Lord of Desire

With a moan, Alysson arched her back in surrender. She felt her nipples swell for his approval, peaking in aching arousal, and at the softest lash of his tongue she shuddered.

Jafar began a tortuous game then, withholding anything but the lightest of caresses, teasing her with his warm breath and delicate nips of his teeth. He seemed determined to make her frantic. Desperately, she kissed the only parts of him she could reach, her own teeth gently biting the flesh of his shoulder, tasting the warm, musky skin. It had no effect on him.

"Jafar . . . please, I can't bear it," she begged finally, pleading for release. When he paid no attention, she pulled her hands free and tangled her fingers in his hair, with a tug making him lift his head. "Jafar, please . . ."

His eyes went dark and passionate as he stared down at her. "You have bewitched me into wanting you," he said softly. "It is only right that I make you want me."

"I do want you!" she insisted breathlessly.

At her answer, he suddenly rolled onto his back and pulled her astride his hips. He watched her face flush with eager pleasure at her dominant position, watched her eyes turn hot and smoky as slowly he guided her down and impaled her on his large arousal, heard her grateful sigh. When he was deep inside her, though, Jafar went totally still. He could feel the shimmering pulses of desire rippling around him, clutching at him. Her captive, he thought as his hard flesh swelled further. He had taken her hostage, but he was the one tied with silken chains of desire.

"Jafar!" she said plaintively at his stillness.

Obediently his hips began a slow, upward, surging thrust. "Do I please you, lover?" he demanded on a husky breath.

"Yes . . . you . . . please me!"

"You have muscles you didn't know you had," he mur

mured hoarsely, reveling in her dazed look of pleasure. "Use them to bold me.'1

She obeyed mindles

sly, tightening her inner muscles around him, which made Jafar stiffen and groan in reaction..

Bat still he did aot hasten bis movements. He retained complete control until the final shattering moment of ecstasy. Until then, he was so exquisitely slow that he almost drove her mad.

For tint remainder of the entire golden afternoon, it seemed as if that were his intention, to drive her insane with need. He made her body quiver with desire while showing her how to please him as he was pleased. Over and over again he had her moving and pulsing with mindless pleasure.

At other times they played at being lovers . . . sexual, foolish, erotic gaaies that made Alysson blush to participate. And all the while Jafar proved again and again that he desired her. He was a sensual animal, his passions never far from the surface and easily aroused. His passion fed her woman's hungering heart. But he had no words of love to give- her, only the demands of his body.

That realization was the only harsh note of reality to mar an otherwise magical day.

Chapter 22

She had to face that realization when she arrived home that evening, for her uncle was waiting anxiously for her. Honoré was lying in his sickbed, fidgeting with the covers, but to judge by the look on his face, he would have been pacing the floor had his injuries allowed it. Worry, disappointment, and sorrow all vied for expression on his ruddy features.

He knew she had been with Jafar, Alysson realized.

She accepted the intelligence with embarrassment and regret. Embarrassment because her body was still warm and glowing with loving, her mind still tilled with the heated memory of Jafar moving in a slow, senses-maddening undulation within her. Regret because she hadn't wished her uncle to learn about her loss of innocence. Honoré had wanted so badly to pretend that she hadn't suffered from her captivity. For the sake of his peace of mind, she hadn't told him the entire story of her time with Jafar. He would have felt obliged to defend her honor and call Jafar out, or some such foolishness, and no doubt get himself killed in the process.

When Honoré fixed her with his concerned gaze now, though, Alysson gave up the pretense of hiding the truth. Sinking to her knees beside his bed, she took his hand. Her intimacy with Jafar had been her choice, her decision, and she had to make her uncle understand that.

"He didn't force me, Uncle," she said quietly. "I went to him of my own free will."

"Sacre Dieu . . ." Honors stared at her. "How could you, Alysson? The man is a savage, a barbarian."

"He is not. He is as civilized as you or I. In fact he is the son—" Alysson broke off abruptly. She wanted to share her knowledge about Jafar's English heritage, but she didn't have the right, not unless Jafar wanted it known. "He was educated in Europe," she finished lamely.

"What does that matter? He is a heathen and a murderer!"

"He is not!"

"He is! He and his savage horde slaughtered scores of French troops! He nearly killed the man you might have taken as a husband! Have you forgotten Gervase?"

"No." She pulled her hand from her uncle's grasp as guilt returned to assail her. "I haven't forgotten."

"Alysson . . ." Honoré waved his hands helplessly. "You know that I love you like my own child. I only want what is best for you. I wish I could dismiss this as simply some wild prank of yours. But this ordeal you have been through has obviously affected your judgment.''