Desire's Sirocco (4 page)

“Now,” she heard the Brother command and shouted as fingernails moved to her aching nipples and began plucking at them.

Between the pressure in her anus that moved in and out like a slow piston, the manipulation of that receptive point deep inside her vagina, the firm force on her feet and the delicate pinch of her turgid nipples, sensation burst over the young woman in a rapid succession of waves that brought a scream of release from her throat. Not even the hands bracing her head could hold her as she arched her neck and gave voice to the climax that shook her.

Trembling with the force of the passion that had gripped her, she could do no more than grunt as she felt hands on her hips pulling her forward. She grunted as her legs were lifted and draped over hard shoulders slick with perspiration. Even as the stab of a hot, velvety member poked at her opening then slid unerringly home, could she do more than sigh with immense satisfaction. The minute pain that rippled through her loins was nothing, meant nothing, and was ignored as her body reacted to the penetration.

Filling her completely, that powerful staff slid into the saddle of her and held there—unmoving and pulsing with the force of the Brother’s heartbeat. Such tremendous feeling, such engulfing bliss had settled over Jameela that when he stretched his upper body atop hers and his weight pressed into her, she managed to snatch her arms free of those who held her. Enveloping her unseen lover in a fierce grip, tightening her legs around his lean flanks, locking her ankles together to keep him captive, she attached herself to him like a leech.

“You like that, eh?” he whispered in a thick Akhkharulian brogue.

Jameela knew he expected no answer from her and, indeed, she was incapable of speech at that moment. Nothing save moans of passion and pants of desire came from her straining body. When he pressed as deeply into her as his body would allow she knew a moment of such intricate awareness, such brilliant insight into her own being as a woman, that no force on land, sea or air could have torn him from her grasp.

She was sucking him into the very depths of her, meeting his increasing driving force thrust with thrust, plying his staff as though he were an animal to be milked. When the muscles of her vagina began once more to vibrate, she heard the Brother’s cry of release rising to echo her own as they soared upward together and came crashing down in tandem, spiraling like spent stars flaming to earth.

Their bodies, damp with sweat, their heartbeats erratic, blood pounding in temples and throats, he collapsed atop her, his wet cheek between her breasts. She kept her legs and arms wrapped tightly around him even when his spent member shrank and oozed from her hot core.

Hands stroked her sweaty forehead, easing the damp curls from her cheeks. She felt his body shift and from the noises she heard realized the legs of the table were being pushed together and his legs lifted to lie between her own. The full weight of him upon her was a delight that made her sigh.

Wanting to talk to him, to tell him how wonderful had been her initiation into the world of a true woman, to thank him for his kindness she found it difficult to lie there quietly. Even more frustrating was her inability to see him. The silken blindfold was securely in place still despite the strenuousness of the copulation.

“When you bind a woman, she stays bound, doesn’t she, Dagan?” she thought to herself then remembered something her Trainer had said on the first day he had brought her to the Conclave’s keep.

Having ordered the slave trader to find for her a gown suitable for traveling and to have his purchase ready to leave within the hour, the tall stranger had reached up to remove a brown kerchief circling his neck. Extending his hand to Jameela, he had secured the kerchief around her right wrist as a sign of ownership. She watched him turn and stride back through the crowd. Men moved cautiously out of his way and his progression through them had been met with respectful silence. Even when he had disappeared beyond the scope of the slave market, no further ribald remarks or lewd comments were made in regards to Jameela.

The slave trader had wrapped a blanket around Jameela’s nakedness then led her wordlessly from the block. Though he snapped at those around him to find a gown for her, he did not speak to her, only bowed slightly in parting and went back to his business of selling human flesh without a backward glance.

Those who helped Jameela dress were indentured servants of the slave trader and would not meet the young woman’s gaze as they provided a soft cotton chemise and pantaloons, a sturdy gown and supple kid slippers. Once she was clothed, they departed as quietly as mice running from a cat. Left standing alone, no watchful eyes to see her leave, the young woman briefly entertained the notion of fleeing but the thought of the dark Lord who had paid a knightly ransom for her running her to ground made her think again.

Which, had no doubt, been the wisest decision she could have made for when he returned to find her sitting sedately behind the slave trader’s block, he almost smiled.

“You’re still here,” he said, coming to stand in front of her.

Jameela had shot to her feet at his approach and curtsied deeply, awaiting his order to rise. “Where else would I have gone, Milord?” she asked.

He was silent a moment then she heard him draw in a deep breath before releasing it slowly. “Where else, indeed?” he asked. Another silence then he bid her rise. “When I bind a woman, she stays bound.”

Jameela was tempted to look up into his beautiful eyes but she thought better of it. The nobility did not like those beneath them to make eye contact unless bidden to do so. That this dark Lord was nobility was evident in both his manner of speech and his carriage.

“I am Dagan Kiel,” he told her, “and you are?”

She glanced up at him then away. “Jameela Anthus, Milord.”

“Jameela,” he said softly then said her name again. “That is a lovely name for a lovely woman.”

Shocked at his words, she forgot herself and looked up. She found him staring at her, his bright amber eyes flicking across her face and drifting slowly down her body. His bold perusal brought crimson roses to her cheeks and she watched him laugh.

“A Wench who can still blush,” he said, one thick brown brow cocked. “Such I have not experienced in all my years.”

Jameela ducked her head, unsure what, if anything, she should say to his comment.

“Ah, well,” he said with a sigh, “come along then. It will take us an hour or better to reach the keep and I’ve a mind to be there in time for the evening meal.”

Jameela fell into step behind him, surreptitiously admiring the way his high rump and long legs fit snugly into the seat of his buckskin britches. Gazing up at his broad shoulders, she sensed the power in the warrior and knew those strong-looking hands could easily wield the sword strapped over his broad back or ply the dagger nestled in the sheath at his thigh.

His mount—a huge black stallion with a flame of white on its broad forehead—stood hitched beside a small gray mare. Lord Dagan indicated the little animal was for her use.

“You do ride?” he inquired.

“Aye,” Jameela replied quietly. She realized she had been looking forward to riding behind him, her arms clasped around his flat waist.

“That’s good,” he said, “for it would have taken us longer if you had been forced to walk all the way to the keep.”

A frown passed over Jameela’s face and settled in her pale green eyes. She glanced up at him then away.

“Whoever buys you will no doubt take you riding behind him,” he said, no doubt having intercepted her disappointment. “Men like me can’t afford such a luxury.”

She looked up. “Men like you?”

At first he didn’t answer but then shrugged. “Trainers aren’t allowed to own women,” he stated. “They’ve no use for them anyway.”

He offered to help her mount the little mare but she shook her head, proud to show him she needed no help in climbing atop the animal. His words had stung, making her feel unworthy of a man such as he appeared to be. She would not look at him as he vaulted into his own saddle and turned the stallion toward the seacoast road.

For over an hour they rode in silence, the waves of the Boreal Sea crashing against the rocks below. The salt spray felt good against her face and eased the heat of the hot July day. With a gentle breeze ruffling the long black hair rippling down the young woman’s back, it was easy to slip into a calm mood that made her forget she was now the possession of an unknown male.

Her first glance at the forbidding stone walls of the Conclave’s keep dissipated that relaxed mood in the blink of an eye.

“This is where I will be living?” she asked, shock making her voice break.

“Aye,” her escort acknowledged.

The soaring stone walls were of sheer black granite, shimmering with the setting of the hot late summer sun, reflecting the light in blinding undulations of brightness. High above, the crenulations looked like fangs in the gaping mouth of some mythical beastess. A single wooden door—high enough and wide enough only for a horse the size of Lord Dagan’s to pass through—broke the sleekness of the structure. There were no windows, no arrow slits or garderobes on this side of the immense fortification.

“Nor on the other two land sides,” Lord Dagan said as though he had read her thoughts. “There are openings on the seaward side but they are inaccessible to invading forces as you will see.”

Lalssu Keep perched upon the high crags of the Ionarian coastline. Beneath its thick granite walls, the rock face plummeted over four hundred feet to the deadly, thrashing waves of the Boreal Sea. It had taken hundreds of Ionarian stoneworkers five years to smooth the rock face below the keep’s foundation so that no foothold, no protrusion that would allow hand or knot of rope, could make it possible for besiegers to gain access to the formidable construction.

“I won’t be allowed to leave,” Jameela whispered, shuddering.

“What I bind, stays bound,” Lord Dagan reminded her. “No, you will not.”

The soft cadence of the Brother’s breath intruded upon Jameela’s reminiscing. From the slow rhythm of his breaths, she knew he was asleep. One part of her longed to reach up to the blindfold but she could not be sure they were not being watched. It would be unwise to act upon an impulse that might put her into jeopardy with the Conclave. Instead, she lay still, cradling his sleeping body against her, enjoying the firmness of his flesh, the not unpleasant weight of his chest upon hers.

She must have dozed for a while for she remembered nothing until she felt a sharp pinch on the back of her left hand. She flinched and would have cried out but a hard, foul-smelling hand was clamped over her mouth.

“Be quiet, woman, and take your arms from around him.” the Master’s chancellor ordered.

Though she hated to do so, she loosened her hold. Rough hands passed over her flesh as they lifted the body of the Brother from atop her. There was a groan of protest but Brother Qutaybah was quick to forestall any concerns of his fellow Conclave member.

“It is nearing midnight, Your Grace. You must be abed,” Brother Qutaybah stated.

Jameela frowned beneath the constriction of the blindfold. Could the man who had won the bidding for her be the Master, himself?

She shivered. Surely not, for that would have far-ranging consequences for her that she certainly did not want.

“If it is the Master who wins you—and that would be an honor of the highest magnitude—then you will have only him to satisfy. He will allow no other male to place his hands upon you. Your body will be his and his alone until the day you cease to draw breath,” Dagan had said.

Though she had enjoyed the ministrations of the Brother who had deflowered her, the thought had crossed her mind that if one man could bring her such satisfaction, any man could even if that man no longer had the sexual equipment to know such wondrous delight.

For it was Dagan Kiel of whom she dreamed nightly. His hands were those she wished upon and—now that she had discovered such pleasure—in her body. She longed to feel his mouth covering hers, his tongue jousting with hers as he had explained some men enjoyed.

“There are those who will wish to taste every inch of you. They are as adept at using their lips as most men are with their staffs. A tongue claiming your mouth can be as erotic as a dagger slipping into your sheath.”

Dagan had never given her any reason to suspect he had feelings for her but there had been times when she had caught him watching her with such a look of longing—carefully and completely erased upon her notice—that she knew he was not immune to her charms.

And charms she had ventured to extend toward the stalwart warrior who had been chosen to instruct her.

So carefully did she follow his teachings, so intently did she carry out his directions, she knew she was earning high marks under his tutelage. No compliments were forthcoming from the man but he could not hide the admiration glistening in his amber eyes when she accomplished a task well.

Nor had he ever laid a hand upon her except to guide her to where she should stand or to indicate how she should kneel. His fingers did not stray to her breasts or rump nor did he accidentally brush his body against hers as they passed in close quarters. He kept his distance when he spoke to her and was careful to keep his gaze impersonal.

“Do you miss not having a woman?” she had once asked him.