Lord of Desire (63 page)

She returned Jafar's embrace with a violence that matched his own, and heard him groan at her response. His arms wrapped tightly around her, forcing her closer, crushing her in a hold that should have hurt but didn't. She could feel the need that shuddered through his body, feel his violent heartbeat merge with hers, feel the heavy, rigid length of his arousal grinding against her.

Wanton pleasure coursed through her. Feverishly she strained to get closer, molding herself against him, her fingers digging into the corded muscles of his shoulders. Hunger was too tame a word for the wildness she was feeling. She hadn't known hunger until now, had never felt this kind of raw need—mindless, relentless,
endless
. A primitive ache so deep her body throbbed.

Breathing raggedly, Jafar finally dragged his mouth away, but his fingers tangled roughly in her hair, holding her face captive. "Do you know how I've longed to do this?" he whispered hoarsely, "
how
much I've ached to have you?"

"Yes," she rasped. "I've wanted it, also."

Her answer was all Jafar needed.

He wasn't gentle as he tore at her clothes, stripping away her haik and tunic and the loose pantaloons she'd worn for riding, shoving up the sheer chemise till her breasts were bared to his mouth. With a rough sound of passion, he bent her back over his arm and feasted, his burning lips attending each nipple till it tightened with pleasure so intense it was painful.

"Jafar . . .
please . . ."
she begged.

He raised his head, heeding her urgent plea. His eyes were fiercely primitive as he divested her of the chemise, then swiftly lifted her in his arms and laid her naked on the makeshift bed. Kneeling beside her, he ripped off his dagger and tunic, but was too impatient to remove his pantaloons. Instead, he joined Alysson on the cave floor, laying his full length against her as his hard mouth covered hers. His tongue plunged deeply while his fingers sought the feminine recess between her thighs. She was all honey, primed for him with
a damp
, lusciously ready warmth. With a soft groan, Jafar freed his throbbing shaft and pulled her beneath his fully aroused body, his muscled thighs spreading hers wide.

Alysson felt his heaviness, his heat between her legs . . . the swollen flesh, hot and satin-smooth, pressing for entry. Joyously she opened to him, whimpering as he filled her, tears of pleasure welling in her eyes. The hard, pulsing length of him was like a huge fiery spear piercing her, invading her with a white-hot heat. Desperately she wrapped her legs around his flanks, her fingers clutching blindly at his shoulders.

He thrust deeper, burying his rigid fullness as far as possible inside her. The soft, frantic sounds of passion she made deep in her throat nearly drove Jafar mad. Lifting her hips with both hands, he surged into her again, claiming her triumphantly. The burning ache in his loins after the long days and nights of restraint, of being unable to touch her or caress her or drown
himself
in her silken heat was too great to bear. His body blazed with the maddening need to possess.

His rasping
breath
choked words against her mouth as he began driving hard, rhythmically into her. Alysson sobbed in awe.

Slowly,
Jafar tried to command himself—to no avail. His blood was raging totally out of control. Alysson had often called him savage, and just now he felt that way . . . savage and warlike. But she responded with equal fervor, her hips answering his wild rhythm, mating with his.

Frantic with need, she writhed and arched and strained, trying to match his erratic, uncontrollable pounding. Her head was thrown back, her mouth open as he took her, her nails digging mindlessly into his muscled back.

Then it began, the wrenching, tearing,
exquisite
release. He heard her frenzied cries, felt her convulsive shudders moments before his own body contracted in hard, racking tremors. Against her open mouth he gave a hoarse shout as with a violent hot pulsing, he poured himself endlessly into her.

He was insensate for many moments while the shudders stilled, as the heavy, sharp-edged need dulled. Finally, he became aware of the chill afternoon breeze wafting against his sweat-slick skin, and that he was crashing Alysson's slender form beneath him.

Slowly, weakly, he dragged himself off her and, nestling her close against him, wrapped them both in his burnous. Her contented sigh echoed the emotion in his heart.

For a long, quiet interval they lay there unmoving, with heartbeats mingling. Jafar absently stroked her bare hip with a casual finger, the same touch that had moments before turned her into a wanton now gentle and caring.

After a time, Alysson slowly opened her eyes to watch the flutes of the waterfall at the edge of the cave entrance. She was aware of an enveloping feeling of warmth,
a tenderness
as devastating as the wild loving had been.

Unable to help herself, she turned her face to him and pressed her lips against the warm skin of his shoulder. She tasted the salty taste of arousal and satisfaction that lingered on.

"Did you know that you make love to me in English?" she murmured, lifting her curious gaze to Jafar's.

A lazy smile filled his eyes, turning them to sunlit amber. "Do I?"

"Mmmm . . . always.
I never consciously realized it until now."

Drawing back slightly, he surveyed her flushed, tousled beauty with a satisfied gleam in his eyes. "I expect I get carried away when I am with you,
Ehuresh."

Alysson very much would have liked to believe she affected Jafar enough to make him lose his rigid control. "This
morning . . .
I understood some of what Zohra said when she accused me of bewitching you," Alysson mused, her tone a bit hesitant. "She called me your woman."

In response, Jafar closed his eyes. He was not pleased that she had brought up Zohra, yet he was too sated to be annoyed. And in fact, the thought of Alysson being jealous of his past affairs was distinctly gratifying.

"Am I your woman, Jafar?"

A curiously passionless frown crossed his face as he reflected on her question. For some time now, he'd known that in many ways Alysson was a kindred spirit, as isolated by fate as he was. But only this morning had he come to realize another truth. The aloneness that had been such an integral part of his existence since the death of his beloved parents faded whenever Alysson was near. She filled
an emptiness
in his life that he'd never acknowledged until now. As he'd stood there shaking with fury at Zohra's machinations, he'd finally understood the possessiveness he felt for Alysson. He wanted the right to protect her, to share her love, her future. He wanted to father her children. He wanted to become the center of her
universe,
the way he feared she had become the center of his.

But no man could
take
those rights. They had to be given freely.

"If you were truly my woman," he answered quietly, cryptically, "you would not want to leave here."

"What does that mean?" She searched his face. "Do you expect me to say I
want
to be your captive?"

Jafar sighed. It meant that she would have to make the choice to stay, that he wanted her to come to him willingly, of her own volition. But so far Alysson had shown no indication that she wanted to remain here with him.

When he didn't reply, Alysson bit her lip, still tender from his savage kisses. "Tahar told me that you must marry a noblewoman from another tribe."

"Yes." He sighed again. "I have no alternative but to marry for political reasons. It is my duty as
amghar
to strengthen my tribe's alliances through marriage."

"Oh."

The quiet disappointment he thought he'd heard in her voice made Jafar's heart skip a hopeful beat. But perhaps he was reading too much into her tone. Even strong evidence of a woman's jealousy did not mean she held any deeper feelings.
Feelings such as love.

Jafar's jaw tightened. In truth, how could Alysson learn to love him after all he'd done to her? He'd seduced her, taken her innocence. He'd shamelessly tried to rouse her desire and make her forget her love for another man. In the first goal at least he'd been successful. He had a certain power over her, he knew.
One that went beyond their captor- captive relationship.
The attraction between them, the desire, was too strong for her to deny or resist. Her presence here in his arms just now proved that.

But while he could compel her desire, he couldn't force her love. She might be drawn to him for the moment. She might be unable to deny the fierce physical attraction between them. But desire was a fleeting, insubstantial basis upon which to build a future.

As for her question, he could not make her his "woman." She would never remain here as his concubine. And he would not insult her by asking it of her.

But what of marriage?
His religion allowed him to take up to four wives, and yet he knew Alysson well enough to realize she would never be content with second place.

And he could not offer more. His first wife would of necessity come from a neighboring tribe. He could not put his own wishes, his own needs, ahead of his
people's
.

Nor could he in good conscience ask Alysson to spend the rest
Of
her life here, with him, in this savage land. Merely the idea was impossible. What could he offer her but war and strife? What future besides a lifetime sentence in a strange land, amid a strange culture? Even if he
could
wed her, there was every possibility that he might be killed in the war.
And what then?
She would be cut off from all she held dear.

No, the truth was, she would be better off without him, among her own kind, with a man who could offer her a safe, secure future.

With Gervase de Bourmont.

Involuntarily, possessively, Jafar tightened his hold on Alysson. The thought of his blood enemy taking what he'd just been given, of
any
other man enjoying the intensely satisfying ecstasy of making love to her, of unleashing the fascinating energy in her sweet body, the delicious warmth, made Jafar's blood boil. But he had to face that eventuality. He had to force himself to view the circumstances unemotionally.

It was in his power to determine Alysson
's
fate. He could keep her here indefinitely as his prisoner, or he could give her her freedom. He could put her happiness before his own. He could allow her a future with the man she professed to love. He could send her back to Gervase de Bourmont.

There was little standing in the way now. Yesterday he'd received a message from his chief lieutenant Farhat, re
porting that the negotiations with the French government were proceeding satisfactorily. The exchange of prisoners would soon go forth. Once that occurred, there would be no compelling reason to keep Alysson and her uncle as a bargaining advantage.

And the letters he'd written to certain highborn English friends of his grandfather should bear fruit any day now. He was almost positive he could make Alysson's return to Algiers less traumatic, that he could manage to protect her name and reputation enough so that she would not suffer too greatly.