Lord of Desire

Jafar interrupted her thoughts as he chuckled to himself in satisfaction. "Last night, the spitting tigress became a cooing dove."

Driven beyond endurance, Alysson turned to glare at him—a mistake, she realized at once. Reclining on the pillows with his arms behind his head, Jafar looked like some royal Eastern potentate in all his naked splendor. The light of day highlighted the magnificence of his lean, virile body, making her breath catch in her throat.

Alysson knew she should look away, but before she could avert her gaze, Jafar spoke. "You won't find me such a hard master," he said softly, his eyes touching her more intimately than even his hands had done.

Discomfited by his tender look, Alysson turned to fumble with her sash. "I won't find you any kind of master," she said tightly. “Your wits have gone begging if you think for one minute I'll allow you to add me to your harem. I refuse to become one of your concubines."

"I have no concubines, chérie," Jafar remarked blandly.

She didn't believe him, not in the slightest. No Eastern lord of his power and wealth would be without dozens of female odalisques to satisfy his needs.

But the thought fled her mind when she heard Jafar rise from the bed and approach her. Tensing in alarm, she moved away. But he kept coming with the deceptively lazy grace of a stalking cat. Soon there was nowhere to run.

Fighting a burning awareness of his sheer physical nearness, Alysson flinched when Jafar reached out to catch her wrist. Glancing down, she could see the honey-gold hairs gleaming on his arm as he turned her to face him.

"Don't run from me, lover."

Startled by what he had called her, she looked up to find amusement glittering in his eyes. "I am not your lover!"

"Yes, you are, O, donkey ears," he replied, teasing her for her stubbornness. As if to prove his point, he reached up to cup her breast. It was a gesture of possession, gentle but determined.

Alysson's spine went rigid, even as blood rushed to every place in her body that he had taught to feel pleasure. "Don't!" she exclaimed, her voice shaking with intensity, the erratic beat of her heart making a mockery of her thought to escape.

He paid no attention. The fingers of his other hand threading in her hair, Jafar cradled the back of her head with commanding tenderness.

"Don't . . . please," Alysson pleaded, reduced to begging.

He laughed throatily. Pulling her close, he lowered his head.

His kiss was long and deep and hot, arousing her just as he had done last night—effortlessly. Trembling, powerless, Alysson submitted to her new devil master.

A score of pounding heartbeats later, Jafar's mouth slowly pulled away, leaving hers wet and wanting, her body throbbing with unfulfilled longing.

"You must learn how a woman kisses a man," he whispered. "It is an art that will bring us both pleasure."

Alysson swallowed hard as she gazed helplessly at him, her eyes shimmering with the moistness of pride. His arrogant presumption that in time she would beg him to take her seemed all too inevitable. Already he could control her body with his skilled caresses. Already she was beginning to yearn for the spiraling tendrils of desire that assailed her whenever he touched her.

Struggling against the overpowering emotions of shame and despair, she raised her chin and forced a note of loathing into her voice. "Can you even imagine how much I hate you?"

"Yes, my dove, you hate me. So much that your sweet body quivers with desire when I touch you . . ."

Briefly he bent again to brush her lips, his breath warm and moist and scented with the taste of her mouth. Then, reluctantly, he released her.

Alysson fled to the other room, not waiting to comb her tangled hair or even put on sandals.

She did hate him, she thought furiously, wiping her lips to erase the taste and feel of him. She hated him desperately, even while acknowledging his mastery of the art of seduction. And even though she had managed to escape Jafar's presence for the moment, she couldn't escape her chaotic thoughts, or the contemplation of what had happened to her last night.

She was far less sheltered than other young women her age. She hadn't yet grown into womanhood before she'd learned what occurred during the physical mating between a man and a woman. Her ayah?

??her Indian nurse—had spoken quite freely about the human body and the duties of a woman toward her husband. Hindu texts, the words of gods and sages, taught the science of pleasure and love, and elevated the act of sexual intercourse to a religious ritual. Moreover, India abounded with statues and relics that depicted sexual acts. Alysson would have had to be blind not to notice, and dull-witted not to be curious.

What had happened to her last night had not been the complete act, she knew. Last night she had learned what it meant to be a woman, what it meant to be the object of a man's passion, but Jafar had not gone so far as to claim her virginity. He had held back for some reason. His restraint puzzled her. Especially since he had made it clear he intended to become her lover—

Lover.

Shame flooded her cheeks with hot color as she recalled how easily he had made his promise come true.

Alysson shook her head, her shoulders slumping wearily. There was no denying it; she had surrendered herself to her ruthless captor, to a. savage barbarian who intended to reorder ths man to whom she was practically betrothed. Against her will, her body had betrayed her. Aad in turn she had betrayed Gervase. She was a traitor both to hira and to her own principles. It was unbelievable, unforgivable.