Nan Ryan (31 page)

Temple was surprised at dinner that night when Chauncey abruptly announced he was leaving.

“I’ll be packed tonight,” he said. “That way I can get an early start in the morning.”

“No! You’re leaving already? Why?” Temple asked. “You were going to stay another two weeks. You told me so yourself.”

Chauncey smiled at her, then turned to the Sheik. “Tell her, Sharif. Tell her I’m a wanderer and it’s time I get back on the road.”

“Chauncey never stays in one place long,” Sharif said to Temple. Then, to his old friend, “Still plan on heading west toward Makkah?”

“Yes, I’ll get a steamer there and head up the Red Sea to Egypt.”

“I wish you wouldn’t go,” said Temple.

“I have to,” Chauncey said, and he meant it.

“Then I shall get up early to say good-bye,” she told him.

“I was counting on that,” Chauncey said, smiling as he reached out and affectionately patted her hand.

After she’d said good night and left the two men, Temple lay awake in the Sheik’s bed. She could hear the drone of their masculine voices as Chauncey and Sharif continued to talk in the tent’s main room. She caught an occasional word here and there, hearing enough to know that Sharif planned to ride out at dawn with Chauncey on the first leg of his journey. Which meant Sharif wouldn’t be getting back to the village until after sunset.

So Temple began to make her own plans.

Since this afternoon, when Chauncey had teased her with, “I believe you’ve fallen in love with old Cold Eyes,” she had thought of little else. It was, she had finally admitted to herself, true. She did love Sharif. She was in love with him.

Dear God, she had actually fallen in love for the first time in her life, and it was with an Arabian outlaw.

And because she was in love with the Sheik, she had to escape him.

She loved him, but for her there could never be any happiness. She was nothing to him, despite the fact that he’d held her in his arms and made love to her through the black desert nights. Sharif did not love her.

He had never even mentioned his beloved Emerald City. He had no intention of taking her there. And even if he did, what kind of life would she have? If she were very fortunate, she might be one of his favorites—until he tired of her and banished her from his bed.

Then what?

She would languish away in his harem, praying he would send for her, her heart breaking.

No. No, she couldn’t stand that. She wouldn’t let it happen. She would leave him. Escape. He trusted her now. He wouldn’t be expecting it this time. When he rode west tomorrow with Chauncey, she would ride east with Tariz and find a way to elude the little servant.

Lying there in the great lonely bed, Temple made up her mind.

Why the Sheik had kidnapped her in the first place, she could only surmise. Had he seen her somewhere in London and desired her? What else could it be?

He was rich. He wanted no ransom.

He had brought her to this desert oasis to do just exactly what he had done: wait for her to fall into his bed so that he could make love to her until the day came when she no longer excited him.

Well, she would beat him to the punch. He would not get the opportunity to tire of her and cast her aside. This would be the last night she spent in his desert, in his village, in his bed, and in his arms.

It was long past midnight
when Sharif came to bed.

A full high moon shone over the Arabian deserts, its brilliance permeating the thickness of the white silk tent. Though no lamp burned in the spacious bedchamber, Temple could see the Sheik clearly. Unbuttoning his white shirt, he glanced inquiringly at her.

Having made up her mind to leave, Temple felt it would be hypocritical to make love with him again. She pretended to sleep. She watched from lowered lashes as Sharif, assuming she was fast asleep, kept silent. He did not want to disturb her. Quietly, languidly, he undressed. Temple knew it was unwise to continue looking at him. But she never fully closed her eyes.

Watching helplessly, she realized—not for the first time—that the Sheik did everything with complete poise. He was debonair even in taking off his clothes. It was rather like watching a graceful ballet dancer perform as he smoothly peeled the garments away from his beautiful body.

Each movement was easy, lithe, unhurried. Each article of clothing seemed to glide from his lean frame. Each portion of bared flesh shimmered like brown satin beneath which powerful muscles rippled in exquisite splendor.

When he had shed everything and stood naked beside the bed, his tall, tanned body was appealingly silvered by the invasive moonlight. Temple gazed at the perfect male body that had given her so much ecstasy and knew in that instant that she had to have him one last time.

Now she wished she hadn’t feigned sleep.

She yearned for him to get into bed and take her in his arms.

The Sheik swept back the silken top sheet and got into bed. He stretched out on his back, folded his arms beneath his dark head, and did not so much glance at Temple. Her head already turned on the pillow, she saw that his eyes were open. She saw as well the beads of perspiration dotting his hairline and throat.

It was, she realized suddenly, very warm and close in the bedchamber. No cooling breeze rippled the tent walls. The dry air had changed little with the coming of night. The fierce, furnacelike heat of day lingered even at this late hour.

It was very still. Very quiet. Very hot.

Temple too was very still. Very quiet. Very hot.

Long, tense seconds passed.

Temple knew in her heart she should continue to lie there, still and quiet and hot. That was what she
should
do. But, if she did, it would mean this mysterious man she loved so much would never again make love to her.

A stabbing pain shot through her at the thought, and she knew she
had
to feel his arms around her one final time. Not knowing if he was in the mood for lovemaking or if he would coldly reject her advances, Temple began to inch closer to him. When her knee brushed his leg, she turned onto her side, leaned up, supported her weight on an elbow, and laid a tentative hand on his chest.

She heard his quick intake of air, saw his black eyes flash in the moonlight.

“Sharif,” she whispered, “I can’t sleep.”

She stroked his muscular chest and at the same time dragged her toes up his long, hair-dusted leg, bending her knee and sliding it over his hips and across his flat belly.

He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. His arms stayed folded beneath his head. The male flesh beneath her bare thigh remained totally flaccid.

Temple bent her head, pressed a kiss to his chest, and whispered, “It’s so hot tonight. Sooo hot. Unbearable.” Her lips toyed with a flat brown nipple. “I wish the village were deserted. I wish we were the only two people here. Then we could go down to the water and cool off.”

Sharif’s arms came out from under his head. Temple raised up and looked at him hopefully. His hands cupped her face and he said, “There is a place where we can cool off.” He rolled into a sitting position, brushed a quick kiss to her lips, and whispered, “Get dressed.”

“How? I have no clothes.”

He flashed one of his rare smiles and said, “I’ll loan you a shirt.”

Ten minutes later the two of them, both mounted atop Bandit, were racing across the moon-silvered sands toward that secret oasis known only to the Sheik.

Wearing nothing but one of Sharif’s long-tailed white shirts, Temple sat across the saddle in front of him, her arms wrapped around his neck, her loose blond hair flying in her face and in his. Sharif, in a pair of riding breeches and nothing else, had Temple enclosed in his arms. But he wanted his hands on her as well. So he wrapped the reins around the saddle horn and controlled the fleet-footed stallion with the pressure of his knees.

The pair touched and kissed and grew more aroused by the minute as the galloping stallion thundered over the shifting white dunes. It was a beautiful night, though oven hot. The full white moon overhead turned the desolate deserts into a silvery wonderland.

At some point during all the kissing, Sharif unbuttoned Temple’s borrowed shirt and pushed it apart. The wind caught the cotton fabric and the shirt ballooned out behind her back, leaving her pale body exposed to the flashing dark eyes of her lover.

“Take it off,” Sharif prompted.

Laughing musically, Temple sat up and shrugged her slender shoulders while Sharif pushed the sleeves down her arms and off. She squealed and caught the shirt before it could fall to the ground. Clutching it with one hand, she leaned back in his supporting arm, naked in the moonlight.

On they rode—kissing eagerly, hotly, Sharif’s hand caressing the soft warm flesh he had bared. Each kiss grew hotter, longer. Each touch became more insistent, more persuasive. Each caress made hearts beat faster, blood scorch through veins. Soon it became apparent that they couldn’t wait until they reached the oasis.

After one particularly long, drugging kiss, Sharif lifted his dark head, looked into Temple’s eyes, and said, “I want you.”

“And I want you.”

“Now.”

Her heart pounding, her breath coming fast, Temple looked about, saw nothing in any direction but the endless silvered sands, glittering like millions of tiny diamonds in the desert moonlight.

“There isn’t anyplace we can …,” she said breathlessly. “Except the sand.”

“But there is,” he told her. “Here. Atop Bandit.”

Temple’s green eyes widened. “You’re not serious.”

“I am,” he said, and immediately spoke to the sprinting white stallion.

Bandit instantly slowed his ground-eating gallop to a comfortable walking pace. Knowing Sharif
was
serious and trusting his proficiency at accomplishing risky feats, Temple smiled and tied the borrowed white shirt to the saddle horn. Sharif put his hands to Temple’s waist, scooted her up and forward in the saddle, and then helped her ease a leg up and around him.

When she sat facing him, he said, “Unbutton my breeches.”

Her fingers were amazingly nimble on the buttons. In seconds the pants were open. She gave the trousers a tug. They parted in a wide wedge down his brown belly, and his awesome erection sprang free.

Trusting him to hold her securely, Temple lowered both hands and cupped him gently as if she were touching a priceless work of art. She looked at it lovingly, then raised her eyes to his.

“Should I lick my fingers to make you wet?” she asked.

“You tell me,
chérie
. Can you make me wet without it?”

“Yes,” she told him quickly. “Oh, yes.”

“I thought as much,” he said, and slipped his hands down her to her hips. “Come to me, Temple,” he urged.

Nodding, tingling from head to toe, she put her hands atop his shoulders as he lifted her in his strong arms until she was poised in position. Clinging tightly to his neck with one hand, she moved the other between them, wrapped gentle fingers around him, and guided the smooth, hot tip up inside. She moved her hand back to his shoulder, and her eyes held his as she sighed and boldly impaled herself upon him.

“Yesssss,” he murmured, his lean fingers kneading the soft flesh of her bottom, his pulsing tumescence sliding easily into the silky wet heat of her.
“Naksedil
, make love with me. Make love to me. Do everything to me. Bring me,
chérie
. Make me come over and over again. Love me, Temple, love me.”

His sensual words stirred her senses as did his masterful body. Challenged to take him to ever greater heights, longing to prove her sexual prowess, Temple told him brazenly, “I will, Sharif, you’ll see.” And she gave a slow, undulating roll of her hips as she promised, “I will make you feel as no other ever has. I will do things for you, to you, no other woman would dare. For tonight, my love, you are mine. Lose yourself in me, my Sheik. Immerse yourself in my burning love. Take it, darling. Take it all. It is yours and yours alone.”

She thrust her hands into the raven hair at the sides of his head and pulled his mouth to hers. She kissed him skillfully, thrusting her tongue into his mouth and swirling it around as she moved her hips in a grinding, circular motion to match.

Forgetting everything, including where they were, the shameless lovers made hot, abandoned love as they rode the big white stallion across the moon-silvered sands. Neither was sure whether they found the stallion’s rhythm or if he found theirs, but the three of them—man, woman, and horse—moved perfectly, erotically together, the bucking and thrusting of the lovers’ bodies timed naturally to meet the rise and fall of the big beast’s back as he strutted fluidly over the dunes.

When sensual pleasure escalated and the movements of the mounted lovers gradually speeded, the stallion picked up his pace, began to lope in long, easy strides. By the time the lovers were reaching their zenith and moving rapidly, frantically, in their quest for total rapture, the excited white stallion was galloping at such breakneck speed that Sharif had to cling to the saddle horn to keep them from falling off.

The racing stallion reached the final destination just as the lovers reached the ultimate ecstasy. While Bandit came to a sand-flinging stop on the smooth banks of the palm-fringed oasis pool, blowing and shaking his head about, his lungs expanding and deflating like a great bellows, the sweat-slippery pair on his back clung to each other, Temple crying out, Sharif groaning loudly, both shuddering violently in the throes of a phenomenal orgasm.