Her breast was touching his arm.  Again.  Could she be more obvious?  His libido—and his cock—ignored his mildly annoyed brain and twitched with approval.  Damn.... what was her name again?  Deena?  Dinah?  Donna?  The music in the dark club was thumping and he hadn't caught it earlier—not that he'd been paying that much attention to the buxom blonde next to him at the bar.  Despite what his cock thought, he wasn't here for sex.  He was here to meet up with the band.  And they were late, the bastards. 

It annoyed him.  Nobody kept him waiting these days.  A small, ugly part of him sneered in his mind: Don't they know who you are?  How DARE they...  Of course, they knew exactly who he was.  They were all his mates from way back before his glittering star had started to rise.  Which is why his fame and fortune meant precisely dick to them.  It was refreshing in a twisted sort of way.  But it still pissed him off.  

He ordered another beer and entertained the idea of taking the blonde to bed.  Or maybe somewhere closer?  She was putting out heavy 'I'd do you in the bathroom stall if you just said the word' vibes.  Between openly suggestive sips of her pink girly drink, she made no bones about looking him up and down.  Mostly down.  As if she could measure his precise length and girth if she stared at the soft bulge at the front of his jeans long enough.  Christ.  Maybe she could? 

It unsettled him slightly.  He liked being found attractive as much as the next man but despite his own propensity for being openly crude at times, he didn't much care for that particular swagger on a woman.  Didn't most men like a bit of mystery in the chase?  Hell, didn't most of them like a chase— period?  He wasn't any different.  She wasn't even his type.  Okay, well not his usual type.  He did love women, all shapes, sizes and colors.   Why limit himself?  But in his heart of hearts he preferred a paler, svelte, more ethereal sort of timeless beauty.  Less curves.  Less obviousness. 

Though her face was pretty and the vivid blue of her eyes had indeed made him look twice, her voluptuous figure was the sort that would easily slip into obesity with age.  He could picture her in twenty years—her shapely curves obliterated by fleshy rolls and that pretty face covered by pounds of garish makeup in a sad attempt to distract the eye from what once was.  Fair play to her, some men went for those soft, round women... but he wasn't one of them.  She had years before that day, but she couldn't escape being built like a brick shithouse—an American turn of phrase that he'd always disliked, but one that in her case was entirely accurate.  However apt, that colloquialism always made him think of a big steaming pile of shit.  A libido killer if there ever was one.  Maybe he was just too literal?  Or maybe despite his rough upbringing he had acquired a bit of polish and sophistication over the years? 

Nah.....  

And yet with all of that running around in his brain, he could also picture the thick rope of her shiny blond hair wrapped around his fist while her mouth was wrapped around something else...   

Who could blame him?  She was hot, eager and the owner of a pair of magnificent (and if he wasn't mistaken — real) tits.  He was young, wealthy and famous.  If they were both consenting adults, what was the problem with two free agents hooking up for a bit of mutual fun?  Over the last few years, he'd used that to his advantage to take what was on offer far too many times to claim the moral high ground now.  God, could he really be thinking of having it off with her when he knew she was hoping for A Relationship and he was already planning his getaway? 

Oh yes, he could...

Christ.  He was a dirty fucking dog!  But one who was going to get lucky.  That was him... the lucky dog.  Woof.  

He didn't even feel bad about it, although on some level he knew he should.  Someday he was going to settle down with the woman of his dreams and have a dozen babies and when that day came, he would be glad he'd sowed all his wild oats when he'd had the chance and saved the best of himself for her.  But that day wasn't here yet and the night was young. 

What the hell?  He turned his body back her way and met her eyes.  At the first sign of his interest, the blonde adjusted her impressive rack and shot a megawatt smile his direction.  She tittered less with her friend and twittered more at him, making the usual small talk one makes as a precursor to a casual sexual encounter. 

It felt like an act.  Hell, it was an act.  Rather ironic, given his chosen profession.  She droned on.  He wondered if his eyes were glazing over.  Part of him wanted to just skip ahead to the sex.  Another part of him wondered if maybe he should just finish his beer and leave.  Was all of this, and the empty feeling he knew would come afterwards, worth the momentary pleasure he would find in her arms?  He shook his head and snorted inwardly.  He could be such a maudlin bastard when he was on the piss.

Around them, the music pounded and his eyes drifted over the crowd as his mind wandered, numbed by her empty-headed chatter.  Despite that, he couldn't stop that electric tingle of arousal from creeping up his spine at the prospect of a carnal encounter with a pretty girl.  However many times this scenario had played itself out, it still excited him; the newness of experiencing a moment of intensely graphic pleasure with a stranger.  Could he make her come?  Was her skin as soft as it looked?  What would she taste like?  Would she let him do whatever he wanted to her?  With his earlier annoyance for being stood up by his mates still swirling around in him, he was in the mood for something a little darker tonight.

A rush of heat made him suddenly over-warm and he looked at her, as if for the first time, suddenly in the mood to play this out more aggressively than before.  He felt a bit like the Big Bad Wolf.  Flashing her a toothy smile, he thought he may have been a bit harsh in his initial appraisal of her.  She was pretty in that sort of fifties pinup sort of way.  Not his usual taste perhaps, but he was suddenly finding an appetite for fleshy curves. 

Until her cell rang.  It wasn't the campy, annoying chirp that broke the mood.  It was that she answered the thing, listened for a moment and then with the promise of sex in her eyes if he was a good boy, pleaded with him to wait for her while she went off in the direction of the toilets where she presumably could hear the Super Important Call over the driving beat of the music.

Well, fuck her.

Left holding the bag twice in one night?  Not likely.  He was not in the mood to be a good little doggie.  Moving off down the bar, he necked the bottle held in his long, thick fingers as he watched her walk away.  Her clingy blue dress was too tight, he thought uncharitably.  The fact that it showed off a nice—if somewhat overly round—ass only made him more annoyed.  So did the fact that her strappy sandals and teeny sequined purse matched the silver flip-phone glued to her ear. 

She was too brassy anyway, he told himself.  A mediocre fuck at best.  Checking his watch again, he felt a new wave of irritation wash through him, fueled by a grouchy libido that had been awakened but not appeased.  He almost walked out, but he had precious little free time these days and if they wanted to make a summer tour a reality this year, he needed a little face time with the band.

He watched the crowd to kill a few more minutes.  Okay, he mostly watched the women.  And the door.  Where the hell were his friends?  Song lyrics swirled around in his head and he contemplated scratching a few down on a napkin but he was soon distracted.  Snippets of conversation floated around him.  To his left, two women were talking about some dirty old lecher they worked for.  Behind him, a guy was getting shot down after delivering a totally pathetic chat-up line.  A nearby couple was talking about food or sex—he wasn't sure—though either way, what they had planned sounded like fun.

Looking down at the cigarette in his hand, he rolled the familiar shape between his fingers while fidgeting with the corner of a napkin.  There was a latent energy burning through him as it looked for an outlet.  Pity about the blonde.  With all the energy bleeding off him, he could have been a freight train tonight.

Without warning, a feminine hand came into his field of view as the woman it was attached to slipped up to the bar.  He couldn't hear what she ordered but it looked like vodka with a twist of lime.  He only gave the drink a nominal glance; it was her hands that had captured his interest.  They were small and dark with long fingers, but most intriguing of all, they were covered in intricate henna designs that extended up her wrists and disappeared into the bell of her sleeve. 

It was just the sort of detail he liked and his busy mind settled there, distracted by the complex pattern and the tantalizing foreignness of it all.  Hidden by his long lashes, his gaze swept up her arm and over her face before flickering down her body only to be drawn back to her hands.

He swallowed a snort of amusement.  It really wasn't his night, was it?  She wasn't his usual type either.  But he hadn't ever let that stop him before.  Where the blonde had been fair and rosy, this woman was swarthy and sensual.  Earthy.  She was small and ripe with curves, but in a different way than Little Miss Cell Phone had been.  More modest and yet somehow, no less provocative.  Though to be fair, he might not have given her a second glance either if it hadn't been for the exotic markings adorning her skin. 

He took his time looking at her.  Her hair was thick and curly, falling in a heavy tangle down her back.  Long lashes hid smoky eyes and she had a classically Persian nose.  Her orange tunic-top had sheer sleeves with gold embroidery at the cuffs and it was gathered just under her bust where it fell away from her in soft waves, hiding her figure for the most part but giving the impression of a tiny frame.  Her skirt was long and floaty and her leather sandals were plain and flat.  He shuddered almost imperceptibly.  Around her left leg was an anklet with a little golden bell and she had henna on both feet.  It made him want to sink his teeth into her instep.  It also made him wonder where else her body might be marked.    

She stood out in this place where most of the women teetered around on four inch stilettos and bared as much flesh as was legal.  But more than that, she seemed to have a luminous quality, as if she was lit from within.  It made her seem soft and feminine and yet somehow strong, too.   When she moved he couldn't keep his eyes off her.  She had that rare natural grace he was so drawn to.  Digging some money out of the brightly colored, if somewhat tatty, messenger bag she had slung over her shoulder, she paid for her drink and slipped back from the noisy crowd at the bar.  She smiled at him as she left, but it was that sort of smile you give automatically to someone in passing.  Not the nervous smile of recognition that he sometimes got these days.  And definitely not an invitation.  Pity about that too. 

Despite its brevity, that momentary brush with her had been the most intriguing part of his night to date.  He moved away from the bar and into a dark nook where he could watch her more freely; and where he'd be harder for the blonde to find if she came looking.

A thousand things buzzed through his mind while he watched her; some of them more prurient than others, but all of them were curious.  He didn't know much about Middle Eastern culture.  Certainly he knew less than he wanted to tonight.  What he did know was tainted with the usual stereotypes and politically incorrect fantasies.  He wondered about her name.  Was it something exotic like Yasmina or Noor?  Just the sight of her inspired thoughts of stories like Arabian Nights and shadowy fantasies about veiled harem women.  Which led to a mishmash of thoughts; dark undulating bodies, belly dancing and the Kama Sutra most predominantly.  A thought process that was likely a bastardization of several cultures, but there it was nonetheless.

He had a vivid imagination, and right now he was picturing himself as the master of a harem.  A fantasy to be sure, considering he couldn't even keep one woman happy these days, but he'd never had a problem keeping reality out of his fantasy life.  Of everything, the most pressing image that kept replaying in his mind was a passage from a book.  Far from one of the most pornographic things he'd ever read, it remained after all these years one of the most erotic.

It was a simple explanation in some dusty old book about how harem women, once dressed in their finery, readied themselves for their encounter by standing over a brazier of burning incense so their skirts formed a tent and the rising smoke, infused with aphrodisiac qualities, would perfume their most intimate flesh.  That was all that the dry book had said but he could easily imagine a young woman, eager to please her new master, squatting over the brazier and spreading the petals of her sex so that when her lover kissed them there, he could taste the musk of the burned herbs.

A shudder ran up his back and followed by a flush of heat that settled under his arms and between his legs.  He shifted his weight and spread his thighs a little to accommodate the slight swelling between them.  Unable to keep still, he jiggled about, uncomfortable aware of his skin and the blood rushing under it.  He had to move.  Now.  Besides, he'd never been one to sit on his hands when there was something—or someone—he wanted.  When he was passionate about something, he went straight after it.

He caught up with her on the dance floor.

"Want to dance?"  

Not the smoothest opening line, but he'd almost swallowed his tongue when he got close to her and caught the musky scent of incense.

She looked him up and down with one eyebrow raised.  Her look said, I'm already dancing.

He tried again, nodding to her hands.  "I like your henna."

"What?"

The thumping beat and the crush of bodies made it almost impossible to hear.

Leaning in closer, he said a little louder.  "Your hands... I like it."

She shrugged helplessly and mouthed, "I can't hear you."

This time he leaned in, willing himself not to react to her intoxicating scent as his nose brushed her hair when he put mouth to her ear.  "This is crazy!"  He was huffing softly with amusement.  "You want to come sit down with me?  Have a drink?"  For half a second he saw her hesitate and he felt that momentary fear of rejection all men feel, however famous.  "This is nice—"  He touched her henna lightly.  Respectfully.  He felt like a bit of a fraud when what his libido really wanted was to taste her.  Hard.  Penetrate her somehow, if only with his mouth in a deep wet kiss.  "I wanted to ask you about this."

He saw the light come on in her eyes the moment she realized he was asking about the henna and she nodded, allowing him to lead her off the floor.  To be honest, he didn't care how he'd gotten her attention, only that he had.   He could also tell from the look on her face that she knew who he was, which wasn't really saying a lot considering the number and caliber of films he'd been making recently.

She balked a bit at the entrance to the secluded VIP portion of the club and glanced at her watch.  Meeting someone, was she?  He tried to appear unruffled and merely shrugged.  "It's just quieter here."  With a boyish grin he held up his hands in the universal 'I'm unarmed' pose and laughed softly.  "No pressure..."

That did the trick.  

He didn't choose the dark secluded table in the back corner even though he wanted to.  They slid into a quietish booth near the door instead.  In the privacy of his mind, he wondered how many more concessions he'd have to make to her before the night was gone.

Before they could even exchange names, a waitress came by.  He ordered a glass of wine.  She ordered club soda with a twist of lime.  So she wanted to keep her head then?  He swallowed down a little flare of disappointment.  He'd been hoping she'd join him for a glass of wine, something to loosen them both pleasantly.

He gave her his name.  She smiled, no doubt already aware of exactly who he was and extended her hand to shake his.

"Fatima."

Fatima?  He rolled the name around in his mouth.  Faaaattttimmmmmaaa....  Not what he was expecting.  A little on the plain side for a girl like her, but it felt good, right, to say it slow, to draw out the sensuous sounds.  He could tell from the look on her face that she liked how he said her name.  Well, that was a start. 

At least the familiar small talk with her was unusual and surprisingly interesting—if a little heavy on henna history—all four thousand years worth.  But he had asked, so he really couldn't fault her there.  And he'd always liked digging deeply into the an unfamiliar story and letting himself become lost in listening to the telling of it.  Once he'd spent a day listening to an old man reminisce about his days as a cane cutter.  This was just as interesting in its own way.  Even better because a pretty woman sat across from him and they were throwing sparks off each other like nobody's business. 

They just clicked.  It was weird.  He felt the heat.  He could tell she felt it too—though she had yet to be forward in the slightest, despite their intimate conversation and the number of openings he'd given her.  He sat back, trying to work her out.  What was her game?  Or did she even have one?  Was she at the opposite end of the spectrum from the blonde?  One had thrown herself at him desperately.  Was the other playing hard to get?

She noticed his momentary lapse and stopped talking.  "Sorry."  Offering him a warm smile, she waved her hands with a shrug.  "Shut me up any time!  I could go on about this topic forever."

"No, no..."  He moved forward again into that charged space between them.  Not crowding her exactly, but enough to send that electric crackle thrumming back to life.  "I was... curious."  There was just enough of a pause in his words to make her wonder if 'curious' wasn't a euphuism for something more base.  His dimples deepened and the heat flared in his eyes.  "I am curious."  He touched her then, stroking the design on her wrist lightly with the rough pad of his finger.

For a single moment the heat between them was so oppressive he swore he felt her shudder.  He knew he saw her swallow.  And God knew he felt that all the way down to his cock.  It was awake again.  And hungry.  Something inside him seemed to be resonating to her unique sensual energy.  She was a hundred times more subtle than the blonde had been.  And a thousand times more compelling. 

She might be reserved but there was no denying the chemistry between them.  And frankly he was both slightly annoyed and a little disconcerted when he saw her glance again at the door and then at her watch.  He wasn't quite desperate to do whatever it took to keep her from leaving—but he wasn't ready to give her up so easily either.

"I'll give you some, if you like."  

Sex!? 

It was his first thought and he all but choked on his drink.  Well, well... it seemed she had dimples too.  And then it dawned on him.  Henna.  She was talking about henna.  Two could play at this game, sweetheart.  "Come again?"  He rumbled the words, satisfied to see her flush at the double entendre.  

"Henna," she clarified.  "That's what I do.  For a living, I mean.  I do henna for weddings and Bat Mitzvahs and parties, and for a hundred other very good reasons."  Her eyes were shining.  "Not the least of which is because it's fun.... nice... sensual... relaxing...."

Intimate.  

It hung there, unsaid but implied.  His hesitation must have showed on his face because she put her hands up like he had earlier and stole his line.  "Hey—no pressure."

He grinned wolfishly at her.  "I thought that was my line."

"You don't share?"  Now there was a whole bloody volume of unspoken subtext there.  And damn her if he still couldn't tell which way the wind was blowing.  Was it just a bit of harmless flirtation?  Or something more?

He did like a puzzle, but he was screwed either way he answered considering he couldn't read her well enough to figure out if she wanted him to back off or slip deeper into the opening she'd given him, so he feigned casual indifference instead.  "I guess you'll just have to stick around to find out, now won't you?"

And how better to keep her around than to take her up on her offer?  Though he wasn't at all sure he wanted his skin marked up, even if it was only temporary.  It looked attractive enough on her, but it seemed a little—girly.  Not to mention the paps would have a heyday.

On the other hand, if he agreed, she'd have to touch him, wouldn't she?  Prolonged contact at the very least.  And he was painfully aware that while he'd initiated physical contact twice now, she hadn't once touched him in return.  Lord knew it wouldn't be the first time he'd done something foolish to get a girl.  All in all, it was actually pretty tame considering some of his more over-the-top moments where women were concerned.

"So if I say yes, how does this work exactly?"  Do you do me right here?   Should he or shouldn't he?  Ask her that loaded juvenile question, that is.  The henna was a no-brainer.  As for the question—no, he wasn't that crass.  Okay, he was....  It popped out with an unapologetic boyish giggle.

It didn't even faze her.  It was pretty vanilla compared to some of the rude comments she got.  He had no idea what her job was like.  How many festivals she'd done where drunken revelers had staggered up grinning like loons and tried to shock her by asking if she could henna their cocks—and then promptly staggered away again deflated when she shot back: sure, as long as they could stand around and keep it hard for at least four hours—without touching it—so the henna could do its magic.  Like all little boys, when challenged by a real woman they scurried away, tails between their legs.  Something told her the man across from her tonight had never scurried in his life. 

Much to his disappointment, she didn't rise to his bait.  Worse, she didn't suggest they go anywhere more private.  Pity about that.  Instead she dug through her tattered bag and pulled out what looked like a small cellophane cone that appeared to be filled with blackish-green mud.  That must be the henna then.  Wasn't much to look at, was it?

His words were still hanging there between them.  Crackling.

Do you do me right here?

"Here's fine."  Her grin was back.  So were the sparks as she reached for his hand, encircling the big bones of his thick wrist with her slender fingers.  They were strong and sure and he liked how they felt on his skin.  "It's your lucky day.  I'm just off a job."  His eyebrow went up.  "I always chuck an extra cone in my bag just in case."

"In case of what?"

"A henna emergency, naturally!"

He just shook his head.  She was a bit off, this one... even if her cool touch was hot enough to blister glass.  Heat gathered between his legs and he could feel his heartbeat throbbing there, warm and sweaty and wanting.

Tucking an errant wisp of hair behind her ear, she leaned forward and turned his palm upward, rubbing his lifeline with her thumb.  Under his shirt, his nipples pebbled.  She may as well have bloody licked him.  He wanted to lick her back.  Instead he sat back, watching her inspect him from under his lashes.

She reached for her water glass but didn't turn his hand loose.

"So, I pass muster then?"

Her singsong laughter was light and musical.  "You'll do."  But that was all she said.  She read palms too and what she saw in his made her hold her tongue.  She prescribed to the idea that there was balance in all things—and while it seemed part of his life was charmed and he'd fallen under a lucky star, it seemed he was also in for a stormy time of it to balance out all that superstardom.  And besides, if the universe was going to give you a kick in the ass, it was better that it happen unexpectedly than to have it hanging over your head until it did.  Or at least she thought so.

Plucking the twist of lime from her empty glass, she stroked it over his palm with an easy, practiced motion.  

He raised an eyebrow in question.  "And the purpose of that would be?"  Besides tormenting him.  

"To clean it."

His cheeky giggle was back.  "So I'm dirty then, is that it?"

She clucked at his impudence.  "So it would seem."  Her tongue peeped out to moisten her full bottom lip.  "And your palm could use some cleaning as well."

"Dirty isn't all bad, you know."  He was flirting with the edge of coming on too strong and he knew it.  This time the flush went all the way down her neck.  But he didn't want to chase her off by being too pushy even if all he felt like doing was putting her fingers in his mouth to suck away the essence left behind by that damned lime.  "A little dirt never hurt anyone."

"I couldn't agree more."  Her sultry smile was back as she peered at his palm.  It was easier than looking at the sparks glowing in his eyes.  "Do you know what you want?"

Again her question caught him off guard.  Their eyes met and he felt a flush rise through the stubble under his chin.  How to answer that question?  He knew exactly what he wanted.  In Technicolor graphic detail.  But even he wasn't crude enough to say it out loud. 

Yet.  

Her eyes darted downward, away from the intensity of his predatory gaze.  There was no mistaking what he wanted—and even though she knew she shouldn't, a part of her responded to the challenge.  Her eyes flicked back up and caught his, piercing and black.

"Surely you're not getting shy on me now?"  Her words had his chin coming up.  "I can do anything you want.  All you have to do is decide..."    

She might have been talking about henna.  She might have been talking about sex.  If she was, she was more honest than the blonde had been, and still a thousand times more intriguing.

"I've already decided what I want."  This time his smile was truly predatory.  "As for the henna, you pick."  He didn't really care anyway as long as she didn't cover him with hearts and flowers.  He sat back smugly, aware she was still holding his hand and that her cool touch was no longer cool.  She was warmer now.  Even sweating a little.  Good.  He wanted her to sweat.  She was making him fucking sweat.  "If you're as good as you I think you are then I couldn't go wrong putting myself in your hands, now could I?"

And a little innuendo back at you, baby.

She put pressure on his fingers, bending them back gently to stretch the skin of his palm.  "Giving an artist her head?  Dangerous...."

All he heard was 'giving head'.  Had she chosen that particular turn of phrase for a reason?  Was he reading too much into it?  Too little?  Whatever the reason, he was thoroughly enjoying their little game of mental chess.  He might not even mind losing if she was the one to check and mate him.

"Dangerous and dirty.  That's me."  At least that's how he was feeling tonight.  

She let that one go.  Too easy.  She rubbed his palm with her thumb, drying the last droplets of water left behind by the lime.  "Hmm.  Something bold, I think.  You're definitely not the peacocks and butterflies kind of guy."

"Hardly."  

"You know your name in Kanji?"  He gave her a hard look at that and she wondered if she'd touched a nerve.  Too personal?  Too bad....  "How about your zodiac sign then?" 

He wondered if it was a trick.  Did she know it already?  Was she trying to see if he'd lie?  She didn't seem like a fan but some of them knew some pretty freaky stuff about him.  His birthday would just be a walk in the park for one of the crazies.  "Aries," he grunted reluctantly.

"Figures," she grumbled back under her breath.  "Impulsive... aggressive..."  Bossy.  Unapologetic.  Highly sexed.  Passionate.  Damned fire signs.  No wonder they were throwing sparks off each other.

His bad humor slipped away as quickly as it had arisen.  "So what's your sign, baby?"  

She rolled her eyes at his cheeseball inflection.  "Fire sign.  Just like you."

"Is that good or bad?"  

God, if he only knew the half of it!  Their signs were two of the most incendiary together.  "Strong willed and driven meets charismatic, natural born leader.... both of whom are stubborn and action-oriented with a high sex drive, a touch of selfishness and buckets of confidence.  What do you think?"

It sounded like a recipe for war to see who would come out on top.  Strength and Honor!  

"Sounds like fun."  She was holding back.  He could tell.  "Come on.... there's more.  What aren't you telling me?"  Not that he believed in all that zodiac crap.  Chemistry was chemistry no matter what star you were born under.  But he was interested in her assessment of their two fiery natures.

"In a nutshell the pairing is—combustible."

Interesting word choice.  "As in?"

"As in incendiary.  Blindingly hot, sweaty, break-the-bed, peel-the-paint-from-the-walls sex."  She laughed softly.  "Assuming neither party kills each other working out who's going to be in charge under which conditions first."

Fuck or fight.  Maybe all that zodiac crap wasn't as far off the mark as he first thought.  And then there was the little matter of who would be in charge?  As if that was ever in question?  

"So it all comes down to negotiation?"  Is that what they were doing here?  He still wasn't sure.

"Doesn't it always?"

He huffed in amusement.  There was something in the way she answered that was nagging at him.  It was so matter of fact.  Not like a come-on despite the intimate subject matter and her lightly flirtatious—if sensuous—vibe.  She was a confounding puzzle.

He smelled the henna before he felt it touch his palm.  It smelled earthy and medicinal.  The scent got stronger.  He cleared his throat.  "I thought you said it was all natural.... what the hell's in that stuff?  It smells like the mother of all Mentholatum."

"That's the cajeput."

"Caj-i-what?"  

"It's an essential oil added to make the color darker.  This is my best bridal mix."

"Great.  Now you tell me."  But he didn't pull back his hand.  She was now engrossed in her work, head bent low over his palm.  She was close enough that he could smell the musk of incense that clung to her hair and he could see the rise and fall of her breasts, so even and steady as she worked.

"Why don't you tell me something, then?  What does your name mean?" she asked, still trying to decide exactly how she wanted to mark him.    

He told her and then laughed when she told him it sounded fitting.  "What does yours mean?" he asked, curious.

"Fatima?  It means abstinence."  The way she said it made him feel like there was some kind of joke there that he wasn't getting.  

"Now there's a tall order to live down."  His eyes glittered when he said it but inside he was hoping it wasn't a portent of things to come.  

She looked up from her work on his palm and laughed.  "My parents were eternally hopeful!" 

"'Were' not 'are'?  So there is still some hope for us poor bastards yet?  Hallelujah!"  He thought she might be offended but instead she laughed.  He didn't see what was so amusing but he wasn't about to say anything to derail this train.  Not when he was so enjoying the ride.  "Assuming that any prior negotiation goes well."

"I do like a man who pays attention."

He had.  Closer than she probably knew.  And he was more than willing to play closer attention still, to every last detail.  He was a very attentive lover.  

And he liked a woman who played hard to get.  "And I like a woman who thinks," he said instead.  There was such a thing as too much truth between strangers.  For him it was all about the chase.   Even when he'd been in a relationship for years—it was still all about the chase.

She thought again about what the lines in his palm had told her and smiled inwardly.  "More of a challenge that way?"

"More of everything that way."

Her hand trembled slightly and she stopped, wiped her palm on her skirt and then bent back to her work, finishing the last few lines and whorls with a steadiness she didn't really feel.  The sheer power of him was intoxicating.  His charisma was an incredible gift.  She could see why the universe wanted to extract such a price from him.  He was young and it would be a long, long time before he was truly happy. 

She sat back with a sigh and wiped off a smudge of henna paste from her thumb.  "Done."

He looked down at his palm and a bark of laughter escaped.  

"So you know what it is then?"  

"Yes."  He did indeed.  Inside an unfamiliar mandala ring of geometric masculine shapes was the Om symbol, representing the impersonal absolute— omnipotent, omnipresent and the source of all manifest existence.  The perfect mark for a man primely confident—and perhaps even a touch overconfident—in his own power.  It was sort of a compliment and a barb all in one.

"Do you like it?"  She didn't look at all worried he might not.

"Well, it's another tall order to live up to.  I'll give you that much."

"There seems to be a lot of that going around tonight."

He sat back and necked his beer.  It was a bit awkward now that his dominant hand was out of commission for a while.  Part of him wondered if she'd reached for that hand on purpose to put him at a disadvantage.  The other part of him wondered what she'd think of she knew that was the hand he masturbated with.  Which only got him thinking about her hands... and the rest of her as well.

To distract himself, he stared at the blackish gook drying on his palm.  "So now what?"

"For the best color you let it dry and leave it on as long as you can."

"Define long."  He really wasn't the patient sort.

Her eyes flashed wickedly.  "Oh, four hours minimum.  Overnight is better."

"You have got to be kidding!"

"You know what they say.  There is no beauty without pain."

He snorted.  "You going to babysit me for those four hours then?  What if I have an itch?"  A teasing light made his eyes shine.  "What if I have to go to the loo?" 

"Oh, I'm sure you'll manage somehow."

He looked at the extensive henna on both her hands.  How had she managed?  With help, obviously.  Which wasn't the answer he wanted.  She was so earthy and sensual it was easy to imagine her dancing about in front of the loo, giggling and telling whomever it was—obviously a man—to hurry the hell up and get her knickers off before she wet herself.  Abstinence his lily white arse!

The thought put him in a sullen mood.  He supposed it could have been a girlfriend of hers helping her.  Which made his thoughts warm in an entirely different direction.  He filed that one away for another time and place. 

"So what happens if I wipe this gunk off now?"

"You'll still have a stain.  It just won't be as dark or last as long."  That sensual glow was back about her and he could feel her feminine power weaving a spell around him as he watched her move and speak.  "It's all about chemistry, really."

His eyebrow went up.  That sounded promising.

"Chemistry and heat."

Even better.  "Heat is good?"

"Heat is definitely good."  Fresh drinks arrived and she gulped at hers, pausing only to squeeze the lime into the club soda first.  "That's one of the most intriguing things.  The color is so individual.  A mix of your own personal chemistry.  How hot you are."

He grinned at that, mostly because she didn't look away from him when she said it.  "Mm-hm."

"And, of course, how much you sweat."

At that he broke into a wide grin.  He was definitely planning on sweating later.  A lot.  A whole lot.  And the look on her face said she knew exactly what he was thinking.

He started to pick at the drying henna absently and she slapped at his hand lightly.  He growled at her and barely managed to restrain the urge to bite her.  Under the pretense of admiring her henna he stroked his finger up her arm instead, desperate to touch her. 

"So I can expect a color like this?"  She nodded.  "Like a nipple only darker?"

"Exactly like that."  Her response was even but he could tell he'd flustered her a little.  Good.

"You have a good job."  He meant that.  She did have a good job.  Creative.  Interesting.  Sensual.  One she was obviously passionate about.

"You do too."

"It pays the bills."  Well, it didn't yet.  Not really.  But it would someday.  Probably someday very soon.    

He watched her graceful motion as she lifted the heavy mass of her hair off her sweaty neck and fanned herself, suddenly over warm.  He was dying to taste her.  Lick her.  Bite her.  Penetrate her.  Feel her under him and over him and throbbing around him—

In the space of that single heartbeat, her face changed.  It warmed and her eyes lit with a fire he hadn't seen until now.  He followed her gaze and frowned when he saw where she was looking.  A swarthy young man with long hair and Arabic features was waving at her from the doorway. 

Fuck.

She got up with a bounce and a smile so wide it hurt to look at it.  He steeled himself for her to just run off but she turned slowly back to him and put out her hand to touch his shoulder. 

"It was nice meeting you, but it's time for me to go."  Her hand lingered there, just an extra moment and then just before she turned and walked away, she squeezed lightly.  Just once.  Just enough for him to know that she was acknowledging that she'd felt the heat too.  That maybe if she hadn't have had someone waiting for her that the night would have ended differently.  He was disappointed and more than a little pissed off, but the unvarnished honesty in the simple gesture touched him in a way he couldn't quite define.  "I enjoyed myself."

Her low soft words were a balm to his wounded pride.  "Not as much as you would have if you'd stayed."  His words were not bitter or spiteful.  Just honest.

Damned fire signs.  

She whispered "I know," and slipped away. 

Just to torture himself, he watched the pair embrace at the door.  They kissed passionately.  Her hands were on his jaw like she couldn't get enough of him and his were wrapped around her possessively.  They slid around to her belly.  Her gently rounded belly!  With her floaty tunic top pulled tight, her ripe figure was revealed to him.  He was stunned.  She must have been six or seven months along at least. 

It suddenly cast a different light over his encounter with her and made him feel uncomfortable, and in truth a bit dirty for having such blatantly carnal thoughts while her body was a vessel for a precious child.  It explained her luminous glow and the earthy sense of feminine power he'd felt bleeding from her tonight. 

The couple left arm in arm without ever looking back.  He was left with a feeling of disgust at the predatory nature of men, his own in particular.  His black mood was only compounded by the fact that he was still uncomfortably on edge sexually and in need of a release he didn't really want anymore.

He could have sought out the blonde, but for the moment he had lost any desire for tawdry meaningless sex after watching the two lovers kiss and hold each other with their child nestled between them, cradled safe from the world.  It didn't negate his desire, it just reminded him of how wretched and lonely an existence he had at times and it threw an uncomfortable spotlight on how low he could sink to satisfy his base desires when what he really wanted was what the two of them had.  Something real.  Something meaningful and lasting. 

Sinking deeper into his melancholy, he switched from beer to bourbon and withdrew into himself, feeling surlier as the night wore on.  He sat there studying the mark on his hand, feeling some twisted stick of satisfaction at the discomfort now that it was dry and pulling at his skin.  Cracks had formed along the lines of his palm.  Once Fatima had left he hadn't been very diligent about looking after it. 

Without warning, his friends piled into the booth with him, well oiled and rowdy, jostling about as they greeted him loudly with the usual male backslapping and crude rejoinders.

"Jesus.  You look like a bloody big girl with that hair!"

"God and you stink too.  What is that smell?  You sick?  You smell like that crap mum used to rub on me—"

"That shit you used to rub on yourself more like, you dirty bugger!"  In the grand tradition of inebriated men, they weren't cutting each other any slack either.

"Not as dirty as you!"    

"Mate, it's been yonks.  Don't think you are getting out of it this time.  First shout is on you."

They were all talking over each other and he all but growled.  "You all lost your fucking watches?  It's half past—"

"What is that shit on your hand?"  Everyone stopped and looked.

Fuck.  

"Nothing."  Not caring one jot that it would ruin the fine cloth, he grabbed the nearest napkin and wiped it off.  Or at least he wiped away as much as he could.  What was in this shit?  Superglue?  "Piss off." 

His palm was a brilliant pumpkin orange—where it wasn't covered by thick, sticky caked-on black goop.

"You shit yourself?  Mate, they make this thing called a bidet.  You might have heard of it, even in this backwards country."

"Fuck off."

"Ohh.  Someone's crabby."

He slung them all the bird and pushed away from the table heading for the bathroom, leaving them laughing and falling about themselves in his wake.

Arseholes.  God, it was good to see them.  Even if he was in a mood.

It took a bit of scrubbing to get the damned stuff off his palm.  He didn't stop to study the bright orange mark, not wanting to call any more attention to himself than absolutely necessary.  He splashed a bit of water on his face and glanced at the familiar reflection for a moment while he debated his options.  Stay or go?  Go was sounding pretty good.  He could always catch up with them tomorrow.  He just wasn't in the mood to hang about and listen to them talk shit and lie about how many women they'd shagged.  Mostly he wasn't in the mood to talk any shit himself tonight. 

When he returned to the table it was obvious his mates were so far into their cups that they wouldn't miss him.  One already had a girl on his knee and two others had gone to try their luck chatting up the barflies. 

"Leaving already?"  

"You getting old on us?"

"It's the water over here, lads.  Makes a man go soft....  That's why there's so many poofters."

"That's California, you sad sack.  This is.... where the fuck are we again?"

"Who cares as long as the girls are willing?  I say let him go... more girls for us."  They fell about laughing.  

He ignored the peppering of comments questioning his manhood, his sanity and his ability to hold his drink.  "Tomorrow.  Breakfast.  My hotel."  There was a chorus of groans.  "Fine.  Lunch then, you lazy cunts.  Be there or buy your own bloody food.  There is beer to be drunk, stories to be told and work to be done."

"Sod off!"  Someone threw a wedge of lemon at him.  

Another one finger salute saw him away.  They were all smiling when he left.  So was he, despite his mood.  He had missed them but tomorrow would be soon enough to catch up.  Tonight all he wanted was a cold shower, a few dozen of those teeny bottles from the mini bar, and a big—and blessedly empty—bed to fall into.

As luck would have it, things didn't turn out quite according to plan.  Back at his hotel, the reality of a cold shower wasn't quite so appealing.  He stood there, naked, eyeing the taps and shivering in the chilly room before finally giving up.  A lonely wank sounded like a much less painful option.  A bit pathetic, maybe, but definitely warmer.  With the way he was feeling under his skin tonight, a cold shower probably wouldn't have helped much anyway.  He was on fire.

Stacking a little army of mini scotch bottles on the nightstand, he fell into bed with a wistful sigh. He wondered in passing how many people knew what it was really like not to sleep in their own beds for weeks or months at a time?  How weird and disorienting it could be.  How lonely.

The design on his palm was weird and disorienting, too.  It has already started changing color from a brilliant pumpkin to a deep burnt orange.  What was it she'd said?  Body chemistry and heat?  With the way he was feeling, it may well be pitch black come morning.  

Scrubbing his rough hands over his bristly face, he turned over and pulled the pillows over his head in a sad attempt to block out the world.  The cocoon of quiet darkness only seemed to make the crowded disturbing thoughts in his head all that much louder.  Under him, his cock throbbed uncomfortably where it was trapped between his body and the bed's soft embrace.

He couldn't ignore it any more than he could ignore the images flashing through his head.  It wasn't the busty blonde his mind kept returning to.  She'd faded from his memory before he'd even left the club.  Women like her were a dime a dozen and just as forgettable.  He tried not to think of Fatima.  It didn't seem right; not with the glow of real love in her eyes and her belly swollen with another man's child. 

It wasn't her shape that put him off.  He'd always had a special tenderness towards pregnant women and his creative mind had a slew of sinfully erotic fantasies about their heavy breasts and round fertile bodies.  It was just now that he'd seen Fatima pregnant, he couldn't get that image out of his mind and he couldn't separate Fatima the mother from Fatima the woman.  It had so shocked him that he couldn't even picture her any other way but pregnant.  Nor could he imagine her full of his babies.  He'd been attracted to her, yes, but he didn't know her, didn't love her, and just couldn't make that mental leap.  Not even for the sake of the release he so desperately craved.

There was one woman from his past he could—and had—imagined as the mother of his children, but it didn't seem right to think of her that way either.  They'd had an on-again off-again relationship for years, and right now they were cycling through another fallow period apart.  While they had remained dear friends as always, she was currently dating another man and it just seemed wrong to think of her heavy with his babies now—even though on some level it had always felt so right.  His personal life was a fucking train wreck.

Tormented in both mind and body, he thrashed restlessly and finally slipped a hand under his body.  Attempting to appease the demons scratching away at his sanity, he tried to put the thought of any woman from his mind and focused instead on the immediate physical sensations that his touch brought.  He thrust tentatively against his palm, his breath hitching lightly at the friction—it felt good, but it wasn't nearly enough.  He palmed himself and squeezed gently.

For a brief moment he felt a bloom of hazy satisfaction and he couldn't help but smile at the familiar feel of his cock in his hand.  It was easy.  No one to please but himself.  No expectations to live up to.  No condoms to finesse.  No worries about the possibility of an unwanted pregnancy.  Maybe it wouldn't be so hard to lose himself in the physicality of it all, even if he couldn't quite silence that dissenting voice.  The easier path is always less rewarding...

As if to spite that voice, he rolled over and threw back the covers seeking a visual image to focus on in lieu of a more ephemeral fantasy.  The crude display was both uninspiringly banal and yet arousing.  He liked the way his heavy cock looked in his hand, thick and potent.  On some level it looked the way he felt in that moment—somewhere between powerful and menacing.  Especially when he grabbed the base hard and squeezed roughly.  The color deepened and the throbbing became more pronounced.  Almost painful.  He squeezed again, more violently this time, forcing the first few drops of clear fluid up and out.  He expected to see it, and yet it pleased him nonetheless.  Proof of his virility.  And it looked almost like art against the backdrop of the bold henna.     

It had been a long time since he'd studied himself so closely.  Though he was highly sexed and masturbated when he didn't have a lover—and also occasionally when he did—it was usually a matter of routine, like brushing his teeth, only more pleasant.  Bed.  Book.  Orgasm.  Sleep.  If anything, it was an easy way of releasing the tensions of the day.  It was rarely so involved.  Or so graphic.

He kept rubbing and the drips gradually became a seeping trickle, easing the slow glide of his foreskin.  Drawing his knees up and out, his head dropped back and his eyes closed.  Without the crude visual to sustain the darker edge to his hunger, his touch gentled.  Still centered in the physical, he was unaware of the change from perfunctory to erotic.  It ceased to be the touch of a man focused on achieving an orgasm as crudely and directly as possible and became instead the touch of the lover his secret heart longed for.

One hand drifted across his stomach, coming up to caress his nipple before sliding up his neck.  It was still the rougher touch of a man, but his erotic scope had widened beyond his genitals.  Rubbing his neck, he pushed his fingers into his hair.  It felt nice.  He liked the feeling of soft hair between his fingers.  Especially a woman's.  With a sigh he flung his heavy forearm over his eyes.  The weight and the darkness made it easier to sink down even deeper into sensation. 

Cupping his scrotum, he explored its lightly furred texture, hefting the plump weight and manipulating its fragile contents.  His hand drifted lower still and his legs parted wider, automatically allowing a fingertip to venture absently into the crease below.  There was no steeling himself; no tension at the thought of unwanted penetration like there would be if the touch had belonged to a stranger.  When his heart was engaged and he wholly trusted his lover, he welcomed any exploration she made of his body.   

His hand gentled even more as some unconscious part of his brain flickered and an old memory stirred but didn't quite surface.  He retained the sense of it, how it felt to be touched in love.  The languid movements of his hands over his own skin was an echo of that bygone passion, sensuous and unhurried, familiar and comfortable.... just as her touch had been once—and God willing, might be again someday.

Despite that soft languor, the rising heat could not be ignored forever.  The pressure built and his hand crept back down to finish what he'd started.  He could feel the trickle of sweat now and planted the soles of his feet into the bed as his hips began to thrust his aching flesh into his fist, over and over until the burning need became unbearable.  With one hand still wrapped around his thrusting cock, the other pressed flat against his thigh in counterpoint to the agonizing pressure within. 

His breathing became a pant and his fingers curled, digging painfully into the flesh near his hip, again echoing his phantom lover's touch.  That was his favorite part of their lovemaking, that singular moment when he had pushed her so far beyond herself that she was frantic, uncaring if she caused him pain in her desperation to be as close to him as physically possible.  That he could reduce his tender lover to such an animalistic place was an incredible thrill.  She had the power to reduce him to a sexual beast.  It was something he could understand—and his mastery of her in that moment, however right or wrong, made him feel like a man.  Love was vulnerability and even the illusion of control was better than none at all.        

She would shove herself up at him and he would thrust in as deeply as he could, teetering on the edge of orgasm himself.  That was the moment.  He would feel her clawing and biting at him, locking him to her.  The sharp pain served to focus him to hone the razor edge his arousal until it was a searing agony, and then their frenzied grasping would reach a fevered pitch and she would whimper his name as she came on his big cock.  The best part was that she wouldn't let him go—but instead of digging painfully at him with her nails, she'd just hold him tighter with her strong hands, gripping him hard with her fingertips, letting him know that she wanted him there, deep inside her body when he came.

Thrashing on the sweaty sheets, he groaned in need and rolled to his stomach.  It was easier to come that way.  He wanted leverage.  He wanted to be on top, to thrust against something, even if the bed's soft embrace was only a hollow facsimile of his true desire.  He wanted not to be distracted by that fucking mark on his palm.  He shuddered on the edge of release, straining for something just beyond his reach.  Sinking his teeth into the heavy flesh of his arm, he bit down hard.  It wasn't the pain he needed to send him over, but that feeling of his phantom lover's desperation.

His orgasm was immediate.  It lanced through him.  He felt it in the soles of his feet, in the small of his back, in his throat.  His breath became a grunt.  Tremors wracked him, every muscle painfully tensed—except for that one deep inside his pelvis that relaxed just enough to allow for a rhythmic gush of fluid. 

And again.  

And again. 

And again.

His face was tingly and hot.  His head was buzzing.  He gasped for air.  And in all of that, the hot slippery splashes against his fist and belly still registered wetly in his foggy brain.  The bed groaned as he slumped forward bonelessly, head turned to the side where he lay heaving and weak. 

No soft voice panted hotly against his neck or whispered in his ear.  No hands dug into his skin, urging him to come, pressing him deeper, letting him know he was cherished and loved.  No body received his in welcome.  No heart beat against his own.

Rolling over, he grimaced at the aftermath coating his hand and groin and wiped it away with the corner of the sheet.  There.  Better.  Wrapping his hand around his sensitive cock, he squeezed gently, forcing out the last few drops.  His sluggish brain was beginning to function again and he wiped away the pearly drops, studying them as he smeared them between his finger and thumb.

It was messy and inconvenient, but pretty miraculous stuff, all things considered.  Sprayed on someone, it could be degrading—or erotic, depending on the situation.  Released too early or in the wrong circumstances and it could be embarrassing.  Shared with a lover it could be tender and romantic.  Nurtured inside her, it could create life.  Like the mark on his palm.  Om.  The beginning and ending of all things. 

At times it was an aggravation.  At times it seemed too precious to waste.  He licked his thumb and followed it with a belt of scotch.  The fiery burn further numbed his already hazy mind and he drifted towards sleep.  Who would have imagined the night would turn out like this?  He began the evening with two women and wound up bereft and alone.  But maybe—if he was lucky—he'd dream of the one woman who made putting up with the rest of them worthwhile.