Bertrice Small - Fascinated

He had hurt her, he realized belatedly.

But that had not been his intention.

"Last night…"

Her chin elevated, preparing to fend off more painful words.

"Last night I was afraid."

An invisible weight lifted from his shoulders.

The world did not suddenly stop at a eunuch's confession of fear and uncertainty.

Megan was not convinced.

He searched for the words to convince her. "Last night, I realized that my need for a woman would not diminish with age, that I felt the same needs when looking at you as I had felt when I was a young man, watching the women in the harem. I realized that I would continue to have the same needs when I am an old man."

Even if he was unable to satisfy those needs.

"I assure you, madam, you are wrong," he said truthfully. "There are many men who would want you for their concubine."

Her chin did not lower. Uncertainty shone in her shadowed eyes. "Land's End is a small village. I came to you hoping that you would think there were no other available women, and that you would thereby accept me."

Would he have considered her as a sexual companion if she had not come to his room?

He would never know.

Neither would she.

"I took out the sponge," she said hurriedly, as if circumventing his response.

He imagined his bare flesh sinking into her bare flesh, and felt his already turgid member grow longer, thicker.

Her gaze unerringly sought him out.

She studied him for long seconds before slowly lifting her eyelids. "I could… shave, perhaps, if you would assist me."

His fingers tightened around the wet cloth; the steady drip, drip of water accelerated. "I do not expect-nor wish-you to look or act like a concubine."

"My private hair must… tickle you."

"Yes," he said gravely, lips hitching upward. It had been a long time since he had smiled. "It does."

A tiny pulse beat in the base of her throat. "I need to be touched, Muhamed, but I also need to touch. I would please you, too."

His smile faded. "I am a eunuch, Megan."

"I know what you are, sir."

No, she did not know what he was. He did not know what he was.

"It was not you I cursed last night," he said shortly, and cringed at his abruptness.

Megan did not flinch at the tone of his voice. "I know."

He drew in a deep breath, smelling her, smelling him, smelling… "I would wash you, madam, and cleanse away the scent of vinegar."

"I am quite capable of washing myself, thank you."

"I would cleanse away your pain, Megan."

Her chestnut hair blazed with life; her face went deathly still. She glanced down at the washcloth in his hand and the water that dripped through his fingers, then back up to his face. "Is it just my pain that you would wash away, Muhamed?"

"No."

He would replace the empty barrenness of his life with the scent and the taste and the feel of this woman, and for a little while longer, he would bask in her belief that he was a man.

Megan's face suddenly lit up with a radiant luminescence that was far more seductive than youth. "I would enjoy your ministrations, sir."

Muhamed was a eunuch; Megan was a widow.

His body was fit, that of a man in his prime; hers was softer, a woman who had reached middle-age.

His manhood blatantly stood out from his body, long, thick, hard. She did not have to glance down to know that her nipples were equally hard.

They stood before each other, naked, with no more lies to hide behind. With no more darkness to camouflage who and what they were: a man and a woman whose lives, for whatever reason, had crossed paths.

Megan waited with trembling expectation. She ached- both from their joining the night before and the need that flooded her anew.

Muhamed stepped closer. The tantalizing scent of musky sweat and tangy spice teased her nostrils, reminding her of the pleasure they had shared the night before, and of the pleasures that awaited them in the light of day.

"Thank you for your compliment, about my… my person," she said breathlessly. And returned it. "You are a very handsome man, you know."

A patch of light clearly delineated his left cheek. Dark crimson stained it; denial flashed in his black eyes. He opened his mouth… "Thank you," he said gruffly. And cupped her cheek with the wet washcloth. It was warmed by the heat of his body.

The touch was electric.

Or perhaps it was his manhood which prodded her stomach that was electric. It, too, was damp.

The intensity of his gaze took her breath away. She squeezed her eyelids closed and concentrated on the rough-soft caress of the washcloth, cleaning her left cheek, her right, her forehead, her chin, her neck, her chest, her left breast…

Her eyelids snapped open.

Muhamed's eyes were veiled by thick black lashes.

A squire near her husband's vicarage had once purchased a young stallion for breeding purposes. When the stallion had proved to be sterile, the squire had castrated the beautiful beast.

Megan had watched it in a field one day, trying to do what nature had intended it do but which the squire had made impossible.

Or perhaps it had not been impossible.

Perhaps the gelded stallion had been able to gain release, as Muhamed was capable of gaining release.

Perhaps the gelded stallion had also given his mare release, as Muhamed had given her release.

Muhamed diligently washed her right breast, rubbing and rubbing until her engorged nipple throbbed.

She sucked in cool air, needing to know-"Did the concubines… did the men suckle their breasts?"

Or was she, indeed, an abomination, to want a man to suckle her as mothers suckled their infants?

He lifted his eyelids. Black eyes pinned her as the washcloth cleansed her. "Yes."

"What else did the"-no, she could not use the term eunuch, not when his member bridged her stomach and his eyes probed her soul-"the men do to the concubines?"

"Harem women possess phalli; they use them on themselves, on each other, or else they have eunuchs ply them."

"What is"-pain-pleasure zigzagged back and forth between her nipple and her womb-" phalli ?"

"Artificial phalluses."

Megan's heartbeat staggered.

Phalluses . Artificial… penises ?

"Sit down on the bed and lie back."

So he could wash her private parts.

So he could kiss her clitoris.

But what if he did not like the sight of her… the taste of her?

"It is not necessary that you do this," she said hurriedly.

"It is not what you wish?"

"I…" The cleansing was for him as well as her, he had said. She thought of the pain he had endured in the harem, watching others engage in the pleasures that he was denied. While Megan was not a young, beautiful concubine, she could give him this. "Yes, I wish it."

Megan stepped backward. The backs of her legs hit the mattress.

She abruptly sat down, bed squeaking. Dull pain radiated up through her pelvis, faded at the cold compress of wool blankets and coarse sheet.

The floor would be equally cold and far harder on his bare knees.

Reaching out, she grabbed a pillow and dropped it on the floor. At the same time dark, long, narrow feet stepped forward. The pillow landed on top of them.

She glanced up… and froze.

A single eye stared at her.

She instinctively reached out… and closed her fingers around warm, pulsing skin.

Muhamed audibly sucked in air, but he did not pull away.

Last night, sheathed inside a French letter, he had felt like rubber; now-"You feel like satin," she murmured, mesmerized by his circumference and length and pure masculine beauty.

Gently, she grazed the engorged tip-it was dusky purple in the muted light. Slippery clear moisture dampened her thumb. A tiny heartbeat pounded inside him.