Page 60 of Modern Romance November 2024 5-8

How could she want to climb in and close the drapes and wait for him to return?

Hide from the world with him?

No.

She went back to her own bed—in her far cooler, hastily made-up room—and lay looking at the ceiling, wishing it was last night, when she’d been in his arms with no idea of what was to come.

It had been the most peace she’d ever known...

The tent’s roof really did move...and the one thing her first helicopter ride had taught her was that she really was in the middle of nowhere.

Oh, where was he?

Unable to sleep,she needed distraction, not to dwell on her plight, so she turned on the lamp and picked up a beautifully bound book.

Goodness, it belonged behind glass, Violet thought, or she should be wearing gloves. Because it was exquisite...

She opened the book slowly and looked at the carefully scripted name inside.

Anousheh.

Was that his mother’s name?

It really was a gorgeous book, Violet thought. And it was beautifully illustrated.

She read a poem and didn’t really get it. But then, while she might normally have skimmed over it, she saw a tiny scribbled note that helped.

Such need!

She looked at the words, which had been underlined, and read the poem again, with widening eyes.

Were Sahir here she might be tempted to tell him that she doubted this was one of his mother’s old school books.

These poems were sensual...and so erotic.

Not all of them, but the Queen’s underlining habit made it easy to find the good parts, and Violet lay reading about buds and clamshells and such...

So engrossed was she, she barely glanced up when she heard the bells that signalled his return. But as he turned off the lamps in the living area she knew she should turn out her own.

Then she heard running water, and wondered if he was going to have a bath or a shower. She did her very best not to picture him naked, and hoped he’d be ages, because she wanted to read just one more poem.

Oh, my goodness!

She glanced up as his lamp went on, and of course she could hear him. Surely that was by design, for there should be strings being plucked and beauties reclining upon the cushions. Well, there would have been a hundred or so years ago.

Unfortunately, her bedtime reading had moved on from clamshells to ‘tumescence’, heavily underlined. It was like reading a diary, while at the same time not.

It was timeless pleasure that was being addressed here.

Placing the book face-down, she realised she could see the shadow of Sahir’s member through the tent’s wall. He was not erect, but he was certainly not flaccid, either, and she found that her hand had slipped from her shoulder and she was cupping her own breast.

She pulled it away, telling herself that he couldn’t see her, and got back to the gorgeous poem.

And the next.

Had she been a little hasty in her warning to him that nothing could take place?

‘Stop it...’ she said aloud, trying to talk sense into herself, then closed the book and turned off her own lamp.

---