Murad gripped her head, his last coherent thought being that she belonged to Jebal, and if he was caught, he would be put to death. But then he could think no more. Paulina’s mouth was hot and hard, sucking voraciously. Murad gripped her head, pretending that the hair slipping like silk through his fingertips was Alex’s mane.
A moment later he was on the ground with her, rolling her over, pushing apart her vest. He reached for her big breasts. Tonguing her large nipples. She cried out, wrapping her slim legs around his waist, undulating against him.
Murad hesitated. This was as close as he would ever come to loving Alex, through pretense with another woman. He bent over her, palming her sex. He cried out. She was wet and warm and wonderful.
“Oh, yes, please Jesus, God, yes,” Paulina wept, clinging to him.
Murad slid his fingers into her. So this was what a woman was like. Hot, sweet, tight, so incredibly tight … Murad wished that he could be inside of her himself. Paulina began convulsing as he stroked her with utter dedication, his body taut and strained.
Then he felt that he was being watched. He looked up— and met Zoe’s sly, laughing eyes.
“She is with her slave, in the garden bath,” Zoe said.
Jebal, who rarely entered the women’s quarters, nodded and continued down the galleria. Zoe smiled, staring after him.
Jebal stepped off of the galleria and started down one garden path. He was turning a corner when he thought he heard a noise, perhaps a human moan, perhaps an animal, somewhere to his right. He started toward a group of shrubs, behind which were two large palms, but then instinct made him face forward again. He froze.
Zohara lay naked in the bathing pool.
Jebal felt that he had been socked in the abdomen. He could not breathe. His loins stiffened immediately.
He finally managed to think through the encroaching lust. Zohara had lied to him, and he had come to the harem to learn the truth, not to lust after her or even bed her.
Jebal had spent most of the night and that following morning deciding what he would do. And if she was a complete fraud, she would be severely punished. He might even divorce her and sell her at auction to the highest bidder. Of course, he would have her first.
Resolutely now, he strode down the path. His sandals crunched on the shells.
Her eyes flew open. She saw him, her gaze widening, sitting up. Her face turned red. “Jebal!”
He did not smile, staring at her openly. Her color increased. He could not help thinking of entering the pool with her, taking her first, and then demanding the truth. Instead, he folded his own arms and stood above her, gazing down at her. He had to know the reasons for her lies.
“Jebal,” she said again. She forced a smile, her gaze darting to the pile of clothing just to his right. “You are looking for me?”
“Yes, I am.” He did not move.
She licked her lips. “I would like to dress.”
He felt perverse. “I prefer you to remain just the way you are.”
Her eyes widened.
Jebal smiled tightly. “Is it true? There is no dead first husband? My understanding is that there has never been a British diplomat named Thornton stationed at Gibraltar.”
Her hot red flush disappeared. She was unnaturally white. “That is correct,” she said hoarsely after a pause. “Thornton was never stationed at Gibraltar.”
“What was your real name, Zohara?” he demanded as coolly as possible. But his temper surged. Anger mingled with lust.
“My real name is Alexandra Thornton.”
“Is there a dead first husband?”
“No.” She stared up at him.
He wanted to strike her. He actually saw red. He would beat her—fuck her—destroy her. “You have lied.”
“There was a man. I loved him. I thought we would wed. He promised. I gave myself to him. And …” Tears fell. “He left me, Jebal. He left me.”
“Who?”
