Fascinated

'This, Megan.' He pushed inside her-three fingers-it felt like five. 'This is what I've dreamed about ever since I can remember. '

She sucked in air-consciously trying to relax her body and give him what he needed. The ceiling was superimposed by images: Muhamed relieving himself; Muhamed preparing for condemnation, when he turned and saw her watching him; Muhamed's face growing shuttered when he thought she was not going to stay with him for another day, another night.

Imagery gave way to the sound of Muhamed cursing the night as he found his first release with a woman.

He twisted his fingers.

Electricity shot through her.

She stared blindly at the ceiling, forcing herself to hold still and allow him to explore her. 'What did you say… in Arabic, last night?'

'I don't remember.'

He was evading her again.

His fingers surged more deeply inside her.

Megan bit her lip. 'Ela'na. What does that mean?'

''Damn.'' He crooked his three fingers inside her and gently raked the front wall of her vagina. 'You have a button inside you.'

A button!

Heat shot through her-hotter than fire, more galvanizing than lightning.

'What does… Lowsam-' She couldn't remember the word, could barely remember how to speak. 'What does mara-'

Her body independently surged upward. 'Oh, my God! What are you doing?'

He repeated the caress. 'Mara wahda means 'one time.' Does it give you pleasure, with just my fingers inside you?'

Pleasure was not the word she would use to describe what she felt. Agony. Torture. 'Yes, it gives me pleasure. Does it bring you pleasure?'

'Your flesh burns, Megan, with the heat of your desire. Yes, you please me. Can you obtain your release like this?'

'I… I don't know.'

'Then let us find out.'

He found the rhythm that her body needed, as if his fingers were his manhood, driving deep, hard, tips curled, so that each thrust, each withdrawal, teased the special button he had found.

Wave after wave of pleasure rolled over Megan.

She thought of the Arabic women who had been altered, and hoped that they were able to experience this, at least, the pleasure that accrued from having the inner wall of a woman's vagina strummed. And then she didn't think, she could only feel as a wave of blinding sensation broke over her, and her entire world shrank to the heat of his hand pressing on her womb while the heat of his fingers pistoned inside her.

Her body bowed in a perfect arch. Seeking to escape. Lifting for more.

He gave her more. Deeper. Harder. Always pressing inward against the inner wall of her vulva.

He gave her release. And did not seek his own.

Megan slowly became conscious of his fingers that were a part of her and the tension that surrounded her.

'I have read that a woman is inexhaustible,' Muhamed rasped. 'That she may reach a thousand and one orgasms in a night.'

'I do not think…' She took a shallow breath, unable to draw a deeper one. 'I do not think I will survive even one more orgasm right now, let alone nine hundred and ninety-nine more.'

His fingers curved around her stomach; at the same time they curled inside her vagina.

'There is a well nearby,' he said abruptly. 'Madron Well.'

It was a mile or so above Madron church.

'Yes.' Megan raised her head. Sweat glistened on his face. 'I know it.'

But how did he know about it?

'I would see it. With you.'

Her heartbeat drummed against her chest; her breast quivered with the force of her breathing. 'I would much rather see to your satisfaction.'

His mouth twisted. 'I have told you, Megan. Eunuchs are not like men.'

His fingers throbbed inside her, telling her he lied, either deliberately or unknowingly.

He was a man, and he could gain release. If only he would trust her.

'I need to… to return to my room,' she said.

'Why?' he asked, his voice suddenly guarded.

'I need to get…' How ridiculous it was, to blush over mentioning an innocent thing like underclothes when his fingers filled her and her body still shook with the release he had brought her. 'I need to get my cloak.'

'We will stop by your room and get it on our way out.'

'I would rather you have the innkeeper prepare us a picnic basket to take along with us while I dress.'

'You will not'-he prodded her more deeply, fingers straightening, reaching, as if he mapped her vaginal walls- 'change your mind?'

'No. I am hungry.' He reversed direction. She took a deep breath, internally following the slow withdrawal of his fingers, one knuckle, two… 'I did not eat my dinner last night.'

His fingers glistened in the dim light, moist with the essence of her release.

Megan glanced up. His gaze was waiting for her.

That slight half smile hitched up the corner of his lips 'I do not want you to go hungry on my account.'

'Then I suggest you feed me, sir.'

The trace of his smile disappeared. 'I did not know that women like you existed.'

'I did not know that men like you existed.'

His expression immediately closed. 'Eunuchs are mentioned in your Christian Bible, Megan.'

'But men who value a woman's satisfaction are not, Muhamed.'

Muhamed stood in one swift motion; he was blatantly erect. Bending down, he scooped up the white turban and robe he had discarded the night before.

The muscles in his back, legs and buttocks rippled when he walked. He dropped the washcloth across the wooden bar beside the bureau, then neatly pulled the robe on over his head. Opening the top drawer, he took out a wooden-handled hairbrush and ran it through his hair. It neatly fell into wavy curls.

A brief pang stabbed her chest, that he should have such a beautiful head of hair when hers was limp and straight. The pang of envy was immediately replaced by a sense of Tightness.

It was comforting to watch a man perform his morning toilet.

His habits were the same as those of an Englishman; he dressed, brushed his hair, his teeth…

Bending his head, he spat into the basin.

She bit her lip to stop her protest when he proceeded to wrap the turban around his head. When he opened the second bureau drawer and took out a pair of baggy white trousers, she could not keep her mouth shut. 'Please don't.'

The back of his white robe stiffened. 'Don't what?' he asked, without turning around.

'I rather fancied that Arabic men did not wear anything under their robes. The Scots are reputed not to wear anything under their kilts. It is… interesting for a woman to think that all she need do is toss up a man's skirt.'

Muhamed turned, white robe flurrying. 'You are… jesting with me.'

He seemed surprised that a woman would do so.

'Not at all, sir,' she said whimsically, feeling absurdly young and carefree. 'The English have no sense of the ridiculous, especially when they sit naked in front of a clothed gentleman. Or perhaps that is not well-known in your country.'

Shadow crossed his face, a trick of light. 'Concubines and slaves do not picnic in Arabia.'

She had overseen many picnics as the wife of a vicar, but she had never attended a picnic unchaperoned with a man.