The young tribe members swirled around them in intricate routines, the males swooping like birds of prey, bounding and stomping in energetic courtship and persistent demand, the females twirling around like huge flowers, gesturing and tapping in practiced coquetry and eager acceptance.
Harres led her in emulating them, then in improvising their own dance of intimacy and delight in each other.
And for an indeterminate stretch, she felt she’d been transported to another realm where nothing existed but him. She felt him, and only him, as his eyes and touch lured her, inflamed her, shared with her, joined with her, as he moved with her as if they were connected on all levels, as if the same impulses coursed in their nerves, the same drive powered their wills and limbs.
She surfaced from the magical realm to everyone singing. In moments she found herself repeating the distinctive, catchy melody and lyrics, without understanding a word.
Suddenly Harres pulled her to him, turning the energy of their dance into a slow burn of seduction, his lips at her ear shooting more bolts of stimulation through her. And that was before she heard what he whispered.
“Everything before you passed and went to waste.”
Her whole frame jerked with the shock, the emotions that surged too fast, too vast to comprehend, to contain.
He pressed her nearer, his voice deeper, darker, the only thing she heard anymore. “Koll shai gablek addaw daa.”
That was what she was singing along.
Harres was just translating.
But no. He wasn’t. He meant it. Even if the magic of those moments, of their situation and surroundings was amplifying his emotions…
The music came to an abrupt end. The silence that exploded in the next moment felt like a freezing splash, dousing her fire.
No. She wanted this time out of time to continue, to last.
But she knew it wouldn’t. None of it would.
She could only cherish every second, waste none on despondency.
She looked up at Harres, found him looking back at her with eyes still storming with stimulation. She teetered from his intensity, from the drain of energy. He bent and lifted her into his arms.
People ran ahead, indicating the place of honor they should occupy. She tried to regain her footing, but he only tightened his hold on her. She struggled not to bury her face in his shoulder in embarrassment, to be carried like that, and after the whole tribe saw her dancing like a demon, too.
At their place, he set her on the cushions, sat down beside her and fetched her water and maward—rose essence. Then he began peeling ripened dates and feeding them to her.
She fought the urge to do something to be really embarrassed about. Grabbing his hand and suckling the sticky sweetness off his fingers. Then traveling downward…
Going lightheaded with the fantasies, with holding back, she mumbled around the last mouthful, “You do know I’m fully recharged and in no need of coddling, right?”
He shook his head. “You used up your battery with that marathon jig.”
She waved her hand. “I’m just saving up for the next one.”
He smiled down at her, poured her some mouthwatering cardamom coffee in a tiny, handblown, greenish glass and brought it to her lips. “A sip with each bite of dates is the recommended dose.”
She did as instructed, her eyes snapping wider at the incredible blend of aromas and flavors, of bitterness and sweetness, at the graininess of the dates dissolving in the rich heat and smoothness of the coffee.
She sighed, gulped the rest. Sinking deeper in contentment, she turned to adjust her cushions. He jumped to do it himself.
She leaned back on them, quirking her lips at him. “When will you believe you don’t have to keep doing stuff for me, that I’ve never been in better shape? No emergency doctor could have done a better job on me.”
“I know, my invincible dew droplet, but would you be so cruel as to deprive me of the pleasure of pampering you?”
Now what could a woman say to that?
Nothing but unintelligible sighs, evidently. That was all that issued from her as the oasis elder rose to deliver a word of welcome before waiters with huge trays holding dozens of plates streamed out to serve dinner.
More sighs accompanied the fantastic meal. The food at the oasis was the best she’d ever had. Tonight it rose to ambrosia level.
Harres fed her, cut the assortment of grilled meats, told her the names and recipes of the baked and grilled breads and the vegetable stews. He introduced her to date wine, which she proclaimed should replace nectar as the drink of the gods. But it was logmet al gadee that was truly out of this world. The golden spheres of fried dough, crunchy on the outside, soft on the inside and dipped in thick syrup were so good there should be—and probably there was—a penalty for it.
After dinner they danced again, then she shook hands with hundreds of people, thanked them all for the best night of her life. On their stroll back to the cottage, she decided something.
Everything in this place was pure magic.
But she knew that wasn’t an accurate assessment. Had she been with anyone else, she wouldn’t have enjoyed it a fraction as much. She’d been to idyllic places for vacations before, but had never enjoyed one after her parents died, had stopped trying to years ago….
“What are you thinking, ya talyeti?”
She shook off the surge of melancholy, smiled up at him. “This means my Talia, right?”
He nodded, sweeping a soothing hand over her hair, now supple and sparkling from a miraculous blend of local oils. “Your Arabic is getting better every day.”
“I find it fascinating, so rich and expressive in ways so different from English. I’d love to learn more.”
“Then you shall.”
It was always like that. She wished for something, and he insisted she’d have it. She knew he would give her anything, if at all possible.
Feeling her skin getting tighter with emotion, she answered his previous question. “I was thinking of my parents.”
His eyes grew softer. “You told me they died. I didn’t want to probe. Not a good idea bringing up death and that of loved ones in our situation back then.”
“But you want to know now.”
“Only if it doesn’t pain you to talk about them.”
“No, no. I love to talk about them. I hate it that people avoid bringing them up, as if it will remind me of their loss. As if I need to be reminded. It’s actually not mentioning them that makes me feel their absence even more acutely.”
His eyebrows knotted. “People can be misguided in their good intentions.” His brow cleared, his lips quirking. “What I find amazing is that you didn’t set them straight.”