Hot Arabian Nights. Marguerite Kaye
moan made his groin tighten. The second nipple, delightfully hard, swapped ice for fire as he enveloped it with his lips. Still she watched him, her eyes glittering, her hair, free from her headscarf, glinting fire in the dappled light from the stained-glass ceiling. He knew that she longed to touch him, but he knew that she would not, without a cue. She learned quickly. And she was untutored. The combination of voluptuary and innocent was intoxicating. That they were indulging in such carnal pleasure here, right next to the Divan, added an extra frisson to Azhar’s enjoyment.
He opened the last of the buttons which held her tunic together. Another lump of ice, teasing down her body, pooling in the dip of her naval. He licked it dry. He undid the sash of her pantaloons.
‘Azhar, someone might come.’
He laughed. ‘That is not a possibility, Julia, it is a certainty,’ he said, tilting her bottom up to swiftly remove the garment.
‘Azhar!’
‘Julia, we will not be disturbed. No one dares enter without my permission.’ He took one final piece of ice from the dish.
‘What are you going to do with that?’
She had no idea. The knowledge that he would be the one to initiate her only heightened his desire. Smiling wickedly, Azhar put the ice on his tongue, knelt between her legs, and slid his tongue inside her.
She arched up under him. He lifted her higher, his hands cupping her rear. The ice had already melted, but it had served its purpose. She was wet, hot and already swollen. The last time he had lingered, this time he brought her to a climax swiftly, licking over her and into her and then over her, the sweet rush of her orgasm making him pulse in response, his tongue sweeping over her as her climax ebbed, bringing another rush, and then a final one. Her hands were digging into his shoulders. The soft flesh at the top of her thighs was damp. She lay sprawled on the scarlet cushions, her hair spread like a halo around her, her breasts heaving delightfully, her face suffused with colour. And her eyes, cloudy with sated passion, still fixed on him.
It was a primal response, this surge of male pride that he had given her such pleasure, but he relished it. His shaft jutted painfully in the constraints of his trousers. He could not remember ever feeling so aroused. Five, six strokes inside the slick heat of her, would be all it would take. But Azhar wanted much more than five or six strokes. He could wait, even if it meant tipping the last of the ice down his front. He looked at Julia, all creamy flesh and pink nipples and dark auburn curls between her legs, and he realised what he needed most was to stop looking at her.
He got to his feet, reaching for her hand to pull her upright. ‘I will leave you to—to rearrange yourself,’ he said.
‘But what about you?’
‘I too need to rearrange myself,’ Azhar said wryly.
‘No, I meant...’
‘I know what you meant. This was simply another staging post on our journey of discovery, Julia. Not one I had planned, but I promise you, a most delightful way station for me as well as you.’
* * *
Julia was eyeing the pastries with intent when Azhar returned, his hair wet, the flush faded from his skin. It was foolish to feel shy but she did, and even more foolish to be embarrassed by the appetite their lovemaking had given her, but she was.
‘Eat, please,’ Azhar said, when she turned resolutely away from the table. ‘But avoid the cinnamon-and-sugar ones, for the sake of my sanity.’
She studied him from under her lashes as she took sustenance. Would anyone be able to tell what they had just shared, by looking at them? Azhar, staring off into space, his plate of food all but untouched, looked his usual remote self, while she felt as if the wild, sensual creature she had become must still surely be etched on her face, even if she had rearranged her clothing and subdued her hair under her scarf.
She nibbled on a sugared almond and poured herself another glass of sherbet. Fifteen minutes ago Azhar had been flushed with passion. Not long before that, his face had been set, his eyes dark with anger. Though it still seemed incomprehensible to her that he could walk away from all this, she did understand his desire for freedom. Bad enough being wed to Daniel, but to marry a kingdom...
Bad enough! Julia set down her sherbet glass carefully. Her marriage was not bad. She had not been unhappy, and she knew of worse, far worse marriages. But she had not been happy either. Azhar had likened Qaryma to a gilded cage. Julia smiled at the notion of describing her marriage in such a way, yet there was no doubt she had felt confined by it. The promises she had made to Daniel constrained her still, though in a way, they had also helped her grasp her freedom. Without the impetus of completing his book she would not have come here, would not have tested her resourcefulness, would never have discovered the sensual side of her nature which had been subdued for so long. Would never have met Azhar.
Looking at him, recalling what had passed between them right here less than an hour before, she felt the most delightful shiver. She was not yet free, but the process of claiming her freedom was proving far more enjoyable than she could ever have imagined.
* * *
Azhar ushered her through the marble pillars. ‘Why are there no guards?’ Julia asked.
‘Because I had them stand down while we are here.’
‘Oh. What about the Second Court, did you have that cleared too?’
‘Not cleared, it is the main thoroughfare through the palace, but I asked that only those with urgent business be allowed to pass through.’
‘Asked or commanded?’
Azhar shrugged. ‘To most here it amounts to the same thing.’ He lifted the heavy iron bar that held the double doors together, and threw them wide. ‘The Divan.’
The room was about fifty feet long with a domed roof crowned by a gold crescent in the very centre. Gold constellations were painted on the ceiling, and the floor was worked in an intricate pattern of turquoise-and-gold mosaic. In contrast, the walls were stark white relieved only by a thin band of gold and turquoise. Aside from the huge carved chair upholstered with cloth of gold, the vast space was completely empty.
‘My brother and I used to play in here as children,’ Azhar said. ‘We used to race with our wooden horses, stage mock fights with our wooden scimitars.’
‘So you were close when you were younger, then?’
‘There are only two years between us,’ Azhar replied. ‘Our mother died in childbirth two years after Kamal was born, and our father never took another wife.’
‘Is that unusual?’ Julia asked in surprise. ‘Wasn’t he lonely?’
‘My father married as all kings of Qaryma marry, for the sake of an heir. Since my mother provided him with two, he did not feel the need to take another wife. As to whether he was lonely—if you mean did he take lovers then the answer is yes. He enjoyed the company of women in that way. It is one of the few things we have in common.’
‘Two things,’ Julia said, before she could stop herself. ‘You both take lovers, but neither of you offers love.’
The look he drew her was measured. ‘As you say. And what about you, Julia?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Do you still have room in your heart for love?’
‘If by that, do you mean will I ever marry again, the answer is an unequivocal no. My freedom is not quite so hard-earned as yours, but it is every bit as precious,’ Julia said. ‘But we are not here to talk about me. Tell me more of the Council meetings that take place here.’
‘Under my father they convened three times a week, though Kamal has reduced it to once. Membership is hereditary, representing the oldest families in the kingdom, although the King also has the authority to invest a man with specialist knowledge or skills. The Chief Overseer in charge of the diamond mines, for example.’