Lord of Desire

Alysson had no idea what he was thinking. When she glanced at Jafar, his face was a collection of harsh shadows. He was not indifferent to her, though, that much she could tell. He had placed an arm around her shoulders to protect her from being jostled, while his other hand rested on the jeweled dagger at his waist. With him so near, she could feel his muscles coiled with a vital, dangerous energy.

She herself felt calm, yet alight with a cold flame of excitement. Tonight would be different from the last. This night she would not sleep alone.

The noise had abated by the time they finally reached Jafar's tent, so much that Alysson could almost hear the erratic beating of her heart. The oil lamp which had been left burning cast a welcome glow over the luxurious interior of the tent. Jafar escorted her inside, but then paused.

Without a word, he turned back toward the entrance.

Alysson felt her stomach twist into knots. "Jafar . . . wait!"

He halted abruptly, his stance rigid, expectant.

Alysson clenched her hands. All she could think about was that he would return to those women, that he would make love to those other women and not her. “Please . . . don't leave."

An eternity passed before he turned slowly again to face her. Meeting his gaze, she could see a hard and beautiful vibrancy deep in his golden eyes. "I told you before, Ehuresh, that I don't want your gratitude."

She didn't misunderstand him; Jafar thought she was offering herself because he had spared her fiancé's life. But it wasn't gratitude she was feeling at the moment. She hadn't even thought of Gervase in hours, which was perhaps shameful.

"No." Alysson shook her head. She was immensely grateful that he hadn't killed Gervase, but the powerful emotions she felt for this man standing before her had nothing remotely to do with gratitude. "No," she repeated in a stronger voice. "It's not gratitude. I want you for myself . . . for my lover."

How could he not believe her? Alysson wondered a bit desperately as she stood waiting for his answer. She held her breath while her fate hung in the balance.

Finally, in response, Jafar reached behind him to loosen the tent flap. He let it fall, shutting out the rest of the world. "I wasn't leaving," he said quietly.

Her heart began beating again; her breathing resumed.

Both took up an erratic rhythm when Jafar slowly moved toward her. Standing directly before her, he brushed the hood of her burnous back from her face. With almost a kind of reverence, he buried his hands in her hair, savoring the silky texture. But his eyes were fastened intently on her mouth.

Then he bent his head.

His kiss was not gentle; in it she tasted heat, danger, darkness . . . a hunger that matched her own. Though Jafar held her head still so he could ravish her mouth, she offered no resistance. Instead, her lips yielded under his in lush invitation, while blindly her arms came up to encircle his neck.

His teeth bit her bottom lip, gnawing gently, impatiently, provocatively, pulling the sensitive flesh into his mouth where he sucked it. A soft wild sound tore from her throat.

Jafar reacted to that arousing little sound like a man gone mad. Dragging his mouth away, he frenziedly kissed her slender throat, which arched gracefully, then bent her back over his arm. Feverishly seeking, his mouth moved downward over her robes, to close possessively over the ripe peak of her breast.

Alysson sucked in her breath. Even beneath layers of silk, she could feel the shocking warmth of his mouth and the immediate impact on her body; her nipple budded tightly, while a stabbing pleasure flooded her mind.

For a single moment she let herself ponder how Jafar's other women had managed to survive such incredible sensations. Then she banished the thought. It was useless to wonder how many women had found paradise in his arms before her. For tonight she would simply cherish the extraordinary feeling of being the woman who inspired his desire.

Careless of his headdress, she clutched at his turban, knocking it to the floor. Her grasping fingers twined in his tawny gold hair as she gave herself up with total abandon to the fierce delight of his embrace, to the sensual arousal of his caresses.

It was a long moment before Jafar finally drew a ragged breath and raised his head.

Dazed, awed, captivated, Alysson lifted her gaze to his. There was no pretense of charm within those amber depths, only smoldering fire.

"Undress me." The harsh, throaty texture of his voice ran over her raw nerve endings like a sensual fire. "Not here," Jafar amended when she reached for the sash at his waist.

Almost trembling, Alysson obeyed his command. Taking his hand, she led Jafar into the darkened bedchamber, where unsteadily she removed the jeweled dagger and let it fall to the floor, then unwound his sash. Her shaking fingers tangled in the length of cloth because she paid so little attention to her task. All she could do was watch Jafar. With his hair wild from her fingers, he looked rugged, barbarous, and so blatantly sensual that she thought she might die if he didn't kiss her again soon.

But still she was too slow. When she struggled to remove his djellaba, Jafar took control. Impatiently he tugged it over his head, exposing his bare chest to her fascinated view. Awed by his masculine beauty, Alysson raised an inquisitive hand. She could no more have denied herself the need to touch him than she could have disavowed her next breath.

Her fingers, tentative yet strangely brazen, spread across his chest, exploring contours and planes and textures. His silken skin, hot as fire, rippled over steel-honed muscles, making her ache with need.

Her wondering touch affected Jafar similarly. When she made brief shy contact with his hard, flat nipples, the muscles in his jaw tightened as if he were in pain. Murmuring a soft oath, he stepped back, out of reach, to shed his remaining garments.

When he was done, the sight of his virile nudity stole her breath away. Dazed, weak, Alysson remained completely still; she could only stare at his magnificent male form, at the blatant evidence of his desire.

"Now, you." His voice was deeply husky now and edged with desire.