel his hurt. “I thought I would die without you.”

  “I am here now.”

  “I felt like an animal.” Her pain and need erupted into agonized speech. “My body . . . I did not care. Don’t you understand? I could have lain with any man!”

  “But you did not.”

  She opened her eyes and stared at a row of waistcoats, frock coats, and dinner jackets. “I do not want to feel this . . . this lust. When you touch me, all I want to do is to take you inside me. How do I know I won’t someday feel like that about every man I see?”

  “I won’t let you.”

  “Lust is not love.”

  “Perhaps not, taalibba. But I can certainly satisfy your lust until you are too tired to worry about the difference.”

  Hysterical laughter rose in her chest. Along with the heat of his body. It left no room for mirth.

  “Please let me go. I am not . . . myself right now.”

  “Lust is a part of bonding, taalibba. Share it with me.”

  She did not want to bond. She wanted to copulate.

  “My sons—”

  “Are safe. You must trust me, Elizabeth.”

  She pried at the arms locked about her waist. “You said that before.”

  “Elizabeth, I went to Eton today. I hired people to look after your sons.”

  Elizabeth stilled. “Why did you not tell me this morning what you intended?”

  “I did not want to alarm you.”

  “You thought my husband would harm his own children?”

  “I thought it possible.”

  Oh, God, it was true. Edward had tried to kill his own sons.

  “I know you hurt, Elizabeth. Let me make it better for you. Let me love you.”

  Love. All her life she had wanted to be loved.

  But this wasn’t love. This was lust.

  And she wanted that too.

  She leaned her head back so that it rested against his. “You will be disgusted by me.” She disgusted herself.

  He nipped her ear; the small pain stabbed through her nipples. “Perhaps before the night is over you will be disgusted by me.”

  “No.” The things he had done to her and that she had done to him had never disgusted her.

  Slowly, he backed up, his arms still around her, and turned. She looked at the rumpled bed.

  “When I put you down, lift up on your hands and knees.”

  El kebachi. Like the beasts in the fields.

  She lied to herself if she said she did not want this. And she was suddenly, sickeningly, tired of lies.

  Shivering, Elizabeth did as she was instructed. Cool air caressed her buttocks. She felt . . . exposed. And vulnerable. At her pose. At the knowledge that he knew how badly she needed him . . . and did not judge her.

  But she had judged him. She was ashamed to take him to visit her sons. Ashamed because of this—how could she be a good mother and a wanton woman?

  The mattress sank behind her. His hand rested on her buttocks, a stinging imprint of flesh. “Spread your legs . . .” She quivered at the nudge of a hard, hairy thigh. “There.”

  Scalding heat plastered her behind; it prodded between her legs. Then he was inside her and there was an internal popping sensation and he was lodged so deeply that she could not catch her breath. “Ramiel!”

  “Shhh.” He lifted her up by the shoulders—oh, God, it felt like she had a log rammed inside her that suddenly sprang tall into a tree, and then she was kneeling upright and they were one body, one heartbeat. Her back rested against his chest, a living, breathing wall of prickly heat and corded muscle. Deep inside her, his verge throbbed. Or perhaps it was her womb throbbing around him.

  “You know the sundry names given to a man’s sexual organ.” Hot, moist breath feathered her hair. A callused hand smoothed her shoulder; she could feel every rough abrasion as it trickled down her chest, a breast, lightly grazed a rock-hard nipple—she clenched around him, a lightning prelude to orgasm knifing through her body. And then he was cupping her stomach, shaping the flesh rooted deep inside her, a part of her. Nuzzling her ear, he brought his other hand down and tangled his fingers in the damp curls at the V of her legs, whispered, “Now it is time to learn about the names given to a woman’s body,” and with a single finger he flicked her swollen clitoris.

  Elizabeth screamed her release. “I’m sorry. “ She gripped his hands to hold them in place while her body milked his manhood and tears streamed down her face. “I am so sorry.”

  For not being the lady she was raised to be. For embroiling him in the sordid reality of her life. For taking more than she was giving.

  “Never be sorry for experiencing pleasure, taalibba. Give me your hand.... No, don’t fight me.” His hand cupping her stomach anchored her to him while the hand that had brought her to climax gripped hers. “I fantasize about teaching you this way, having you naked, touching me, touching yourself. This is abou khochime, ‘the one with a little nose.’ ” Fingers intertwined with hers, he directed the motion of her hand, dipped between her swollen lips into liquid heat, gathered up moisture to glide and slide across the throbbing heart of her clitoris. “It is also called abou djebaha, ‘the one with a projection.’ ”

  Heat mushroomed inside Elizabeth, but he would not release her and she could not fight both him and her body. Gasping for air, she slammed her head back against his shoulder as another climax ripped through her.

  He buried his face into the crook of her neck, hand firmly pressing her lower stomach, mapping the contractions of her womb, the ripples of her vagina around the thickness of his manhood. “That’s good.... That’s good,” he crooned. “There is also abou tertour, the crested one. That name is used when a woman’s clitoris rises at the moment of her enjoyment.”

  As hers had done, twice now. And it still was not enough.

  Elizabeth turned her face into his thick gold hair. It smelled of sunshine and heat and the faint remnants of soap. She clung to the sanity of his voice. “Do you really fantasize about me?” she panted. His fingers pulsed around hers while her swollen flesh pulsed against their joined fingertips. Inside her body her vagina spasmed about his manhood while her womb quivered against the palm of his hand.

  “Oh, yes, I fantasize about you. I fantasize about your hair, your breasts, your little fleece here that is the same color as the hair on your head, your little bud that gets so deliciously engorged. . . .”

  She had never dreamed that a man would fantasize about her. Before Ramiel, she had never thought that a man would want her satisfaction.

  He lifted his head, found her cheek with his nose, adjusted his position until he found her mouth. His tongue was as hot and wet as the other part of him that penetrated her. She convulsed, crying out in his mouth, body independently clenching, contracting, while he circled their fingers around and around.

  “Three orgasms,” he murmured against her lips. “That should take the edge off so that we can finish the lesson.”

  Gasping for air, Elizabeth felt her fingers being drawn down, through soft, moist folds until suddenly she felt a hard shaft. He was a part of her. Deep inside her vagina he flexed; simultaneously, she felt the motion with her fingertips.

  “Keuss is a common word for a woman’s vagina.” He pressed their fingertips against the ring of flesh that clung to his manhood like a second skin. “And then there is el taleb, the yearning one that burns for a man’s member. Do you burn for me, taalibba?”

  She rolled her head forward and stared at the dance of light and shadow on the pale green wall. Embers glowed in the white marble fir
eplace. “You must know that I do.”

  “But I need to hear you say so.”

  She had said far more explicit words than that to him. So why was it so hard to say? “I burn for you, Ramiel,” she choked.

  He kneaded her stomach. “For me . . . or for a man?”

  She closed her eyes and could not escape the truth. “Both.”

  “You could have taken another man today. A footman. Étienne.”

  Her eyelids shot open. “I would never do that.”

  “But you do it with me.”

  “It is not the same.”

  “No, it is not. Do you know what my favorite word for this”—he pressed their fingertips harder against the flesh stretched around his shaft, as if seeking entry alongside of it—“is?”

  She concentrated on the slick external heat of him instead of the heat melding her spine with his chest. “What?”

  “El hacene, the beautiful. But it is el ladid, the delicious one, that is the most wondrous vagina of all. The pleasure that it gives is compared to that felt by beasts and birds of prey, a pleasure that they fight bloody battles to attain. The sheikh writes that a woman who possesses such a vulva will give a man a foretaste of the paradise that awaits him when he dies. Give me a sample of paradise, taalibba. There is nothing wrong with feeling like an animal. Bend over and let us share the same pleasure that a ewe and a ram enjoy.”

  Elizabeth bent over . . . and gripped the satin comforter in both hands to keep her balance when his body slammed into hers.

  A woman should not be able to take a man this deeply, she dimly thought. Suddenly, prickly heat curved the length of her back, and his callused hands that steadied her hips slid down, around, one to cup her stomach while the other slid between her legs and he was touching her and kneading her and she fought to take him deeper, harder, please, give me more, please don’t let go . . . Her inner pleas echoed in the bedroom.

  “Keep your hips tilted for me, taalibba.” He pressed inside and outside, positioning her, directing her, molding her flesh around his. “Don’t tighten up. Bear down. Take me, Elizabeth. Allah. Moan for me. Let me know you want me. Take me. There. Deeper. Yes. God. Yesss.”