Romantic Legends

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Simon lay back on the cushions and groaned. His senses basked in the sounds, scents, and sights. Even without touching her, he felt her inside him. It all seemed like an erotic dream from which he never wanted to awaken.

  She rolled her left shoulder, then the right—every motion as smooth as the notes of music. Shaking her breasts and hips, her ethereal body reminded him of a delicate wisp of smoke. Now she circled him, gyrating with complete abandon, rising on her toes, and then running wildly.

  Mesmerized and increasingly aroused, Simon drank in every movement. Her covert looks, stolen through her lashes, told him she knew exactly what effect she had on him.

  Simon’s heart slammed against his chest with every ragged breath. His thundering pulse nearly drowned out the music. He burned with desire unlike any he’d ever known. And just when he thought he could stand it no longer, she increased his level of torment.

  She slowly lowered herself to the floor, her bountiful breasts heaving from her exertions. Simon tried not to blink for fear of missing anything. Her arse hovered over her heels, her back arched at an impossible angle. The length of dark hair formed a pool on the floor. Every inch of her body had become a blatant invitation for his hungry mouth.

  Good God! How he wanted to feast on her.

  Raising her hips slightly, her pelvis gyrated—her movements were hypnotic, a blatant simulation of coitus. Simon imagined himself inside her. Pure molten lust took possession of him. Her every undulation sent a new surge of blood to his groin. It was a struggle just to breathe.

  Turning her head, she reached out to him, gazing into his eyes with a look so tempting Simon nearly hurled himself at her. He’d never been so bloody aroused. Never.

  “Perhaps you wish to touch me now, Efendi?”

  “Do you think me dead, Salime?”

  “Then why do you hesitate when I welcome you?”

  What man could resist such a dance? But how many before him felt the same? How many men had tasted the pearls of her pleasure while giving her nothing in return? The thought was immobilizing. Every fiber of Simon’s being wanted to devour her like a ravaging beast, but if he accepted her now, he’d be just like all the others. As much as he desired her, he couldn’t take her. Not tonight.

  With his body cursing him in the vilest of terms, Simon staggered up from the cushions. And in a voice that almost choked him, he bid her a soft and swift good night.

  Salime watched his departure in speechless incredulity. Her dance of seduction had never failed to bring any man to his knees. She’d spent half her life training in the erotic arts. She knew ways to arouse wild passion in any man, and possessed the mastery to gratify his deepest carnal desires. Until now, she’d never truly understood the passion she invoked. Intrinsically she’d known that there should be more—that she should feel more, but the acts of love had never been more to her than skills she practiced, not unlike pottery or basket-weaving.

  Although she’d believed herself in love with Lord DeVere, he’d never spoken to her heart as Simon did. DeVere had been her rescuer, her salvation. She had danced for him, smoked with him, and tended him in the hammam, worshipping him as a god. But now she realized she was a flesh and blood woman who needed, not an idol to worship, but a mortal man to love. Knowing this, she could settle for nothing less.

  She ached to see Simon’s smile, to hear the ring of his laughter, to feel him moving inside her. She’d danced for him in the belief that sheer animal instinct would overpower the curse that shackled him. She’d thought to stir him beyond the realm of thought. She’d felt the lust burning inside him. The vibrations of sexual tension had nearly cancelled out the music of the Oud. Yet, even after employing the full measure of her allure, she’d failed. He had fled from her in disgust. As a woman, she had fallen short. Feeling as if he’d ripped her heart out, Salime flung herself to the floor and buried her face in her hands.

  Bathed in perspiration and with blood roaring in his ears, Simon flung himself onto his bed. He’d fled temptation, yet torment remained. The vision of her dancing, lying on the floor begging him to come to her was imprinted in his brain forever. Bloody hell!

  It was more than any man could bear!

  He fisted himself. In a frenzy of pumping, he made short work of an orgasm. His pride never could have endured the short duration of their interlude if he’d taken her. The old Simon would have shown her heaven, but it had been a lifetime since he’d bedded a woman. His sole consolation was the fact that he could have had her if he stayed.

  In that sense, this night marked a milestone for him. Salime’s dance had temporarily erased his fear. He’d been consumed with the thought of having her—but taking her body wasn’t enough. In his ultimate possession, Simon wanted to erase the memories of every man who had come before. He wanted her trust…her heart.

  Even after he’d bared his soul to her, she’d held back. She’d told him almost nothing about her past. Why didn’t she trust him? She’d continued to profess no belief in love, but he suspected that no man had ever tried to claim more than her body. When Simon finally took her—and he swore to God he would—he intended to win her heart and soul.

  If anyone asks you how the perfect satisfaction

  of all our sexual wanting will look, lift your face and say,

  Like this.

  When someone quotes the old poetic image

  about clouds gradually uncovering the moon,

  slowly loosen knot by knot the strings of your robe.

  Like this.

  -Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi

  Chapter Nine

  Salime did not bring him coffee the next morning, nor did he see her the entire day. His desire to speak to her agonized him for endless hours. When he inquired, the servants gave him multiple excuses. Madame Salime was resting. She was bathing in the hammam. The thought of Salime in her bath made his bollacks ache. He almost broke down and went to her then but knew he would burn with irrational jealousy just knowing she had tended DeVere there. No, he must wait until she was ready to see him.

  Tonight he was determined to right matters between them. But how could he ever explain his bizarre behavior? Did she think him a secret sodomite? He spent the next two hours alternating between pacing, tearing at his hair, and practicing flowery speeches.

  The third time he inquired, he was informed she was at her prayers, an excuse that almost made him laugh. By the time evening finally came he was prepared to prostrate himself at her feet. “Salime, forgive me for last evening—” he began without ado.

  “I do not wish to speak of it,” she interrupted, refusing even to meet his gaze. “It was a great misjudgment. I am deeply mortified.”

  “No.” Her pain was a vise around his heart. “You don’t understand—”

  “I comprehend perfectly. May we please not speak of it again? Shall I read to you now, Efendi?” She didn’t wait for an answer but opened the giant volume of Latin poetry. “Have you a favorite passage, or shall I start at the beginning?”

  “Please, Salime, don’t do this. Let me explain—.”

  “Your words are not enough!” she cried. “You shiver with revulsion at my touch. When I danced for you, you fled in disgust. Your professions of passion mean nothing, Efendi. I do not wish to hear them anymore.”

  Simon winced. The biting words had left their mark. “I did not flee in disgust. I have wanted you from the moment I laid eyes on you, but this is more than animal lust, Salime. If I can never touch you, if I can never know the rapture of your kisses and the secrets of your body, I still wish to know you. I want to know you as intimately as one human being can know another. I desire to be trusted with your confidences and favored with your innermost thoughts. I want to be your lover in every sense.”

  “My lover?” She laughed bitterly. “I cannot believe you when the very thought of touching me reviles you.”

  “You think I’m reviled?” Simon choked. “Nothing could be further from the truth! Please,” he protested, “let me prove it
to you.”

  “Did you not already do so last night?” She slammed the book closed.

  “No, Salime. God knows it was not because I didn’t want to have you. I have never desired a woman as I desire you. It is why I left.” His face heated with his confession. “I didn’t want to embarrass myself. But now I intend to finally deal with my problem.”

  “How?” she asked.

  “Please remove the veil, Salime. I want to look fully upon the face of the woman I would make love to.”

  She turned away. “I show my face to no one.”

  “Please, Salime, I have bared my soul to you. Do not hide from me anymore.”

  “What if it is ugliness that I hide?” she replied in a choked whisper.

  “Impossible,” Simon scoffed. He was upon her almost at once, grasping her shoulders, pivoting her to face him again. He reached for the filmy length of silk.

  “But it is true.” Her voice broke into a sob. “And I cannot bear for you to look upon me. You have fantasized about me too long. Surely Aphrodite herself could never meet your expectations.”

  “Have you not listened to a word I’ve said? Please, Salime. Do not weep and do not hide from me. Never hide.” Then his hands were on her veil, gently pulling.

  She grasped his wrist, begging. “No! Please, Efendi! I must tell you first. You said you wanted my story? I shall tell it to you, but please do not remove it.”

  Simon had never been able to withstand a woman’s tears, but Salime’s distress affected him deeply. Her agony was his. Her tears made him bleed.

  “As you wish.” His hands fell away.

  But it was too late. Loosened from the jeweled clasp, the wispy piece of fabric slithered to the floor. She cried out, but Simon caught her hands before she could cover her face.

  His gaze flickered briefly over the jagged scar running from the corner of her left eye to her jaw, then settled back on her eyes. Frozen, she gazed back at him with misery and uncertainty, her breath coming in quick, shallow puffs. He raised his maimed right hand and stroked his thumb over the length of the scar.

  “Is this what you feared, Salime? Did you think a tiny blemish could change how I see you? How I feel about you? Do you have such a low opinion of me?”

  She turned into his palm with a sob, covering his hand with hers. “It is not just you—”

  “Yes, Salime.” He tilted her chin upward. His gaze dropped to her lips. Then his mouth hovered inches from claiming hers. “It is just me.”

  His initial impulse was merely to comfort, his desire to reassure, but all of that changed the moment their lips met. He moaned at the rush of warmth swelling inside him, at the sensation of her soft, pliant lips against his. He’d dreamt of such kisses—warm and sweet—an almost forgotten pleasure. But this kiss was no dream. It was as real as the sweet, jasmine-scented woman in his arms.

  But as the kiss lingered and the contact increased, awareness came upon him. Dark and insidious, it reared into the periphery of his consciousness. Tremors assaulted his body. Beads of sweat erupted on his brow. Simon squeezed his eyes tighter as hot, pulsating desire melded with an almost insuperable surge of panic. He willed the kiss to go on forever and nearly whimpered for it to cease.

  Refusing to surrender, he held her tighter, deepening the kiss. She met him stroke for stroke, her tongue eagerly tangling with his. His world retracted to Salime. Desire obliterated dread, transforming it into ruthless passion.

  Parting on a breathy sigh, she whispered against his mouth. “I wish to couch with you, now.” She cast her gaze slowly downward to where his swollen member strained against her belly. “And I think perhaps you desire the same. Shall I undress for you now, Efendi?”

  “Simon,” he corrected her. “Please, call me by my name.

  “As you wish…Simon.”

  Her eyes locked with his, she backed slowly toward the divan, removing articles of clothing with every measured step. First she flung off her golden bangles. Next, her girdle dropped to the floor with a jingle of brass coins. She never wavered as she stripped away her embroidered bodice and then slowly untied the tapes of her Turkish trousers. With a shimmy of her hips, they slithered down her body to pool at her ankles. Stepping out of them, she kicked them away.

  Only her shift-like tunic remained. Woven of the finest linen, it was almost transparent, revealing the dusky shadow of her nipples. She loosed the drawstring on her tunic. With one tug of the ribbon, the garment slid from her shoulders to her elbows, baring her breasts. She dropped her arms, and the garment fell in a soft whisper to the floor. She raised her chin. Breath-catching and beautiful in her nakedness, she stood proudly, making no show of modesty.

  The air between them was heavy and potent with promises soon to be fulfilled.

  Simon’s gaze devoured her generous breasts, their beaded nipples crying out to be suckled. He swept slowly downward over every inch of her smooth olive skin, until leveling at her pubis—her completely bare pubis. He was still stiff as a bloody pike, and his balls ached with unspent lust. He inhaled on a choking sound, his body coiling into itself with the tension of his self-restraint.

  “Do I please you?” she asked softly.

  “Yes, Salime. Exceedingly. I have never seen…I never envisaged—”

  “It is the custom among the Muslim people to shave the body thusly.” Her lips curved in a seductive smile. “How shall I lie for you? Do you wish to take me on my back like the missionaries, or on my belly like the heathens? Or perhaps you are exceedingly wicked and prefer the kıç deliği to the kılıf?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I refer to the second passage of pleasure. It is no matter to me if you prefer to bend me over the couch and take me in the—”

  “No.” He raised a hand, squelching her reply. He was so bloody aroused he could barely speak but held back for fear of losing control.

  With a smile, Salime sank onto the divan, sprawling shamelessly, one arm draped over her head. Her other hand rested on her breast, where she traced slow circles around her nipple. Her topaz eyes never leaving his, she licked her lips and skirted her hand over her smooth belly, toward the apex of her thighs. She arched a beckoning brow. “Come to me, Simon.”

  He ached to do just that. He wanted to plunge into her balls deep. Bloody hell!

  Part of him wanted to take her like some ravaging beast, but the other part was terrified of humiliation. Unable to restrain himself any longer, he went to her, removing an article of clothing with every step. Flinging off his coat, popping his waistcoat buttons, and tearing at his shirt, in seconds he was divested of all but his small clothes.

  He sucked in a breath when she made a move to his falls, releasing him from his breeches, and wrapping her fingers around his staff. “You have a beautiful kamış, Simon. It is large and well formed. You must have pleased your lovers well.”

  “I once did, but it has been very long, Salime. Too long. I don’t know if I can give you any pleasure at all.”

  “Is that what you fear?” She chuckled. “You worry for nothing.”

  Simon scowled. “It’s not nothing to a man, Salime.”

  “Forgive me. That is not what I meant. I know many secrets, ways to achieve pleasure like you have never known.” She gifted him with a slow and enigmatic smile. “Pleasure that endures for endless hours.”

  Endless hours inside her? The idea almost made him explode on the spot.

  “You must trust me,” she murmured. “Close your eyes and breathe deeply.” She pressed him back onto the divan. “Empty your mind of all thought. I will touch you now and you will tell me when it becomes too much.”

  Kneeling between his legs, she began with a light caress, feathering her fingers up and down his shaft. The teasing was pure torture. Her hand tightened, sliding downward to squeeze him at the base, and then upward again in slow, confident strokes. She smiled at and him and licked her lips. He sucked in a sudden breath at the first slow wet rasp of her tongue. It was his most fervent
wish and the thing he most dreaded.

  Bloody Hell. It was already too much. He inwardly cursed, wishing he’d tossed himself off before coming to her. It’s been too fucking long, Sin. You aren’t going to last ten seconds if she takes you into her mouth.

  Moving one hand to his ballocks, she rolled them gently between her fingers while laving his shaft with hot, wet velvet. His sac tightened, drawing up close to his body.

  Dear God. No. Not yet!

  “Please, Salime, you must stop.” He shut his eyes on a hiss, biting down so hard on his tongue that he tasted blood.

  Clasping his stones firmly between her fingers, she tugged them back down, instantly relieving the pressure to spend. He exhaled the breath he’d been holding in a long gush.

  She looked up at him with a knowing smile. “There are ways to prevent early emission. I know several of these methods. If employed six times, the final boşalma will be unlike anything you have ever known.”

  Eyes blurred with lust, Simon gazed down at her—the realization of his every erotic fantasy. She moved on to his crown with teasing flicks and darts of her tongue.

  She was driving him mad with the desire to be inside her mouth. It took all his will not to thrust into it. Just when he thought he could bear the teasing swipes of her tongue no longer, her warm, soft lips closed around him. His mind went black with the sublime sensation of her mouth.

  His body shuddered as she drew him in inch by torturous inch, engulfing his shaft to the root. Her cheeks were hollowed, her eyes clear and luminous amber pools. The sweet torture continued with deep pulls of her throat accompanied by slow passes of her silky tongue. The urge to climax returned with a vengeance.

  He fisted his hands in her silky hair, pleading between ragged breaths, “Please Salime. You must stop.”

  She slid him from her mouth and squeezed the head of his sex. Although his chest still heaved with the effort of holding back, the urgency abated.