Lord of Desire (23 page)

"You delight my eyes," he murmured in French, his voice suddenly becoming soft and whispery.

Slowly, against her will, Alysson opened her eyes to meet Jafar's. She was shaken by the look of raw desire on his face, the almost physical possession of his gaze. She wanted to object to his scandalous behavior, to shout at him to get out, to plead with him to leave her alone, but she couldn't force the words past her dry throat. It was only when his fingers glided gently over her bare shoulder that she found the voice to protest.

"Don't . . ."she whispered. "I don't want you to . . ."

"Is that so,
ma belle?"
His soft smile said clearly that he didn't believe her. "I think you do. Already your body betrays you. Your nipples are eager to feel my
touch . . ."

It was as if his velvet voice had reached out to stroke them. Alysson felt a startling, unfamiliar surge of desire coil deep inside her.

Still holding one of her wrists, he raised a hand to the pert curve of her left breast, grazing the tip of it with his forefinger. "See how it springs to attention?"

She gasped, jolted by the throbbing fire even this lightest pressure made her feel, by the warmth and dampness that suddenly pulsed between her thighs.

"I think it time that we continue with your instruction in the art of kissing."

At his soft declaration, her lips parted to argue, but to her dismay, she couldn't form the words. She was powerless to speak, to move. Jafar spread his fingers against her delicate cheekbones, framing her face in the gentle vise of his palms, his eyes moving over her like flickering torches.

She couldn't look away.

Her gaze focused on his sensual, hard mouth as slowly, slowly, he bent his head. She could feel his breath, warm and provocative, caress her lips. And then his mouth closed over hers, capturing, claiming.

With a sharp inhalation, she tried once more to pull away, but Jafar ruthlessly took advantage of her parted lips; his tongue swept inside her mouth in an intimate invasion, sweetly probing, stroking the soft openness.

The taste of him washed over her like an erotic drug. It was a kiss that stamped his
possession, that
tantalized and promised, that demanded a response. Never in her life had she felt anything like it.
Never, not even with Gervase.
Indeed,
this
was the kiss, Alysson realized in some dim recess of her mind, that she had yearned for Gervase to give her, one that excited and aroused her body while calling to the wild, nameless longings in her heart. Overwhelmed by the power of it, Alysson gave a small, involuntary whimper.

The soft utterance was all the invitation Jafar needed. With extreme and deliberate seductiveness, he forced his tongue deeper, tasting, licking,
twining
in a gentle ravishment that compelled her surrender.

Alysson reeled from the shattering assault. A thousand sensations ravaged her. She wanted to hate him. She wanted to feel loathing for his intimate mastery, for the ruthless way he was taking advantage of her vulnerable position. But what she felt instead was the boldness of his body, hard and warm and aggressive, imprinting its maleness onto her. What she felt was his provocative heat, bathing her senses and arousing an urgent hunger in her that cried out for fulfillment. Helplessly she swayed against him, straining closer.

His kiss went on and
On
, giving her no quarter. She couldn't escape . . . didn't want to escape.

A wild trembling invaded her limbs. Scarcely aware of what she was doing, Alysson lifted her hands to grasp his upper arms, clinging to him for support. And when, a dozen heartbeats later, his sensitive fingers discovered the silken warmth of her breast, she hardly knew that the faint moan that came from her throat was hers.

Jafar recognized the trembling pleasure-sound and felt his own body aching with an answering passion. Slowly he broke off his kiss and lifted his head to gaze down at her. Her eyes were half-closed, soft and hazy and bewildered, the eyes of a woman experiencing the slow unfolding of desire.

She was on the edge of surrender, he knew, and yet she was still afraid of him. He could feel the way her heart fluttered like an imprisoned bird at his touch.

Before she could recover her dazed senses, Jafar bent to press a barrage of feather-light kisses at the vulnerable hollow of her throat,
then
followed the slender column with his lips, to the line of her collarbone, and lower, to the rising swell of her breast.

While his palm cupped the delicate heaviness, his tongue found the erect peak and flicked out to tenderly stroke.

His erotic attentions forced another whimper from her.

"You bewitch me," he murmured before his lips closed gently over the taut bud.

Alysson thought she would die from the incredible sensation. She found herself straining weakly toward his seeking mouth as Jafar sipped at her nipple.

Devastated by the fierce pleasure streaking through her, she responsively dug her fingers into the hard muscle of his

arms
. Her breath had entirely deserted her, along with the significant portion of her will. She knew she ought to make him stop, but incredibly, a traitorous part of her wanted very much for hirn to continue this exquisite torment.

"You are . . . despicable . . ." she at last managed to
gasp, ". . .
forcing me this way."

He paused, his movement arrested.
"Forcing?"
The word was a skeptical rasp.

Even so, her allegation had struck an unwelcome chord within him. Jafar took a shuddering breath. His body was throbbing, yet his desire suddenly was not quite
so
fierce as it had been a moment before.

Willing the savage heat of his blood to cool, he slowly drew his mouth away from her sweet breast.
Just as slowly he straighted to stare down at her.
"I have never had to force a woman,
chérie.
And I am not forcing you now.''

It was true, Alysson thought with shameful comprehension. She had responded to him with a wantonness that was mortifying. "No . . ." she whispered.

His faint smile was humorless. "How ignorant you English ladies are kept. You don't even recognize desire when you feel it."

With a sound that was almost a sob, she pulled out of his arms. Had she been less upset, she might have felt surprise that Jafar let her go so easily, but all she could think of was what she had done, what she had allowed him to do.

How could she have forgotten Gervase? How could she have betrayed him so? She was considering marriage to him, for heaven's sake. Gervase had given her his love, his trust, and here she was welcoming another man's caresses! A savage stranger, no less!

Wanting to flee, to hide, Alysson began desperately searching through the pile of clothing for a robe to cover her nakedness. She found an embroidered caftan and dragged it on, overlapping the front edges and holding it protectively about her. When finally she turned to face Jafar, her bearing was tense, her expression wary.

His features were impassive but for the wry curve of his mouth, the only indication of the frustrated desire he was feeling. "There is no need for you to defend your virtue so ferociously, mademoiselle."

"No? Am I supposed to simply stand here then and calmly accept my ruination?"

He
shrugged,
an unconcerned gesture. "If you will only think on it, you will realize you have already been ruined in the eyes of your society, simply because you've been abducted by a 'savage Arab.' Your mere presence here in my camp, alone in my tent with me, will condemn you."

"That isn't so," Alysson replied doggedly, her voice shaking.

"Is it not? Do you think me unaware of your people's standards?" His low-pitched voice dropped a register. "Do you truly believe your Frenchman would want you now, after you have known my kisses?
That he would still be willing to marry you?"

"It will not matter to Gervase that you have kissed me!" she cried, though she wasn't as certain as her adamant denial implied.

Jafar's look, as well as his tone, became cool. "If I were to take you for my
own . . .
if I were to lay you down, there on my bed, and settle myself between your sweet thighs
. . .
he would mind. Very much, I think. No
civilized
European, including the colonel, would marry you after that."

Alysson stared at Jafar in shock. It was a moment before she recovered enough from his implied threat of rape to force a response past her dry throat. "No . . . you're wrong . . . Gervase would not desert me."

"Oh, Bourmont will come for you, certainly. His honor demands it. But if he manages to avenge your capture and attain your freedom, he will toss you away as something soiled."

"You are q-quite mistaken. Gervase loves me. He wouldn't care if you did . . . ruin me."

When Jafar raised an eyebrow in disbelief, Alysson lifted her trembling chin and stared back at him defiantly.

He felt a spark of reluctant admiration for her as she stood there, proud and quivering. She was absurdly brave, Jafar thought, to deny him what he wanted. And he did want her . . . wanted her with a fierceness that surprised him. Yet he was civilized enough to want her willing.

With a cynical twist of his lips, Jafar shook his head. If he were one of his ancestors, he would not have stopped
simply because she protested. He would have made her his personal slave, forced her to serve his physical needs,
used
her beautiful body for his pleasure . . . and hers. He would not have equivocated at rape.

And by his tribal laws, he would have been entirely justified, seeking revenge in that manner on his enemy, the colonel. But raping an innocent hadn't been his intent when he had taken her captive. His vengeance did not extend to debauching quivering virgins. She was a maid, untouched, and no matter how fiercely he wanted revenge on her fiancée, no matter how much he wanted to succumb to the fire in his Berber blood, he wouldn't take her innocence without her consent.