by Ashe Barker
Fleur’s eyes drifted shut as he caressed her. “I want… I want…”
“I suspect you might. But not tonight. Think about it. And tell me tomorrow, over dinner, what it is that you want, lovely Fleur. Are you sure you have to leave?”
Reluctantly, she opened her eyes. She smiled at him—a genuine smile, no longer anxious, no more crippling modesty to mar this intimate moment. “Yes. I do need to, really. But—I am looking forward to tomorrow.”
“Me too, sweetheart. Now, I’ll help you find your clothes.”
Ethan walked Fleur as far as the corridor leading to the hotel medical facility. By unspoken agreement, he didn’t touch her or kiss her as they parted. She was a professional woman in an environment where she still had to battle every day to be taken seriously, and she knew he wouldn’t compromise her in public. Instinctively he seemed to realize that this was important to her. His handshake was polite, impersonal. The wink, as they went their separate ways, for her eyes only.
Chapter Four
The next day was busy for Ethan. His mishap of yesterday had resulted in a delay in his project so he had time to make up. He had intended to make another field trip yesterday afternoon but had abandoned it. Instead, he’d had to sort out a new hire car and fill in countless forms for the insurance to cover the damage wrought by the little olive tree. And his head had hurt. By the evening, he was feeling more his old self again, so the visit from his sensual little Moroccan princess had been especially welcome.
Her unrestrained response to his presence had been unexpected. He’d replayed that scene in his head over and over and apart from a distinctly lustful grin or two, he had definitely not been the instigator. It had all come from her—all that pent-up passion and untapped sensuality. His cock had been hard pretty much permanently since and he knew he needed to get some relief soon. Oddly, the prospect of a quick hand job in the shower lacked its usual interest and he had no appetite at all for other women.
He suspected that, with a little effort, he could locate an establishment locally to cater to his particular preferences, but he had no real hankering for that either. An anonymous BDSM encounter with an experienced submissive would usually hold far more appeal for him, but it seemed he wanted only one female tied to his bed at the moment. And currently she was dishing out sunburn cream and dealing with cases of Moroccan tummy back at the Totally Five Star.
Ethan swore to himself as he hoisted his rucksack from the boot and set up his photographic equipment to record the landscape from a different angle. He wasn’t even completely sure she would agree to what he wanted. He thought she might be amenable to a little gentle fucking—in fact, he was quietly confident about the prospect of vanilla sex. With just the slightest bit of pressure, she’d have done that yesterday. He wasn’t into pressuring women, though. He required a considerable degree of enthusiasm for what he had in mind, so he was prepared to wait.
And vanilla was not a bad offer, he might still settle for that. He might have to. He’d seen the innate submission in her expression, in her demeanor, the way she lowered her eyes when under pressure, her instinctive tendency to call him sir. But she wasn’t yet ready to acknowledge her desires, and he was only here for a few more days. She might need more time than that.
He was looking forward to dinner this evening. He’d have a much better idea then how the land was lying with the lovely Fleur.
By late afternoon, he’d finished for the day and had written up his notes in the cool luxury of his riad. The searing heat had just started to mellow into the balminess of evening, and Ethan decided to take a stroll. This was his favorite time of the day to explore the city, before the streets became crowded with evening diners and shoppers, and the souks were transformed into heaving masses of humanity. He had a couple of hours at least before he needed to shower and meet Fleur in the restaurant. Time to think, to walk, to soak up the local color. And maybe do a little shopping.
He made his way along the intricate corridors to reach the central courtyard, where he left his key card with the impeccably dressed attendant. He exited the hotel’s main gate to be instantly caught up in the buzz of the city. By no means as crowded as it would be later, the tiny winding streets still bustled. Ethan loved cities like this much more than the elegance and stately architecture of some European showcases. Marrakesh was timeless, life moved at a snail’s pace here, unhurried yet teeming with vibrancy. Moroccans were a hard-working, industrious people, and this ancient city had a perpetual air of frenzy about it. Always deals to be struck, wares to be made and sold, a living to be dragged kicking and screaming from the desert. The colorful, crowded souks typified that, the raucous merchants trading everything from hand-woven carpets to leatherware, to copper and gold. Always gold, and lots of it.
And no deal was easy. Every transaction had to be haggled and negotiated, from the most modest pile of beans to the richest jewelry. This was the Moroccan way of life, to barter and to trade, to arrive eventually at the final price all could feel satisfied with, however long that took. The process was as vital to the life of this city as oxygen. Ethan didn’t mind bartering—he was a negotiator too, both in his professional life and in the more personal aspects of his existence. He’d negotiate limits, agree the boundaries, stretch those when he could, when it was right to, and respect them otherwise. He understood the nature of compromise, the art of persuasion. He suspected both would be tested in the near future.
He made his way to the silk souk, where glorious fabrics of every color and quality were draped over the close-packed stalls. He wanted scarves—at least four, maybe more. A blindfold and a gag could always come in useful. He hadn’t entirely made up his mind yet how to approach his lovely doctor but it paid to be ready for any eventuality or opportunity. He’d never felt minded to join the Scouts as a boy—too regimented for his taste—but their credo ‘Be Prepared’ made sense to him. Ethan was, and always would be, prepared.
He ran his fingers over some particularly beautiful lengths of sheer silk, but discarded those. Silk could tighten, especially if it became moist. Not the best fabric to use. His interest shifted to some squares of a light cotton, still sheer, still pliable enough to tie a slender wrist to his headboard. He might take half a dozen or so…
“Good evening, Mr. Savage.”
Ethan turned, to find the bearer of the wrist in question at his side. She wore Western style jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, but she had shrouded her head in a loose cotton shawl in deference to the local tradition.
He smiled, genuinely pleased to see her and even more delighted that she would approach and acknowledge him in public. She’d seemed much more reticent as they parted yesterday in the hotel, though on reflection, perhaps she had still been reeling from her orgasm. He suspected it might have been the first one in a while. She was not reeling now. Her smile was bright and confident, her hand outstretched in greeting. He took it, shook briefly, only then noticing the older woman at her side.
Also dressed in Western style, her companion was obviously European, though she wore the same modest head-covering common to all women in Morocco. She smiled, though her expression was one of curiosity. Fleur turned to her.
“May I introduce you to Monsieur Savage. He is a surveyor, contracted to the hotel for a short while.”
The older woman smiled at him, also extending her hand.
“Ethan, this is my mother, Yvette Mansouri.”
Her mother! Ethan couldn’t contain his surprise, though of course he should have realized something of the sort.
“Enchanté, Monsiour. Serez-vous à Marrakech pour longtemps?”
“Mr. Savage is English, Maman. He does not speak French.”
Actually, he did, pretty much, but saw no point in correcting that just now. He was studying Yvette Mansouri with undisguised interest.
“You are French, madame?”
“I am, but I have lived in Marrakesh for over thirty years. How long will you be visiting us for, monsieur?”
/> “Ah, not as long as that sadly. I have a few more days here before I return to London.”
“I see. And are you shopping now, perhaps? Are we disturbing you?”
“Not at all. I’m delighted to meet you, Madame Mansouri.”
“Yvette, please. We were just about to stop for a coffee. Would you perhaps care to join us, Mr. Savage?”
Ethan glanced to Fleur then, to gauge her reaction to this. Acknowledging him in the souk was one thing—going for a coffee with her mother quite another. She seemed relaxed at the prospect, though, smiling calmly at him. He turned back to Yvette.
“I’d be delighted.”
A few minutes later, they sat at a small roadside table outside a coffee shop, tiny thimbles of strong coffee in front of them. The potent brew was not entirely to Ethan’s taste, but he could manage the occasional mouthful. Any more than that and he feared he might never sleep again.
“I understand now why you have such a beautiful French name.” Ethan watched Fleur across the table, taking his lead from her regarding how much of the nature of their relationship to share with her family. Not that he was particularly certain himself what that was, though Fleur seemed to be going for the ‘just friends’ look today. Ethan wouldn’t rock the boat.
“Yes. She is named after my mother. Though her middle name is Tilleli, which is Berber in origin, after her other grandmother.”
“I see. Both lovely names.” His murmur was the epitome of polite. Ethan sipped his coffee, and waited.
“Indeed. We call her Lily at home, though.”
Ethan smiled into his tiny cup. Lily. It suited her, though she would always be Fleur to him.
“What is the nature of your work here, Monsieur Savage?” Yvette inquired.
“Please, call me Ethan. Everyone does, including your daughter on occasion. When she remembers.” His guileless smile belied the true nature of his barb, and it amused him to observe the slight flush creep up her face. Almost unnoticeable, but it was there. “My company does geological surveys, investigating ground conditions, that sort of thing.”
“You are an engineer then, Ethan?”
“A mining engineer originally, more specialist now.”
“My husband would be fascinated. He lectures in mechanical engineering at the university here in Marrakesh. If you are in our city for a few more days, perhaps you would have a meal with us? He would love to meet you.”
Ethan felt rather than saw the jolt of alarm from Fleur seated to his left. He never took his eyes from Yvette as he inclined his head and smoothly accepted her invitation. “Thank you, Yvette, that’s most kind. I would love to have dinner with you one evening. Perhaps you would like to come to the hotel? The restaurants there are superb.”
“No, no, I wouldn’t hear of that. You must come to our home, enjoy traditional Moroccan hospitality.”
“There is nothing traditionally Moroccan about our family, Maman. You will give Mr. Savage an entirely false impression of our culture,” Fleur interjected, perhaps a little too hastily in Ethan’s view. It hadn’t been his intention to rattle her, but it did seem her mother was set upon such a course, despite his own good intentions.
Ethan said nothing as Yvette regarded her daughter in silence, her shrewd gaze seeming to take in Fleur’s slightly flustered appearance. The older woman nodded, apparently satisfied. “Monsieur Savage will be welcome in our home. Would the day after tomorrow suit you, Ethan?”
“Yes, that would be fine. Thank you again for your invitation. I’ll look forward to it.”
“Excellent. Lily will give you the address and directions to our home. And now I am afraid I must leave you. I am due at the hospital in half an hour.” She turned to Fleur. “Will you be at home tonight, ma petite, or are you staying at the hotel again?”
“I will not be finished until maybe eleven, perhaps even later, and I am on duty again from seven in the morning, so I think I will use the staff accommodation again.”
Yvette stood to leave, bending to give Fleur a brief hug and a kiss on her cheek. “Do not work too hard. Your hours are long. You should rest and you should play more. I will see you soon, cherie.” She turned to Ethan, now also standing politely to hold out his hand to her. Yvette ignored the hand and instead kissed him lightly on each cheek. “Please try to convince Lily that there is more to life than medicine and work. I will see you in two days, Ethan.”
“Indeed, Yvette. It’s been a delight meeting you.”
With a flurry of fluttering fingers and a swirl of her headscarf, the bubbly Frenchwoman was gone, swallowed up in the milling throng of people bustling through the souk.
Ethan sat again, picked up his tiny cup and checked the remaining contents before turning to study Fleur. She had the look of a woman desperately wishing the earth might open up and swallow her. As a geological engineer, he thought that unlikely but couldn’t resist stoking the flames a little.
“Your mother is lovely. It was kind of her to invite me to your home.”
“She is meddling. She means well, but should not concern herself with my relationships.”
“Do you have relationships, Fleur?”
“No, of course not. I did not mean that. I simply meant…”
Ethan waited in silence for Fleur to clarify exactly what she did mean. No further information was forthcoming. Eventually he broke the silence.
“We do have a relationship. I think so, certainly. Your response to me last night suggests you might think so too. If you let yourself.”
Fleur shook her head quickly but didn’t meet his eyes. “That was an isolated incident, quite out of character for me. It will not happen again. I should apologize to you for my behavior. And I wish to thank you. For what you did.”
“No thanks required, honey. It was entirely my pleasure.”
“We both know that is not true. I had the pleasure and you had none. I appreciate your forbearance. Most men would have been more…insistent.”
If they had not been in such a public setting, Ethan would have cupped her chin and forced her to meet his eyes. He was conscious, though, of the inappropriateness of touching her in public so instead, he simply told her what he wanted.
“Look at me, Fleur.”
His tone brooked no disobedience, and got none. She lifted her gaze to his.
“You may be a widow and a doctor, but you have a lot to learn about male sexuality. There are few things more erotic for a man than a woman’s orgasm, especially when he caused it. You did give me pleasure last night. I sincerely hope it will happen again.” He paused to allow that to sink in then delivered the rest of his salvo. “When you’re ready—and if, when you ask me very nicely—I’ll fuck you, which will give both of us even more pleasure. Do I make myself clear, Fleur?”
She didn’t answer, seemed bewildered by his words. Ethan would settle for that. The key thing was, she was not arguing with him, not protesting, not insisting he was wrong. That would do for now. In a smooth shift of gears, he changed the subject.
“I hope your mother’s not ill.”
“Ill? No, why would you think so?”
“She said she was due at the hospital.”
“She works there. She is a pediatric consultant.”
“Ah, I see.” The daughter of a French doctor and a Moroccan academic, herself a medic, fluent in at least three languages. Who would have thought it? That cloak and donkey had a lot to answer for.
“I need to return to the Totally Five Star. I have some calls to make before I can shower and change for dinner. Did you say the table is booked for eight?” Fleur smiled her thanks at the waiter, who collected their empty cups, and reached for her bag intending to pay for their drinks. Ethan beat her to it, tossing a fifty-dirham note on the table. The waiter snatched it up almost before it landed. Fleur would have insisted on the change, but Ethan shook his head. The waiter took no more persuading and was gone.
“Yes, eight o’clock. Is that convenient?” Ethan’s tone was smooth, faultle
ssly polite. Who would have thought just moments before he was offering to fuck her?
Fleur tried to ignore her seriously wet pussy as she inclined her head. “Yes, perfectly convenient. Now, I must leave.”
“I’ll walk back with you.”
“No, I could not ask you to do that. You were shopping. We disturbed you.” His company would be oddly welcome, but she knew full well he would be cutting short his visit to the souk if he were to return with her now. She was reluctant to inconvenience him.
“I was just buying some scarves. Maybe you could help me to get the best price. Then we’ll go back. I can always put the table reservation back half an hour if you have work to finish.”
“No, no that will not be necessary. Are the scarves a gift?”
“Yes.” He offered no further explanation, and Fleur hesitated to ask. Surely he would have told her if he was married or otherwise involved. Eventually she felt she had no option, not least given his clearly stated intentions toward her.
“Who are they for?” Her voice was soft but clear. She met his eyes as she waited for his answer.
“They’re for you, Fleur. One for each wrist, one for each ankle, and maybe a couple more to make life especially interesting.”
She’d steeled herself to hear of a wife, or girlfriend, perhaps. She had not expected that. Speechless, she stared at Ethan as the significance of his words sank in. Surely she’d misunderstood, misheard him.
“You mean… You want to… I do not think that would be…”
Ethan interrupted her stammered response, a slight smile lifting the corners of his beautiful mouth. “Yes, I do mean that. I do want to buy several of these beautiful scarves and use them to tie you up. Then I intend to do some truly wicked things to you. With your permission, of course. We’ll discuss it over dinner. But first, I’d welcome your assistance in making my purchases.”
Under his gentle but determined shepherding, Fleur found herself at one of the stalls, a handful of brightly colored scarves thrust at her. She took them dumbly as Ethan leaned in to murmur in her ear.
