Lord of Desire

Alysson exhaled slowly on a whimper of pleasure. She had not known how empty she was until he filled her. Had not known what rapture was until he became part of her. She felt an amazing sense of completeness that only Jafar could give her. The pain was gone now, leaving only throbbing, pulsing joy.

"Look at me," Jafar murmured hoarsely, but it was an unnecessary command. She couldn't have turned away if her life had depended on it.

He surveyed her flushed, love-drugged face as his hips withdrew and began another slow full thrust.

It was a measured, maddeningly gende possession that nearly drove Alysson wild. Hot and feverish beneath him, she watched the light and darkness moving in his eyes as his body played skillfully against hers, teasing and tormenting, deliberately arousing her to a heated pitch. Presently, though, Jafar was caught up in the same sensual need he had created in her. Laboring for breath, he gave up his lover's games and increased the tempo. Abandoning gentleness for mastery, he arched over her, his hips moving in and out in a hot urgent rhythm.

"My sweet tigress . . ." Jafar rasped as he surged into her with a fierce, tantalizing thrust. Her whimper of pleasure became a sob of joy. Gasping, she strained against him with frenzied abandon, moving in wild, joyous response to his possession, withholding nothing. For her this joining was a celebration of Jafar's safe deliverance from battle, a celebration of life itself. For him it was a reverent consecration of her surrender.

"You are mine," he whispered harshly, hissing his ownership against her ear.

Yes! She wanted to cry in answer, but her breath was stolen from her as the spiraling ecstasy swept her up in its vortex. All she could do was give herself up to the glorious world of heat and light and sensation Jafar had created for her, as in his arms she became fully a woman.

"Alysson . . ." Jafar rasped her name in a fractured whisper of passion as he joined with her in paradise.

The slow return to consciousness long, long moments later was a cautious affair for Jafar. He felt as though his body and soul had shattered in a million fragments, and he wasn't certain if they could be mended.

For a long while he lay there completely still, his body cradled by hers, not daring to move except for the slight effort to spare Alysson the bulk of his weight. His breath was coming in ragged gasps, his limbs felt hot and heavy and languorous, while the tenderness welling within him made his heart feel near to bursting.

At last he chanced movement, his lips brushing her damp temple, her soft cheek, the curve of her throat, as he waited for the pounding rhythm of his heart to calm.

The imprecise thought that came floating into his mind then was m

ore a vague comprehension than any conscious reflection: the surrender he had demanded of her had been given freely. And in accepting the gift, he had surrendered part of himself in return.

He had possessed and been possessed.

An imprecise notion, perhaps, but he sensed that for a precious moment in time, they had bonded together completely—physically, emotionally, spiritually. Had Alysson experienced that same soul-shattering union as well? Jafar was as certain as he was of his next heartbeat that she had felt at least physical pleasure. But had it been anything more for her?

Her soft sigh, part contentment, part exhaustion, wafting against his lips, didn't provide the answer he needed.

Jafar's own sigh was far heavier as tenderly he gathered Alysson's unresisting body in his arms. For the moment she had surrendered to him. For the moment she had yielded. But as he held her limp and sweetly sated form tightly against him, he had to acknowledge an irrefutable truth. The mere act of possession did not make Alysson his.

Part Three

Let it be known to all that

The storm of love can kill!

By Allah! if this be so, I have

Not long to live. The sun will

Never shine again upon me!

Berber poet

Chapter 18

Alysson awoke to the bustling morning sounds of the camp, alone but not lonely. How could she be lonely when she had the incredible memories of last night to warm her?

Reluctant to move, she buried herself more deeply in the blankets, missing the delicious heat of Jafar's body, the arousing sensuality of his caresses.

Jafar had left before dawn. With a soft endearment and a final kiss, he'd extricated himself from the drape of her sleepy body, whispering, at her murmured protest, some low explanation that she'd only half-understood about protecting her reputation and her uncle's sensibilities.

Now, as she stretched carefully, gingerly testing the sweetly aching muscles of her naked body, Alysson realized what Jafar had meant. It would be impossible to maintain appearances if he was found in her bed.

The thought made her smile. That a savage Berber warlord would be concerned about the sentiments of one aging, wounded Frenchman seemed totally incongruous. Yet she'd known for some time now that Jafar wasn't as savage and ruthless as she'd once believed. And she was immensely grateful now that he'd wanted to shield her uncle from the knowledge that they had become lovers.