Fascinated

nipples.

Megan's heart skipped a beat, galloped to escape the confines of her chest.

There was violence in this man. Born of need. Loneliness.

Fear.

Emotions she understood all too well.

If she were wise, she would flee his room now, naked.

If she were wise, she would not now be in his room, naked.

She thought of her past, and the empty bed she had slept in.

She thought of her future, and the empty bed that awaited her.

She thought of this Arab, sleeping alone in his empty bed. For fifty-three years.

'I have only ever asked one man to touch me,' she blurted out.

'And did he?' he asked intently.

She wanted to lie. She found that she couldn't.

'No, he did not,' she said.

'This is the man whom you loved?'

She tensed against the barrage of unwelcome memories. 'Yes.'

The pale gleam of his eyes did not waver. 'He did not wish to experience the closeness you spoke of?'

An invisible hand squeezed her heart. 'No, he did not.'

'His rejection still pains you.'

'Yes.' Tears pricked her eyes. 'It still causes me pain.'

'Tell me where you asked him to touch you.'

His voice was peremptory; underlying the command was a masculine plea.

To not reject him, as she had been rejected.

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.