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An Excerpt From: DESIRE'S SIROCCO

CHARLOTTE BOYETT-COMPO, 2004.

All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave, Inc.

Sleep was a long time in coming for Jameela. She lay in her tiny cubicle and stared at the stygian ceiling, aching in parts of her body she had discovered for the first time this night. Turning to her side, she drew her knees up, hugged her pillow to her chest and let her mind drift back to the wondrous things that had been done to her.

Whomever the Brother was who had taken her into womanhood crossed her thoughts as she lay there. His expertise as he had copulated with her gave evidence that he was no stranger to the sexual act; he had known what he was about. The weight of his body, the feel of his smooth skin, the sleekness of his hair told her he was no more than middle age. There had been no deep lines on his face or rubbery feel to his muscles as she had held him. He did not smell old to her, either.

“But will you be a good master to me?” she asked aloud, sighing.

Shifting on the narrow cot, she flung the pillow atop her and clutched it tightly.

“If only it were you I held, my champion,” she said.

“And what champion would that be, Wench?”

Jameela gasped, sitting up to stare into the semi-darkness. Her heart was racing for she had thought herself alone in the cubicle. “Dagan?” she asked.

“Quiet, Wench!” Dagan warned as he came to the cot. His hard hip nudged hers as he took a seat beside her. “Do you want to alert the Watch?”

Jameela tossed the pillow aside and reached for him. “What are you doing here?” she whispered. Her fingers clutched the silk of his shirt.

A rough hand smoothed her hair, the calloused flesh snagging lightly in the silken strands. “I could not sleep,” he told her. “My thoughts were of you and the beauty of your body that was revealed to me this eve.”

She laid her head against his shoulder as he continued to stroke her hair. “My thoughts were of you, as well,” she said.

Dagan snorted. “Liar,” he accused. “You were thinking of the Brother who claimed your maidenhead.”

Jameela slid her arms around him. “My body might have been remembering his touch but my heart replaced his body with yours.”

The warrior enclosed her in his strong embrace. “Truly?” he asked.

“You need not ask,” she said in a petulant tone. “I think you know my feelings.”

“All I know is what I sense in your words, Wench,” he responded.

She pushed back from him and looked up, seeking his face in the darkness. “That being what?” she inquired. Jameela felt him shrug.

“That you like what you see when you look at me,” he answered. “And that having me make love to you—if I could—wouldn’t be so bad.”

“And that’s all?”

“Well that and the way you drool when you think I’m not looking,” he said with a chuckle.

“You think entirely too highly of yourself,” she said and would have wiggled out of his grasp but his embrace tightened.

“Do you know who claimed you this eve past?” he asked, refusing to allow her to break free.

“Someone of importance I suspect,” she replied, settling down. She sighed then snuggled against his broad chest, reveling in the steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek.

“T’was the Master,” he informed her.

“I thought as much,” she stated flatly.

Dagan was quiet for a moment then commenced to stroke her hair once more. “And what are your feelings about it?” he asked.

Jameela cocked one shoulder. “Better than a sharp poke in the eye if what you say is true about him,” she answered.

“What did I say?”

“You said that should I be lucky enough to be won by him that no other man would be allowed to touch me.”

“Such is the way with the Master,” Dagan agreed. “He will not share his Lady with another.” He dropped a light kiss on her head. “That should please you, Wench.”

“Except it doesn’t,” she said through clenched teeth.

Dagan flinched. “Why not?”

“Because I want you!” she said.

“Jameela,” he said on a long breath. “You know…”

“I know I have fallen in love with you!” she declared. She waited for him to reply to her brash statement and when he did not, she felt like crying.

When at last he spoke, his voice was low and full of tension.

“Jameela, the Master is an exacting man. He would slice in twain any man who dared to lay hands to you now that he has claimed you as his own.”

“How can you serve such monsters?” she asked.

“It was my destiny to be whom I am, where I am,” he answered. “I had no choice.”

“How is it you are allowed beyond the portals of this wicked place? Are all the Trainers given such freedom?”

“There is but one trainer at Lalssu Keep,” he replied. “I was given permission to seek out the woman who would be the Master’s Consort and that is how I came to be at Sahar Colony.”

Jameela stiffened. “You were sent to fetch…”

“You ask too many questions, Wench,” he interrupted her. “Let’s see if I can’t help you find rest this night for tomorrow will begin a more stringent instruction on how you are to satisfy your Master.”

She could barely make out his silhouette in the darkness as he bid her turn over. Not daring to ask why, she obediently did as he commanded.

The cot dipped beneath his weight as he climbed upon it, straddling her body as he sat on her upturned rump. His hands were firm as he placed them on her shoulders and began to knead the tense muscles.

“Ah,” she sighed on a long breath.

“You need to relax, milady,” he said.

“I love having your hands on me,” she told him.

Dagan grunted. “You liked his hands on you, too.”

Jameela frowned. She did not want to think about the man who now owned her, the man whose right it was to touch her whenever and however he chose. “Please don’t remind me,” she asked.

The strong hands massaging her shoulders ceased their delightful movements. “You could have done much worse than having the Master win you,” he said.

“I could have done much better if it had been the man I wanted instead,” she countered.

Dagan’s fingers tensed on her flesh. “And what man is that?” he snapped.

Jameela smiled, recognizing jealousy when she heard it. “The one whose hands are on me even as we speak,” she replied. She felt his fingers relax and had to bite her lower lip to keep from giggling.

“You are a brazen piece of baggage, Jameela Anthus,” he growled as his hands moved down her back.

She gave herself up to his firm manipulation. He was very adept at massage, knowing where to concentrate the pressure, for how long and to what depth. His fingers plied her as a sculptor his clay.

“Where did you learn to do that?” she asked.

“Does it matter?” he returned. He pushed himself up and moved to the foot of the cot, seating himself between her parted legs as his fingers plied the muscles in her rump.

“I was just…”

“Be quiet and just enjoy me while you can.”