The Lady's Tutor (46 page)

Elizabeth
stilled. “Why did you not tell me this morning what you intended?”

“I did not
want to alarm you.”

“You
thought my husband would harm his own children?”

“I thought
it possible.”

Oh,
God, it was true. Edward had tried to kill his own sons.

“I know
you hurt, Elizabeth. Let me make it better for you. Let me love you.”

Love.
All her life she had wanted to be loved.

But this
wasn’t love. This was lust.

And she
wanted that too.

She leaned
her head back so that it rested against his. “You will be disgusted by me.”
She
disgusted herself.

He nipped
her ear; the small pain stabbed through her nipples. “Perhaps before the night
is over you will be disgusted by me.”

“No.” The
things he had done to her and that she had done to him had never disgusted her.

Slowly, he
backed up, his arms still around her, and turned. She looked at the rumpled
bed.

“When I
put you down, lift up on your hands and knees.”

El kebachi.
Like the beasts in the fields.

She lied
to herself if she said she did not want this. And she was suddenly,
sickeningly, tired of lies.

Shivering,
Elizabeth did as she was instructed. Cool air caressed her buttocks. She felt.
. . exposed. And vulnerable. At her pose. At the knowledge that he knew how
badly she needed him ... and did not judge her.

But she
had judged him.
She
was
ashamed to take him to visit her sons. Ashamed because of
this
—how
could she be a good mother
and
a wanton woman?

The
mattress sank behind her. His hand rested on her buttocks, a stinging imprint
of flesh. “Spread your legs . ..” She quivered at the nudge of a hard, hairy
thigh. “There.”

Scalding
heat plastered her behind; it prodded between her legs. Then he was inside her
and there was an internal popping sensation and he was lodged so deeply that
she could not catch her breath. “Ramiel!”

“Shhh.
” He lifted her up by the shoulders—
oh,
God,
it felt like she had a log rammed inside her that suddenly sprang tall
into a tree, and then she was kneeling upright and they were one body, one
heartbeat. Her back rested against his chest, a living, breathing wall of
prickly heat and corded muscle. Deep inside her, his verge throbbed. Or perhaps
it was her womb throbbing around him.

“You know
the sundry names given to a man’s sexual organ.” Hot, moist breath feathered
her hair. A callused hand smoothed her shoulder; she could feel every rough
abrasion as it trickled down her chest, a breast, lightly grazed a rock-hard
nipple—she clenched around him, a lightning prelude to orgasm knifing through
her body. And then he was cupping her stomach, shaping the flesh rooted deep
inside her, a part of her. Nuzzling her ear, he brought his other hand down and
tangled his fingers in the damp curls at the
V
of her legs, whispered, “Now
it is time to learn about the names given to a woman’s body,” and with a single
finger he flicked her swollen clitoris.

Elizabeth
screamed her release. “I’m sorry. “ She gripped his hands to hold them in place
while her body milked his manhood and tears streamed down her face. “I am so
sorry.”

For not
being the lady she was raised to be. For embroiling him in the sordid reality
of her life. For taking more than she was giving.

“Never be
sorry for experiencing pleasure,
taalibba.
Give me your hand. . . . No,
don’t fight me.” His hand cupping her stomach anchored her to him while the
hand that had brought her to climax gripped hers. “I fantasize about teaching
you this way, having you naked, touching me, touching yourself. This is
abou
khochime,
‘the one with a little nose.’“ Fingers intertwined with hers, he
directed the motion of her hand, dipped between her swollen lips into liquid
heat, gathered up moisture to glide and slide across the throbbing heart of her
clitoris. “It is also called
abou djebaha,
‘the one with a projection.’“

Heat
mushroomed inside Elizabeth, but he would not release her and she could not
fight both him and her body. Gasping for air, she slammed her head back against
his shoulder as another climax ripped through her.

He buried
his face into the crook of her neck, hand firmly pressing her lower stomach,
mapping the contractions of her womb, the ripples of her vagina around the
thickness of his manhood. “That’s good.. .. That’s good,” he crooned. “There is
also
abou tertour,
the crested one. That name is used when a woman’s
clitoris rises at the moment of her enjoyment.”

As hers
had done, twice now.
And it still was not enough.

Elizabeth
turned her face into his thick gold hair. It smelled of sunshine and heat and
the faint remnants of soap. She clung to the sanity of his voice. “Do you
really fantasize about me?” she panted. His fingers pulsed around hers while
her swollen flesh pulsed against their joined fingertips. Inside her body her
vagina spasmed
about
his manhood while her womb quivered against the palm of his hand.

“Oh, yes,
I fantasize about you. I fantasize about your hair, your breasts, your little
fleece here that is the same color as the hair on your head, your little bud
that gets so deliciously engorged. . ..”

She had
never dreamed that a man would fantasize about her. Before Ramiel, she had
never thought that a man would want her satisfaction.

He lifted
his head, found her cheek with his nose, adjusted his position until he found
her mouth. His tongue was as hot and wet as the other part of him that
penetrated her. She convulsed, crying out in his mouth, body independently
clenching, contracting, while he circled their fingers around and around.

“Three
orgasms,” he murmured against her lips. “That should take the edge off so that
we can finish the lesson.”

Gasping
for air, Elizabeth felt her fingers being drawn down, through soft, moist folds
until suddenly she felt a hard shaft. He
was
a part of her. Deep inside
her vagina he flexed; simultaneously, she felt the motion with her fingertips.

“Keuss
is a common word for a woman’s vagina.” He
pressed their fingertips against the ring of flesh that clung to his manhood
like a second skin. “And then there is
el taleb,
the yearning one that
burns for a man’s member. Do you burn for me,
taalibba?”

She rolled
her head forward and stared at the dance of light and shadow on the pale green
wall. Embers glowed in the white marble fireplace. “You must know that I do.”

“But I
need to hear you say so.”

She had
said far more explicit words than that to him. So why was it so hard to say? “I
burn for you, Ramiel,” she choked.

He kneaded
her stomach. “For me ... or for a man?”

She closed
her eyes and could not escape the truth. “Both.”

“You could
have taken another man today. A footman. Etienne.”

Her
eyelids shot open. “I would never do that.”

“But you
do it with me.”

“It is not
the same.”

“No, it is
not. Do you know what my favorite word for this”—he pressed their fingertips
harder against the flesh stretched around his shaft, as if seeking entry
alongside of it—”is?”

She
concentrated on the slick external heat of him instead of the heat melding her
spine with his chest. “What?”

“El’hacene,
the beautiful. But it is
el
ladid,
the delicious one, that is the most wondrous vagina of all. The
pleasure that it gives is compared to that felt by beasts and birds of prey, a
pleasure that they fight bloody battles to attain. The sheikh writes that a
woman who possesses such a vulva will give a man a foretaste of the paradise
that awaits him when he dies. Give me a sample of paradise,
taalibba.
There
is nothing wrong with feeling like an animal. Bend over and let us share the
same pleasure that a ewe and a ram enjoy.”

Elizabeth
bent over.. . and gripped the satin comforter in both hands to keep her balance
when his body slammed into hers.

A woman
should not be able to take a man this deeply, she dimly thought. Suddenly,
prickly heat curved the length of her back, and his callused hands that
steadied her hips slid down, around, one to cup her stomach while the other
slid between her legs and he was touching her and kneading her and she fought
to take him deeper, harder,
please, give me more, please don’t let go . . .
Her
inner pleas echoed in the bedroom.

“Keep your
hips tilted for me,
taalibba.”
He pressed inside and outside,
positioning her, directing her, molding her flesh around his. “Don’t tighten
up. Bear down. Take me, Elizabeth. Allah. Moan for me. Let me know you want me.
Take me.
There. Deeper. Yes. God.
Yesss.”

Sharp
teeth sank into her shoulder. She incongruously remembered him saying that the
sheikh did not advocate cannibalism, and then she did not think anything. She
became the animal that she had always feared she would become, moaning and
groaning and begging, lost in her pleasure, his pleasure,
their
pleasure,
the raw beauty they created together, flesh to flesh, breath to breath,
heartbeat to heartbeat. When her orgasm ripped through her, she did not know
who cried out, or even whose pleasure it was that exploded inside her body in
pulsating waves of repletion. Elizabeth and Ramiel. Ramiel and Elizabeth.

She
collapsed under the weight of his body and lay there for long seconds, savoring
the boneless feel of him pressing her into the cool satin comforter. Their
bodies pulsed in unison, inside, outside. A pool of hot sperm bathed them both.

“I want
champagne,” she whispered.

He
grunted. It was such a purely male sound that she smiled.

The smile
instantly turned into a rush of gratitude.
He had given her so much.
“I
want to bathe you in it.”

The
softened flesh inside her jerked. His fingers convulsively tightened about her
stomach and pubes.

“And then
I want to lick you dry.”

His flesh
buried inside her was no longer soft.

“And then
I want you to ejaculate inside my mouth so I can taste your pleasure.”

Ramiel stared down
at Elizabeth.

Her face
was flushed with satiation and sleep. Her eyelashes were spiked from tears and
sweat and champagne. Gently, reluctantly, he pulled the silk sheet over her
naked breasts, up to her neck.

She sighed
and turned into his hand.

Ramiel’s
chest tightened. He would not let Edward Petre hurt her again.

Quickly,
silently, he dressed, careful not to disturb Elizabeth. Extinguishing the flame
in the oil lamp, he could not resist swooping down and tasting her.

She
unconsciously opened her lips for him.

He regretfully
pulled back.

There was
another name that he had not relayed to her during their lesson:
el tsequil,
the vulva belonging to a woman who never tires of her man.

Elizabeth
would not tire of him, and both Allah and God knew, he would never grow tired
of her.

The foggy
night was cold after the warmth of Elizabeth’s body. Big Ben echoed over the
rooftops—it was one o’clock in the morning. Parliament sessions lasted until
two.

Ramiel
eased through the darkness, whistled sharply when a hack neared him. It
stopped.

“Where to,
guv’nor?”

“The
Parliament building.”

The hack
smelled of gin and musk. Elizabeth had smelled of oranges and hot, womanly
need. The day before she had come to him smelling of gas and fear.

The cabbie
expertly drove through the foggy London streets. When the hack stopped, Ramiel
jumped out and paid his fare.

“Thank ‘e,
sir.” The cabbie pocketed the generous tip.

“There’ll
be more money if you drive over there outside the lamplight and stay. I am
meeting someone.”

“It’ll
cost ye, me waitin’.”

Ramiel
smiled grimly. “It will be worth it.”

He waited
outside the Parliament building, hat pulled low and wool scarf high. His back,
thighs, and calves ached pleasantly, a reminder of more agreeable moments.
Elizabeth had given him three orgasms; he had lost count of the number that he
had given her. The taste of her lingered on his tongue, a combination of her
sweetness, his saltiness, and bubbly champagne.

Idly, he
watched carriages line up along the street—and wondered if he would ever taste
champagne without getting immediately, painfully hard. The cabbie’s nag, out of
the gaslight, neighed softly. And then the doors to the Parliament building
swung open, and men, some exchanging banter, some dressed in formal dinner
attire, poured out.