Her tent was identical to the borrowed tent I shared with Sorcha. It was small, made of camel skins, with a floor of layered, thin, wool blankets. She had a clockwork lamp, which she lit when we crept inside. Yellow light pooled in a corner of her tent. The air was cool in the tent, but it was still and kept out the sandy desert night winds. The tent was small, and the heat from two bodies would warm the air inside it in only a few minutes.

Shayat pulled off her robe and unwound her head scarf. She looked at me, smirking, clear-eyed, utterly self-possessed. “You’re sure about this?”

“I’m not sure what you’re asking,” I said. I thought it was clear how sure I was.

She ran a hand through her hair. It caught the yellow lamplight and shone gold. “You’re attached to me. I’m curious about you. That’s not even.”

“Oh.” I smiled at her. “I know that. That’s all right.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“All right,” she said. “If you’re sure.” She leaned into me, kissed me, and I kissed her back.

Her skin was warm and smooth as silk. Her breath was hot, enveloping. Her pointed tongue darted along mine, sure and confident. She pushed me down onto my back, and I felt the press of her body along mine. I held her face gently in my hands, and she slipped a hand beneath my shirt. Her fingers scratched lightly at my ribs, inching higher and higher. She came up for air. She sat back and pulled off her shirt. She let me look; there was a hot, heavy moment of looking where I drank her in. Her arms were long, toned. Her shoulders were broad, set with proud collarbones that flared out like wings. She held her chin up slightly, and the length of her neck called to me. The curve of her breasts caught my eye and would not let it go again. The hard point of her black nipples in the cold desert air cut through civility, politeness, pretension. I waited, trapped, at her mercy, waited for what she wanted next. I wanted to be taken. I wanted to be used in her service.

“Take off your clothes.”