Free Cleopatra�s Perfume by Jina Bacarr

sin. (Cleopatra was Greek Macedonian, I knew.) I didn’t argue his point, though I wondered, Why was he lying to me about Cleopatra? I wanted to believe him, wanted to again lie my head on his shoulder, reach into his soul and pull him to me, but I held back, waiting. Waiting to see where this game would end. I had no idea what an extraordinary adventure awaited me.
    “Cleopatra was murdered,” he told me, his hand lingering on my knee under the round teakwood table. His touch lit a fire between my legs, a slow burn igniting my female urge to again experience sex with this handsome but savage man, an act condemned by the dour-faced society matrons I once craved would accept me. No longer would I bow to the demands of café society. I had allowed a man of the desert to brand my white skin with his touch, a taboo in my world. Breaking such a taboo would sully my reputation, though I didn’t care what anyone thought, so strong was the scent exudingfrom him. I ignored the insistent voice telling me he was a denizen of falsehoods meant to snare me in his trap. I was more interested in allowing him access to the patch of bare skin above my stockings.
    “Interesting theory you have about the death of the Egyptian queen,” I said, sipping my tea, though it had too much sugar for my taste and not enough milk. Thé à la menthe. Ramzi insisted it was a local favorite. “I suppose you also know who murdered her?”
    “Octavian wanted to rule over the Roman empire,” he said, “but Cleopatra stood in the way, so he ordered his men to kill her and make it look like suicide.”
    “Sounds intriguing.” I finished my tea, the sweetness lingering on my lips. I licked it off with my tongue. Still, my mouth burned with its icy coolness. “But I don’t believe you.”
    “You will.”
    “How can you be so sure?”
    He leaned over, then put his hand on my neck and whispered in my ear, “I know how to convince you.”
     

 
    4
     
     
    N ude. A blindfold over my eyes. Restraints made of gold rope. Hands moving over my body. Mahmoud’s. Always the perfect bodyguard, I knew his touch as well as I knew the breadth of Ramzi’s cock.
    I shivered, remembering how the Egyptian’s strength overtook me the first time he’d entered me, his thrusts strong and insistent, though he wasn’t rough or abusive. No, his hands gripped each cheek of my buttocks with a firm touch both loving and passionate. Panting, gasping, my body slick with sweat dripping from my skin like a shower of penance for my past sins, I writhed under him, tilting my hips upward to allow him greater entry.
    This time I would be more coy. More secretive. More seductive.
    I waited. Waited. Nothing. Mahmoud removed his hands, the loss of his soothing touch fueling the violent headache I couldn’t shake. Under the blindfold, I squeezed my eyes, rimmed with fatigue, heavy and dark, the velvet mask providing a haven from the maddening pressure pushing down on my brain with unwelcome pain despite the pleasure the Nubian lavished upon me.
    The tightening sensation squeezing my head started when we left the hotel, though the pressure of Ramzi’s hand against my back, then sliding down to cup my buttock outlined in my silk tailored dress, made it seem more like a nuisance. I didn’t protest when the Egyptian escorted me back to the Bar Supplice and bade Mahmoud to strip me while he watched, then tie me to the large iron rings set into the wall in the violet-hued room behind the stage.
    I waited. The warmth of his breath made my nipples harden, indicating the Nubian’s mouth hovered near my breasts, the heat from his body making me tingle. Still nothing. Why?
    Shifting my weight from foot to foot, I tugged on the metal rings holding my body, as well as my mind, prisoner. I couldn’t see anything, frustrating me. Was I not going to savor the probing fingers of the tall Nubian, pulling the outer lips of my pussy apart, holding me open for Ramzi’s approval before flicking his