Lion Head Mesa Viper

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A swallow, hard and encircling her now tightened throat.
It is your profession, yes, she repeats. How badly she wished to reach out, to wrap spindly arms around her waist and allow the night to carry them away. but I am not a man. I am not a predator. Her voice fizzles into a whisper, a willowy husk that rings out in the desert air.
A fellahin. It would not be, by any means, against the word of Akashingo to engage; to allow this. Encouraged by palace law, even. But she thinks of Khaba, of how his lips graced every woman who surrounded him in his lair, and the thought of coming anywhere close to such a lecherous, beastly act made her stomach twist.
Zaahira has the upper hand. Normally, this would have pleased her; if it were for fun, perhaps she would revel in it. But this is not for fun — a difference of class, a forbidden fruit, a potential abuse of power.
She feels almost monstrous.
I do not wish to exploit you, Eset, an utterance, shaking, tongue between teeth. I could not live with myself if I caused you harm. If I used my own position for pleasure.
But she cannot help herself. The touch of her cheek draws her forward, and instinctively, she melts into it. Do you want it? Truly. You do not have to say yes just because it is your job. another slowly drawn breath. The only thing I will command of you is honesty.