Been wrapped up in finishing edits this week for The Sword & the Sheath. Now I have to wrench myself out of Egypt and back into the real world. In this book, which is set entirely in Egypt, Fatima's psychic vision and fighting abilities enable her to become the first female Khamsin warrior and Guardian to Tarik, the sheikh's heir. Tarik wants her in another position... in his bed.
Here's a scene from the book that I especially love, because it demonstrates the intimate bond of Khamsin life that Tarik and Fatima share, one that ultimately seals them together. This book is a March 2007 release by Leisure.
The Sword & the Sheath, copyright 2006 by Bonnie Vanak
Beneath the full moon, Fatima spread her arms wide. She whirled, long midnight hair flinging out as she pivoted in perfect grace. Sinuously, she undulated to the drum’s urgent pounding. Her hips rotated. The diaphanous gown outlined her body, displaying each sensual curve.
Desire flamed at the teasing sway of her rolling hips, shrouded by the gown’s virginal white fabric. He saw her naked beneath him, writhing in passion-drenched sweat. Her hips rising eagerly to meet his demanding strokes.
Caught in an eerie moonlit trance, his future Guardian performed a desert dance, arousing his deepest hunger. She moved as if in a dream, his dream, a Fatima mirage, a sensual being created from starlight and dark promises. Masses of wavy curls rode the wind as Fatima whipped her head around. Silver strands of moonlight combed the silk mass. Fatima’s head dropped back, exposing the long curve of her throat. A shapely turn of ankle flashed as her nightdress billowed out with each graceful pivot.
Tarik fully understood the wild desert call she answered, for his own heart thrilled to the beat. It roused to full flame as much as it responded to the Khamsin’s wild war call. They belonged here, the children of sand and dust and the sharp blue skies. Conceived in the heat of their parents’ desire, raised in a barren land made fertile by the passion of its people.
Arid heat warmed their bodies by day and a blazing Egyptian moon burned in their blood by night. Small wonder he’d felt sluggish in cold, mist-shrouded England. His blood and bones demanded heat. Their plaintive cry begged for the tactile sensation of sun beating upon his skin, sucking sweat from his open pores. Tarik surrendered to the ancient desert rhythms. He soared, his spirit joining Fatima’s. His soul danced with hers to the drum’s fierce pounding, the frenzied mating of his music to her movements.
He stroked the drum’s goatskin head, each rap a trembling caress across her naked flesh. Tarik drummed harder. Sweat dripped down his temples, licked by the cool desert breeze. Muscles contracted, tension thrumming through his body increasing with the drum’s thrilling cadence. His member hardened to granite as his burning gaze swept over the exotic vision of Fatima dancing. Dancing only for him, in the arena of towering canyons and ghostly moonlight. Ragged breaths tore from his lungs as he coaxed music from his spirit, to rise and mesh with each sway of her lovely body.
Panting, Tarik stopped. He backhanded sweat from his brow, watching with hungry eyes as she slowed, a dust devil whirling, then no more. Fists clutched the soft white gown.
Abandoning the drum, he stepped from the gray shadows, into her vision. “Fatima. Come to me.”