A Thorned Rose in the Sand

by Lea Bronsen

  Recent memories flashed, of driving in the sand with an aroused Ragab behind her, of eating tajine with him under the stars, of watching him pet his beloved dromedary… Dammit, time had passed too fast, and she would have wanted to stay in the desert much, much longer. With him.

  The man scratched his sand-colored hair. “Don’t feel bad about it. You’re not the only one that didn’t finish. One of the guys crashed into a tree and was picked up by a media helicopter.”

  “Oh, nooo!” A new pang of hurt went through her. Whenever a fellow participant had an accident, everyone felt concerned. They were brothers and sisters, through thick and thin. “How is he?”

  “Last I heard, he’s not going to compete for a year. Then another guy missed a turn and hit people that were watching on the sideline. Thankfully, no one died, but this is just the kind of thing that…” He trailed off. “Anyway, it’s nice to see that you made it okay on your own. There will be other opportunities. Better luck next time, right?”

  “Absolutely.” Though if she decided to forget about Ragab, she would never compete again in Morocco.

  “Listen, I was chilling with some other guys over there”—he pointed to a group of parasols about fifty meters away, barely visible above the moving crowd—“when I heard your bike coming. You have to say hello. They’ll be stoked to see you.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Down the street, big, shiny objects reflected sunlight into Ragab’s eyes. He squinted. A row of colorful motorcycles with high navigation panels stood parked outside a café. They screamed at him. He knew what kind they were, what they were doing in Erfoud, and who they belonged to—especially the black-and-orange one. The blood drained from his head. If he let Usain trot a little closer, he would see her soon.

  He swallowed a groan, wasn’t ready to face her. Would he ever be? He’d embarrassed himself in front of her, yes, but the humiliation didn’t sting as much as the thought of never seeing her again.

  Ugh, there she sat indeed, at a café table with a group of leather-clad westerners, cross-legged and at ease. Her rally jacket hung on the back of her chair, and her braid wound like a shiny copper-red snake around her neck and down the black singlet she wore.

  She hadn’t seen him yet, but smiled, seemingly happy, and that tore him apart. One, their intimate connection in the desert had given him a sense of belonging. Whether right or false, in his mind she was his and no one else’s. Two, these men were rally drivers, and the fact she’d joined her peers meant she’d already gone back to her world, if not physically, at least in spirit.

  It was too early to give up. Way too early. Even if she traveled back to the other side of the world and they never stood a chance to be together, he had to tell her how he felt. When she’d found him masturbating in the dunes, she’d fled in shock. He had to explain she was the one who created that need in him, the one he pictured as he built his pleasure. Once she knew that, his heart would find peace.

  How to approach her? He didn’t have the guts to go over to her and talk. Not in front of these tough, worldly men. They would mock his ethnicity, his dirty nomad clothes, his mount, and put her in an awkward position. The last thing he wanted!

  Maybe he could just write her a note and slip away without having to talk. It would be easy—he had murmured words to himself for a while, words to describe her so he would never forget. “Like a thorned rose in the sand, you are foreign, wild…”

  He steered Usain to the opposite side of the street, climbed down, and tied the leash to a lamp post beside a souvenir shop. Under a wide Coca Cola parasol stood a table overfilled with postcards, magazines, and small objects. Cheap, made for tourists. A tanned, big-bellied vendor in a white shirt sat on a plastic chair, eyeing him.

  Ragab asked, “Do you have paper and a pen?”

  “Paper? Do you see paper here?” The man swept his table with a hand.

  Ragab glanced at the postcards and found one that had a photo of Erg Chebbi, a large sea of wind-blown sand dunes serving as a location for famous films and earning Erfoud its nick-name Gate of Sahara Desert. Stevie had driven past these dunes during the rally, so perhaps she would appreciate the picture. He pointed to the card. “How much?”

  “One dirham.”

  He fished a coin out of a pocket. “Here. Can you lend me a pen?”

  “A pen? You can buy one. I have some with dromedaries over here.” The man pointed to an ivory cup of pens battling for space among sunglasses, miniature teapots, sandals, key chains, and caps of striking colors with the letters “I ♥ SAHARA.”

  “I just need to borrow one for a minute.” Impatient, Ragab took a pen, ignored the vendor’s grunt of protest, set the postcard on a pile of books, and started writing.

  Like a thorned rose in the sand,

  You are foreign, wild,

  Your tongue sharp as prickles,

  Clothes dark as your temper.

  The vendor stood and glanced over Ragab’s shoulder. “What are you, a poet? The new poet of Erfoud?” He cackled.

  “Ssssh. I’m thinking.”

  Your skin is the velvet of petals,

  And your moves gracious

  As you resist, proud,

  To the Sahara winds.

  “Who is she?” the vendor asked. “Sounds like a special woman.”

  “The redhead over there.” Ragab turned to the café.

  A large tourist bus drove past at hair-raisingly slow speed, blocking his view. Then another. Both leaving a bluish cloud of diesel exhaust.

  He froze. He could taste his fear. What if she disappeared?

  When the view cleared again, she sat with the bikers, chatting, smiling, without a clue he was near.

  He nodded in her direction. “Her.”

  The vendor leaned forward and squinted. “The one with the motorcycle outfit?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Nice… So she’s captured your heart, eh? But are you sure she’s not a little bit out of your league?”

  While the man was busy commenting, Ragab closed his eyes and recalled Stevie kneeling nude in the sand, her red hair hanging over alluring feminine curves. Then she turned to him, the wild one, and caught him staring.

  Boom! He hurt.

  Gaze of molten stone,

  You send my heart,

  Scorched, staggering,

  Into a storm.

  He put the pen back into its box and showed the card to the vendor. “What do you think? Too romantic?”

  The man had a look and grinned, teeth brown. “Women love romantic.”

  “Wish me luck.” Ragab spun to the street again and braced, his pulse thudding a crazy beat in his neck.

  Then everything happened fast—he walked over to the group of bikers, their heads turned, and one of them asked, “The fuck does that Arab want?” and another replied, “Baksheesh.”

  “No.” Ragab stopped at Stevie’s feet and, in the last moment, lifted his gaze to hers.

  Time stopped, her big emeralds shining wide with surprise, or confusion.

  He handed her the postcard. “I wanted to give you a souvenir.” His voice sounded constricted, revealing the tension that ravaged inside, but he’d done what he had to do.

  Just as she accepted the card, he tore his look from her, spun on his heels, and hurried back to Usain to untie the leash and climb up.

  “Hey,” the vendor said, gaping across the street.

  Ragab’s heart stilled. “What?”

  “Morocco-U.S.A., one-zero.”

  “What do you mean?” Angry beeping and honking flared behind him. The hair on the back of his neck rose. He swiveled, wanting to see and at the same time not wanting to.

  She ran through the traffic, between two cars, his postcard in hand.

  Was she really coming to him? Although dressed in black, she was so beautiful it was surreal. Maybe the heat played him tricks.

  No, she arrived by Usain’s side, wiping her wet eyes. The things those shimmering greens conveyed! Sadness, warmt
h… She asked, “Where exactly do you think you’re going without me?” and reached a hand up.

  Dueling emotions assaulted him. Joy, affection…and utter confusion. “Not very far, I think.” He leaned down, grabbed her hand, and pulled her up. Since the saddle had a handlebar up front and his backpack behind him, he set her across his lap, her legs hanging to a side. The smell of engine oil and gasoline snuck to his nostrils.

  He filled with heat, all of him sizzling. Although public display of affection was considered inappropriate, he circled the small of her back and held her so she wouldn’t fall backward. Passers-by could click their tongues and give sideways looks if they disapproved. He didn’t care.

  “I told you I don’t want to talk to a scarf,” she said, voice soft, and tugged on the lower part of his turban. When she’d uncovered his mouth, she smiled. “That’s better.” She slid her arms around his waist and leaned into him, lodging her head under his chin. Stray coppery hair tickled his lips. “This is as clichéd as it gets.”

  He drew a deep breath, couldn’t believe what was happening: In one minute, he gave her a good-bye note, and in the next, she sat across his thighs, hugging him as though they’d never separated. Life certainly held many surprises. “Uhm… Clichéd?”

  “You’re like this knight saving damsels in distress.”

  He chuckled. “What kind of distress were you in?”

  “Don’t pretend you didn’t hate seeing me with those bikers.”

  “Ha! Are you insinuating I was jealous?” Her gentle bantering reassured him. Her being in his arms now wasn’t a mistake. She wanted it.

  “In any case,” she said with an exaggerated dramatic tone, “I never thought I’d ride this gigantic animal again.”

  “Usain digs you.”

  “Huh. He’s scary.” She turned closer so one of her full breasts flattened against his chest.

  He got a flashback from a similar episode, when she’d sat behind him. “He scares you? Is that why you pressed your sexy feminine assets against me yesterday and had me embarrass myself in public?”

  “There was hardly any public.”

  “My mother.”

  “Ah, but she didn’t know you were embarrassing yourself.”

  Goodness, his feelings for Stevie strengthened by the second. She was funny, she was smart, and her presence did him a world of good. He held her harder and kissed the top of her head. Then he glanced at the vendor—who stared at them unabashedly from beneath his parasol—and sent him a wink.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Since all the hotel rooms had been taken during the festival, Ragab had borrowed a room from a family friend on the outskirts of Erfoud. They’d parked the KTM in front of his house and Usain in a stable nearby.

  After a long and wonderful shower, Stevie stood by an open window overlooking the dunes. The Adhan call to prayer sounded all over town, and exotic smells wafted up from the street. The high noon sun baked the city, and even though she wore her new dress, if there’d been no ceiling fan to circulate the air, she would have melted into a puddle.

  The bathroom knob turned. Ragab came out with a towel tied around his waist, its whiteness accentuating the tan of his skin.

  She stifled a gasp. Lord, what a sight! What perfection! Given he didn’t eat well or work out much, he wasn’t beefed, but had long and firm muscles, and curly black hair trailed from his dark purple nipples to his navel. With long-lashed, slanting eyes, exotic features, and short black hair, he was to die for. “You’re stunning,” she whispered, in awe.

  Was he hers? Would he allow her to touch him? When they’d hugged earlier, she’d felt that they belonged, that they were a match.

  He sat on a chair and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, chin in hand. For several minutes, he stared at a point on a gold-framed glass table between them with a frown marring his forehead.

  After waiting several beats, she asked, “What is it?”

  No reply.

  She walked over to him, sat on the table, and put a hand on his knee. “Ragab, talk to me.”

  With a deep sigh, he straightened and leaned against the back of the chair but kept his gaze down.

  “Come on, what is it?” she insisted, throat choking.

  The fragility of their relationship frightened her. During the few days they’d spent together, she’d developed feelings for him, a rare thing. He was a special man, not at all arrogant and hostile like she’d thought in the beginning—it was her own behavior that provoked his initial attitude—no, he was a sincere, mannered, strong-hearted, and strong-willed man who respected and cared for her. The mere thought of flying back to the U.S. without having had the chance to explore their potential made her heart cry.

  Finally, he looked at her, dark brown eyes troubled. “What happened last night,” he started, voice low, “what you saw…”

  “Yes?”

  “Why did you run away like that? I wasn’t going to hurt you. I’m not…” He clamped his mouth shut and shook his head.

  The old pain of finding him jerking off alone behind a dune snuck into her again. It might be best to tell the truth: Jealousy had gnawed at her. One should not have that kind of feeling, but she’d been unable to control it. “I thought you didn’t like me anymore. That maybe you were thinking about someone else. Someone you’d known before me. And that hurt. We’d had such a good time together, and then you went and…” She couldn’t finish her sentence.

  “And what? Pleased myself? Guys do it all the time. It’s what we do to let off steam, to release some pressure. Don’t tell me you don’t know.” He paused, stared at her.

  She bit her lip. He was right. She’d been so confused and emotional, her mind had lost its ability to reason.

  “Do you have any idea what you’ve been doing to me? How I’ve been feeling all day, around you?” He leaned forward again, on his elbows, taking her hands in his and speaking low to her mouth. “You’ve been driving me crazy. Crazy with lust. Hunger. Need. I wanted you. I yearned to take you in my arms and kiss you and touch you and taste you all over and make love to you.”

  Such passion! His words made her all fluttery, and wetness coated the inside of her pussy. She swallowed a lungful of air. “Wh—why didn’t you tell me?”

  He squeezed her hands. “I didn’t want to hurt you. You’ve already been hurt in the past, and I’m certainly not one to do that to you again. Never.”

  “You’re noble.”

  “It has nothing to do with nobility. When a person’s been abused, you’re careful not to revive the scars.”

  She understood where his caution came from, but during the two days she’d spent with him, she’d learned to trust a man again and to accept she couldn’t remain alone for the rest of her life. He’d also taught her desire, which was too good a feeling to let his wariness come between them. “What if I tell you I’ve forgiven the guy who hurt me, moved on, and I’m ready to develop something with you if you’re interested?”

  His dark brown diamonds implored her. “Baby, you’re not listening to me.”

  Baby!

  Warmth invaded her so she felt like floating in the air. “Well, honey, I’m listening to my body, and it says…” She guided one of his hands beneath her dress and pushed his fingers past her panties and into her wet pussy. “It wants you.”

  His breath quickened. Silent, gaze hooded, he curled his fingers upward and stroked a spot inside her that provoked electrical shocks. An incredible sensation. She hadn’t known! “Oh God,” she blurted, gasping.

  He stood and towered over her, damp bodily heat oozing from him. He smelled so male, so musky, she filled her lungs with his scent.

  Gently, he put a hand on her shoulder to push her to lie on the table and set a knee beside her. After lifting her dress up to her waist, he slid his fingers back inside her, rubbing and pressing on that same insane spot. He sure knew what he was doing. With stronger and stronger discharges, a burn grew in her womb and her inner muscles tightened until she had
a feeling she needed to give. What, she didn’t know. She’d never climaxed. But she needed to. With a whimper, she arched her back and pushed against his hand, begging for more.

  His quick, warm puffs brushed her face. He worked harder inside her until the burning pressure grew to a culminating point, then, bam! She exploded with a small scream, wetness shooting out of her pussy.

  Smiling, he continued stroking until the burn faded and she stopped trembling.

  “Jesus. That was…” She sat up and glanced between her thighs. She’d sprayed a liquid onto the table. Mortified, she exclaimed, “Oh my God! Did I pee myself?”

  “No.” He laughed. “Baby, it’s called female ejaculation. You came, beautiful. You came by my hand. I can’t believe it.” He brought his fingers to his mouth and licked them clean. “You taste sweet, fantastic.”

  It took her a moment to process the information and sort it as something acceptable. She’d read a few things about sex, but not that women could ejaculate. She mock-frowned. “How do you know these things? You been with many women?” A sting of jealousy teased.

  “No.”

  “You haven’t?” Impossible—he was too handsome, too intelligent.

  “I know because I’m a doctor.” He scooped her up, carried her to the bedroom with surprising ease, and set her down on the soft sheets. He lay partly on top of her, a knee across her thighs and his arm over her chest. With a sigh of contentment, he nuzzled her hair.

  She squirmed toward him, wet and ready for more, tugging on his towel. “I want you. Make love to me.”

  He smiled, caught her hand. “Wait. We’ve just met.”

  “You don’t want me?”

  “Oh, I do.” He inched closer so a long, hard rod poked against her thigh, through his towel. “Feel that?”

  Her throat made a strange sound. She reached for his erection and stroked along the ridge. Thankfully, her experience with an abuser hadn’t scared her from touching another guy. If only Ragab would move down a bit and put his cock inside her!