by Penny Jordan
Swiftly and silently, without taking his gaze from her, he shed his clothes, the movement of his body as he stepped forward and leaned over her casting a shadow that flickered across her closed eyes.
By the time she had opened them he was already reaching into the water.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
‘TARIQ.’
Gwynneth stared up at him wonderingly. She had been daydreaming about him being here with her, and now he was. She exhaled on a long, slow sigh of arousal-induced acceptance.
‘Shh.’
He reached into the water, one long finger slowly and delicately probing the soft closed lips of her sex whilst he watched her reaction darken her eyes and bring a sound of liquid pleasure to her lips. Her legs opened with the same sensual readiness as her sex. She felt warm and wet, his fingertip sliding slickly over the hard nub it was seeking. Tiny ripples scorched the surface of the water as she moved against his caress.
‘No…’ she protested helplessly, but her hands had already locked round his arm and her spine was arching up, bringing her breasts out of the water.
Tariq virtually felt his self-control shatter under the intensity of his response to her arousal. He released her briefly, a fine tremor jerking visibly through his body as he stepped into the tub to join her, his hands shaping her flesh beneath and above the water with a need he couldn’t contain as he kneeled between her splayed legs. He kissed the taut arch of her throat and then her mouth, losing himself in its hot sweetness as he kissed her over and over again. The weight of her breasts filled his hands, his thumbs savouring the texture of her nipples as he rubbed his thumb-pads against their hardness.
‘This is heaven,’ Gwynneth whispered dreamily against his mouth. Her eyes shimmered with pleasure as she slid her fingers into the thick darkness of his hair, exploring the shape of his head, holding him against her so that she could taste and shape his lips with her tongue-tip before she plundered his mouth.
‘I was lying here thinking about you, and now here you are…’ she marvelled softly, knowing that what was happening was merely a dream. How could it possibly be anything else? How could Tariq be here with her, doing these incredibly sensual things to her and for her, otherwise? Because it was only happening inside her head she was free to enjoy it, free to say and do whatever she wished.
‘Your thoughts must have called me to you,’ Tariq told her softly, cupping her face between his hands, stroking his fingers slowly along the sensitive curve behind her earlobes.
She lifted her hands to his shoulders. His flesh felt warm and supple as her fingertips trailed over the muscles beneath his skin. His hands moved down her back and then round to cup her breasts, whilst he laced kisses along her jaw and down her neck.
Gwynneth trembled, letting her pleasure take hold of her and fill her.
His thumb-pads slowly circled the dark arousal-flushed aureoles, ignoring the fierce demand of her erect nipples. Only the lower half of her body was still beneath the water now, and Tariq was slowly kissing his way down to the valley between her breasts. And then up the slope of one of them, his tongue-tip following the circle being traced by his thumb, and then moving closer and closer to her nipple.
She trembled and moaned softly, and as though she had given a specific instruction his hand slipped between her still open legs, his fingers quickly finding the pulsing pearl within the oyster of her sex and plucking rhythmically at it. She could feel his tongue stroking against her nipple in time to the caress of his fingers, drawing from her such an intense reaction that her whole body was seized with her convulsive response to it. It gripped her, not gently but fiercely, almost frighteningly, so that she tensed against its possession, fearing its power over her.
‘Relax.’ Tariq whispered the word against her breast before his lips closed over her nipple and his fingers slid the length of her sex and began oh so slowly and carefully to penetrate its wetness.
She couldn’t bear the pleasure of what he was doing to her. It was taking her and possessing her and rendering her helpless as it gripped and savaged her.
This was no dream.
‘I think,’ she heard Tariq murmur, lifting his mouth from her breast to her lips and from there making a deliciously slow and thorough journey to her ear, ‘that this is something I would prefer to accomplish at leisure and on dry land.’
Gwynneth nodded her head.
‘Hold on, then,’ he told her, scooping her up and starting to carry her to the edge of the tub.
Her arms wrapped tightly around his neck and her head resting on his chest, Gwynneth looked down the length of his body, her breath leaving her lungs on an unsteady exhalation. He was big, but then she already knew that from that first night. And he was very aroused. As he stepped down onto the tiles she removed one arm from his neck, unable to stop herself from reaching out to circle the engorged head of his sex with one uncertain speculative fingertip before stroking the full length of him and back again.
The awareness came to her out of nowhere that she was changed for ever now, and there was no going back. Her body, her senses, would remember this pleasure for ever, and her own helpless captivity by it. A fierce pang of need tightened her body and then released it into a series of small quivering shudders.
‘You’ve caught the sun on your shoulders,’ Tariq told her. ‘Does it hurt?’
‘All I can feel is how much I want you,’ Gwynneth admitted boldly, as he carried her over to the daybed and placed her on it. ‘I’ve fought against feeling like this all my life,’ she whispered emotionally, ‘and now I know why. Itis every bit as dangerous as I was always afraid it would be. More so, in fact.’ She gave a small shudder, her eyes dark and huge as she asked huskily, ‘If I feel like this now, how will I feel when you’re deep inside me?’
Exhaling jaggedly, she reached up to stroke her fingertips along his forearm as he leaned over her and brushed the hair off her face.
‘Much the same as you felt with your other lovers, I imagine,’ he told her lightly.
Watching the stillness invade her body was like watching the sunlight fade from the desert, leaving it cold and barren. He stared at her, waiting for her to explain her reaction.
‘Actually, there haven’t been any others,’ Gwynneth told him carefully.
She could feel him looking at her, willing her to look back at him, but she felt too self-conscious to be able to do so. He was bound to be shocked to learn that she had never had full sex—what man would not be?
When the seconds ticking by without him saying anything became totally unbearable, she forced herself to whisper croakily, ‘I suppose you’re turned off, now aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ he said curtly. ‘Totally turned off. Any man worthy of the name would be—just as no woman who values what she is would ever think that she was flattering a man by assuming that he wanted her to pretend to be a youthful innocent. I don’t merely find it a turn-off to be classed as the type of adult male who is excited by the thought of having sex with a virgin, I also find it offensive,’ he said pithily. ‘I’m a fully adult man. I don’t need or require a fully adult woman to pretend for my benefit that she’s a virgin.’
Gwynneth could hear the savage distaste in his voice. ‘But I’m not—’ She began to defend herself, and then stopped.
‘No, neither am I anymore,’ Tariq agreed. He had placed her discarded towel across his body, so that it was impossible for her to see whether he was still aroused or not—not that she had any intention of challenging him. The very thought threatened to cripple her emotionally and sexually.
Instead she gave a small, proud shrug and told him defensively, ‘You were the one who came on to me.’
He looked at her in silence for so long that her heart began to beat in uncoordinated jerky thuds of apprehension.
‘Correction. I took what you were offering. A woman does not bathe naked, exhibiting herself as you were, in the proximity of a man if she does not want him to be aware of her.’
There was nothing she co
uld say to that, no defence she could honestly make, and her face stung with the heat of her humiliation and anger.
Whilst he had been speaking she had resorted to tucking several cushions strategically around herself, to screen her body, and now, as he stood up, she deliberately looked away from him so that he couldn’t accuse her of anything else.
‘I came to see what time you wanted to eat. Here in Zuran we eat later in the evening than you might in Britain, to benefit from the coolness.’
‘I’m not really hungry.’ Her voice sounded as brittle as her pride felt. She could hear the rustle of fabric and guessed that he was dressing.
‘We’ll eat later, then,’ he told her blandly.
Tariq stood facing into the light breeze that was coming off the oasis, enjoying its freshness. In the reeds a bird called warningly to its mate, and in the moonlight he could see a fish jumping to snap at a hovering gnat.
Beneath his robe his body ached with unsatisfied desire. It was a dull heavy pulse he couldn’t ignore, threatening to flare into almost priapic fury with every breath he took. Not even the sharp, destructive thrust of disappointment followed by distaste he had felt for Gwynneth’s unwholesome claim to innocence had the power to silence the sexual clamour of his body. Her play-acting had destroyed something that for him had been uniquely rare. He had thought from the conversations they had shared that she would be above that sort of thing, that they were beginning to share something very special and that she would be honest with him instead of lying to him.
He remembered that he hadn’t told her that they would soon be free to leave. Why not? There was no purpose in them staying here—no purpose in him hoping that they could share more than merely a relationship based on the sexual hunger they felt for one another.
And he had wanted that? Now who was playing games? he taunted himself. Of course he’d wanted that, and he’d wanted much more. He’d wanted…He’d wantedher , in his bed and in his life. He’d wanted her to give herself to him fully and completely, heart and soul, with honesty and commitment and love, and instead she had offered him a puerile claim to fake virginity.
As soon as they had eaten he would tell her that they were going back to Zuran.
Her shoulders, her back and her upper arms all stung slightly with the pain of her sunburned skin, and Gwynneth winced as she saw the bright red glow of it in the mirror. It wasn’t bad enough to warrant being described as true sunburn, but it still tingled uncomfortably. She had been a fool to give in to the temptation of using the hot tub—and not just because of her sunburn.
The last thing she felt like doing was having to face Tariq again, but she had a feeling that if she didn’t turn up then he would come looking for her, and if he found her in bed, using the excuse of her sore skin so as not to have to eat with him, he was all too likely to imagine that she was trying to seduce him, she decided bitterly.
Tariq had said that they might as well eat in his private quarters, which were on the opposite side of the villa. It was nearly ten o’clock—the time at which he had suggested they should eat. It was a pity she hadn’t brought something with her that she could drape round her shoulders, she acknowledged, as she pulled a small face at her own reflection. Bright pink skin and a matt black strappy top. What a combination. But she didn’t have any other choice.
Tariq was waiting for her in the entrance hall, the cold reserve of his voice as he said, ‘I was just about to come and find you,’ making her feel glad that he hadn’t needed to do so.
The room he escorted her to was surprisingly modern, given the traditional style of the villa, and somehow the combination of the traditional design of the room teamed with pared-down modern furniture was one that soothed and yet also tantalised the senses. The sleek lines of the ebony console and coffee tables paired with off-white leather sofas over which brilliantly coloured kilims had been carelessly but effectively thrown created a room that offered comfort and style, its starkness broken by the splashes of rich colour. Paintings and sculptures echoed the brilliant flashes of colour, making Gwynneth itch to reach out and touch a painting thick with crimson and orange paint, depicting the sun rising over the rawness of the desert.
Double doors opened into a smaller dining room with a wall of huge glass doors, beyond which lay an illuminated courtyard.
‘I have my own small kitchen on the other side of the dining room,’ Tariq explained. ‘Sometimes it is simpler and easier to cater for myself, and when I had these rooms converted for my own use I included a small kitchen so that I didn’t have to invade Arub’s territory and provoke an outcry.’
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ Gwynneth asked him, feeling awkward.
‘No. Everything’s ready.’
She could see that he was frowning as he looked at her.
‘Your skin looks sore,’ he commented.
‘It looks worse than it is,’ Gwynneth assured him lightly. ‘And it’s my own fault. I should have taken more care.’ And not just against the danger of the sun. She had no idea how it was possible to love a man so much whilst knowing that doing so was self-damaging. But she did know that she wasn’t the first woman to discover that it was. The best possible thing for her would be to return to Britain and forget that she had ever met Tariq. Even supposing he had made love to her, it would not have meant anything. Having sex with a man you loved but who did not love you must surely be one of the most soul-destroying things a woman could experience. Unless she managed to temporarily deceive herself that hedid love her—if she could do that she could always carry with her a very special memory. But the memory would be a lie.
Only if she let it be, a dangerous inner voice whispered.
Determinedly squashing it into silence, she took a deep breath and asked Tariq, ‘How long do you think we will have to stay here?’
He looked away from her, as though something else had caught his attention, his voice slightly blurred as he told her dismissively, ‘It’s impossible to say.’
He was deliberately lying to her, Tariq knew. He, a man who prided himself on his honesty. Why lie to keep her here after the angry revulsion he had felt earlier? Because that angry revulsion had been caused by his feelings for her. He had felt let down by her, disappointed in her after the emotional intensity created when they had talked. Then she had somehow reached out to him, touched all the sore places within him and soothed them as no other person ever had, and because of that he had let down his guard and allowed himself to admit that his feelings for her went much deeper than merely sexual desire.
Holding her in his arms as he’d carried her to the daybed earlier, he had not checked the words of love and adoration forming inside his head, waiting to spill from his lips and be whispered against her skin. He had, he had thought then, formed a bond, adult to adult—a bedrock on which they could build a love that would sustain them for ever.
His tutors had warned him as a young man that he was too idealistic and that his ideals would be a heavy burden for others to carry.
They ate in a silence broken only by Gwynneth’s slightly stilted complimentary comments about their food.
‘My chef knows that I prefer to eat naturally produced food simply prepared, so that its flavours aren’t obscured,’ Tariq informed her, before suggesting, ‘If you’ve finished eating, I suggest a stroll through the gardens to aid the digestion.’
‘It sounds a good idea.’ Gwynneth agreed. ‘But please don’t let me disrupt your normal routine. There’s no need for you to accompany me.’
Something about his narrow-eyed gaze made her skin prickle uncomfortably.
‘As you wish,’ he agreed. ‘Do you have some lotion for your skin?’
‘No, I haven’t,’ Gwynneth admitted. ‘But, as I said, it looks worse than it feels.’
‘Maybe so, but it would still be wise to soothe it,’ Tariq told her, commanding brusquely, ‘Come with me.’
His hand was on her arm and it was all she could do not to tense betrayingly—but the s
ensitivity of her flesh had nothing to do with the sun and everything to do with Tariq himself. It was his touch that was affecting her so intensely and so intimately that she could hardly bear even to stand close to him, never mind be touched by him as he guided her out of the room and down an unfamiliar corridor.
It was only when he had opened the door and almost thrust her inside that she realised the room he had taken her to was his own bedroom. Like the other rooms, this one was a skilful blend of traditional and modern, its walls painted a flat shade of off-white to heighten the richness of the fabrics that that been used. Deep jewel shades in heavy silk fabric covered the chairs and the low divan, as well as the huge bed, echoing the colours in the rugs scattered on the polished wooden floor and hanging on the walls, whilst plain, fine white muslin curtains hung at the windows, caught back in intricately designed metal clasps.
‘Wait here,’ Tariq instructed, going to open a door which she could see led into a very modern crisp matt white and chrome bathroom.