Lord of Desire

She would have expected Jafar's thoughts to be similarly occupied, but he seemed more inclined to study her than to discuss the day's events.

"What are you thinking?" she asked curiously.

His intent expression softening, he gave her a smile that was slow and seductive. "I imagine you know."

Yes, Alysson realized, seeing his eyes haze with a possessive look. She knew. After nearly five years of marriage, she recognized very well that heated look which still had the power to make her breath quicken and her heart beat faster. He intended to make love to her.

A quiver of anticipation ran through her as she returned his regard. For a moment neither spoke except with hungry eyes, while passion and desire flowed strong and vibrant between them. Then, slowly, Jafar came to stand directly behind her.

Feeling his lips softly brush her temple, Alysson leaned back against her husband, heedless of crushing the full skirts of her promenade dress. "Have you forgotten we are expected at the opera this evening?" she asked a bit breathlessly.

"It is fashionable to be late."

"It isn't fashionable to spend the evening in bed with your wife. In most circles it would be considered quite scandalous."

"Indeed. But then when have you ever cared about scandal, my dove?"

Alysson gave a throaty laugh and capitulated. "Will you help me with the hooks?"

"I am yours to command."

He took his time, though. Almost lazily he removed her, gown and crinoline petticoat, then muslin petticoats and corset, until finally only her lace undergarments—pantalettes and chemise—remained. Required to submit passively to his ministrations, Alysson found herself thinking back over the past years of her marriage and counting her blessings.

Those years had been good ones. As Jafar had wanted, they'd been married twice, first in a civil ceremony by the Bishop of Algiers, then in a lavish, week-long Berber celebration at Jafar's mountain fortress. She had never adopted her husband's religion, but she'd tried to observe his tribe's customs and traditions.

She had also done everything in her power to aid their cause and to support her husband in his role of keeping an uneasy peace between the French and the Algerines, the conquerors and the conquered. The decision Jafar had made to ally himself with Gervase de Bourmont had been the right one. Gervase had lived up to his promise to strive for a better future for the country. The native Arab and Berber tribes had at least one voice in the French government to support their cause, while the European settlers met a solid resistance to their ever-increasing greed. And for the most part, the bloodshed had ceased. Her Uncle Honoré was able to tend his thriving vineyards without fear of attack. Gervase, too, was satisfied with his life, having married a young Frenchwoman who properly adored him. Even Chand had found happiness in Algeria. Refusing to desert Alysson after her marriage, he'd gone with her to live among the Beni Abess. Eventually he'd taken a wife, a cousin of Tahar's, and now had several lively children of his own.

As for herself, Alysson remembered, the Beni Abess had accepted her completely, just as Jafar had predicted. Unlike her own peers. She was not "received" by some European families. But then, she had never cared about such things. Jafar was all she wanted or needed. He had eased the wild ache of wanderlust in her blood. No longer did she feel compelled to travel the globe searching for adventure, for some nebulous, elusive sense of fulfillment, of belonging. She had found her home in Jafar, and he in her.

"So many layers of clothing," she heard him say with amusement as he bent to press a kiss on the bare swell of breast above the neckline of her chemise.

The feeling was decadent, delicious, Alysson thought distractedly; she was nearly naked, while Jafar still wore his elegant frock coat and starched black cravat, with not a single hair out of place. Impatiently, she threaded her fingers through those sun-lightened locks that seemed more golden in the half-light of early evening. But Jafar refused to do more than tease her with a brief tantalizing kiss on her upturned mouth.

"There is no rush," he scolded mildly. "I want to enjoy you."

That promise alone served to arouse her blood to a fever pitch, but Alysson obeyed without protest as her husband led her to the bed and made her sit on the edge.

He then proceeded to increase her frustration level with his unhurried movements, pulling off her slippers one by one, slowly massaging each slender foot, making a production out of drawing off her garters and embroidered stockings. Only then did he finally push her back gently onto the bed.

Feeling herself sinking into the feather mattress, Alysson realized that a soft bed was another amenity she was no longer accustomed to. This one was entirely too soft after the mats and carpets at home, and not nearly as satisfying without her husband's hard muscular body beside her.

She tried to reach for him, but Jafar captured her hands and pinned them to her side while he knelt before her. Her breath caught in a soft gasp as he kissed her through the soft cambric of her pantalettes, his tongue hot and moist.

"Jafar . . ."she murmured, stirring restlessly.

"Not yet, Ehuresh."

Ehuresh. Defiant one. His endearments had become more lavish and varied over the years . . . pride of my heart, sunshine of my life, my adored one . . . but her favorite one was Ehuresh. She occasionally still gave him reason to call her that, but in general, she rarely defied him these days. Perhaps because he rarely gave her cause. No man could have been more considerate of her wishes. No man could have been a more wonderful husband, a more loving father, a more magnificent lover.

Then again, she had mellowed somewhat herself. Not enough to call him "master," perhaps, but she had upon occasion kissed Jafar's hands in public, which was a Berber woman's way of paying her husband a high compliment.

She would have kissed his hands now—those skillful, magical hands—but he wouldn't allow her to move. Forced to lie still, she could only whimper and grip the counterpane as Jafar indulged in his favorite form of torment—seeing how many ways he could arouse her.

He was the ultimate sensualist, savoring her, inundating her senses with pleasure, driving her half mad with his exquisite attentions. Shortly he had her arching against his mouth while her soft cries filled the room.

Only then did Jafar smile in satisfaction and continue with his undressing of her, drawing off her chemise and pantalettes before stepping back to remove his own clothing.

Still quivering in the aftermath, Alysson lay there languidly, watching her husband undress, admiring the sculpted lines of his hard, lean, be