A Thorned Rose in the Sand

by Lea Bronsen

  Blood rushed to his groin. Stiffening, bothered, he tore from the sight, walked over to the well, and leaned against its waist-high wall, hoping the hardness of the bricks and coolness from the water below would temper his arousal before it became a full-blown erection.

  So silent…

  He strained to hear.

  Splashes. Muffled squeals. More splashes.

  He turned slowly and stole a glance from the corner of his eye.

  She washed her panties and black top in the bucket and leaned forward to spread them in the sun. Her position exposed the dark pink lips of her sex, from the tiny hole in her butt to the end of her slit, where her clitoris hid.

  Ooh!

  Shocked to his core, he turned back and groaned low, his cock hardening again.

  He closed his eyes, drew long, slow breaths to calm the painful throbbing and counted minutes, trying to think of something else.

  Usain, for example. It would be cool to show her how to ride a dromedary. What if he rode another one, and they both galloped on the dunes together, she laughing, ecstatic…

  Then they’d roll in the sand, and he would tease her thighs apart and slide his hungry hardness into her dark pink lips, to the wet bottom of her. Oh, yes.

  She called, “Ready?”

  He risked a glance in her direction.

  Wearing one of his sisters’ dresses and looking divine with her red curls floating behind her—and her face white and clean—she strolled to the motorcycle, carrying a bag and her clothes. She stuffed everything on top of the fuel tanks, got up, lifted the dress to her knees, and started the motor.

  Not once looking at him.

  Swallowing a mouthful of air, he spun and joined her, thanking the heavens his large tunic concealed the erection that tented his pants. He attached a strong rope to the handles of both ten-liter jerrycans and hung them across the motorcycle saddle. After just barely managing to climb up behind the girl without touching her, he sat on the hard plastic rear seat, which was higher than her leather driver’s seat, and held on to it with both hands behind him. There was no place to put his feet, so they hung freely like the jerrycans. “Okay, I’m ready.”

  She gave gas, the engine roaring like a lion and the motorcycle lurching forward.

  Despite his efforts not to come near her, the high speed, the motor vibrations, the uneven terrain, the lack of leverage for his feet, and the height of the slippery seat combined made him glide toward her—toward her perfect butt. He kept pulling himself up and sitting back, but the rocks she drove over made the motorcycle jerk so he lost his hold. And each time he slid against her, his hard-on stuck itself in the crack of her ass. Desperate, he held the plastic seat for dear life and tried moving back again and again but kept being projected to her.

  About a half hour later, when they finally arrived at the camp, he’d given up the impossible struggle and sat plastered against her, stomach-to-back, his thick erection lodged between her butt cheeks…and he’d never felt so embarrassed in his whole life.

  As soon as she stopped near the first tent, he pulled backward with a groan of pain, climbed down, and busied himself lifting the jerrycans from the motorcycle.

  She took off her helmet and spun toward him like a whirlwind, green eyes ablaze as if he’d committed murder. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, rubbing against me like that?”

  Ugh, as if he wasn’t feeling bad enough! Face heating, he barked, “You know, between your crazy speed and the bumps in the track and the height of that stupid plastic seat, which all made me glide toward you against my will”—he pointed to the saddle—“and the understanding of how a man’s anatomy works when there’s…friction…” He paused, fuming, glaring at her. “It’s not my fucking fault, as you would so properly say, and I’m very sorry it happened. I would never do anything like this on purpose. I’m not that kind of man.” He pursed his lips and glowered. Would she go home now believing all Arab men were sexual predators?

  She stared for a moment, studying him with a frown across her face.

  “What?” he snapped. He’d explained, apologized. What more did she want from him?

  He boiled inside. Normally, he was a posed and reflected man who didn’t blow up, but since the first time he saw this girl, she kept pushing his buttons and bringing out the worst in him. She made him explosive.

  “Show me who you are,” she said, calm.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Take off that thing.” She nodded to the part of his turban that protected his mouth.

  What was she up to? She looked serious, though, really wanted to see his face. “Why?”

  “’Cause I’m sick of talking to a scarf, that’s why.”

  Well, if somehow it could help convince he wasn’t a sexual offender… Sighing, he unwrapped the many layers of blue fabric from around his head until the sun stung his nose, lips, and chin.

  She widened her gorgeous greens, and in them he read attraction. He knew it. He’d seen it many times in London.

  He didn’t consider himself as particularly handsome, but fellow students had embraced him, nick-naming him Prince of Arabia and inviting him to the greatest parties. It had been fun, validating. But he didn’t drink much alcohol, and although the most beautiful girls had stood in line to date, he’d believed having sex with someone he wasn’t in love with was below him, so he’d declined. Over the next years, his good looks had maintained their popularity and he’d gotten plenty of offers, but in truth, he’d felt lonely, out of place, different, missing someone special with whom to explore his passions and discover new ones.

  Stevie still stared at his face. He couldn’t believe they’d come to the point where that mere vision provoked such a reaction. It made him jubilant, all his frustration and anger dissipating at once. “So,” he teased, “am I the Frankenstein monster you thought I was?” He flashed a smile from his idiotic joke.

  The effect was immediate—the girl looked like she’d melted, right there before him, features softening and mouth practically hanging open.

  He held back a chuckle, didn’t want to vex her. But he loved having the upper hand for once. And gone was the sexual offense allegation.

  A person dressed in black stepped up between them.

  “Ragab,” Mother called, voice hard and punitive, pulling him out of his haze.

  Chapter Seven

  After a lightning-quick and harsh exchange in Arabic, the black-clothed woman left with a frown marring her tanned face and disappeared in the tent.

  Stevie blinked. “The fuck was that about?” She glanced at Ragab and almost forgot about his mother.

  God, he was gorgeousness personified. The handsomest man she’d ever seen—olive skinned, his jaw strong and curving at a fine angle up to high cheekbones, and in between, a hard nose over full lips. The kind of face a girl just had to stroke because it was so perfect. Why hide all that beauty behind a cloth?

  And she appreciated that he’d had the decency to apologize for rubbing against her during the bike ride. It hadn’t been his fault, but he’d still said he was sorry.

  A gleam appeared in his dark brown eyes. “She’s mad because she thinks I’m going to marry you and leave the family for good.”

  Stevie gaped. “She thinks what!”

  He laughed, an attractive sound that filled her stomach with the soft flapping of butterflies.

  She tried to ignore the pleasant sensation. “I don’t see how that’s funny. And I don’t understand how you can be so calm when she clearly bawled you out.”

  He winked. “Eh, deep down, she wants me to be happy.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just what I said. She wants me to be happy.” His gaze lingered on her, sparkling with humor while studying her face the way she had studied his.

  She could joke, too. “As long as that doesn’t mean you’re actually going to marry me.”

  “Hah!” He flashed those perfect white teeth again in a most charming
smile that made her all warm and fuzzy inside. “I told her if she wants those grandchildren she’s been bugging me about, I need to find a wife first.”

  “I’m warning you. I’m not getting married. Ever.”

  Instead of commenting, he spun and walked away. “Let’s go for that dromedary ride I promised you,” he threw over his shoulder.

  “Um… Now? Can’t we eat first?”

  He stopped in his tracks, raised a brow. “Eat?”

  “Yes, as in have some food. You have food, right? I’m starving.” On cue, her stomach growled to stress the urgency.

  He dug into a pocket hidden in his large tunic and brought out a small plastic bag. “Here, have some dried dates. They’ll keep you going till dinner.”

  “And when will that be?”

  “At sunset.”

  “But…” She looked up at the sun, still so very high in the clear blue sky, and grimaced. She would never survive until then. Dammit, all she’d had today was a coffee and some pastry in Erfoud, after she’d brought the little boy to the hospital, but that was hours ago.

  With a teasing smile, Ragab handed her a few dates. “You know, we pastoral nomads are often hungry, and we’re always thirsty. That’s how things are. We cope.”

  He thought this was funny? She faked a huff. “Well, I’m a completely normal American girl used to regular and copious meals.” She accepted the dates and put one in her mouth. Mmm, the tasty fruit was thick with sugar and undoubtedly nutritive, but that didn’t mean she would survive until the evening. She pointed at him. “If I die of starvation, I have an army of bad-ass brothers willing to travel across the world to inflict the most terrible revenge.”

  Ragab barked a laugh and spun on his heels again.

  She couldn’t help smiling with him—and loving the sound of his voice, loving the way he looked at her, loving their humorous exchanges. And his playboy looks, by God!

  But be careful, girl.

  Never forget the first motive of a man showing interest in a woman. Guys didn’t want a friendship. They wanted sex, hard and fast, day and night. And although the feel of Ragab’s stiff dick against her ass on the motorcycle had lit something hot and needy in her and she’d liked it—wanted more, even—she should never miscalculate a man’s intentions.

  She spat out the stone, chewed on another date, and followed him to the backside of the low, rectangular tents, to an open space where camels, sheep, goats, and yapping dogs wandered freely and drank from basins.

  They stopped at one of the camels that rested on the ground with its legs tucked underneath its body. The giraffe-like neck turned to them, and two bulbous black eyes beneath long, thick eyelashes studied her.

  “Stevie, say hello to Usain,” Ragab said, petting the camel’s hairy neck. “Usain, this is Stevie, one very crazy specimen of the female species coming to see you all the way from America. I believe they have llamas over there, by the way. Your brothers.”

  “Crazy?” She held back a smile and gazed the camel up and down. It was gigantic. A slight panic settled in. She may have been a fearless bike rider, but it didn’t mean she would feel safe on the back of this strange, long-legged animal. “I gotta be crazy to ride this thing, that’s for sure.”

  Usain lifted its head in the air and let out a deep, rumbling “Uuuurrr” that sounded like an elephant’s trumpet. Not very reassuring!

  Ragab smiled. “A lot of westerners call it a camel, but it’s actually a dromedary.” He grabbed a saddle from a carpet on the ground, placed it on top of Usain’s protruding hump, and tied it around the stomach. “It’s the smallest of the species and it has one hump. The others have two. Okay, climb up, lady.”

  “Who, me?” She looked around, wishing she could back away with her pride intact.

  He followed her look and frowned. “I don’t see anyone else here.”

  “I’m not riding that thing,” she admitted, and there went her pride.

  “Why not?”

  “I just am not. No fucking way.”

  He pursed his lips. “And I who thought you were the toughest girl on the planet. I’m disappointed. We’ll ride together, then.” In one swift move, he got up on the saddle, adjusted, and extended a hand.

  “If I break my neck, my father will sue the hell out of you.” Taking a deep breath, she accepted the help and climbed up behind him. The saddle was wider than a motorcycle seat and made of wood and piled blankets. Not the most comfortable thing to sit on. And when the big animal underneath moved?

  Ragab leaned forward and grabbed a blue rope that hung from Usain’s head.

  She froze. Oh my God…

  Sitting back, he gave an order and tugged on the leash. Usain straightened its front legs, tilting Stevie backward so her world tumbled and the sky filled her view, and all she could do was grasp Ragab’s tunic and hold on for dear life, too panicked to scream.

  Then Usain extended its back legs, and she was propelled toward Ragab so her boobs flattened against his back. Not a good time to worry about that—Usain moved with a rolling, lilting gait, scaring the living shit out of her. Without hesitation or shame, she slid her arms around Ragab’s firm waist and locked them in front of his stomach.

  He didn’t say anything, but put a warm hand over hers. An incredible comfort in her moment of need.

  Trying to breathe normally, she rested one side of her face against his shoulder blade and closed her eyes, holding on to him as tightly as possible and following his slow, dance-like movements. His body was lean, not an ounce of fat, yet muscled in the right places. A real man. His tunic concealed too much, like his turban. Oh, and he smelled nice, a mix of faint sweat and manly musk. She focused on his scent to forget about her fear.

  After a few minutes, he gave an order and made a jerky move that reverberated through her body. Usain stopped with another “Uuuurrr.”

  Was it over? She opened her eyes. Tents appeared in her vision. Ragab’s mother scowled from behind a corner, arms crossed.

  They’d gone in a circle. Ragab had been gentle, hadn’t even made the dromedary gallop. She silently thanked him for understanding and released the hold around his stomach.

  He moved a leg over the saddle and hopped off to the ground, leaving her alone up there.

  Oh, no, what if Usain walked away! She stiffened.

  “Come on.” Eyes sparkling in his movie star-like face, Ragab reached up for her. “Jump. I’ll catch you.”

  Okay…?

  She’d made enough of a fool of herself already. Gathering what courage she had left, she slid a leg over the saddle, glided down Usain’s flank, and landed in Ragab’s arms, a little closer than she’d planned. They made full contact, chest to chest, stomach to stomach, and a distinct hardness pressed through his blue tunic.

  He was aroused again! And this time, he couldn’t blame it on accidental friction. No, the tall man held her in place, sliding his large hands down her waist to the curved top of her hips in a sensual manner.

  She formed a surprised “Oh” with her mouth.

  He gazed down at her lips, soft breaths brushing her. She could kiss him if she wanted to. Yep, it was just a matter of wanting to. Her pussy muscles flexed in lust. A sharp but sweet, sweet sting.

  Then flashed the memory of another guy doing the same thing when she was much younger, cornering her against a wall, pressing his stiff rod into her stomach like she belonged to him, before unzipping his pants and pushing her down to her knees and… No!

  “No.” Mind blackening, she slammed her fists into Ragab’s chest and shoved him backward, away.

  He blinked and whispered, “I’m sorry.” In the next second, he disconnected from her to step around and untie the saddle from Usain’s back.

  Chapter Eight

  Ragab sat cross-legged on a carpet outside, preparing a stew of meat and vegetables in front of a fire. Darkness came fast, with the low-hanging sun spreading a blurred red-orange light over the horizon. Barking dogs chased each other between the tents, givin
g life to the otherwise silent camp.

  Mother and the girls were inside. Stevie, too. He believed she’d had a nap, but he wasn’t sure, for they hadn’t talked since the incident. The second incident!

  He groaned. He may have hardened from a woman’s touch in the past, heaven knows they were all over him in London, but he’d always managed to keep his hands to himself. The way he’d behaved with Stevie was a terrible embarrassment. The Moroccans’ most valued possession was sharaf—their honor—and today, he’d given his a serious blow.

  Was it only his fault? The girl had pressed her wonderful breasts to his back and held him like a lover. A woman didn’t do that unless there was something between them. When he’d caught her in his arms, she’d stayed put and expressed want with her beautiful emeralds. He didn’t dream it! Out here, where most people wore clothes that protected their faces from the heat and sand, one learned to read eyes.

  He needed to keep himself in check. He liked her, yes, and her mere presence did powerful things to his body, but soon she would travel back to the other side of the globe and he would have to forget about her. Might as well start now.

  His chest felt hollow, dark, at that thought. To go with his plummeting mood, he had tied his turban over his nose and mouth again so she would only see his eyes. If she saw him before leaving. Maybe she wouldn’t even say good-bye.

  With a heavy sigh, he put pieces of dromedary meat at the bottom of the earthenware pot, dispensed sliced garlic and red onion over, and set pieces of peeled potatoes and squash on top.

  He enjoyed cooking. There wasn’t much else to do in the desert after he’d taken care of the animals. His grandfather once said with a toothless smile that it was the reason they had so many children. Unlike other Rashaayda Arabs (or Bedouins, as the modern world called them), his tribe didn’t have television or cell reception. Depending on the seasons, they moved camp to new pastures, planting grains along their migration routes and harvesting upon return. They loved this life their families had led for centuries and wouldn’t have it any other way. They were free.