The Sultan's Bed (8 page)

Mariah wasn't even going to try and figure out the woman's strange smile. Mariah was in paradise and she was going to enjoy every moment.

After a quick shower, she settled into the steamy, hot and deliciously scented whirlpool. Thirty minutes seemed like only seconds when she got out and slipped on her robe.
Must be the way of the spa,
she mused as she headed into massage room number five.

The lights in the room were dim and soft, and relaxing music played. The scent of vanilla permeated her nostrils and she breathed it in, smiling. In the center stood the luxurious massage table laden with towels and a note.

Curious, Mariah picked it up and read.

Please get undressed. Lie facedown. And prepare to be pampered.

Mariah shrugged out of her robe without a thought. After all, who was she to question the experts? With a decadent smile she climbed onto the table, slipped under the sheet and blanket coverlet and rested her head on the soft open circle.

The music, candle and dim lights did their job. She was just starting to drift off when the door opened and her therapist entered. The woman said nothing, merely folded down the blanket covering Mariah's back and got to work.

With one almost sensual stroke from her shoulders down to her lower back, Mariah came fully awake.
These were not feminine hands that massaged her—unless the woman had worked on a fisherman's boat for the past ten years. No, these were male hands, rough and strong.

She tried not to be prudish. After all, didn't people get massages from both sexes all the time? And she hadn't specified a preference at the front desk.

Maybe she should have.

Maybe this was why Delilah had been practically sniggering.

“Are you comfortable, Ms. Kennedy?”

Or maybe not.

Mariah's skin tightened, and all relaxation fell away. She lifted up and whirled around, the sheet covering her buttocks falling to one side. Standing above her in black drawstring pants, black T-shirt and magnetic black eyes was none other than Zayad.

He lifted a brow. “Too rough?”

S
he looked shocked and a little bit panicked, and Zayad wanted to put her mind at ease.

Along with several other areas on her beautiful body.

Acting the professional, he righted the loose sheet—though it pained him to do so, as her sweet backside was pure pleasure to behold. But he would start slowly, let her grow accustomed to his touch, ease her into relaxation.

He turned to a nearby table and applied some fragrant oil to his hands. “I apologize for startling you.”

“What are you doing in here?”

“I thought perhaps you would feel more comfortable if I gave you a massage instead of a stranger.”

In actuality he had been thinking about this all morning. He had nearly missed the exit for Ojai as the plan
unfolded in his head. Mariah nude, her skin glowing with oils as he stroked her. Upon his arrival the spa had informed him that such a plan was out of the question, but as always, money had changed their minds. And it was a good thing, too, as there had been no female masseuses available today, and although Zayad hated to admit it, he did not want another man's hands on her.

“Instead of a stranger?” Mariah said with a stilted chuckle. “
You're
practically a stranger, Zayad.”

He picked up her uninjured foot. “This is untrue. Have we not touched?” He began to knead her skin. “Have I not covered your mouth with mine? Is this the act of a stranger?”

Mariah felt as though she would melt right there. He did have a point. “No, not the act of a stranger.”

He grinned, worked each toe with gentle yet firm strokes. “If I do not please you, tell me now and I will summon Larz.”

“Larz?” Mariah laughed softly.

“One of the masseurs on duty. A large Swede with wild eyes.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.” Zayad shook his head. “What a man like that could know about hot stone massage is nothing.”

“And you do?”

“A common practice in my country.” He took a stone from a small basket, held it up. “Shall I continue?”

“This is the strangest thing that's ever happened to me, but—”

“Yes?”

“All right.” She turned, let her head fall back into the doughnut-hole thingy and let human nature take its
course. “So, why did we have to come all the way here if you're such an expert?”

After a moment he said, “This massage is just one of many treatments—and the only one I will administer.”

“No sugar rubs or deep-sea exfoliation back home?”

“No.” He placed several stones on her back, then applied light pressure. “A woman's skin would not be fed sugar strictly for the purpose of beauty.”

Heat fused into Mariah's belly, then quickly spread downward, between her thighs. “I'm almost too afraid to ask…”

“We use such things as…I think you call it foreplay.”

“Foreplay?”

“It is not a common practice but a sensual game.” He removed the stones, then massaged deep and wonderfully hard in the hot spots.

“A game,” Mariah mumbled, feeling too good.

“Stimulating the skin for the woman while stimulating the tongue for the man.”

Mariah fairly jumped with tension as his words hit her full force. Her mind took hold of an image and clung to it. An image she'd not allowed herself in years. A man's head between her thighs—this man's head between her thighs.

She inhaled deeply as her breasts tingled and her belly clenched.

And then hot stones were placed on the back of her neck and the soles of her feet.

She gave a startled gasp, or maybe it was a moan of pleasure—who could tell at this moment? She was hardly thinking straight.

“The heat will ebb,” he told her soothingly. “Then fuse into your muscles.”

As he spoke, the words he uttered turned to fact and she felt herself fall deeply into relaxation.

She let her mind drift, let her body go limp as he placed stones on her calves and her thighs. She didn't argue or feel embarrassed as he eased the towel from her and placed two hot stones on her bottom.

“How did you do it?” she asked, her voice as slow as her mind.

“Do what, Mariah?”

“This. This massage. The spa management would probably kick us out if they—”

“I have taken care of everything. There is no problem. Do not think of it.”

“My mind should be a blank canvas, right?”

He chuckled. “No, you should be thinking of pleasure.”

As if she could think of anything else at this moment. Well, besides Zayad on top of her, spreading her legs, entering her slowly as he nipped and kissed the back of her neck and the lobes of her ears.

“Please turn over.”

Too lost in her fantasy, she muttered a raspy, “What?”

“Turn onto your back, Mariah.”

“My back?”

“Yes.”

The fantasy subsided and reality took over. Turning over meant she would be totally exposed—head to toe and everything in between.

The slow, rhythmic beats of her heart suddenly jumped and pounded. “Where's the towel?”

“You do not need it.”

“I think I do.”

She felt his face close to hers, his lips at her ear and his hands on her waist. “You have a beautiful body. Nothing to be ashamed of. If you could feel what simply looking at you has done to me, you would not fret as you do.”

She turned her head, reveled for a moment in the feeling of his slightly stubbled jaw in that sensitive crevice between shoulder and ear. “Maybe I would like to feel what I have done to you, Zayad.”

Maybe I desperately need to feel what I've done.

Maybe the thimbleful of self-regard I have left needs to feel it, too.

She felt him smile against her skin as he took her hand. “As you wish.”

His lips remained by her ear while he put her hand on him. She took in a breath, felt suddenly dizzy. She'd never felt anything like him in her life. Rock-hard and very large. She wanted nothing more than to explore him, but Zayad didn't give her the time or the access.

He backed away. “Will you turn now?”

She slowly rolled to her back, trying to hide her satisfied smile. But it wasn't easy as his gaze moved over her, every hill, every valley.

His jaw looked tight with tension when he finally resumed his ministrations, taking her feet in his hands. “You would make a dead man come alive again, Mariah. And perhaps you already have.”

His words tore into her, straight through her and into her heart. She suspected that this man was rarely vulnerable, rarely made such telling statements.

Up he moved to her calves, kneading the flesh with great care. Then to her knees and her quads. She felt so good, so on edge, so desirable. The closer his hands inched toward the pale curls at the apex of her thighs, the more her insides quaked with desperation, the more she imagined his fingers exploring and the steely hardness she'd felt a moment ago sliding slowly into her body.

He placed more stones on her hip bones, making her suck air through her teeth, sending heat to her core.

He placed warm stones at her breastbone and rib cage, arousing her belly, causing her breasts to tighten, her nipples to bead.

Her breath caught in her chest, then followed quick and slightly labored. She looked up, found him watching her, his nostrils flared, his lips thin.

“Do you enjoy?” he asked.

“Yes. Very much.”
What a hell of an understatement.

She wondered what he would do next. Remove the stones and finish the massage, then turn off the music and call it a day—leave her in a state of sexual panic and frustration?

But he didn't massage and he didn't leave. He leaned down and kissed her mouth. There was nothing soft or gentle about it. And she was glad. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulled him on top of her, moaned as she felt the delicious weight of him.

He pressed openmouthed kisses down her neck, her collarbone, removing stones as he went—lapping at her hot skin with his tongue. Then he boldly took one full breast into his mouth.

Mariah whimpered, maybe even cursed—she wasn't sure. Zayad's tongue whipped over her jutting nipple, then he took her between his teeth. Squirming on the table, Mariah held his head in her hands.

But not for long.

He moved down, kissing her belly, grazing his teeth over her warm hip bones. Breath coming quickly, Mariah came up on her elbows to see him, watch him as he kissed and laved and nibbled her aching skin.

Lower he moved, clear on his target. But the awkwardness of the massage table had him leaving her for a moment. He stood, scooped his hands under her bottom and eased her forward. Her knees now bent, he pressed her legs apart and grinned.

Anticipation threatened to overwhelm her as he lowered his head and captured her with this mouth. She nearly screamed and muffled the sound with her hands.

He suckled her, let his tongue dance up the bundle of nerves at her core.

It had been too long, far too long.

She let her head fall back.

Heat built inside her and she knew she would orgasm quickly. She hated the fact but didn't want him to slow, didn't want herself to slow.

She arched her hips, pumped against his mouth. Then she stopped, stilled. Heat and pressure and tension all conspired, led her over the moon and into deep pleasure.

Over and over the waves hit, and she bucked and arched and moaned. Until finally the ebb came and she started to breathe again.

“Mariah…”

She reached out for him, but he stayed where he was, even bent to pick up her towel.

With supreme gentleness he placed the cotton over her. “I must leave you now.”

“No.” She sounded like a child, but she didn't care. She'd only gotten half of what she wanted.

“I must.” He bent over her, kissed her mouth. “I will see you in two hours, yes?”

She sighed, knew it wasn't wise to take more right here, right now. “All right.”

He went to the door, turned back. “You had much pleasure?”

“Yes.”

He nodded, then left, and Mariah sat up. She felt tight and happy and sad and unsure. She was no longer the bitter, chaste divorcée. She was now a woman on the verge of intense desire for a man she hardly knew and didn't trust.

 

He had hated to leave her.

Zayad pulled into the assisted-living-center parking lot, found a space and cut the engine. Even though a sign marked Guest was directly in front of him, he saw only a dimly lit room, a massage table with white towels and one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen lying naked atop them, bucking and gasping with climax.

He inhaled, tried to rid his mind of her—for now, at least. But it was impossible. Her scent lingered, as did the feeling of her skin on his palms.

Damn his lack of control. He had come here to question Tara, not to find himself fantasizing—and certainly
not to find himself feeling actual need for a woman he would never see again after his two weeks were through.

He ripped his keys from the ignition and got out of the car, walked across the lawn to Tara's bungalow door. He would have to fight his desire for Mariah Kennedy. He could not allow this kind of pull, this kind of distraction, when he had work to do here.

After two decisive raps on the door, it opened and the lovely older woman who had so captivated his late father stood before him.

“Good afternoon, Zayad.”

“Ms. Hefner.”

“Tara, please.” She smiled, stepped aside so he could enter.

“Thank you for letting me come, Tara. I know you did not have to.”

“I'll admit I'm just as curious as you are.” She showed him into the same living area where they had begun their last visit. She had some lemonade and cookies set out on the coffee table. She took a glass and started for the pitcher of lemonade.

“Allow me,” he said.

“Thank you.”

He poured her a glass, then eased it into her hand. He also took a cookie and placed it on a napkin in front of her on the table.

“Thank you,” she said with a grin.

Her ability to sense or hear the smallest of movements amazed him. “If I may ask, how did you lose your eyesight?”

“I have macular degeneration.”

“I am sorry.”

“I'm not.”

“Really?”

“Well, that's not entirely true. I would love to see my work, my child's face, Mariah in the courtroom and your wicked grin—the same as your father's, I'll bet. But I can't have those things. I see in a different way and I came to realize that sometimes that is a good thing. I believe now that it was a precious gift to have my sight taken from me.” She paused, smiled. “You're shocked by that, right?”

He took a cookie. “I am intrigued.”

“Good answer.” She also reached for her cookie. “When I lost my sight, it was slow. Darkness took over the light little by little. Before, I had lived a life of judgments, as I think we all do. What we see on the outside is, of course, what is on the inside. We hardly question this. But when you start losing the ability to see the outside of anything, you're forced to deal only with the heart, with the deeds, with the real stuff.”

She took a breath, then smiled. “All judgments left me, and instead I had questions. No more anger or cynicism or ‘why mes,' only curiosity and compassion.” She looked at him, her eyes so blue, so kind, yet there was a little sadness there. “I say no regrets, true. But I'll admit I've always had a hole in my heart for a time that ended too shortly.”

The cookie felt dry in his mouth. “The three days with my father?”

“Yes.” She leaned back in her chair. “He was an amazing man. Our time together was magical. Morally right or wrong, it was the best three days of my life—except for Jane's arrival.”

“You loved him?”

“Very much.”

Zayad's chest tightened. Why had he asked that? He did not care for love. This was about Jane and her future. This was about wanting to know why his father had given so much of himself to this woman. Who she was. Perhaps it was also about knowing his father better.