The Testament

She laughed again and held on to him as they spun, her arms around his neck trembling slightly with the onrush of her emotions. With her mother's delicate features and cool, porcelain skin, she possessed a freshness that was appealing. Her long black hair was pulled back in a ponytail, which whipped this way and that as she whirled around.

For Cornadoro's part, it was easy for him to make her believe he liked her-he did like her, in the way he liked virtually all women: their animal scent set his blood to boiling. There resided in him a certain insatiability that was like an itch he'd long ago given up trying to scratch. He wanted what was between a woman's legs, simple as that. And as superb a lover as Camille Muhlma

Camille was brilliant, no question, but the basic problem with her was that she was old. What he craved most was fresh meat, young and dewy and luscious in its i

As their dancing progressed he could feel her falling under his spell. It was a physical thing he experienced in his throat and his arms and his groin; it was like sex, like death. The blackness of the abyss was where he drew his sexual energy, it was what made it so feral, so irresistible.

He danced with her and, as he did so, he could feel that old familiar feeling creeping along his skin. He loved Irema and he made her feel it, though, of course, the source of it remained unknown to her. He loved her for the information with which she would provide him.

No lights were on when he brought her to his hotel room. The glimmer of the city came through the jalousied window in pale horizontal stripes, illuminated her like a neon sign. He told her to strip and she did, slowly before his greedy, glittering eyes. Then he told her what else to do. She didn't seem to mind; in fact, she liked it. She was used to being ordered around, there was a high degree of comfort in the known, but he suspected from looking at her that wasn't what she wanted, not really. And tonight he was determined to give her what she really wanted.

Naked, she looked more like a girl, small breasts, slim hips, tiny waist. But her legs were long and nicely rounded, and her rump… He had her continue to stand with her back to him, her arms at her sides. She was wholly unself-conscious about her nakedness, unafraid about what he might do with her. He had her trust, and this, more than anything, inflamed him.

He popped the buttons on his shirt pulling it off, and he was already so rigid that his trousers gave him a struggle. She turned in response to his growl of frustration and used her nimble fingers to unbuckle his belt, unzip him. As his trousers came down so did she, until she was on her knees. He ripped the band from her ponytail, twined his fingers in her loosed hair.

When he lifted her, her legs opened, her thighs gripping his hips as she gave a little moan. He felt her skin against him, warm, smooth as ivory, the bony hardness of youth still upon her. Enough to tip any man over the edge, but he held on, leading her up the sexual arc until, shuddering and groaning, she reached the apex. One wasn't enough for her, he'd known that from the start. Hot little thing. Like a star, intent on burning to a cinder. He waited her out, he was adept at that; in fact, the denial fired his nerve endings to the fever pitch he longed for, had to have.

But he needed her to feel that, too. She didn't have his reserves, didn't understand what was happening, trembled uncontrollably as he brought her to the final brink, then pulled them both back, over and over. Tears came and she clasped him desperately, implored him to finish it.

It wasn't until she said, "Why are you waiting, it's torture, I'm dying," that he ended it for both of them, so that she crawled up onto him, over him, seeking a way to be inside him as he emptied himself inside her.

Afterward, she asked for it again so quickly he almost laughed. She had never come down from her last orgasm, she was soft and warm as taffy, the black pupils of her eyes as dilated as if he had given her opium. This was the moment he had been manufacturing all evening, the moment to ask her for what he wanted while she wasn't thinking clearly, or at all.

"Of course I'll help you." She guided him back into her with a deep-felt sigh. "No one has ever asked me for help before."

"Not even your brothers?"

"All I ever get from them are orders." Her fingers cupped him, caressing. "You'd think they'd be more enlightened." She maneuvered herself above him, straddling his girth, stretching her thighs to their limits. The slight pain made the pleasure all the sweeter. "That's what we were talking about in the bar when you came over."

"They all feel that way, don't they," he said, "all your girlfriends."

"Oh, yes," she moaned, but he couldn't be sure that was an answer to his question because she was trembling again from head to toe and her eyes were rolling in her head.

He held on to her as she let go, feeling the frantic bucking of wild youthful energy as if it were a shot of adrenaline into his own system.

At last she was spent, or as near as she could get, but still she wanted to hear the phrase he had pumped out all night long, "Whatever you want, Irema. Whatever you want." When had she ever heard that from a man? In her secret discussions with her girlfriends, sitting in front of a mirror while she applied lipstick, in her dreams at night as she tossed and turned in fretful sleep. But in real life, from a flesh-and-blood male-one who held her, kissed her, caressed her, entered her with such tenderness, until she screamed at him to do otherwise? This night, never before. This night only.

Which was why she would do anything to ensure that it never ended, including convincing herself that everything he told her was true, must be true because of how she felt about him, because of what he had given her freely, and would do so again whenever she wanted it.

"Your father and I work for the Order." He held her gently, rocking her, just as she liked. "The only difference is he works in the field-in his case, here in Trabzon-while I am stuck in an office in Rome. For the most part. Every so often, I'm asked to go into the field to check up on operatives. But anonymously, you know. So your father must never know that I was here or that I was asking about his activities. It would cost me my job, with no opportunity to explain myself, do you understand, Irema?"

She nodded. Her heart was thumping as hard as if he were still thrusting into her. She vaguely understood that her father was more than a rug merchant. For one thing, there were the men who sought him out-they came and never left with a rug. For another, her father was far richer than any rug merchant of her knowledge. Also, people-Georgian, Russian, Turkish, whatever-inclined their heads to him when they passed him in the street. He commanded respect. So, though she had never been allowed in the shop during business hours, her eyes and ears had been open, picking up bits and pieces here and there, far more, she suspected, than her father knew.

"I've been here three days now, talking to his associates," he said, "and everything seems in order, except for one thing."