"You taste delicious," he growled and nipped her shoulder gently between his teeth. Her toes curled almost painfully and her stomach clenched, low down.

His hands stroked and caressed her thighs and buttocks while he planted hot, moist kisses in the nape of her neck.

She moved languorously. She could feel everything, everywhere he touched her, everywhere her skin touched anything; the friction of the towel on which she lay, against which her breasts, full and aching, were pressed, the cold, hard marble bench beneath.

His hands slipped between her legs again and she jumped and jammed her thighs tightly together. Mistake. His hand stayed trapped there. He pressed a hot kiss to the base of her spine, then ran his tongue the length of her spine and she arched in response, pleasure radiating from his touch like music rippling harp strings.

"You promised no funny business," she managed to gasp.

"Relax. This is not funny, it's pure pleasure." He ran his tongue around the shell of her ear and her insides curled with pleasure.

Relax? Not possible. She was all raw nerve endings screaming for release. She felt a half-hysterical laugh bubble up, but his fingers and tongue kept moving and her concentration... dissolved.

Her bones were turning to liquid, thick, viscous, like honey. Between her thighs his fingers moved, stroking rhythmically, relentlessly. Shudders of pleasure rocked her in waves. Her fingers flexed and curled like a cat's claws. She writhed under the pleasurable torment and of its own volition, her backside lifted, pushing against him in jerky rhythmical movements. Demanding more.

"Turn over," he murmured and she twisted under him, wanting to see him, hold him, touch him.

He kissed her and the familiar spicy taste of him surged through her blood. He'd branded her that first day. "My taste is in your mouth." And it was. And would probably be for the rest of her life, she thought. As would the sight and the feel of him.

He was almost naked, too. His only garment was a pair of loose white cotton trousers of oriental design, held up by drawstrings. They rode low on his hips. His chest and arms and stomach were bare, bare and beautiful.

His eyes glowed topaz dark as he gazed down at her. "Your hair has changed color," he said and fingered a damp curl.

"The women here did something to it."

"It's pretty, like corn silk tinged with rose." He pressed his face between her breasts and inhaled deeply. "You smell good enough to eat." He looked up suddenly and gave her a white, wicked smile. "You always did, Grace. Even unperfumed, you are completely..." He nibbled on her skin. "Deliciously... edible."

He rubbed his jaw lightly against the tender skin of her breasts. Her skin, already sensitized by the scrubbing she received, felt every faint rasp as a wash of pleasure. He placed the tip of one finger on her hard nipple and caressed it, scraping delicately back and forth across the straining nub. It was heaven. It was torment. He continued caressing her breasts as he kissed his way down her stomach. She was boneless with pleasure and rigid with anticipation.

He touched her belly button. "A sultan would fill this little hollow with a ruby or an emerald, or perhaps a sapphire to match your eyes." He bent and ran the tip of his tongue lightly around it, making her shiver deliciously.

"I am not a sultan," he murmured against her skin, his breath warm, like a desert breeze. "I think it is perfectly beautiful just as it is, unadorned and perfect." He kissed it. "Just." He kissed it again. "As." Kiss. "It." Kiss. "Is." And he plunged his tongue in and she arched against him.

"You are perfect," he told her in a low, husky voice. And kissed her lower and lower. And then his fingers were in the triangle of red-gold curls and he parted them, parted her, and kissed her there.

She stiffened in surprise, but his mouth devoured her, each movement sending sharp spears of pleasure through her. Her body shuddered, out of her control, and she was vaguely aware that she was twisting and writhing and that all the time his mouth was on her and suddenly it was as if she was going to explode or die or shatter-and she knew no more.

When she was more in control of her mind, she looked down and saw him watching her with a fierce, exultant look.

"What... is that?"

"The French call it the little death. Did you enjoy it?"

She blinked and stretched her limbs and relishing the friction of skin against skin. "Enjoy is too tame a word for such a feeling," she said at last. "Did you feel it, too?" He did last time, she was sure, but last time they were joined.

"I felt other things." He kissed her breast.

She could feel him, hard and erect and pressing insistently against her leg. Instinct and logic told her he hadn't felt what she felt.

He was going to give her all the pleasure, she realized, and take no satisfaction himself. Because he'd given her his word there would be no funny business. Only pleasure.

He suckled her and she felt every pull deep within her, shuddering and writhing against him. She felt sated and dreamy and-awareness flooded her-full of female power. She felt like purring. She flexed her claws.

She didn't like uneven bargains.

"My turn." She pushed him back and sat up. Bemused, he watched her slide off the bench. His eyes drank in the sight of her. "Lord, but you're beautiful," he said.

"So you said," she answered briskly. She felt so alive, so full of energy. And oh, how she was going to enjoy this. "Now, lie down there and close your eyes for a minute. I have a surprise for you."

"A surprise?" he frowned. "I'm not sure-"

She pressed him back on the bench and tossed a tow-elette over his face. "Just stay there and keep your eyes closed. I told you, it's my turn now."

She went to the shelf where a range of colored-glass phials stood. One by one she took off the stopper and sniffed the contents, wrinkling her nose at some and smiling at others. "There is rose oil, sandalwood, or a nice citrussy one. Which would you prefer?"

He relaxed. "As long as I don't walk out of here smelling like a rose, I don't mind which."

"I like the citrus one," she decided. There were several other items on the shelves and she picked out the two largest and most impressive and carried them back to the bench where he lay, supine, relaxed-well, almost. One part of him was still very rigid. Grace smiled to herself.

She knelt down beside him on the bench. "Dominic," she purred seductively in his ear.

"Hmm?"

"I'm finally going to do it."

His eyes flew open. He stiffened all over. She hadn't thought it would be possible, but his penis grew a fraction more. "What?" he croaked.

"Close your eyes," she ordered and instantly he obeyed.

She trailed her fingernails from his chest down his stomach and stopped just below his belly button. "I'm going to do what you've wanted me to do for such a long time."

He groaned.

"Will that make you happy?" she murmured.

He made a sound of incoherent affirmation.

"I thought it would," she purred. She climbed on top of him and sat astride his thighs. She tucked his hands under her knees. She brushed a hand over his erect flesh. He gave a moan. "Am I too heavy?"

"No," he said gruffly.

She picked up the three items she'd selected, along with the citrus oil, and set to work getting them ready for use.

He frowned, trying to work out the unfamiliar sounds.

"Are you ready, Dominic?" she whispered.

"Bloody hell, yes," he rasped.

'Then open your eyes."

He opened his eyes, then blinked. He stared at what she had in her hands, as if unable to take in the sight. "What the devil-?" He tried to move, but she had his thighs and hands pinned under her.

"It's what you begged me to do, remember? Several times."

He stared, appalled, at the two large, extremely bristly scrubbing brushes she held, poised and soapy, barely an inch above his manly parts.

"That very first day, you wanted me to scrub you, remember?" she cooed. "Are these the delicate parts you warned me about?" She lowered the brushes until the bristles rested lightly against his most delicate skin.

He twitched as they touched him. "Don't!" he said hoarsely. "I've changed my mind."

Laughing, she threw the brushes away. "If you could have seen your face" she said between giggles and hugging him.

"You little witch!" he growled, kissing her fiercely.

"I know. But when I went to get the perfumed oil, I saw those scrubbing brushes there, and the notion just flew into my head. I couldn't resist." She tilted her head. "Will you trust me to massage some oil into you now? It's not even boiling."

He gave her a baleful look. "Yes, but behave yourself!"

"Behave myself?" She smiled a feline smile. "You mean I should get off you and go and get dressed?"

"No, minx, you know very well what I mean!"

She laughed. She had no intention of behaving herself. He'd made her feel wonderful, and she was going to return the favor.

She slathered him in oil, which had the faintest hint of citrus, and rubbed it in, enjoying the sensual experience as much as when she'd been massaged. "I never realized men were so beautiful," she murmured.

Dominic couldn't believe she could talk such rubbish. Men weren't beautiful. "I'm the one looking at beauty," he corrected her. He stroked her breasts languorously as they swayed above him. She seemed fascinated with his body, examining him with an innocent sensuality that flooded him with a mix of lust and protectiveness and helpless awe.

She straddled his thighs unself-consciously, massaging oil into his skin, seemingly unaware of how open she was to him. The taste of her was still in his mouth; honey and roses and tart, sweet woman.

His cock strained, his balls ached, and he groaned with the effort of maintaining his rigid control. Every time she moved, her inner thighs brushed against him. One thrust and he could be buried inside her.

He'd given his word he wouldn't seduce her. He'd meant to finish this after he'd brought her to climax before. He should never have agreed to let her massage him. He closed his eyes.

As long as she didn't touch his cock, he would manage.

Her small hands stroked and rubbed, her nails scratched gently over his nipples in imitation of what he had done to her. Since the scrubbing brushes, her hands hadn't dropped below his waist, thank God.

Heaven and hell on earth. Tantalus in Paradise.

Those damned scrubbing brushes. He smiled. His silken-skinned little witch. Naked, skin to skin with him and smelling of roses, wild honey, and aroused femininity.

Her hand closed around his cock. He groaned and shuddered beneath her as she explored it with the thoroughness she'd shown to his nipples.

He strained against every one of his instincts. They were screaming at him to act, to mate with her. He held himself rigid. He wasn't going to make it. Dammit, he would, he could control this.

"That's enough-" he began.

"I want you, Dominic," she said at the same moment.

He stared at her. "I promised-"

"I know. But I want you inside me. Now." And she guided him to her entrance and pressed herself inexpertly against him.

He groaned. If they were going to do this, he'd do it right. He reached between her thighs and caressed her. She was all heat and softness and wild female honey. He continued to caress her and she flung her head back with a frustrated moan that matched his own.

"Now!" she demanded impatiently and he could hold back no longer. He entered her with one long, powerful thrust and she moaned and clasped him deep within her. And then he thrust again and she moved with him, trying to catch the rhythm.

"Ride me," he gasped.

Her eyes widened; she moved experimentally and he arched under her, moaning, and suddenly she'd caught the rhythm. She rode him like he'd never been ridden before, her head back, abandoned, and he moved in her and with her and together they went spiraling, surging, soaring... to a shattering, perfect climax.

He lay with her clasped to him, their skin touching, their breath mingling, their heartbeats slowly returning to normal.

An echo of familiarity tugged at his recollection. He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes and suddenly the connection was there. Rose with a hint of citrus. He smiled. "You know, together we smell of the roses at Wolfestone."

"They are the most beautiful roses. I've never smelled roses like that anywhere else." She rubbed her cheek against his jaw. "Let's not talk of Wolfestone."

He sighed and caressed her with the back of his fingers. "All right." Wolfestone didn't matter. She was his.

They lay there a long while, and then gently he lifted her off him and sat up. He reached for his trousers, and chilled by the sudden loss of contact between them, she wrapped herself in her linen wrap.

He pushed his feet into the Turkish slippers and sat for a minute, thinking. He gave a big sigh, and when he turned to her there was such a light in his eyes it made her want to sing and dance. He grinned at her, and for the first time since she'd known him, he looked young and boyish and full of excitement.

He grabbed her and swung her around until she was dizzy, then kissed her fiercely. Then they dressed and left the kamam through separate exits, heading for separate bedrooms. Grace would sleep in the women's quarters.

It was a timely reminder: one rule for men, another for women. It was the way of the world.

And she would not be his mistress.

They left early the next morning. Grace hardly ate any breakfast. She longed to be home, to have dear, familiar family around her. But once she was home she would have to tell Dominic to leave.

She was farewelled warmly by Fatima, Kadije, and Mouna, who insisted Grace keep the Ottoman clothes they'd dressed her in. They pressed several more gorgeous items of clothing on her and to please them, she'd worn a pair of splendid, curly-toed golden silk slippers.

She said her good-byes and thanked the ladies repeatedly, hugging them as if she'd known them for ages. Misreading the distress in her eyes, they hastened to reassure her. "Don't be sad, Grace," they told her. "You will come back and visit us again. Dominic will bring you. He is a fine man, your man."

She smiled and nodded. "I know." There was no point in trying to explain. Harem wives would never understand her dilemma.

Tariq farewelled them both solemnly. As they left the house, it started to rain and to Grace's delight, Dominic swung her into his arms and carried her to the carriage to save her exotic silk slippers.

Sheba had been sitting up proudly in the front of the carriage with the driver, her nose pointed eagerly toward the road, but as soon as the rain started, her ears flattened. She scrambled down from the driver's seat and sat beside the carriage steps, looking up at Dominic in mournful appeal.

He laughed. "Ever seen a water dog who hates the rain? Meet my Sheba." He snapped his fingers and she leapt into the carriage and lay happily at his feet.

They waved good-bye to Tariq and his wives as the carriage rolled away. Silence fell as Cheltenham slowly disappeared from sight.

"Are you all right, Grace?"