Master of Paradise (28 page)

When she stood naked before him, he nodded
his approval. He came closer, so she could feel the heat of him,
put his mouth to her ear, and whispered, “Get on your knees.”

She hesitated. It was what she’d sworn never
to do. But with a persistent pressure, he pushed her down so her
mouth grazed the coils of his chest, his flat, narrow waist, and,
as her knees touched the ground, the bulge in his torn breeches.
His hands left her and came into her range of vision, moving
swiftly to open his breeches and bring his erection out into the
steamy, moon-washed night. She’d never seen anything more
beautiful. In the celestial light, his erection looked exalted—huge
and bestial, ribbed and corded, full of a life and character all
its own, as if carved from marble by an artisan’s hands. She
reached for it, dying to touch it, remembering the outer softness
pulsing against the rigid inner steel. But as her hand extended, he
pushed it away.

She couldn’t believe the erotic effect of
this simple act of denial. After his relentless pursuit of her,
over twelve thousand miles of land and sea, to be denied, at this
moment, what she desired most, made her sticky between her thighs
in a way no power on earth ever had.

She licked her lips, staring at him with
hungry eyes, already wanting him in her mouth. “I want to touch
you,” she insisted. “I want to taste you.” He took himself in hand
and rubbed the head along her mouth. When she parted her lips to
take him inside, he moved away, grazing her cheek, not letting her
taste him even when she moved her head and tried again.

“You want to suck it?” he asked.

“More than anything.”

He considered her a moment as he grazed her
cheek with the soft head. Then his voice, graveled with passion,
said, “Put your hands behind your back. Clasp your fingers
together. No matter what happens, don’t move them. As far as you’re
concerned, your hands are tied.”

She looked up and found his face and saw that
he was serious. She knelt as she was, staring up at him in silence.
Could she do this? Keep her hands bound behind her as if he’d tied
them with rope? She’d promised to do anything he wanted for this
one night. Yet she felt she was treading on dangerous ground. To
give in to his will so completely...

Then she recalled the safe word.
Simba
. It may have meant “lion” in Swahili, but to her it
meant safety.

Parting her lips to draw air, she slowly did
as she’d been told. Putting her hands behind her, she felt her cold
fingers collide. She clasped her fingers loosely together.

“Tighter,” he commanded, his voice now that
of the pirate lord.

Swallowing, she clasped her fingers tighter
together. It was an oddly amorous experience, knowing she had no
control, that she was bound to do his bidding without so much as
the use of her hands.

But it was difficult to think of her hands
when he was holding his masterful erection in her face and taunting
her with it. Finally, he guided himself to her mouth and allowed
her to draw him in. He was so delicious, she forgot herself and
reached for him. Instantly, he grabbed her hair and hauled her head
back so he dropped from her mouth. Looking up at him in the
darkness now, she couldn’t see his face. But she could feel his
power. She could feel his fury flowing down his arm into the
fingers that yanked her hair.

Alarmed, afraid he’d deny her the astonishing
pleasure of having him in her mouth, she crossed her wrists behind
her, turned her palms together, and clasped her fingers so tightly,
a hurricane wouldn’t have shaken them loose.

His hand loosened in her hair and he stroked
it back off her face, tenderly now.

He let her taste him again. She began to lose
herself in the process. To forget the circumstances. To lose track
of her mentally bound hands. To submerge herself in the seductive
pleasure of affording
him
pleasure. Her mouth gripped him
like a vise, making up for the fact that she couldn’t use her
hands. If she was powerless to his will, the least she could do was
get him so enflamed, he’d lose control. She knew he was enjoying
it. He was so hard, she thought he’d explode. Guttural groans were
coming from his throat. He said, “Oh, Christ,” and his fist
tightened in her hair.

Still, lingering along the fringes of her
mind was the awareness of what she was denied. Just knowing she
couldn’t touch him made her want to all the more. She had to clutch
her fingers together so tightly they felt numb, just to keep from
reaching for him and pumping until he climaxed.

He must have sensed her designs, for he
pulled away and dropped before her on bent legs. His finger scooped
up some of the moistness about her lips and he offered it to her,
letting her lick it off. Then he leaned over suddenly and kissed
her lips, showing her his approval as he clutched her head and
pulled her close, drowning her in his kiss.

He traveled the length of her with his lips,
enticing lustful sensations in a body already exploding with desire
and the heightened stimulation of having her hands willingly bound.
He tasted, he teased, nibbling her breasts until her nipples grew
pebble-hard, lapping at her navel and her inner thighs. And just
when he was close, when she thought he’d find her steaming treasure
and use his tongue to ease her agony of longing, he moved away. His
mouth at her thighs drove her wild. Again and again, she felt
compelled to free her hands and guide him where she wanted him. But
she couldn’t release her hands now if she tried. His will was
stronger than her own. He kept her captive with his resolve.

“Turn around,
carícia,
” he said
presently, his command sounding like a sweet caress.

She did so slowly, unbinding her hands to
prop them before her. He moved behind her, running a hand along her
naked back, negligently reaching under to cup a dangling breast.
She heard the swish of his breeches as they dropped to the ground.
Then, he was at the opening between her thighs, hard as steel, as
much a weapon as any sword. She was so wet that, big as he was, he
mounted her without interference. As he moved inside her, his
thighs slapping against her buttocks, he reached forth and took a
fistful of hair in his hand. This he pulled as he propelled himself
into her with reckless force. It was astonishingly carnal, his
pulling her hair as he slammed into her from behind, unleashing in
her a surge of lust. She felt like a lioness being mastered by her
mate. Far from feeling used and abused, she felt frenzied with
passion. She forgot herself, her fears, the dark corners of her own
mind and found, in the panting woman beneath the pirate, her true
and glorious self. She felt the wild woman rise like a phoenix from
the ashes of her childhood and make her strong. As she heard him
cry out, she knew he felt the same.

She’d never been bedded by a man with as much
fire and imagination as Rodrigo. He made love with a vigor and
aesthetic dedication that spoke as much for his love of her as it
did for the vast range of his expertise. His touch was always
different. He never ran out of new ways to excite her. Even the
smallest caress lit a flame in her. He never asked for any
indulgence without bestowing the greater share on her.

He made love like an African, not a European.
When he moved his body, the thrust of his motions came from the
hips, centered in his body in a way Europeans’ weren’t. His African
techniques of lovemaking sent her hurtling to the brink of delirium
and back. He stayed hard for an hour or more at a time, making love
to her with slow, hard thrusts that matched the distant beating of
the drums until she felt on the borders of madness. With Rodrigo,
making love was like an untamed dance of varied and colorful steps.
Just when she thought it was as good as it could be, just when she
was certain she could never again be so excited, so fulfilled, so
absolutely smitten with the man she loved, he proved her wrong.
She’d never been so happy to be proved wrong in her life.

When he yanked some nearby vines from a tree
and bound her hands behind her back, she felt a momentary panic.
But as he began the delectable process of fulfilling his desires,
she became so carried away with the unexpected ecstasy of it that
she opened herself to him completely. She knew, in the reckless
reaches of sanity, that she was in control. That her safe word
afforded her escape. But the furious torrent of passion washing
through her, the familiar heat that sparked her loins and
transformed her tranquil breath to an unruly lament, threatened to
hold her prisoner more securely than the vines twining her hands.
And she realized, in the midst of it, that this was more thrilling
than anything that had happened in a life filled with drama and
pageantry. That the grandeur of his licentious contrivances was
more spectacular than anything she, in her own imagination, could
have designed.

She realized in the throes of tumultuous
passion that she didn’t want him to stop. She knew in that moment
that she could spend a lifetime giving herself to him, and never
lose her awe at the power of their union.

But he’d brought up the issue of trust. And
she had to know.

Greedily, she continued long after she’d
intended to call a halt, savoring the surge of sensations that
wrung her out and made her doubt her ability to carry through. It
was too sublime. How could she deny herself—and him—such exquisite
gratification? How could she possibly say the one word that would
stall the game?

But she must. She had to know once and for
all how much she could trust him.

So she waited until she knew he was in the
throes of delirium. Until he was on the verge of melding with the
moon and the stars. And then, gasping air into her lungs, she
panted out the word she’d been caressing like a forbidden lover on
her tongue.

“
Simba.
”

For a moment, he didn’t seem to hear. He was
wild with ardor, the sweat dotting his golden form from his
strenuous exertions in the balmy night. He grabbed her hair and
thrust harder as she felt her climax escalating. It was the hardest
thing she’d ever had to do, to raise her head and call out the word
that would deny them both the fruits of their passions.

“
Simba
, Rodrigo.”

It was a moment before it registered. Then,
with an agonized roar, he slowed his pace. “Are you serious?” he
asked, incredulous.

She had to be strong. She had to be sure.
“Yes. Yes.
Simba.
”

He fell over her with a ragged groan. But he
withdrew his bold erection from the swollen liquid of her sheath
and lay atop her like a brawler who’d been bested in a fight.

Even as he did, his fingers found the vines
that bound her hands and tugged them loose. Her arms came around
him with loving gratitude, holding his steaming body tightly in
their grasp.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes,” she sighed. “Oh, yes.”

“I didn’t hurt you?”

“No. Never. It was...” She couldn’t think of
a word to describe the unmitigated thrill of it.

“Then...” He was quiet for a moment, as if
questioning her motives. Then, all at once, he understood. She
feared his anger, but he merely lowered his head and gave her a
long, passionate kiss. A kiss that reminded her of her stunted
passions. Of how her body, even now, was longing to be joined with
his.

“I’ve changed my mind,” she told him, now
that she knew he could be trusted to cease. “Make love to me,
Rodrigo. Let’s do it all again.”

But he rolled off her and flattened himself
on his back, drawing her gently into his arms. “Not tonight,” he
said. “I told you I could be trusted, and I’m a man of my
word.”

He held her tenderly the whole night through,
his rampant erection brushing her leg as he stirred restively in
sleep. She could think of nothing that night except what she was
missing by playing the trickster. She thought how dear he was to
give her this assurance. But still, she wished desperately that
she’d had the good sense to trust him all along.

So she tossed in his arms long into the
night. And cursed herself for being such a fool.

From the cover of the hilltop, they watched
the enormous slave caravan trudge its way across the vast African
savanna. They’d been struggling to catch up with it for a week, and
finally it was before them.

Their group included an interpreter who spoke
several local dialects and some natives who’d volunteered to
transport supplies. All carried rifles Rodrigo had liberated from
earlier, more modest caravans. They also shouldered the hideous
accoutrements of the slave trade. If they happened upon a slaver
who was likely to question their designs, the tethers could be
fastened about the natives’ limbs to convince the intruder they
were part of the same brotherhood, and catch him off guard. Twice
already the ploy had worked. Two separate traders had wandered into
camp to assess the competition. When each had settled in the shade
with the proffered drink, Rodrigo’s “slaves” had drawn rifles and
freed the trader of his ill-favored merchandise without so much as
a fuss.

Now they could see their prey winding its way
through the grasses below. It was the largest slave caravan any of
them had ever seen. A group of Arabs in long robes led the slaves
in single file beneath the relentless noonday sun. They were
leashed together by the means that had become disgustingly familiar
to Gabrielle by now. Two forked limbs of trees were strung together
back-to-back so there was a fork the size of a man’s neck on either
side. These forks were inserted around one male slave in front and
one in back, the open ends connected with strips of leather. This
was attached to a long rope that was wrapped like a noose around a
female slave’s throat as she walked behind. Children of all ages
traipsed beside their mothers, clinging to their legs. Sometimes
there were as many as five or six children grabbing hold and
slowing the woman’s progress. When that happened, they were
lashed—children and all—by whips made of hippo hide: hide that
stung on bare skin more than any other whip ever devised by
man.