The Perfect Kiss (33 page)

But then they brought a hip-length shirt with long sleeves to button over it and then a waistcoat sort of thing and she felt a lot less self-conscious. Fatima explained the clothes came from different countries, as did they—she was from Alexandria, but Kadije was from Turkey and Mouna from the green hills of Lebanon. Their husband traveled widely, she explained.

“One must travel far to find such treasures,” Grace responded and the compliment delighted them all.

The ladies were intrigued by the faded marks of her freckles. Henna, she told them. They nodded as if it confirmed something and explained that they painted their feet and hands with henna and used it to brighten hair, but never had they made such dots on the face, neck and hands! Was this a popular look in England?

“No,” Grace told them. “I’m letting them fade.”

Fatima said something and a servant girl ran out, returning in a few minutes with a small phial. “It will hasten the fading,” Fatima told her. Grace smiled as she accepted it. Some things, it seemed, were universal.

They let her keep her pantalettes on but slipped on a pair of soft, loose trousers in pattered blue-and-red silk over them, and a loose, sheer skirt in yellow over the top. Kadije drew a line of blue kohl around her eyes and painted her lips with some red paint. Mouna, dressed in Grace’s clothes, presented her with a small, embroidered cap and showed her how to drape a sheer veil from it, and then Grace fetched her large-brimmed flowered hat and placed it on Mouna’s head, showing her how to use hat pins to hold it firm.

They stood, side by side and gazed at themselves in the mirrors. “I look wonderful!” Grace exclaimed. “Completely exotic. Oh, how I wish I could show my sisters!”

“But of course you can,” Fatima said. “These clothes are our gift to you. They are for indoor wear, naturally, but there is a robe for outside.”

Grace demurred, but the ladies were insistent. She looked at Mouna, still primping in front of the mirror. “Would you like to keep those, Mouna?” she asked. “And my hat, too? I know they are not new, but—”

Mouna embraced her with a shriek of delight and went spinning around the room, her skirts flaring out in a bell.

Fatima ordered coffee, which was poured into tiny cups and was unlike any coffee Grace had drunk, being strong and very sweet and thick and muddy. It was accompanied by tiny pastries, dripping with syrup and filled with nuts, and
loukoumi
—Turkish delight.

As the last dishes were cleared away, a servant announced, “The
hamam
is ready, mistress,” and Fatima rose. “Come, Grace,” she said. “This will be a very special treat.”

“Oh, I couldn’t eat another thing!” she exclaimed.

They laughed. “Come. We planned this when we heard you would visit. Your lord requested it. It is the perfect thing after travel. We were not sure if an English lady would like it, but now that we know you, we think you will.”

In a dubious frame of mind, Grace allowed herself to be taken downstairs, still on the women’s side of the house, and through a doorway, into a small anteroom where she was—slightly to her consternation—divested of her newly acquired clothes—again, she retained her pantalettes—and wrapped in a large muslin sheet. The three wives did the same, much to her relief. Then they put on strange wooden shoes, raised off the ground, and entered a large circular room, attached to the back of the house.

No Englishman had built it, that was clear; made of stone, it had a domed roof and was lined throughout with tiles decorated in the oriental manner. Inside it was hot and steamy and there was a deep pool in the middle and a fountain bubbling on the side.

“Turkish bath,” explained Kadije. “Built for me,” she added proudly.

A bath? Dominic had requested they
bathe
her?

Chapter Nineteen

Thyself: cast all, yea, this white linen hence,
There is no penance due to innocence:
To teach thee I am naked first; why then
What needst thou have more covering than a man?

JOHN DONNE

 
 
FEMALE SERVANTS SURROUNDED THEM AND WITHOUT WARNING Grace’s sheet was twitched off her, her pantalettes whisked off, and she was doused in warm water and soaped from head to toe—even her hair was undone and washed.

“This, you want it dyed dark again?” they asked her. She flushed, realizing they’d noted the contrast with her pubic hair. “No,” she said.

“You want the same color?” They pointed, unembarrassed, at her pubic hair.

“Yes.”

A girl ran off and came back with something that they rubbed into Grace’s hair, a noxious-smelling ointment that they left in and wrapped in a towel.

Grace thought she was clean, but then the scrubbing started—from her ears to her toes, she was scrubbed with a rough-surfaced mitten until her skin felt raw and tingling. They indicated she could do her private parts herself, and she washed them thankfully. She’d wanted an exotic experience, she told herself! Beside her Mouna, Fatima, and Kadije were all getting the same treatment.

They rinsed her down, soaped her again, and rinsed her a second time. “Now, get in,” the servants told her and pushed her toward the pool. It had steps leading down to it and the water was deliciously warm. Grace felt like she would melt, it was so relaxing, but after fifteen minutes or so, they wanted her out again to rinse and scrub her hair again. They plastered it with some other lotion and put her back in the pool. More time passed blissfully in the warm pool then she was hauled out for her hair to be rinsed and scrubbed a final time. They sluiced with cooler water, then a large elderly woman beckoned to her.

“Oh no!” she exclaimed. “Not more scrubbing. I’m as clean as anyone can be!”

“Turkish massage,” Kadije told her. “Make you feel very relax, very nice.”

The old woman dried Grace down as if she was a baby and laid her, front down, on a tiled bench covered with a thick cloth. Warm liquid spilled between her shoulder blades and the scent of roses filled the air. The old woman started massaging her, pulling and pushing and kneading her muscles. Her hands were strong, as strong as a man’s. It took a few moments to get used to, but once she did, Grace felt like a cat, stretching and purring under the experience. Now she really was dissolving.

The massage went on and vaguely she noticed Fatima, Kadije, and Mouna climbing out of the pool, drying off, and going into the next chamber. Silence fell, the only sound the tinkling of water in the fountain. Grace didn’t care; the powerful hands of the old woman were working magic.

In the distance she heard a door close, but the kneading and smoothing went on uninterrupted and Grace floated. Hands worked along the tense muscles of her shoulder and neck, circling, squeezing, unraveling her, sending her into a state of bonelessness.

The rose scent of the oil was intoxicating. Now that all the kinks had been smoothed out the strokes of the massager changed subtly, stirring her senses, and making her want to arch against the movements of the big, powerful hands. Truly like a cat, she thought vaguely. Pleasure, rather than relaxation. Awareness prickled at her senses, but she was too relaxed to move.

But the massage was becoming too pleasurable, she started to think after a moment. She was becoming aroused, just the same as she had with Dominic. She started to stiffen and the soothing hands urged her to relax, but it didn’t feel right, to feel this way from an old woman touching her. She started to sit up, but the big hands pressed her down, stroking down her back and over her buttocks.

Then something warm and moist pressed briefly against the nape of her neck and at the same time a hand glided between her legs in an intimate caress.

She twisted, kicking in outrage.

“Relax, Greystoke. It’s only me,” a deep, amused voice said. Dominic.

Only me, indeed! Now she understood why she’d become aroused. Her body had known him, even if her mind hadn’t yet worked it out. The sneaky rat—he’d substituted himself for the old woman without so much as a whisper of noise or a break in the rhythm of the massaging hands. “How did you get in without me seeing you?”

“There’s a separate door for men.” The whole time he kept massaging, caressing, stroking. She was naked under his big warm hands. If she moved she would be more naked still.

“You taste delicious,” he growled and nipped her shoulder gently between his teeth. Her toes curled almost painfully and her stomach clenched, low down.

His hands stroked and caressed her thighs and buttocks while he planted hot, moist kisses in the nape of her neck.

She moved languorously. She could feel everything, everywhere he touched her, everywhere her skin touched anything; the friction of the towel on which she lay, against which her breasts, full and aching, were pressed, the cold, hard marble bench beneath.

His hands slipped between her legs again and she jumped and jammed her thighs tightly together. Mistake. His hand stayed trapped there. He pressed a hot kiss to the base of her spine, then ran his tongue the length of her spine and she arched in response, pleasure radiating from his touch like music rippling harp strings.

“You promised no funny business,” she managed to gasp.

“Relax. This is not funny, it’s pure pleasure.” He ran his tongue around the shell of her ear and her insides curled with pleasure.

Relax?
Not possible. She was all raw nerve endings screaming for release. She felt a half-hysterical laugh bubble up, but his fingers and tongue kept moving and her concentration . . . dissolved.

Her bones were turning to liquid, thick, viscous, like honey. Between her thighs his fingers moved, stroking rhythmically, relentlessly. Shudders of pleasure rocked her in waves. Her fingers flexed and curled like a cat’s claws. She writhed under the pleasurable torment and of its own volition, her backside lifted, pushing against him in jerky rhythmical movements. Demanding more.

“Turn over,” he murmured and she twisted under him, wanting to see him, hold him, touch him.

He kissed her and the familiar spicy taste of him surged through her blood. He’d branded her that first day.
“My taste is in your mouth.”
And it was. And would probably be for the rest of her life, she thought. As would the sight and the feel of him.

He was almost naked, too. His only garment was a pair of loose white cotton trousers of oriental design, held up by drawstrings. They rode low on his hips. His chest and arms and stomach were bare, bare and beautiful.

His eyes glowed topaz dark as he gazed down at her. “Your hair has changed color,” he said and fingered a damp curl.

“The women here did something to it.”

“It’s pretty, like corn silk tinged with rose.” He pressed his face between her breasts and inhaled deeply. “You smell good enough to eat.” He looked up suddenly and gave her a white, wicked smile. “You always did, Grace. Even unperfumed, you are completely . . .” He nibbled on her skin. “Deliciously . . . edible.”

He rubbed his jaw lightly against the tender skin of her breasts. Her skin, already sensitized by the scrubbing she received, felt every faint rasp as a wash of pleasure. He placed the tip of one finger on her hard nipple and caressed it, scraping delicately back and forth across the straining nub. It was heaven. It was torment. He continued caressing her breasts as he kissed his way down her stomach. She was boneless with pleasure and rigid with anticipation.

He touched her belly button. “A sultan would fill this little hollow with a ruby or an emerald, or perhaps a sapphire to match your eyes.” He bent and ran the tip of his tongue lightly around it, making her shiver deliciously.

“I am not a sultan,” he murmured against her skin, his breath warm, like a desert breeze. “I think it is perfectly beautiful just as it is, unadorned and perfect.” He kissed it. “Just.” He kissed it again. “As.” Kiss. “It.” Kiss. “Is.” And he plunged his tongue in and she arched against him.

“You are perfect,” he told her in a low, husky voice. And kissed her lower and lower. And then his fingers were in the triangle of red-gold curls and he parted them, parted her, and kissed her there.

She stiffened in surprise, but his mouth devoured her, each movement sending sharp spears of pleasure through her. Her body shuddered, out of her control, and she was vaguely aware that she was twisting and writhing and that all the time his mouth was on her and suddenly it was as if she was going to explode or die or shatter—and she knew no more.

When she was more in control of her mind, she looked down and saw him watching her with a fierce, exultant look.

“What . . . is that?”

“The French call it the little death. Did you enjoy it?”

She blinked and stretched her limbs and relishing the friction of skin against skin. “Enjoy is too tame a word for such a feeling,” she said at last. “Did you feel it, too?” He did last time, she was sure, but last time they were joined.

“I felt other things.” He kissed her breast.

She could feel him, hard and erect and pressing insistently against her leg. Instinct and logic told her he hadn’t felt what she felt.

He was going to give her all the pleasure, she realized, and take no satisfaction himself. Because he’d given her his word there would be no funny business. Only pleasure.

He suckled her and she felt every pull deep within her, shuddering and writhing against him. She felt sated and dreamy and—awareness flooded her—full of female power. She felt like purring. She flexed her claws.

She didn’t like uneven bargains.

“My turn.” She pushed him back and sat up. Bemused, he watched her slide off the bench. His eyes drank in the sight of her. “Lord, but you’re beautiful,” he said.

“So you said,” she answered briskly. She felt so alive, so full of energy. And oh, how she was going to enjoy this. “Now, lie down there and close your eyes for a minute. I have a surprise for you.”

“A surprise?” he frowned. “I’m not sure—”

She pressed him back on the bench and tossed a towelette over his face. “Just stay there and keep your eyes closed. I told you, it’s my turn now.”