The Perfect Kiss (34 page)

She went to the shelf where a range of colored-glass phials stood. One by one she took off the stopper and sniffed the contents, wrinkling her nose at some and smiling at others. “There is rose oil, sandalwood, or a nice citrussy one. Which would you prefer?”

He relaxed. “As long as I don’t walk out of here smelling like a rose, I don’t mind which.”

“I like the citrus one,” she decided. There were several other items on the shelves and she picked out the two largest and most impressive and carried them back to the bench where he lay, supine, relaxed—well, almost. One part of him was still very rigid. Grace smiled to herself.

She knelt down beside him on the bench. “Dominic,” she purred seductively in his ear.

“Hmm?”

“I’m finally going to do it.”

His eyes flew open. He stiffened all over. She hadn’t thought it would be possible, but his penis grew a fraction more. “What?” he croaked.

“Close your eyes,” she ordered and instantly he obeyed.

She trailed her fingernails from his chest down his stomach and stopped just below his belly button. “I’m going to do what you’ve wanted me to do for such a long time.”

He groaned.

“Will that make you happy?” she murmured.

He made a sound of incoherent affirmation.

“I thought it would,” she purred. She climbed on top of him and sat astride his thighs. She tucked his hands under her knees. She brushed a hand over his erect flesh. He gave a moan. “Am I too heavy?”

“No,” he said gruffly.

She picked up the three items she’d selected, along with the citrus oil, and set to work getting them ready for use.

He frowned, trying to work out the unfamiliar sounds.

“Are you ready, Dominic?” she whispered.

“Bloody hell, yes,” he rasped.

“Then open your eyes.”

He opened his eyes, then blinked. He stared at what she had in her hands, as if unable to take in the sight. “What the devil—?” He tried to move, but she had his thighs and hands pinned under her.

“It’s what you begged me to do, remember? Several times.”

He stared, appalled, at the two large, extremely bristly scrubbing brushes she held, poised and soapy, barely an inch above his manly parts.

“That very first day, you wanted me to scrub you, remember?” she cooed. “Are these the delicate parts you warned me about?” She lowered the brushes until the bristles rested lightly against his most delicate skin.

He twitched as they touched him. “Don’t!” he said hoarsely. “I’ve changed my mind.”

Laughing, she threw the brushes away. “If you could have seen your face” she said between giggles and hugging him.

“You little witch!” he growled, kissing her fiercely.

“I know. But when I went to get the perfumed oil, I saw those scrubbing brushes there, and the notion just flew into my head. I couldn’t resist.” She tilted her head. “Will you trust me to massage some oil into you now? It’s not even boiling.”

He gave her a baleful look. “Yes, but behave yourself!”

“Behave myself?” She smiled a feline smile. “You mean I should get off you and go and get dressed?”

“No, minx, you know very well what I mean!”

She laughed. She had no intention of behaving herself. He’d made her feel wonderful, and she was going to return the favor.

She slathered him in oil, which had the faintest hint of citrus, and rubbed it in, enjoying the sensual experience as much as when she’d been massaged. “I never realized men were so beautiful,” she murmured.

Dominic couldn’t believe she could talk such rubbish. Men weren’t beautiful. “I’m the one looking at beauty,” he corrected her. He stroked her breasts languorously as they swayed above him. She seemed fascinated with his body, examining him with an innocent sensuality that flooded him with a mix of lust and protectiveness and helpless awe.

She straddled his thighs unself-consciously, massaging oil into his skin, seemingly unaware of how open she was to him. The taste of her was still in his mouth; honey and roses and tart, sweet woman.

His cock strained, his balls ached, and he groaned with the effort of maintaining his rigid control. Every time she moved, her inner thighs brushed against him. One thrust and he could be buried inside her.

He’d given his word he wouldn’t seduce her. He’d meant to finish this after he’d brought her to climax before. He should never have agreed to let her massage him. He closed his eyes.

As long as she didn’t touch his cock, he would manage.

Her small hands stroked and rubbed, her nails scratched gently over his nipples in imitation of what he had done to her. Since the scrubbing brushes, her hands hadn’t dropped below his waist, thank God.

Heaven and hell on earth. Tantalus in Paradise.

Those damned scrubbing brushes. He smiled. His silken-skinned little witch. Naked, skin to skin with him and smelling of roses, wild honey, and aroused femininity.

Her hand closed around his cock. He groaned and shuddered beneath her as she explored it with the thoroughness she’d shown to his nipples.

He strained against every one of his instincts. They were screaming at him to act, to mate with her. He held himself rigid. He wasn’t going to make it. Dammit, he would, he could control this.

“That’s enough—” he began.

“I want you, Dominic,” she said at the same moment.

He stared at her. “I promised—”

“I know. But I want you inside me. Now.” And she guided him to her entrance and pressed herself inexpertly against him.

He groaned. If they were going to do this, he’d do it right. He reached between her thighs and caressed her. She was all heat and softness and wild female honey. He continued to caress her and she flung her head back with a frustrated moan that matched his own.

“Now!” she demanded impatiently and he could hold back no longer. He entered her with one long, powerful thrust and she moaned and clasped him deep within her. And then he thrust again and she moved with him, trying to catch the rhythm.

“Ride me,” he gasped.

Her eyes widened; she moved experimentally and he arched under her, moaning, and suddenly she’d caught the rhythm. She rode him like he’d never been ridden before, her head back, abandoned, and he moved in her and with her and together they went spiraling, surging, soaring . . . to a shattering, perfect climax.

 
 
HE LAY WITH HER CLASPED TO HIM, THEIR SKIN TOUCHING, their breath mingling, their heartbeats slowly returning to normal.

An echo of familiarity tugged at his recollection. He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes and suddenly the connection was there. Rose with a hint of citrus. He smiled. “You know, together we smell of the roses at Wolfestone.”

“They are the most beautiful roses. I’ve never smelled roses like that anywhere else.” She rubbed her cheek against his jaw. “Let’s not talk of Wolfestone.”

He sighed and caressed her with the back of his fingers. “All right.” Wolfestone didn’t matter. She was his.

They lay there a long while, and then gently he lifted her off him and sat up. He reached for his trousers, and chilled by the sudden loss of contact between them, she wrapped herself in her linen wrap.

He pushed his feet into the Turkish slippers and sat for a minute, thinking. He gave a big sigh, and when he turned to her there was such a light in his eyes it made her want to sing and dance. He grinned at her, and for the first time since she’d known him, he looked young and boyish and full of excitement.

He grabbed her and swung her around until she was dizzy, then kissed her fiercely. Then they dressed and left the
hamam
through separate exits, heading for separate bedrooms. Grace would sleep in the women’s quarters.

It was a timely reminder: one rule for men, another for women. It was the way of the world.

And she would not be his mistress.

 
 
THEY LEFT EARLY THE NEXT MORNING. GRACE HARDLY ATE ANY breakfast. She longed to be home, to have dear, familiar family around her. But once she was home she would have to tell Dominic to leave.

She was farewelled warmly by Fatima, Kadije, and Mouna, who insisted Grace keep the Ottoman clothes they’d dressed her in. They pressed several more gorgeous items of clothing on her and to please them, she’d worn a pair of splendid, curly-toed golden silk slippers.

She said her good-byes and thanked the ladies repeatedly, hugging them as if she’d known them for ages. Misreading the distress in her eyes, they hastened to reassure her. “Don’t be sad, Grace,” they told her. “You will come back and visit us again. Dominic will bring you. He is a fine man, your man.”

She smiled and nodded. “I know.” There was no point in trying to explain. Harem wives would never understand her dilemma.

Tariq farewelled them both solemnly. As they left the house, it started to rain and to Grace’s delight, Dominic swung her into his arms and carried her to the carriage to save her exotic silk slippers.

Sheba had been sitting up proudly in the front of the carriage with the driver, her nose pointed eagerly toward the road, but as soon as the rain started, her ears flattened. She scrambled down from the driver’s seat and sat beside the carriage steps, looking up at Dominic in mournful appeal.

He laughed. “Ever seen a water dog who hates the rain? Meet my Sheba.” He snapped his fingers and she leapt into the carriage and lay happily at his feet.

They waved good-bye to Tariq and his wives as the carriage rolled away. Silence fell as Cheltenham slowly disappeared from sight.

“Are you all right, Grace?”

She looked at him and suddenly she was in his arms and they were kissing again. Their last day together. Their own special mobile world.

“How did you know about the harem?” she asked him a long time later.

“Tariq and I have a history going back to when we were boys. You might almost say we are related.”

“Related?”

He settled her more comfortably against him and began the story. “One of the places I lived in as a boy was Napoli—Naples. Even now I have mixed feelings about it. We’d pretty much run out of funds by then—my mother had managed to eke out an existence by the sale of her jewels, the only thing she took with her when she fled from my father. I spent a lot of time down by the docks. There were opportunities for a quick-witted boy who was also prepared to work hard.”

She hugged him, remembering the boy who had dived for coins.

“One day a boy—not one of us, a rich man’s son—was accidentally knocked into the water when men were loading cargo. Nobody else saw him fall. I watched and he didn’t come up—he must have been hit on the head. So I dived in and pulled him out.”

“You saved his life.”

He nodded. “That was Tariq. His father owned the ship that was being loaded. He took me aboard and fed me and then, for some reason, decided to thank my parents in person.” He grimaced. “I did everything I could think of to stop him coming—my mother was embarrassed by the way we lived—but he insisted.”

He was silent for a long moment, remembering. “It was love at first sight. Tariq’s father and my mother.” His arms tightened around her and he rubbed his jaw against her curls. “When the ship departed for Egypt, my mother and I were on it. He bought her a beautiful house in Alexandria and we never lacked for money again.”

“But wasn’t he married? I mean, he had a son.”

“Oh, Faisal was married, with several wives. My mother became his mistress and he treated her better than my father ever treated his wife. She owned the house he bought for her—the deed was in her name. He gave her a large sum of money and paid all the household expenses and settled an annuity on her. Security for her lifetime.”

Faisal
. “The poetry book?”

He nodded.

His mother was
“my dove, my heart, my beloved
.
”

“But it wasn’t about money—Faisal adored Mama and treated her like a princess. And she loved him. I never saw her so happy. He was a good man. He even arranged for me to be schooled with Tariq.” His voice hardened. “Until my father got his claws into me and had me brought to England to be schooled. I wouldn’t have let them take me if Mama wasn’t safe and happy.”

There was a long silence in the carriage. “It broke her heart when Faisal died.”

The horses’ hooves clip-clopped on the road. A dog barked from a nearby farm. Grace remembered what Frey had told her, how Dominic’s mother had died in his arms. She held him tight.

The rain pelted down.

Chapter Twenty

How blest am I in this discovering thee!
To enter in these bonds, is to be free;

JOHN DONNE

 
 
 
 
 
“THAT’S ALL VERY WELL, YOUNG GRACE,” SIR OSWALD DEMANDED crossly. “But what the deuce are you doin’ travelin’ all the way—overnight!—to London alone and unchaperoned—and no, the dratted dog doesn’t count!—with some strange feller I’ve never met before today, when you’re supposed to be at some dratted country house party with Sir John and Melly Pettifer?”

Grace swallowed. She’d prepared her little speech, and it had sounded quite good in the carriage, in her head. But Great Uncle Oswald hadn’t swallowed it at all.

Worse, Prudence and her husband, Gideon, in London were not the only members of her family visiting Great Uncle Oswald and Aunt Gussie. So were all her sisters and their husbands. And none of them looked at all impressed with what Grace had had to say.

Except for Aunt Gussie, who was eyeing Dominic with quite blatant, not to say embarrassing, admiration.

Dominic, however, didn’t look a bit embarrassed. Nor did he look the slightest bit concerned about Great Uncle Oswald’s questions. Or the threatening looks being given him by her four large, angry, and muscular brothers-in-law. She glanced at Edward and amended that to three large, angry, and muscular brothers-in-law and one medium-sized, cross duke, her brother-in-law Edward.

Dominic was apparently so unconcerned about Great Uncle Oswald’s rant that he kept looking from her to her sisters and back, quite clearly comparing them for family similarities. And once, she’d actually seen him give Aunt Gussie a wink.

They were going to tear him limb from limb.