It wasn’t the condemnation he’d expected.
“You judged Haya’s heart, presented him with a choice and respected his free will, but if he chooses negatively, his own choice will damn him and save the innocent.”
“I am not a hero, or a guardian, or even good,” he said with increasing impact.
“Aren’t you?”
“No.” He lied and tricked to survive, but he’d not live a lie when he made love to her. She had to know what it meant that he was djinn. “When you spoiled Haya’s second wish to crash the plane Ilias Aboud was in, thereby killing him, Haya made a third wish. I manipulated him into that wish. I told him Aboud had a guardian angel. Haya believes Aboud is a strong hope for Middle East peace and wants him dead. I knew he’d use his third wish to remove Aboud’s protection, to remove you.”
He felt Mischa’s stillness, her withdrawal into herself. Good. It meant she was listening. When she took him as her lover, she’d have no illusions.
If she took him as her lover.
“Haya wished for me to remove your guardianship of Aboud. His third wish. Now he commands me no longer.”
“You are free?” she asked uncertainly. She sat straight and resistant in the shelter of his arm.
“Free?” He laughed bitterly. “My bottle waits for a new owner. I am never free. I can only steal time.”
“I don’t understand.”
“This.” He took his arm from her rigid shoulders and gestured at the oasis fading into the shadows of night. The first stars pricked the sky. “Until Aboud dies, I can keep you here under the terms of Haya’s third wish. We might have fifty years. When Aboud dies, the wish is complete. You can no longer guard him, and I set you free. I return to bondage in the bottle until another man discovers it and releases me to fulfill his three wishes.
“I have to steal my happiness, Mischa.”
“At the price of Aboud’s life?”
“And if it was?” he demanded with sudden anger. “What do I owe him?”
“Nothing,” Mischa said dully. She stood and tightened the tie on her robe, closing the neckline. “You don’t owe anyone anything. You have been cruelly treated. I just hoped—”
“That I was not a djinni?” He stared at her, equally disenchanted. “I hoped you’d see deeper than my nature.” He clenched his fists. “I narrowed Haya’s rage, manipulated it. He didn’t remove all Aboud’s guardians, just you. I thought others would fill your place while you stayed here.”
There was silence while neither moved.
“You kept Ilias safe,” said Mischa.
“I am not cruel.”
“Oh, God. I’ve gotten this all wrong.” She rubbed her face. “You confuse me. I’ve never felt like this before. It’s like I’ve lost control of my body to you.”
“I created an angel-proof barrier to keep you in, but that is all.”
“It’s not that.” She brushed aside his wounded dignity. “It’s how you make me feel.” Her voice lowered. “I want you.”
He walked across to her and raised her chin. “Is that so bad?”
“Yes. No.” Tears glittered in her eyes. “I don’t know.”
“When you’ve decided, let me know.” He released her. He controlled the desire to punish her with a heated kiss, to brand her with the need she fought to deny. He walked away.
“Hell.” Mischa stared at the moon and made no apologies for swearing. She had hurt Rafe, hurt herself and was still confused.
Rafe had brought her here, to his home, in what he regarded as stolen time. He’d anticipated a few decades of pleasure, loving as spirits could in spectacular dances across time. From his perspective, the decision was moral. They were hurting no one. They enjoyed each other.
But she was his prisoner.
Was it her status as captive that made her hesitate? She cared about Ilias and the other people she guarded, but there were other guardians. Rafe had calculated correctly. Others would fill in her absence. And she had abundant holidays owing.
She could stay here till Ilias died.
She could take Rafe as a lover or expend her energy trying to break free.
“What do I want to do?”
The moon rose in the sky, white and pure.
If she took Rafe as her lover, then she had to trust him. Would he forgive her earlier lack of trust, the preconceptions by which she’d seen him as a djinni rather than a person? He had his own code of honor, and she’d questioned it.
She shivered. Imagine being trapped in a bottle, freed only to be used. If he stole time, stole pleasure, who could blame him?
It was in her power to freely give him pleasure.
A jackal’s howl carried on the night wind. In darkness, the predators were hunting. But darkness could be a beginning as well as an end. Spring began in the dying days of winter. Happiness could grow from two strangers reaching out.
“Tell the truth, Mischa. You want him.”
And because the truth can set you free, she started walking around the lake to Rafe’s tent.
Chapter Four
The night air was cool as Mischa stepped out of her sandals and shed the borrowed robe. She folded it with a care born of nervousness and laid it beside the entrance to the tent. When she lifted the tent flap, she’d be backlit by star and moonlight, visible to Rafe. If he was still angry about her earlier distrust of his actions and honor, he might dismiss her. The thought chilled.
On the other hand, standing naked out here debating her chances only emphasized her cowardice.
Mischa gripped the tent flap, raised it and stepped inside.
Rafe lay back on cushions, watching her. He’d lit oil lamps and sent away the uneaten feast. There was only him, her, and their desire.
She let the tent flap fall behind her. “Are you angry with me?”
“I was.” He lounged magnificently, one knee hooked up, a robe providing modesty but exposing his chest and some thigh. “But your nakedness disarms me. Is it an apology?”
“For misjudging you? No. For not having the courage to admit my own desire for you? Yes, it is an apology for that.” She paused to take a deep breath. Renewed confidence flowed through her as Rafe watched the lift of her breasts. She smiled tentatively. “Mostly, my nakedness is an invitation.”
His gaze moved from her breasts to her mouth.
Her breasts felt heavy and swollen, the nipples painfully tight. She touched her tongue to her tingling lips. She would spell out the invitation if she had to. “I want to make love with you.”
Triumph flared in his eyes. “Show me.”
“H-how?” She walked forward uncertainly.
“Listen to your body. It knows.” He stared again at her breasts, then lower.
Sudden wetness surprised her. Just his gaze was readying her for his possession. She was shocked and excited. Shy.
“I’ve never done this before.” She hesitated beside him. Quivers destroyed the strength of her thighs.
He reached out and took her hand. “I will be your journey of discovery.” He brought her hand to his lips, kissed her knuckles, stroked her hand along his face.
“Rafe?” She ran her thumb along his cheekbone. His breath was warm against her naked hip.
He turned his face into her hand and kissed her palm. “Mmm?”
She gasped as his tongue flicked against her skin.
“Cover me,” he whispered.
She looked down at the challenge of his hard male body. “Lie on you?” She knew the mechanics of sex but now she confronted its intimacy. She would be naked over him, open to him.
Awkwardly she knelt, and froze as his hands cupped her breasts.
“I’ve dreamed of touching these. Lush and tipped with pink, like rosebuds.” His thumbs brushed her nipples and she cried out. “And not just touch.” He teased the nipples, circling their sensitivity. “I want to taste them.”
She swayed, caught in the mesmerism of his desire.
“Should I taste them?” He stared at her,
hands still.
The weight of her breasts rested in his care. She covered his hands with hers. “Yes.”
Holding her gaze, he leaned toward her. She watched his mouth draw near. Yet the sweep of his tongue surprised her. The wetness, the soft firmness excited her. Her lips parted on a quick breath.
“You like that?”
He had to have felt her response, and she had no words. Apparently, none were needed. He placed her hands on his shoulders and bent again, this time without hesitation or preliminaries. He took her breast deeply, sucking greedily.
The strong rhythm rippled through her body, contracting her stomach and making her thighs tremble. She held desperately to his shoulders as her head fell back and she arched up, seeking ease for a new ache.
Rafe knew it. His hand slid down her body and pressed her intimately. His fingers were warm, slightly callused, hard and sure.
She jerked against his touch, then froze as the pleasure of her attempted withdrawal flooded her body. She rocked experimentally.
“Good?”
“Yes.” She rode the pressure of his hand, driven wild as he changed breasts and cool air teased the wet, abandoned nipple. “Please, please.” She moaned as his hand parted her folds, driven by her own frenzied movement. “Yes. Harder.”
She screamed. Her world exploded, splintered by a pleasure so intense she lost control.
She opened her eyes to see Rafe stripping off his robe and returning to lie beside her. She realized she was reclining on silk cushions, her body wantonly asprawl. How had it happened? She had no memory of moving, only her dazzling response to Rafe.
Even now her muscles were limp. He must have arranged her, placing her to delight his sight, touch and possession. Later she would argue about his control of her body. For now, she’d enjoy it.
She licked her lower lip, remembering his taste. The sight of him hard and aroused created an urgent, melting reaction. She shifted and he crouched and parted her thighs.
“Don’t shut me out,” he growled.
“I’m not.”
A finger traced her folds, recalling the sensations that had shattered her. She lifted off the cushions gasping, and he eased between her thighs.
“Rafe.” His weight felt wonderful. His skin was smooth as she caressed the muscles of his back and trailed her fingertips over the taut curve of his buttocks.
He groaned. “Mischa, I’m trying to exercise some control.”
“It’s overrated,” she assured him.
She ran her hands up the bumpiness of his spine, luxuriating in the deep quiver that transferred itself from him to her. His erection nudged her, alien and wonderful. She twisted her hands in his hair and brought his mouth down to hers.
He kissed her feverishly, hot, hard and possessive. And slid into her in one unstoppable claiming.
He stretched her, filled her, transported her. She wrapped her legs around him. Never, never would she let him go. He slid deeper. She squeezed.
“Mischa.” He groaned and surrendered, thrusting, pounding and demanding more, demanding everything.
She broke first, quivering and tightening around him, and holding his final surge as he shouted her name.
Slick skin against slick skin, they rolled onto their sides. Their hearts drummed, their breathing tangled. Mischa hugged Rafe in exuberant delight. There were fireworks under her skin, still smoldering.
“Thank you.”
“I’d intended to be gentle.”
“You were, and fierce. You were perfect.”
He smoothed her hip with a large hand. “Perfect?”
“Mmm-hmm.” She nuzzled his damp skin. An exploratory lick found it salty. “Perfect.” She slithered lower. This lazy exploration was incredibly tantalizing. Her questing mouth found a flat male nipple. She suckled delicately, enjoying the pleasure of teasing with tongue and teeth.
“Feeling playful?” Rafe slid down and fitted his mouth to hers.
She investigated the warm cavern of his mouth with her tongue, while his hands combed through her hair and sent shivers along her spine. She murmured approval when his tongue dueled with hers. He filled her senses, taste, scent, touch.
He rubbed his torso lightly against her, re-sensitizing her breasts. In the tangle of lower limbs, his muscled thigh rode between hers.
“Friction is heaven.” She stretched in voluptuous enjoyment and glanced down their bodies. “You’re nudging me.”
“Consider it a compliment.”
“A big compliment?” She looked at him through her lashes, teasing.
“What do you think?”
She pretended seriousness. “I’ll have to measure it.”
He hardened further in her hand and groaned as she traced the length of him. He rolled onto his back, flagrantly flaunting his arousal.
“Measure me properly. Do I fit?” Green eyes challenged her.
“Let’s see.” She rose over him and settled his tip against her folds. “It feels like you might fit.” She held his gaze, watching the fires burn, and came down on him.
“You fit,” she gasped.
“Perfectly.”
She allowed him his smugness. She herself felt like purring.
He took her hands, kissed the palms and placed them on his shoulders. “Ready?”
“For what?”
His hips bucked once in answer.
“Oh.”
He loved her slowly, strongly, controlling their movements so that she shattered, recovered, then exploded with him in the devastation of mutual passion.
“It just gets better,” she said.
He was still inside her and she didn’t want to move. She had melted over him like chocolate, and the drift of his hand over her naked back added to her satisfied lethargy.
“Mmm.” Rafe didn’t feel the need to talk. More than he’d ever dreamed was in his arms. Mischa’s warm body held him. Her incredible responsiveness had carried them both to the stars. Her trust, the surrender of her body, stirred an unfamiliar tenderness in him.
He raised his head and kissed her shoulder. She was perfect, and she was his. He traced the line of her back and her soft curves and listened to her breathing.
It steadied, slowed, and she slept.
In the lamp-lit darkness he smiled, settled her more comfortably and followed her example into sleep. And for the first time in centuries, he slept without nightmares.
Chapter Five
Mischa woke to the aroma of coffee and fresh baked bread, a welcome aroma since she was starving. Starving and smugly pleased with how she’d earned that hunger. Without opening her eyes, she smiled.
Firm, familiar lips touched hers, tasting her smile, then deepening into a passionate greeting.
She savored the coffee flavor of Rafe’s mouth and felt the brush of his robe along her skin as he bent over her. She threaded her fingers through his hair and held him firmly to his task, reaffirming their desire.
“Good morning,” he said huskily, kissing a path along the curve of her throat.
“Good morning.” She shivered as his tongue teased the tender skin behind her ear.
He nipped her earlobe. “I have breakfast.”
“Coffee,” she whispered.
“Honey,” he answered.
Her stomach gurgled unromantically.
Rafe laughed and broke off kissing her. “First we’ll eat.” But his hands lingered, caressing her breasts as he watched her flushed face.
“Breakfast,” Mischa reminded him, smiling.
“I remember.” He helped her rise and found her discarded robe.
She wrapped it around herself, grateful he realized that despite the night’s abandoned loving, she wasn’t ready to breakfast naked.
A low table held the breakfast foods: flat bread, honey, soft cheeses, fruits and, most important, coffee.
“Wonderful.” Mischa sank cross-legged onto a floor cushion.
Rafe sat comfortably beside her. They ate simply, not teasing or speaking, just
enjoying the flavors and the gentle surge of energy from being near one another.
“When we have finished breakfast I will show you the oasis. There are deer in a corner where the grass grows by a shallow spring. There are finches, and the eagle flies high above. Many birds nest among the fruit trees. They fill the silence. If there is anything missing, anything you want here, I will get it.”
“Because I can’t.”
Rafe went still.
Mischa sighed. “I know that wasn’t fair. You gentled Haya’s wish as much as you could, and you’ve stolen time for us. You’ve behaved well. It’s I who have kicked and screamed against necessity.” She gripped his hand. “I’m glad for this time with you. Glad. It’s only my pride taking a beating because I’m dependent on your kindness. I’m sorry I hurt you with my words.”
“Your complaint remains a true one,” he said solemnly. “You are my prisoner.”
“A willing prisoner.”
“Truly?” He studied her. “I know how bonds fetter the soul.”
She smiled into his fierce regard. “I want you, Rafe. I’m happy to be with you.” She stood and pulled him to his feet. “Show me your oasis, your home.”
He slid his hands inside her robe and dragged her hard against him. “Later.”
“Later I mightn’t have the strength,” she teased, wanting the darkness in his eyes to ease. She had hurt him, and that wasn’t fair. He had introduced her to joy last night, given her patience and tenderness as well as glory. Her guilt at ignoring duty to the people she’d been appointed to guard was not Rafe’s guilt. He deserved a return of joy.
“Do I weaken you, Mischa?” His hands traced patterns of pleasure over her skin.
“Yes.” She sighed her answer, undulating to the stroke of his hands. He was teaching her body a lover’s dance, the incitement of desire, the expression of it. She flowed against him.
“You weaken me,” he said. “I dream of you. Last night, for the first time, I had no nightmares.”
“What are your nightmares?” She rubbed her hips against his, explicit in her demand, teasing in her retreat. It was part of the dance. Her heartbeat provided the rhythm.
The Price of Freedom Page 4
