She pulled her mouth away and looked at the end of his dark shaft upon which a drop hung, suspended, a jewel for her alone. Her body shook with need and his, too, was trembling now. His hands lowered to come around her bottom and lift her up so that he could enter her but she stopped him, her focus entirely on that drop. Slowly, so slowly she extended her tongue and lapped at the end of his shaft: that drop slipping down her throat like the most exquisite liqueur.
He groaned and pushed her back, her bent legs flat against her body as he entered her up to the hilt with one swift movement. There was no hesitation now. He pumped into her, not waiting for her reaction but in the moment with her and they came together for the first time, Zahir crying out Anna’s name loudly in relief as if he’d lost her and only just found her.
It was late by the time Anna awoke. She’d been dreaming of the desert—its wide, open spaces, its shimmering heat and the palace built into the side of the mountain, solid and dominating. She had a residual feeling of peace and sighed, her eyes opening to the soft mellow of the Parisian sunset. The sense of peace deserted her immediately as it became replaced by panic. She’d felt happy, easy, at home in her dream. Her heart beat quickly. She could never feel at home there because it wasn’t her home. She looked over at Zahir who lay beside her unusually for him, quite still, looking up into the flickering pink light of the low sunlight filtering through the leaves. Qawaran was Zahir’s home and hers only for as long as he wanted her there. She had to remember that and usually, during the day, she did. It was only in her dreams that feelings of security crept up on her.
Suddenly a sense of panic gripped her. Something had happened in his mind. She knew it had. It had begun with the discovery of his brother being gay and it had ended with their love-making. It had a different quality about it that day: a sadness, a sense almost of desperation, of taking the moment rather than observing the moment. With vivid clarity Anna suddenly saw that it had ended. Zahir had finally worked through his need for her. That’s why the urgency had gone; that’s why he was quieted. She was no longer required.
She lay there in shock, not wanting to move, not wanting to prompt him into action, into speech that would reinforce her fears.
She almost flinched when she felt his hand reach over for hers and grip it tight in a fist then release it. She jumped up and collected her clothes.
“Where are you going?”
She shook her head—unwilling to talk, to confront what she knew to be true—and got dressed.
“Where are you going?” he repeated.
“Just out for a walk.”
Zahir opened his mouth to speak—whether to ask further questions, whether to suggest he accompany her—she didn’t know because he closed his mouth before saying anything. Further proof that he didn’t want her.
She instinctively stepped away from him. She couldn’t bear to see the indifference on his face any more and left the room before she made more of a fool of herself than she already had.
She wasn’t gone long. Just long enough for him to pack his things, ready for the morning, and fall back into bed. He felt tired, more tired than he had ever felt before, even when his muscles were screaming after days of forced marching across the parched desert. Then he’d felt a purpose. Now, he felt nothing. Only emptiness.
She’d recoiled from him as if she thought he was trying to contain her, hold her against his will. Well, wasn’t that precisely what had happened? He’d taken her liberty—the one thing she wanted—and she’d left because she needed to regain that space. She’d always told him that, always stated the facts of her dreams baldly. And the facts were now plain. He loved her. She wanted to be free. So, he would give her freedom to her.
The door banged close behind her, driven by the wind. He couldn’t help but smile. Anna couldn’t come or go anywhere incognito, quietly. He heard her hesitate in the sitting room, and the skid of her handbag as she threw it untidily onto the floor. Then her footsteps that sounded weary on the floor boards.
Believing him to be asleep she slipped off her clothes and crept into bed beside him. There was nothing but the chill summer night air blowing out the pale curtains and the tick of his alarm clock beside him. It showed him it was three in the morning. Where had she spent her time? He didn’t know and now knew that it was none of his business.
He didn’t know how long he lay, watching her, watching the city lights flicker through the trees. Outside, Paris was rain-washed, like a water-color painting. Like a painting from the note-book that he’d discovered in the night, while she was away. Small, primitive water-color paintings of scenes of the desert, of Matta and of a bird in flight. The falcon—his falcon—was portrayed both in mid flight, wings flexed against the turbulent air currents that played above the desert, and captured with its hood on. The colors downplayed in the latter, that was also a study of a hand, dark, strong and weathered. His hand. It didn’t take a genius to see her desires and fears made manifest in those pictures.