her robe too was clinging, that her nipples were not only visible but quite obviously pert. And Rafiq had noticed too. His cheeks were flushed too. ‘Onwards,’ Stephanie said, pulling him to her.
They kissed slowly, lingeringly. He led her to the back of the room, to a large, low table draped with a sheet. Another kiss, this time as steamy, as languorous as the atmosphere in the bathing chamber, before he lifted her on to the table.
‘What are you doing?’
Rafiq untied the sash of her robe. ‘I am making it up to you. Apologising. Actions,’ he said, sliding her robe from her shoulders, ‘I have found, speak much louder than words.’
He cupped her breast, his thumbs caressing the hard peaks of her nipples. Stephanie was a mass of fluttering, tingling nerves, wild with anticipation and at the same time drugged by the heat.
She tugged the sash of his robe open, eyeing him blatantly as the garment slithered to his feet and he stood naked before her. His skin was damp, glistening with sweat. His muscles rippled as he breathed. He was already fully aroused. She ran her finger along his length. Satin smooth.
He kissed her, easing her down on to the table. And then, when she thought he would join her, he rolled her on to her stomach. ‘My turn to act,’ Rafiq whispered. ‘Your only requirement is to enjoy the results.’
* * *
She looked so luscious spread before him on the table that Rafiq struggled to control himself. The lovely curve of her spine, the indent of her waist, the delightful swell of her buttocks, the intriguing shadow between her legs, he wanted to kiss every inch of her, to lose himself in her.
He picked up the glass vial of precious oil, gently eased her legs apart, and knelt between them. The oil fell, drop by delicate drop, along the ridge of her spine. He applied it in sweeping motions, working along her shoulders first, where the muscles were tensest and strongest. Her breath came in little whispering gasps. He leant over her, his chest brushing against her back, the oil sleek between them. He kissed her nape. He nipped the lobe of her ear. She whimpered.
More oil was applied, and he worked his fingers down the knots of her spine. A strong back. She was not soft, though she was becoming delightfully pliant under his kneading, stroking, sweeping, touch. And down, to the twin mounds of her buttocks, the flesh yielding, her shape so perfectly feminine. Up, sliding his hands up her sides, his fingers brushing her breasts, then down again. When he leaned over, his shaft nestled against that perfect rear. The sweetest torture. Up, slid his hands, his palms flat, and then down. He sat back. He dripped more oil on the base of her spine, working it into the little creases at the tops of her legs, easing her further apart, to slide down the soft flesh of her inner thighs, making her moan, her moan making his member throb, the responsive arching of her body giving him a tantalising glimpse of her sex.
Down, his hands slid, from her thighs to her knees, to her slim ankles, then up again. The flesh at the backs of her knees was tender. He kissed it. Slid his hands back up again, his mouth resting on the base of her spine, a soft kiss there, the distinctive perfume of her arousal almost too much to bear, her little moans and whimpers constant now, her hands curled into the sheet. His fingers slid so easily into her. She tightened around him. She said his name, pleading with him in that smoky tone that was like nothing he had ever heard, pushing against his fingers, forcing them deeper inside her.
But he wanted to give her more. He slid his hand out, down her thighs again, then back up her bottom, before easing her on to her back. It was almost too much. Her eyes glazed with passion. Her nipples dark peaks. Those auburn curls between her legs. And her sex, inviting him, tempting him.
She said his name again. He used the sheet to pull her body towards him, standing between her legs. He leaned over to kiss her. Her breasts on his chest, nothing muscled here about her, she was all soft, lush woman. Another taste of her lips, and then another kiss, of a very different sort, between her legs, that made her cry out.
He stilled her, his oiled hands on her hips, his mouth on her sex, willing her to hold on, wanting to taste her, to savour her. Slowly, he licked her, teasing, coaxing, taking her to the brink and then stopping, holding her, stilling her, before starting again, sliding his fingers into her equally slowly, allowing her to hold him before easing back out, until he knew she could not hold on any longer, and he licked into her purposefully, feeling her swell and harden under his tongue, tighten around his fingers, until her climax rocketed through her, her wild cries, the deep pulsing inside her, almost setting him over the edge.
One last deep kiss, and he let her go, picking up his sodden robe and draping it around himself, before he helped her up, draping her robe around her shoulders, kissing her softly on the lips.
‘I will leave you now, for I believe I have reached the limits of my self-control,’ he said. ‘Enjoy the hamam bath.’
‘But what are you going to do?’
‘I am going to jump into the ice-cold water of the Pool of Nymphs.’
* * *
The hamam bath was deep, the waters hot, burbling from little jets. Stephanie lay back, closing her eyes and enjoying the sensation of the water pummelling her body. She let her mind drift, reliving the sensations of Rafiq’s hands on her, his mouth, his tongue. And that most intimate of kisses. She could never ever have imagined such a thing.
Opening her eyes, she gazed up at the twinkling lights in the cupola. She could admit now that she had lain awake last night, fretting. She could admit now that she was vastly relieved to have relations restored between them, and in such a delightful way. She could admit now that Rafiq’s opinion of her mattered a great deal.
More than it ought. Her insides did a strange somersault. Stephanie sat up. She had better be careful. She had better be very, very careful. Forcing herself out of the soporific warmth of the bath, she decided that a harsh dose of reality was required. Wrapping one of the huge drying sheets from a shelf in the tepidarium around her, she made her way back outside to the Pool of Nymphs. It was almost pitch dark, for the flambeaux had burned out, and the only light came from a hazy moon. The greeny-blue waters were perfectly still. Casting off the drying sheet, she plunged in.
The water was icy compared to the heat of the bath. The pool was much deeper than she expected. She emerged from it coughing, splashing, her hair plastered over her face, and with difficulty managed to reach the safety of the steps, where her scrambling was assisted by a strong pair of arms.
The scream died in her throat when she realised it was Rafiq. ‘What are you doing here? I assumed I was alone.’
He wrapped her in the drying sheet, guiding her to the cushions in the gloom of the terrace. ‘I was lying under the stars enjoying the sense of solitude. Does that sound strange to you, a prince who wants occasionally to escape his responsibilities?’
She shook her head, then realised that Rafiq wouldn’t be able to see her. ‘If you mean can I understand that you must sometimes feel both your duty to rule and this palace suffocating, then, yes, I can. There are so many rooms, and every one of them with a different defined purpose. The Hall of Campaign. The Royal Receiving Room. The Banqueting Chamber. The guards’ quarters. The menservants’ quarters. The harem. A place for everyone, and a guard to ensure that everyone is kept firmly in their place.’
She sensed from his stillness that she had upset him. ‘Including you?’ he asked.
‘I am not at all ungrateful Rafiq. I am living in the lap of luxury in this palace. I am eating the most wonderful food. My clothes are laundered for
