When he reached for her, she slipped away, laughing gaily. The second time she approached, he grabbed her by the waist and pulled her hard against his body, chortling triumphantly. Pressing his lips to the wildly beating pulse in her neck, he rasped, “This slave pleases her master mightily.” And he took her hand, curling her palm around his “might.”
Desire licked like hot flames through Nick’s body as his wide palms swept over his wife’s bare back. He nuzzled the shadowy hollow of her neck and savored the familiar scent of her lemony cologne.
This was Paula, the woman he loved more than life. And this was Zara, the alluring houri, who could enchant a Bedouin raider. They were one and the same.
Slipping his hands into the back waistband of her trousers, he cupped her buttocks and pulled her hard against his erection, lifting her feet off the carpet. “I want you,” he rasped.
She undulated her hips against him. “I know.” Her eyes sparkled teasingly.
He laughed. “You take to your role very well, slave. I wonder, will you be able to hold my attention all through the night?”
“Hah!” she said, ducking under his arm and stepping out of her trousers to stand before him, proud and unashamed of her nudity. “I wonder if you will be able to hold your attention all through the night.”
Then she amazed him by walking to the bed of cushions and lying down on her back. She raised her hands above her head and parted her legs slightly, posing for him with an abandon he would have never thought possible for his Paula. “I yield to you, my master. You may have your will with me now. Your wish is my command.”
Nick dropped to his knees. Then, nudging her legs farther apart, he moved on top of her. Braced on his elbows, he slanted his lips over hers and began to enter her body, whispering, “My wish is to make love to my wife. My wish is that you surrender to me . . . everything.”
He saw the brief flicker of fear in her eyes, felt the tightening of her arm and thigh muscles. “No, no, darling, don’t be afraid. All I ask is your complete trust.” He knew she wondered if she would be surrendering to more than one night’s madness. But, gradually, she relaxed and gave herself up to him.
Nick controlled the pace of their lovemaking then. He slowed his thrusts, even as she urged him with throaty cries to end her torture. When her body began to convulse around him, he held himself rigid until her orgasm stopped. Then he began the rhythm again.
“I’m dying,” she moaned as she writhed from side to side.
“Then we are dying together.” Desperate and obsessed, Nick fought to make this night last forever. He had to convince Paula, if only with his lovemaking, that they belonged together.
His caresses became frantic. He lay beside her, over her, under her. Touching and exploring every inch of her body. Memorizing. Her heat and the intensity of her orgasms and regenerating arousals enveloped him and spurred him toward his own climax. Relentlessly, he resisted the release.
But the force of his need eventually overpowered him.
Sucking in deep, soul-drenching draughts of air, he hurtled toward a mind-blowing pinnacle. Bracing himself on straightened arms, he threw his head back, feeling the cords in his neck stand out, and cried out triumphantly as he exploded inside her body’s convulsing folds.
He must have passed out for a few moments, or slept, from the intensity of his climax. When his brain emerged from its fuzzy state of confused satiety, he felt Paula’s hands caressing his shoulders and back, crooning soft words of pleasure and encouragement . . . love words. Even though he lay heavily on her, she didn’t protest. Tears burned his eyes, and he blinked them back. He didn’t think he could love his wife more than he did at that moment.
He raised his head. “Paula, honey, I love you so much.”
“I know, Nick. I know. I love you, too.” She brushed a wisp of hair off his brow, sweaty from their exertions. And the gesture displayed as much caring as the most intimate caress.
Hope blossomed like a desert flower in his heart. “Paula, does this mean that—”
“Shhh, not now. No talking,” she said. “If we talk, I’ll have to think. And I don’t want to think. Just feel.”
“Well, then, my desert flower, perhaps I can help you feel some more,” he said, rolling to his side and propping himself on one elbow, gazing down at her. Lightly, he ran a forefinger from the curve of her neck, down over the peak of one breast, over her belly button, to the damp curls of her womanhood.
She sighed. “I don’t think I’m capable of any more feeling.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “Ah, that sounds like a challenge to me. We Bedouin warriors have a reputation to uphold.”
She giggled.
“You doubt me, wench? Hmmm. Well, since we have no female harem girls here to serve you, I will have to act as your handmaiden. Turn over on your stomach, Zara. I will minister to your weak body . . . bring it back to life.”
He stood and picked up the beaker that was warming on the far side of the brazier.
“What’s that?” she asked suspiciously.
“Warm oil to massage your muscles, which are sadly out of shape from lack of use.”
“So you think I’m out of shape, do you?” She stretched lazily, and he felt a part of his body stretch, too.
“No, not you, Zara. Just certain muscles.” He jiggled his eyebrows as he spoke. “Lie on your stomach, slave, and stop asking questions,” he ordered in a mock stern voice.
Surprisingly, she did as he demanded. Hey, maybe that’s where I went wrong. I didn’t do enough ordering.
“GR-ONK! GR-ONK!”
Oh, no!
“What was that?” Paula asked, her head jerking up with alarm.
“Just the camel,” Nick said, setting the beaker on the ground.
“Camel! I thought I saw a camel out there. Nick, you’re going to get in big, big trouble bringing a camel onto the beach.”
“I am Raschid, and Raschid can do anything in his kingdom.”
“And Long Beach Island is your kingdom?”
“You betcha, baby. Besides, Raschid knows the local sheriff who owes him many drachmas for a favor I granted him.”
“Hmpfh! That probably means you squelched a ticket.”
Under his breath, he muttered something about a poker game.
“Hey, where are you going? I thought you were going to give me a hot oil massage.”
He reached down and slapped her playfully on the tush. “Do not be so anxious, Zara. We have all night. Right now, I am off to feed yon camel.”
She grinned. “And what do yon camels eat, oh great desert warrior?”
“Damned if I know,” he said with a shrug as he stepped through the tent flap, bare-assed naked, uncaring if any of the neighbors could see him.
This night was turning out better than he’d ever expected. Even the huge piles of camel dung that he almost stepped in didn’t dampen his enthusiasm. Hell, Paula’s mother prided herself on her prize dahlias. Surely, camel dung was no different than cow manure, and farmers used that for fertilizer all the time.
After tending to the camel, he returned to the tent, where he massaged the scented oil into Paula’s body, and she reciprocated, followed by their making slow, slow love. They laughed softly at the slickness of their bodies, sighing their pleasure at the exquisitely drawn-out foreplay, crying exultantly in unison at the climax.
Then they washed each other’s bodies in the jacuzzi oasis and made love again. When he carried her back into the tent, they drank the sweet Arabic tea, pronounced shay-hee, from glasses with peanuts at the bottom. He tried to talk Paula into trying the fermented goat’s milk, served at room temperature, but she turned up her nose at the strong, unpleasant odor.
“Nick, what in heaven’s name is that on your shoulder?”
He grimaced.
“A tattoo.”
“You got a tattoo? I can’t believe it. It’s amazing that I didn’t notice it before.”
“I just got it yesterday,” he admitted, “and I suspect you were too occupied to see it last night.” He flashed her a knowing, very satisfied look.
She blushed in remembrance. “But why would you get a tattoo?”
“For you,” he stated flatly.
She frowned in puzzlement.
“You see, there was this fortune-teller, and I was asking for advice, and she said women like these things, but I didn’t know she was gonna put a sunflower on my back. I thought it was gonna be something sexy like—hell, I don’t know what I expected.” He took a deep breath after his long-winded explanation.
A frown of confusion still furrowed her brow.
He pinched her bottom playfully. “Hey, you’re lucky I didn’t do what she really wanted . . . pierce my genitals and hang an earring there.” He pointed downward.
“Oh, you!” Paula said finally. “I should have known you were just kidding.”
If you only knew, babe!
Smiling, they fell asleep in each other’s arms, sated and happy.
Day Six
Another speed bump on the Clueless Highway . . .
Morning light already filtered into the tent when Nick awakened to the rustling of fabric. He rolled over lazily and opened his eyes halfway. Paula was dressing as best she could in the revealing harem costume. He decided then and there that he wouldn’t return the outfit to Skip’s boss. Instead, he’d buy it for Paula, a memento of this fantasy interlude. Maybe they’d take it out every year on this date, an anniversary of sorts.
“Where are you going, honey?” He stretched, and his knee and elbow joints creaked. He was getting too old for this stuff. Yeah, right.
She looked down at him lovingly and shook her head helplessly. “You are the only man I know who wakes up in a good mood. I love that about you. Did I ever tell you that before?”
“You wake up with that many men, huh?”
“You know darn well you’re the only one, you brute. And it’s not fair that you can look so sexy first thing in the morning.”
Damn, I’m good. “I look sexy? Hmmm. Maybe you’d better come back to bed, sweetheart, and show me just how sexy.”
She pretended horror. “Not again, Nick. I can barely walk.”
He grinned at her and sat up. “I like that. Come here, you. I want to kiss you good morning.” He held out his arms.
She hesitated, then walked over and sat next to him.
“I love you, Paula,” he said solemnly as he kissed her lightly.
She grazed her knuckles over his bristly jaw and whispered, “And I love you, Nick. I never stopped.”
“We’re going to work this out, Paula. Aren’t we?”
“I think so . . . I hope so, Nick. It seems like an impossible task, but every time I’m with you, well, it just keeps getting better and better. I’m finding it awfully hard to imagine living without you.”
Thank you, God! And God bless Madame Nadine. I think I’ll buy her a new crystal ball. Maybe even a new dress. Heck, maybe she’d like a truckload of camel dung for her sunflowers.
Chuckling softly at his whimsical thoughts, he kissed her gently and tried to pull her down to the cushions again. But she pushed his chest playfully and stood up, adjusting her clothes.
“Sorry, Charlie, but I have an appointment in Newark in three hours.”
He lay back with his hands folded behind his neck, watching her try to finger comb her sex-tangled hair. If she could only see the brush burns on her face and neck, her kiss-bruised lips, and the languid passion still evident in her limpid eyes, she wouldn’t show herself in public today. Ah, well, he kind of liked the marks of his lovemaking being displayed to the outside world. She belonged to him, and he wanted everyone to know.
“What kind of appointment did you say you have?”
“A job interview . . . at the Patterson projects. I’ve had three other interviews these past few weeks, but this is the one I really want. I’d be working directly with the kids as a youth activity coordinator, and—what’s wrong? Why are you looking at me like that?”
He stood up and hunched over at the waist, inhaling and exhaling deeply, fighting for breath. Oh, Lord, no! Not now! Just when things are starting to go right again.
“Nick—Nick, what’s wrong?”
“Cancel the interview,” he said peremptorily. “Don’t go.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want you to. Can’t that be reason enough?”
A cloud of doubt, then gradual comprehension, began to transform the softness of her face, turning it cold. “Already . . . already, it’s starting again, isn’t it, Nick?” Her voice cracked with painful regret.
“Paula, please try to understand. You can’t work in the Patterson projects. It’s just too dangerous. I’m willing to agree to your being a social worker, even let you work with the city kids. But from a safe point. An office in some government building, maybe. Just not Patterson.”
“You’re willing to agree?” she snapped, anger turning her voice shrill. “How dare you suggest I need your permission to do anything, you jerk?”
“Paula, just try to understand my viewpoint. I have my . . . reasons.” He gulped hard, clenching his fists against the tide of despair threatening to crush him.
“Why don’t you explain those reasons to me, Nick? For once, be honest. Tell me what frightens you so much. Tell me what it is you have buried so deep inside, that’s so painful you can’t talk about it, even to me.”
He tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Bleakly, he admitted, “I can’t. Not now. Maybe someday.”
“No!” she cried, tears welling in her eyes and streaming down her face. “Someday is never going to come for us. Never. I was a fool to think you were changing. A fool.” She began to weep and turned away from him.
“I can change, Paula. I am changing. Just give me a little more time. A chance to—”
“No!” she repeated on a sob, shoving away the hand he extended imploringly to her. “I have an appointment that I’m not going to miss. And I’m going to accept the job if it’s offered.”
“That’s what you think,” he said coldly. “Is your appointment with Lottie Chancellor, the social service director?”
She turned abruptly with surprise. “Yes. Do you know her?”
He nodded. “I’ll call Lottie. I’ll tell her not to give you the job.”
“You wouldn’t!” she gasped, her eyes swimming with tears of hurt.
“You bet your sweet ass I would. I’d do anything to keep you safe. Anything.” Even if it means losing you in the process.
“You are a bastard. And I never want to see you again after our divorce hearing tomorrow.” Her face flushed with anger as she spat out the words.
He flinched.
Without waiting for a response, she flipped open the flap on the tent and stormed out.
Nick gazed dejectedly through the opening toward the ocean. Last night, he’d had his dreams back, within his grasp, and they’d slipped away once again, just like the sand along the shore. It was hopeless. Hopeless.
A second later, Paula rushed back through the doorway, blushing hotly.
His hopes soared.
“Your camel got loose.”
His hopes plummeted.
“There are about two dozen kids on the beach chasing that blasted camel of yours in the surf.”
She hadn’t come back for him.
“And a man named Omar said to ask if you want to keep the tent for another day. Also,” she added, looking down at her flimsy outfit, “he had the nerve to offer me a job as a belly dancer.”
Nic
k started to laugh then, deep belly laughs. Despite the sadness of his situation, despite their impending divorce, despite all that he loved and seemed to be losing, he couldn’t help himself.
Paula threw her chin up haughtily and wrapped herself in a soft Persian throw rug, walking out again.
But still he laughed and laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks, and he forgot whether he was laughing or crying.
Chapter Eight
Ah! Finally, she was beginning to understand . . .
PAULA’S INTERVIEW was not going well.
First, she’d arrived fifteen minutes late for her appointment with Lottie Chancellor, the head social worker of the Patterson projects, a huge complex of low-income housing.
It had taken her almost an hour to mask the marks of Nick’s lovemaking—whisker-burned face and neck, kiss-swollen lips, and hair so tangled she finally just skinned it back into a ponytail. Paula still couldn’t believe that whole Arabian Nights scenario Nick had pulled off, or that she’d willingly participated. Oh, Lord, the things I did! The things he did!
Then she’d been unable to find a parking place within a block of the project office. Nick would have a heart attack if he could see the side street where she’d eventually left the little VW convertible.
To top it all off, Mrs. Chancellor—she’d emphasized to Paula from the start that she was Mrs., not Ms.—kept asking her skeptical questions about her motives in seeking an inner city job. “Mrs. DiCello, you have a good teaching position, an important job, molding young minds. I just can’t see why you’d want to work here in the projects.”
The tall, bone-thin black woman, with tight, steel-gray curls capping the sharp planes of her face, closed Paula’s folder on the desk. Her discerning brown eyes probed Paula intently, as if looking for hidden secrets.
Paula squirmed in her seat, her eyes darting nervously about the shabby, but clean, office. Searching for words, she tried to explain. “I enjoy teaching, but it was never what I really wanted. The biggest problems the nine-year-old kids in my class have are whether their parents will buy them a five-hundred-dollar mountain bike or—”