Thea Devine - Fascinated

"I want to please you, Muhamed. I want to give you the same pleasure you have given me."

He pulled away from the comfort of Megan's arms. "It is not the same," he said harshly.

"You are afraid."

Yes, he was afraid.

He was afraid that the climax she had given him would never be repeated.

He was afraid of losing what little masculinity he retained.

"It is unnatural," he grated.

Why didn't she see that it was unnatural?

"Muhamed, satisfaction is not unnatural. What they did to you is unnatural. Men loving women only so they can bear their children is unnatural. But not this, Muhamed. You said you receive satisfaction through my pleasure. Let me share yours. Let me know that I can please you, as you've pleased me."

"They laughed," he said harshly.

"I would never laugh at you."

No, Megan wouldn't laugh at him.

Gently, he withdrew from her and stood up, bones creaking, knees aching.

Megan grabbed a pillow. Dropping it to the floor, she kneeled in front of him.

He stared down at the top of her head; her braid hung down her back. She looked like a schoolgirl.

Her hands that wrapped around him did not belong to a schoolgirl; they belonged to a woman.

Fire danced along his verge, the caress of her fingers.

Glancing up, she caught his gaze. "This is for me, too, Muhamed. I've never had the opportunity to touch a man's body. I will always treasure the fact that you trust me enough to let me do this."

Head lowering, she circumvented his response by the simple expedient of taking him into her mouth.

He wished he could see her face.

He wished he could hold her body.

His groin tightened.

He blindly grabbed-a woman had such a vulnerable neck-and felt the laving of her tongue deep inside, as if his member did not stop at his pubis, but wound up inside him.

She suckled him.

He slid his thumbs up, simultaneously feeling the hot suction of her mouth and the muscles in her jaws rhythmically contract, expand, contract, expand.

There was pleasure in having a woman suckle a man's member, but there was also uncertainty. In a woman's mouth, he was entirely at her mercy.

She could hurt him, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it.

Had she felt this same sense of vulnerability when he had taken her into his mouth and suckled her? he briefly wondered.

Did all women feel this sense of vulnerability when a man took them-whether with fingers or verge-and they were entirely at his mercy?

Had Megan felt this vulnerability?

Lungs sucking in air, he threw his head back, his whole world reduced to Megan's lips, Megan's tongue, and the sharp threat of Megan's teeth.

He was melting, yet he had never felt more hard.

A gentle pressure nudged his thighs. His heart jumped-in anticipation, in dread.

He did not want what she offered.

He wanted to be like other men, to take his release as other men took theirs.

Trust her, she had said.

He had never trusted anyone, not since he was thirteen.

How could he trust this woman?

How could he not trust her?

He parted his legs.

She found him, prodded him. Her finger was slippery wet- from her own body?

He squeezed his eyelids together, emotions roiling, muscles clenching. Denying her access. Denying the unbidden thrill of pleasure her touch engendered, probing for entry.

She would not be denied.

He gasped, feeling her become a part of him. And gasped again when she found the gland he had spoken of.

A bolt of lightning shot down his spine and out of his verge. Light flashed behind his eyelids; voices echoed inside his ears.

The son of his heart: I will kill you….

The woman he had loved: Have you never, ever wanted to find love in a woman's body?

Megan, the woman who through her selflessness was demonstrating that he knew nothing of love, and never had: / do not understand what it is that you want from me.

He gritted his teeth to hold back the pressure that squeezed his chest and overflowed into his throat.

This was what he had wanted.

This was all he had ever wanted.

A woman who would not cringe at his body, as he cringed from it.

A woman who would take what he could give her, and not belittle him for what he could not give her.

A woman who cared about the needs of a eunuch.

The flickering lights behind his eyelids coalesced into one blinding white light. His world shattered, the past that had been forced upon him, the present that now brought fulfillment to a eunuch, the bleak future that yawned before him.

A hoarse cry splintered the light, and once again he was a man.

Not a eunuch.

A man.

Megan's gift to him.

Suddenly they were two people instead of one.

A splash of water sounded in the silence; it was followed by the clink of stoneware on wood-more splashes, silence again.

He strained to hear her next move, to feel her nearness. Trembling in the aftermath of the pleasure she had given him.

Soft hands cupped his face, lowered his head.

He opened his eyes. Megan's eyes were bright with unshed tears.

"I was a part of you, Muhamed. I've never felt anything so powerful, or so beautiful. Thank you for your trust."

His heart double beat.

She deserved the truth.

"Muhamed is the name that was given me by the Arabs. My English name is Connor. Connor Treffry."

She recognized the name.

The Treffrys were the most prosperous fishermen in West Cornwall. Perhaps in the entirety of Cornwall.

Megan withdrew: hands, emotions.

"How?" she asked.

How had he come to be a eunuch?

How could he have deceived her, he who had accused her of deception?

"I loved the sea," he said raggedly, needing her warmth and her closeness but unable to express emotions he had held in abeyance for forty years. "I wanted nothing more than to be a fisherman, like my father. Like my brothers before me. I convinced my father to let me go out with some of his men one day. There was a squall. We were blown off course. A ship picked us up. It was a slaver. We were taken to a Barbary port and sold. I never saw my father's men again."

There were no words for the horror he had felt, imprisoned, away from home for the first time in his life with no hope of ever returning.

"But you were… English."

A smile twisted his lips; it did not reach his eyes. "The Arab who bought me was not impressed by my heritage. Nor was he impressed by my rebellious nature. In Arabia, there is a saying: take a wife for children, but take a boy for pleasure. He liked young men. When I refused to accommodate him, he watched while his guards held me down and an Egyptian infidel crushed my testicles. Then he sold me to a Syrian trader."

He stared into her green eyes and saw not the verdancy of England, but the barren desert and the thirteen-year-old boy he had been.

"An infection set in. The Syrian trader cut off the useless sac that hung between my legs and buried me in the sand to staunch my blood."

Megan's pale skin turned pasty with shock.

"I do not remember the pain anymore." A muscle twitched at the corner of his mouth. Images of a blazing yellow sun and bright crimson blood flashed before his eyes. "But I remember crying like a girl. I wanted to die; it was not permitted."

"I'm glad you didn't die," she said quietly.

Last night and today he had been glad, too.

"I could not bring myself to tell my family that I lived," he confessed instead.

There was no condemnation in her eyes. "They believe you are dead?"

"I thought it would be best if they believed me dead rather than knowing what had happened to me."

Her gaze did not falter. It ripped the truth out of him.

"I did not want them to know what had happened to me."

He still did not want them to know.

"They would not blame you. How could they?"

"I am the youngest in my family; I have three older brothers and one sister. I was the pampered son. I've been in England for nine years, yet I did not visit my parents. They died not knowing that I was alive. I did not attend their funerals.

"Tomorrow, Megan, tomorrow I will find out if my brothers and my sister blame me."

"Do they know you are alive now?"

"They know. I sent them a note the day before yesterday."

The day he had decided to procure a whore.

The day Megan had come into his life.

"I will send them another note tomorrow," he said dispassionately. "We will meet over afternoon tea, like English do."

"Why are you visiting with them now, if you do not wish to?" she persisted quietly.

Because his hatred had frightened him.

Because he needed to make peace with himself. Cornwall had seemed like a good place to start.

"I am fifty-three years old, and I do not know who I am. I am a eunuch. I have gone by the name of Muhamed for forty years. But I want what Connor would have had. I want a woman; I want children. I want to live among other men, as a man."

"You are a man."

"And which man do you think I am, Megan? Muhamed… or Connor?"

"I think the man I baptized today is the man you are," she said firmly.

He felt as if a fist slammed into his chest.

"I don't think the gods will be appeased by a condom, Megan."

"Perhaps not, but it will certainly give rise to speculation, come May," she calmly rejoined.

He did not want to think about May. He did not want to think about the decision he would have to make, come the morrow.

"Hold me," he said starkly. And for the first time in forty years, he said one simple English word. "Please. Come to bed and hold me."

Pink dawn divided the darkness inside the bedroom. Faint stirrings penetrated the quiet, the sound of other clients rising. Leaving.

Sounds she had not noticed yesterday, the comings and goings of others.

Megan cradled his sleeping head against her breasts and listened to the easy rhythm of his breathing.

Muhamed. Connor.

Which man did she hold?

How would his family react when they saw him?

Would they stare at him, as the stableboy had stared at him?

Would they welcome him?

Would they rebuff him?

Would they hurt him?

His arm tightened about her waist. She knew that he, too, was awake.

"Muh-" She bit her lip.

What did she call him?

"I have to go," she said.

He did not answer.

Her heart felt as though it were being rent in two.

How ridiculous of her, to hope that he would want her to stay.

He did not stop her when she slipped out from underneath his head and his arm.

He did not stop her when she hurriedly dressed, shivering from the cold and the tears that silently dripped down her cheeks.

He did not stop her when she quietly opened the door and slipped out of his life.

Never to know if he found peace.

With his family.

With another woman.

Once in her room, Megan scrubbed her face, her teeth, dressed her hair and packed her clothes.

It was time to get on with her life.

The innkeeper, a squat man with thinning hair greased back from his forehead, leered at her, obviously aware of the time she had spent with the man he knew as Mr. Muhamed.

Meg would have cringed in humiliation; Megan turned her nose up. "I require transportation to the Branwell place."

"Ain't nothin' there, lady."

"Nevertheless, I would like to hire a carriage and a driver."

"It'll cost you six shillings."

It was an exorbitant price, but her only alternative was to walk. Ten miles.

"Very well."

The driver was a taciturn man who slumped underneath a worn bowler hat. He did not assist her with her luggage. Megan climbed into the seat beside him.

It was a rare Cornish day; two days of sunshine in a row.

Megan thought of the French letter, flapping in the breeze. She thought of her hair, hanging loose down her back as if she were a young girl instead of a middle-aged widow. She thought of the man who had allowed her to be free of the restrictions incurred by age and respectability.

She thought of the warm fluid that had spurted against the back of her throat.

A man's pleasure was far more precious than his seed.

Megan jumped out of the carriage and tossed out her luggage.

He laid across the rumpled bed a tailored black English jacket, folded, starched shirt, and black wool trousers. Beside them, he laid out a white thobs, baggy white trousers, and a length of white material to create a turban.