His voice was so thick with emotion, she turned her head and looked up at him. “What?”
“When I contracted a dancer, I knew I would enjoy physical pleasure, perhaps even companionship. I never dreamed she would be capable of providing me with a true Paridagon joining. I am humbled and I am thrilled.”
She wasn’t sure how to respond to his mood so she just smiled at him. He carefully separated their bodies then swept her into his arms. Without a word, he carried her into the bathroom and into the shower. His hands glided over her body with something frighteningly close to reverence.
When he reached between her legs, she grabbed his wrist. “I can do that.”
“It’s tradition. Don’t deny me or I’ll be insulted.”
She had no idea if it were true or if he just wanted to play with her pussy, but a few seconds later she didn’t care. Rather than arousing, his touch was gentle and soothing and she was a bit disappointed when he told the water to turn off and led her back into the main room of the cabin.
He dried her with a towel and handed her the shirt she’d borrowed that morning. She pulled it on and found the red sash she’d been using as a belt. By the time she’d completed her ensemble, he was dressed again in his severe black uniform.
“I need to return to work. I’ve neglected my duties long enough.” He sounded genuinely reluctant. “Before I go, would you like to explain why you rearranged the furniture?”
“I wasn’t finished, but I’ll show you what I have so far.” She looked around the disorganized room and pointed to the desk they’d utilized so recently. “Please stand over there.”
His gaze narrowed, but he ambled to the desk then leaned against the edge and crossed his arms over his chest. “Carry on.”
The tender lover who’d insisted on washing her so intimately was once again buried inside the autocratic commander. She’d seen the transition often enough now to find it amusing. Well, he’d allowed her to take a virtual tour of his world. It was time for him to see a glimpse of hers.
“Computer, loop playback, file name ‘It’s Just the Rain’.” She’d just started to work out the choreography when he’d returned to the cabin. She’d have to let the music flow through her and express herself as best she could. Unfortunately, the music was several layers of her own voice, which she found more than a little distracting. But she loved the song and she loved to dance.
She closed her eyes and listened, concentrating on the lyrics instead of the delivery. Then she raised her arms and opened her eyes and told the story with her body. She spun and arched, stretched and leapt, carefully centering her weight each time her damaged ankle came into play.
Loss and longing swept through her as the melancholy song began again. She allowed the emotions to flow, guiding her steps and shaping her movements. She thought of her friends and family, the home she might never see again. Sophie’s image drove the pain deeper and Zoe’s body expressed her grief. She had to let go of the world she’d known and focus on the future. This was strange and unexpected, an opportunity beyond her wildest dreams.
Her gaze collided with Vaden’s and a new wave of feelings inundated her mind. Hope swelled, pushing out her sadness and lightening her steps. She spun faster as she thought of the pleasure they’d shared and the mysteries she’d yet to uncover. This was far more than an incendiary love affair. Her warrior elf had given her an entire galaxy to explore!
Excited and energized, she reached the end of the song and halted the playback. She kept her face averted for a moment, afraid to look at Vaden, unsure of his reaction to something so…alien.
He moved away from the desk, stepping into her line of vision, so she turned her head and looked at him. “That voice was yours?” Unable to speak past the lump in her throat, she nodded. “And these movements are what humans call dancing?”
Again all she could do was nod. This was what she did, who she was. If he rejected her art…
There could be no future for them? Had she really allowed herself to open that door? “I know it’s strange. I just wanted you to—”
He placed his fingers against her lips, his gaze more silver than blue. “I have never seen anything so beautiful or heard a more poignant sound. I can’t decide if I should lock you away so no one else will realize what a treasure I’ve found, or…”
“Or?” Her heart was pounding so hard she could barely contain her happy tears.
“Even I understand such beauty is meant to be shared.” A tear escaped the corner of her eye and slid down her cheek. “Why are you crying?” He caught the tear with his knuckle then wiped her cheek with the pad of his thumb.
“Earlier, I was ready to kill the man who sold me that ridiculous dress, now I feel like I owe him everything.”
He smiled. “Do you think you can be content in a world without music?”
“Obviously, I’ll simply make my own.”
He brushed his mouth over hers then pulled back and asked, “Can others be taught to make those sounds?”
“It’s called singing, and many can, others cannot.”
“Would you be willing to try?”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Many of the other dancers have complained that they have nothing to occupy their time while their men are working. Would you be willing to teach them how to move as you move and sing?”
“Teaching others how to dance—as I was just dancing, not as
“I’ll find somewhere for you, perhaps one of the smaller cargo bays.” He kissed her on the forehead and heaved a heavy sigh. “I really need to go, but I really don’t want to.”
“Go on.” She slapped him on the ass, feeling wonderfully empowered. “We have the rest of our lives to play house.”
His gaze brightened and he echoed, “The rest of our lives?”
She wasn’t about to make it that easy for him. “I’m stuck here for at least a year. We’ll see what happens after that.”
He swept her into his arms and kissed her with slow, tender insistency. “Until tonight.”
She waited until he’d gone to let out a joyful shout. Her life had gone from mediocre to miraculous in the span of a day—and she was never going back!
SAHARA HEAT
by Diana Hunter
Prologue
Fine grains of sand drifted under the tent flaps, swirling in small eddies over finely woven carpets, not stopping their dance until they rested against a mahogany chest nestled beside a chair of sandalwood. A hand, long since bereft of life, rested on the lid in a final caress, a silk robe nothing but tatters around the bones. Far across the Sahara, a small breeze, warmed by the sun, transformed into a wind and, picking up speed and sand, became a storm that roared across the empty dunes. And when it reached the tent and its lone occupant, the dust storm swallowed it whole, covering it from the sight of men.
Chapter One
