studying the illustration of the Devil
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that my father was actually showing him。 Not only my breasts； but as if drunk
with the vision of me； he was gazing at my hair； my neck； at all of me。 He was
so attracted to me that he was giving voice to those sweet nothings he
couldn’t summon as a youth； from his glances； I realized how he was in awe of
my proud demeanor； my manners； my upbringing； the way I waited patiently
and bravely for my husband； and the beauty of the letter I’d written him。
I felt anger toward my father； who was setting things up so I wouldn’t be
able to marry again。 I was also fed up with those illustrations he was having
the miniaturists make in imitation of the Frankish masters； and I was sick of
his recollections of Venice。
When I closed my eyes again—Allah； it wasn’t my own desire—in my
thoughts； Black had approached me so sweetly that in the dark I could feel him
beside me。 Suddenly； I sensed that he’d e up from behind me； he was
kissing the nape of my neck； the back of my ears； and I could feel how strong
he was。 He was solid； large and hard； and I could lean on him。 I felt secure。 My
nape tingled； my nipples were stiffening。 It seemed as if there in the dark； with
my eyes closed； I could feel his enlarged member behind me； close to me。 My
head spun。 What was Black’s like？ I wondered。