Fascinated

To share with him the special bonding that was a man and a woman's joining.

Scalding perception rushed through her.

Here, in the dark, with this stranger, she could be the woman she had been twenty-two years earlier.

He could fondle her breasts, in their current position.

He could kiss them.

He could lick them.

He could suckle them.

He could do all the things she had secretly desired that a man do, but had been afraid of requesting.

Afraid she would shock.

Afraid she would repel.

Afraid she would be rejected.

By her husband.

By any man other than this Arab.

Megan had never before fantasized about teaching a man how to touch her for her own gratification. She did now.

It was seductive.

It was Adam offering Eve the forbidden fruit.

It was the promise of far, far more than a quick, anonymous coupling.

She struggled to control her breathing; her breasts quivered with each intake of air, each outward exhalation. 'I asked him to touch my… to touch my breasts.'

Megan did not recognize her voice.

The darkness reached up.

She inhaled sharply, cupped by callused hands, right breast, left breast, heart pounding, skin tightening. Liquid desire pooled between her legs; her nipples hardened to the point of pain.

'Like this?'

'Yes.'

Oh, yes, exactly like that.

Ten fingers pounded in time to her heartbeat. Rough yet gentle. Hesitant yet hungry.

Tears pricked her eyes, receiving now from the hands of a stranger what had been denied her twenty-two years earlier- a man's caring touch.

'Tell me what else you asked him to do,' he hoarsely commanded. His voice matched hers.

Heat bridged their bodies: his breath, her breath, his toes, her toes.

His desire.

Her desire.

For one brief moment she stared down at the two of them: she standing above a naked man; he sitting below a naked woman.

Both wanting.

Both waiting.

Both willing.

Just for one night.

There was no time for propriety. No room for shame.

'I asked him… to kiss my nipples,' she said raggedly.

It was not a lie. In her thoughts, she had begged for him to kiss her nipples. In reality, she had asked him to come to her bed.

The callused heat cupping her left breast dissipated. Seconds later, it grasped her left hip.

He did not seem to mind the softness he found there.

Silken flesh, gentle as the wings of a butterfly, skidded across her nipple.

Lightning shot through her chest and out of her toes. She slammed back into her body, and once again she stared down at one head rather than two.

Megan instinctively reached up-and grasped warm, electric hair. It clung to her fingers, alive as the current of heat that raced through her breasts.

'What else did you ask him to do?' Moist breath seared her breast where the Arab had kissed her, but the man whom she loved had not.

She fought for courage; found it.

'I asked him to lick my nipple,' she said. In her thoughts. In reality, she had asked him to hold her.

He had not.

A hot, wet tongue tentatively rasped her flesh, there on the very tip of her breast.

Once. Twice. Thrice…

He licked her, like a greedy cat licking the inside of an empty milk pail. Top side of her nipple, underside, the very tip again…

Her vagina clenched; hot liquid dribbled down her thigh. She instinctively curved her hands around him, such a personal embrace, cradling a man's head while he laved her with hot, wet swipes of his tongue.

Hot air suddenly serrated her nipple. 'What else?'

Megan's heart thumped against her chest; she could hear it, feel it-an internal knocking, an external quiver of her breast. Had Muhamed felt it, when he kissed her, licked her…?

'I asked him to… to suckle me,' she said. In her thoughts. In reality, she had asked him to comfort her.

A hot, wet furnace latched on to her nipple.

Oh…

Megan clutched thick, soft hair and held on while he suckled her, hesitantly at first, then strongly, as if he gained sustenance from her breast.

It was-breathtaking.

It was-overwhelming.

It aroused yearnings she had never before experienced: to be squeezed, bitten…

She arched her body, begging for acts she had no words for.

His hands tightened, squeezing, kneading-her right breast, her left hip. A textured swirl of scalding heat encompassed her nipple; at the same time sharp teeth sank into her aureola. Her womb contracted-in pain, in pleasure.

She leaned forward, fingers fisting in his hair, lost in the erotic sensations he was engendering and the memories he had invoked…

'I asked him to touch me between my legs,' she whispered. In her thoughts. In reality, she had merely begged him to love her, to need her as she had needed him.

Heat grew inside her breast, there where Muhamed suckled her, an inescapable knot of truth.

He had not loved her. Needed her.

Warm air feathered her stomach. Gentle fingers touched Megan, a whisper of sensation.

Arabic fingers, not English.

A small, inelegant pop pierced the darkness-his mouth releasing her nipple. The shock of cold air was replaced with a gust of hot breath. 'Your pubis is covered with hair.'

It took a moment for the meaning of his words to register. Every nerve in her body was focused on her fingers that throbbed against his scalp and his fingers that combed through her private hair.

'Yes.' Her breathing accelerated-too fast, she would surely faint, she who had never before fainted. 'Of course.'

Scalding heat punctuated his words. 'Muslims remove their body hair.'

His leg that had briefly impacted her knee, while hard with muscle, had been silky smooth…

'Do you remove your body hair?' she asked unbidden.

'I have done everything that the Muslim law commands,' he said rawly.

Scattered thoughts flitted through her mind: did his religion forbid him to touch a woman? Was that why he was still a virgin at fifty-three years of age?