Free Desire's Sirocco by Charlotte Boyett-Compo Page A

whispered as he tied the blindfold across her eyes again. “Until your Joining Day, the Conclave will always be with the Master.”
    Once more he lifted her into his brawny arms and carried her to the table from whence she had lost her maidenhead, then she felt—rather than heard—him move away.
    The gong sounded and the shuffle of many feet descending the stairway from the balcony caused Jameela’s heart to beat faster. Her breathing was once more erratic, shallow, and a slight ache had begun in her temples. She tucked her lower lip between her teeth to still her nervousness.
    The moment the Master touched her she knew it was he. There was authority in that strong hand, a possessiveness that brooked no denial. His fingers trailed along her cheekbone, down the side of her neck and onto her breast in a lazy journey that brought a quickening to her womb. His fingernails plucked at her nipple and she moaned in anticipation of the delight she knew he would give her. He treated the other nipple to the same pleasure then ran his nails lightly down her chest and belly.
    Jameela began to pant the moment he threaded his fingers through her pubic curls, tugging playfully at the wiry crispness. She swallowed as he molded his palm over her mound and began rubbing in a slow circuit, the base of his hand arcing across that most sensitive part of her anatomy to make her squirm.
    His low rumble of amusement at her reaction make her smile and despite the fact that she wished it were Dagan, her trainer, whose powerful hand was circling her flesh she wanted to reach up for this man who had the right to lay with her. She wanted to draw him down to her, bringing his body to hers, his sex to hers.
    She sucked in her breath as his hand turned and his fingers dipped briefly into her vagina and away. A slight pout of disappointment began to form on her lips but then she felt his hands on her thighs, pushing her legs—and the sectional table legs—apart. But there was little time to wonder what he would do next for she felt his lips upon her and she moaned, reveling in the delight his knowledgeable mouth elicited. When he thrust his tongue deep inside her, she arched her hips from the table and gasped for she had pulled herself free of his grip.
    “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t….”
    He shushed her and she heard him snap his fingers several times as though calling a dog to heel.
    Hands were laid to her, on each side of her hips, on her thighs, on her belly, anchoring her to the table. The sensation added to the anticipation and she relaxed, thinking bondage had never felt so good.
    Though she waited for his mouth to return to her nether lips, it was his fingers that entered her—going in slowly, withdrawing, and traveling a bit deeper with the next probe. Already she was oozing, slick with arousal and when he withdrew his hand and she heard a sucking sound, she knew he had tasted her. The thought sent ripples of passion streaking through her belly. Thought, however, ceased the moment he gripped her legs and dragged them over his shoulders, positioning her for his entry.
    Those mysterious, cool hands were removed and were replaced with the heady weight of the Master’s body. There was no fumbling at her opening but a quick, sure thrust that impaled her fully on the length of his velvety sword.
    Impulse guided her and she threw her arms around his powerful shoulders and held him. She crossed her ankles behind his back, pulling him as close to her as nature would allow. His grunt of satisfaction at her brazenness emboldened her further and she lifted her head to plant a kiss along his throat.
    With a low growl, the Master moved so that he captured her lips with his own. The kiss was heady and commanding. His tongue raped her mouth, tasted her, lapped at the sweetness, and drove deep even as his manhood withdrew and drove into her with the same rhythm.
    Deep, almost painfully, his organ pushed into hers. She could feel the tip of