Her Every Pleasure Part 12

She moaned as he struck up a gentle rhythm against her body, his big rod sliding against her wetness, caressing her mound with every stroke. She arched against him, holding onto his waist.

"Touch me," he commanded.

She did. Lowering her hand down into the heated s.p.a.ce between their bodies, she molded her fingers over his thrusting member. She shuddered to find him wet with her, but now, guided by her touch, his every stroke stimulated her pebbled center while her hand simultaneously pleasured him each time he moved his hips, back and forth.

It was perfect.

Well, it was good enough.

His moan seemed to say he thought so, too.

"Gabriel-kiss me."

He accepted the invitation with depth and ferocity, his tongue plunging deep into her mouth.

If only he would make the hunger stop.

Again, the inner precipice she had almost fallen off earlier beckoned ahead. The banked sensations she had first begun to sense in the other room came creeping back, stealing over her awareness.

She moved with Gabriel in a feverish trance. He kept on kissing her, his magnificent, fevered body still undulating rhythmically against her.

All of a sudden, she cried out, her shocked exclamation m.u.f.fled under his relentless kisses. She fairly sobbed with the blinding release. Through the fiery haze of her climax, she felt Gabriel's hand cover her own, still wrapped around his steely shaft. He quit kissing her to let her breathe, and she could hear his groans, his harsh panting by her ear as he coaxed her hand to keep stroking his needy member.

Still gasping with pleasure, she gripped him harder and clenched her teeth, determined to show him she wasn't half bad for a virgin.

"Oh, G.o.d. Sophia..." In mere moments, her renewed efforts drove him over the edge.

He suddenly threw back his head, an enraptured grimace on his face; with a low shout, he exploded in her hand, his whole, powerful body straining in a series of ma.s.sive pulsations. Racked by each wild wave of release, he covered her quivering stomach with the hot flood of his seed.

"Sophia," he groaned softly as the storm of climax finally eased from him.

She lifted her lashes and looked up dazedly into his eyes. By the candlelight, she could see they had darkened to a deep indigo shade. But it was their heart-melting sweetness that made her quiver in the aftermath of pa.s.sion.

"Sophia, Sophia," he whispered. He shook his head at her with a fond but chiding half smile. Then he kissed her gently on her big Greek nose.

She was not the easiest woman in the world to figure out.

A while later, having tidied themselves up from their exertions, they lay spoon-fashion in his bed. They faced the window, and Gabriel could see the stars. Sophia nestled sweetly in his arms. They were not exactly sated, but at least now they should both be able to sleep.

Gabriel found himself in the oddest mood, all possessive. G.o.d, he had not expected any of this. He had not been with a woman since he was wounded, and after such a long abstinence, he did not mind refraining from full coition. It could wait. In a way, it was almost as if he had reverted to a state of innocence himself. The closeness he felt with Sophia, however, it had been a very long time since he had experienced anything like this.

He understood now why his brother had chosen her for him. Derek had selected her not for debauchery's sake-not because she was a virgin, but in spite of it. Gabriel had to admit she was the perfect sort of companion for him. It was rare to find a female who could hold her own with him.

He had a strong inclination to keep her around, perhaps as his mistress.

Maybe...if they got to know each other better, if she ever saw fit to tell him the truth about herself, and if, over time, they ended up becoming a bit more...attached, he thought hesitantly, then perhaps just this once he could bend his own rules against deflowering virgins. He had too many d.a.m.ned rules, anyway...

But he was getting ahead of himself.

For now, she was a question mark to him, an irresistible puzzle, with her flashing dark eyes and her strong, lithe, delicately sculpted body. Hot-blooded? She was a fireball. He savored the still-fresh memory of her eagerness, but he barely knew what to do with her.

She was a tough little fighter, but she needed someone looking after her. Keep her out of trouble. As for him, well, maybe the truth was, he needed someone, too.

They seemed to suit.

More important, ever since her arrival, a strange sense of new hope had been born in him. Perhaps the answers he sought would finally come if he stopped looking so hard for them and entertained himself for a while with this luscious young thing.

"Sophia?" he murmured in a low tone, all too aware of the soft curve of her backside against his groin.

No answer came.

He listened to the soft, even sound of her breathing and realized she already slumbered. A faint smile curved his lips as he buried his face in her rioty curls. d.a.m.n, he was already craving her again, but, ah, well. He'd let her sleep. She had worked hard today.

He still did not know how much of her Gypsy tale to believe, but at the moment, it didn't matter. The feel of her in his arms was real, and right now, that was enough.

He closed his eyes, savoring her smell and the warmth of her silky skin, and the rea.s.suring rhythm of her breath.

Stay with me. He smiled faintly at his own errant thoughts. I'm going to want you again tomorrow. He dozed off with his arms around her.

The men had not slept since the target had slipped through their fingers.

Where was she? Where had the little b.i.t.c.h run off to?

Late that night, worn out from searching, the Tunisian took a mouthful of what pa.s.sed for coffee in this cold, miserable land and spit it out again in disgust.

He was in a bad mood for he had lost his favorite dagger in the fight, but more than that had certainly not expected failure after all his precise planning. His timing had been perfect, as well, but the girl had fought back with a ferocity that none of them had been prepared for.

Though no one cared to admit it, they all felt slightly unmanned by her little victory.

But it would not last.

His men were talking quietly amongst themselves nearby, cleaning their weapons; they wanted her blood now, especially Ahmed, for the royal witch had shot his brother Abdul point-blank in the head.

Kemal stared into the darkness, musing. He had never seen anything like it. Indeed, he had never heard of a female acting in such a manner. But such was the foulness, the perversion the West brought to his people.

And to think that men like Sultan Mahmud should be blind to the danger, even learning to converse in French like an aping fool! He shook his head. Well, there would be changes in due time.

Their first attempt had failed, costing them three of their own, but no matter. Their brothers were martyrs in heaven now, but back here on earth, Kemal and his men would simply try again.

They had little choice. Having backed the wrong contender for the Ottoman throne, the rebel Janissaries were outlaws now. There was no way for them to go but forward.

Their faith in the rightness of their cause was undimmed. G.o.d willing, the Porte Sublime would be purged of these evil influences-but first, he and his men had to prove themselves to Ali Pasha.

The Lion of Janina was their last great hope, but he would not agree to their proposal until they had persuaded him of their capabilities, showed him a little of what they could do.

Which was a great deal, indeed.

Most of them came from wealthy and important families all around the Ottoman Empire. Kemal himself was a lesser prince back in his sunny homeland on the North African coast; his elder brother was the mighty Bey of Tunis.

As boys, the Janissaries had been handed over to the emperor by their families to be trained up as warriors, consecrated to the protection of the Ottoman sultans.

Forbidden to marry, the sword and the Book were their entire lives, and as grown men, it sickened them to see the corruption that had infected the emperor's palace, the voluptuous sensuality spreading like a disease through all the Ottoman lands.

It had to be stopped. It was their duty to kill it, their jihad. The purity of sharia law had to be restored to save their dying empire.

Their fallen prince, Mustafa, would have purged their lands of this sickening Western influence if their attempt to place him on the throne had succeeded. But after one short year of rule, Sultan Mustafa had been murdered at the age of twenty-nine, and the throne had pa.s.sed back once more to the so-called reformers, with all of their filthy modern ideas.

The rebel Janissaries still had hope, however. Prince Mustafa's spiritual adviser and Grand Vizier during his short reign still survived in hiding. Sheik Suleiman had advised them that Ali Pasha of Janina could be used in Mustafa's stead to bring the Empire back to the path of righteousness.

Of course, Ali Pasha was not a member of the Ottoman royal House of Osman; he was born of wild mountain brigands. Nor was he as devout as their fallen prince had been. In truth, he was a coa.r.s.e, brash adventurer whose own ambitions always came first.

But he understood the dangers the West posed to their civilization-he even agreed that Europe should be brought to Allah if such an enterprise were possible. Above all, as Sheik Suleiman had correctly said, Ali Pasha alone was ruthless enough to unite all the diverse regional leaders whose lands, like so many puzzle pieces, made up the Ottoman Empire.

Kemal's brother, the Bey, had agreed in secret to support Ali Pasha if it came to it, and many others would join in, too. So many were fed up with the Porte Sublime.

But Ali Pasha was a cagey fellow, and he knew that agreeing to this adventure could cost him his head. Before he would consent to lead a revolution to overthrow Sultan Mahmud, first he wanted Kemal and his men to demonstrate their effectiveness. The task Ali Pasha had set for them was to get him the little Greek island chain of Kavros.

Ali Pasha l.u.s.ted to possess it.

Kemal and his men had concurred, liking the challenge and seeing how neatly it fit into their most glorious vision of gradually converting all of Europe to Islam.

Napoleon himself had said that whoever ruled Kavros could dominate the West. It was perfect. It was a start-and a victory at Kavros would inspire more of the regional leaders to join their cause.

To that end, their fellow rebels in Mustafa's royal Order of the Scorpion had been working steadily on the goal for the past year by various techniques, making up for their lesser numbers by using their wits.

There were many more of their brethren already infiltrating the island of Kavros in secret, all of them Janissary warriors who had supported Prince Mustafa. They had agents provocateurs stirring up the people against the British troops stationed there, and causing all manner of mayhem in their steady effort to destabilize the place.

Soon, they would instigate the locals to burn a few of the Royal Navy's warships docked in Kavros Harbor, and when that happened, Kemal was confident it wouldn't be long before the British tucked their tails and fled, removing to their st.u.r.dier outpost at Malta.

The only fly in the ointment was this young Princess Sophia.

The English sought to install her in power to calm the people, which was the exact opposite of what Kemal and his comrades desired.

She had to be removed from the equation.

Now that he had seen her beauty, he thought it would be amusing to send her to his brother, the Bey of Tunis, for a concubine, but Sheik Suleiman had advised them to hand her over to Ali Pasha. The added gift of the princess would help to persuade the Lion of Janina to agree to their plot. No doubt he would teach that lawless wench proper respect for the superiority of males.

"Captain?"

Kemal glanced toward his men. Ibrahim stalked over to him, looking as strange as they all did dressed in their Western clothes, but it was necessary to try to blend in.

Ibrahim had an easier time of this; born in Belgrade, he was red-haired and fairer-complected than Kemal. His light eyes still burned with anger over the way Her Highness had sliced his arm open when he had tried to break into the carriage. It had bled for quite a long time.

Ibrahim's arm was bandaged now, but his pride was still badly bruised. "When?" he asked in grim determination.

Kemal smiled at his men's eagerness to strike again, then he glanced over and addressed his words to all of them. "Be patient," he ordered quietly. "Rest yourselves well. She's gone to ground. We can do nothing until she surfaces again."

"How will we know when that might be?" Ibrahim asked with urgent insistence.

"Don't worry," Kemal a.s.sured him with an icy smile. "Our friend inside will send us word."

CHAPTER.

SEVEN.

S ophia awoke before sunrise, filled with a blissful sense of peace. She hadn't moved all night, still lying on her side with her head on Gabriel's pillow.

As she slowly opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was the window across from the bed. Through the gla.s.s, the world was still misty and gray. The predawn clamor of birdsong filtered into her awareness.

That must have been the sound that had awakened her. She glanced over her shoulder at Gabriel, fast asleep on his back behind her. For a long moment she just stared at him, incredulous at his proud male beauty.

The warrior in repose-defenseless in this moment.

An odd protectiveness flooded into her. How strange. Even sleeping, Gabriel Knight had the power to bring out the most unusual feelings and reactions in her.

Her gaze traveled over his hard profile, gentled with sleep, down his throat to his thickly muscled chest, rising and falling in soft, slow, steady breaths.

His sun-bronzed skin was so tempting to touch, but she refrained, not wishing to wake him. She stared at his powerful arms that had stayed wrapped around her for half of the night and had filled her with a sense of safety unlike any she had ever known.

With the stirring of renewed desire, she bit her lip and blushed to think of the scandalous things they had done together last night, both here in his bed and in the other room.

She probably should be ashamed of herself, but she could not claim to regret it. Somehow everything between the two of them felt so natural and right. She gazed at him for another long moment as a rich, private smile of remembrance played at her lips. But then suddenly she heard something outside-another noise that grabbed her attention.

Amid the morning birdsong came the startling cry of a night jar-the signal from her men!

Glancing back toward the window, she narrowed her eyes, suddenly glimpsing a dark flash of motion outside.

She drew in her breath and raised herself up higher onto her elbow.

Her men had arrived.

She tensed, her heart suddenly pounding as she spotted two, no, three of her black-clad bodyguards prowling around Gabriel's farm looking for her. At last, trusty Timo had tracked her to the red-seven coordinates. She could see he had bold Markos with him and good-natured Yannis the peacekeeper of their little band. They had found her bay horse outside in the meadow and would have realized she must be close by.

Though she was glad to see her loyal friends, that almost meant it was time for her to leave Gabriel.

Pain filled her eyes as she glanced at him again. Her heart twisted with bittersweet anguish at the realization that she had to go-now.

This country idyll was over. It was time to return to her duty and all its cares.

The prospect of never seeing him again tore a little piece off her heart. G.o.d, she had not expected it to hurt this badly. She had lost so many people in life that it seemed bitterly unfair to have to be separated from him, too. This incredible...friend she had found.