Free Desire's Sirocco by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

silk sheets.
    But tired as he was, sore as his body reminded him it was, he knew there would be no rest until the Master visited his new mate. There would be no bed until then, no sleep to refresh his aching limbs.
    His thoughts drifted like a petal on the water to Jameela and he felt anew the ache that had been in his soul since he first saw her. Closing his eyes, letting his head fall back along the pool’s rim, he allowed himself to relive that day.
    She had been so lovely standing there on the slave trader’s dock. Her luscious curves had garnered his attention from a hundred feet away. He had no intention of buying her—only getting a closer look—but once he was close enough to see the fear-pimples on her unmarred flesh and the humiliation in her pretty eyes, he knew he must have her for the Conclave. Who would win her was anyone’s guess and he was as amazed as the next warrior when the one who had chosen her was the Master.
    The musician had changed the rhythm of his music and the song was now more sensual, a staccato beat to the strings that was almost in perfect cadence to Dagan’s heartbeat. He felt that rhythm throughout his entire body and it lulled him, beckoned to him as he listened closely to the twang of the bass strings echoing across the granite chamber. He could feel his breath quickening to the beat and lost himself in the melody as the strings reverberated. So immersed in the beauty of the piece, he did not realize he was no longer alone until the clearing of a throat brought his eyes open with a snap.
    Brother Qutaybah was standing primly at the edge of the pool, his disapproval evident in the stiffness of his shoulders and the pursing of his lips. His hands were clasped at his waist.
    “I hate you,” Dagan said beneath his breath.
    “The Master must see to his concubine,” Brother Qutaybah sniffed.
    “With every ounce of my being,” Dagan mumbled as he pushed himself up from the water.
    The hooded eyes of the Master’s servant traveled down Dagan’s nakedness as the warrior climbed out of the pool. “I escorted the woman to the Chamber and have assembled the Conclave,” he informed Dagan.
    “And every breath I take,” Dagan said between clenched teeth. He reached for a warmed towel hanging from an amber stand at the pool’s edge and began toweling himself dry.
    “You had best be quick or else…”
    Brother Qutaybah got no further for Dagan reached out, grabbed the smaller man by the arm and propelled him out into the pool. The gasp, the splash, and the gurgle of water gagging the infuriating chancellor brought a smile to Dagan’s mouth.
    Never bothering to turn around, Dagan wrapped the towel around his waist, tucked the end in at his hip then strolled away, whistling the refrain from the unseen musician’s serenade.

* * * * *
    Jameela had never liked the dark and standing in the center of the Chamber, waiting for the Master to arrive, seemed to take forever. Her nerves were stretched thin and she was growing tired as she stood there, moving from foot to foot as the weariness claimed her.
    The room was as still as the grave yet she felt she was not alone. She wondered if Dagan was nearby or if the Conclave would be in attendance. There was a feeling of being watched, studied, that made the flesh ripple on her bare back. Cocking her head to one side to pick up even a faint rustle of clothing, a scraping of a boot along the balcony, or the clearing of a dry throat, she could detect nothing yet instinct told her she was not alone. She shuddered at the thought.
    “Are you cold?”
    A sigh of relief brought a fleeting, tremulous smile to her lips. Dagan was nearby and his voice had been soft, as gentle as she had ever heard it. Shaking her head for she had not been bidden to speak, she felt her heart accelerate as someone came toward her.
    His fingers were cool against her brow as he pushed a stray lock of hair over her shoulder. “You are being observed by the Conclave,” he