And then he was pushing her back with his large body, back toward the bed, all the while his mouth devoured hers with rough, almost desperate strokes.
With his hands on her hips, he braced her fall onto the bed. Stood at the edge and looked down at her with molten gaze. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“That I wish I could use telekinesis to make that towel drop,” she drawled, pushing to her elbows.
“If my wife wishes it...” he said and then the towel was falling to the floor.
“Oh...” Fractured and desperate, the sound fell from her lips as she studied him to her heart’s content.
Washboard abdomen, tapered hips, rock-hard thighs and the thick-veined length of his erection that rose up toward his belly...her womb tightened remembering the pleasure he could wield. She smoothed her hands down her belly as if she could calm the need clamoring inside of her. As if control of any sort wasn’t a big, fat lie around him.
Powerful sheikh or not outside of this tent, here he was, quite simply, her man. Panty-meltingly gorgeous with a body honed to hard strength.
I will touch no woman ever again.
“You’re all mine, Sheikh,” she said, boldly raking a fingertip down one rock-hard thigh.
His hands drifted to her ankles and clasped one and softly slid her up the bed. He climbed up after her, pinning her to the bed by her dress, his hips snuggling between her legs, his weight on his elbows.
Muscles gleaming in the flickering light, copper-hued skin stretched tight over those pectorals, he leaned over her like some dark warrior claiming his prize.
He pulled back to his knees. One calloused hand found her ankle, moved up her leg, palm down. “Your mouth, that’s what got us into this trouble in the first place, yes?”
The soft skin behind her knee, the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, from the line of her hip to the seam of her silk panties, those fingers learned all of her anew. It cost her several breaths to find her voice, unsteady and hoarse as it is. “So, what, this is all my fault?”
Her thighs squeezed as his big, callused palm pressed farther. Gaze greedy and hot and all kinds of wicked, he watched her reaction. As if he enjoyed her coming apart as much as he enjoyed making her.
Head rolling back, shoulders coming away from the bed, she moaned as his palm covered her mound and pressed. All of her being pulsed under his hand, wet, and aching and desperate.
His other hand snuck under her dress and then he was pulling those wisps of lace down with one hand and pulling her down on the bed to straddle his legs.
While she watched hungrily, hanging upon the knife-edge of desire, he bared her lower body while her dress stayed snug over her aching breasts. Her legs, her thighs and the slick, drenched folds of her womanhood, all of her.
And looked at her.
“Beautiful,” he muttered in a tight, clenched voice, the glow from the lanterns highlighting the sharp sweep of his cheekbones, the sensuality of his lower lip.
After all this time, Lauren felt the heat rushing and pooling under her skin, flushing her with color. She hadn’t been a virgin, but nothing had prepared her for his brand of pulse-pounding, soul-baring kind of passion in New York. Without promises, without the usual, useless rituals of dating, without her knowledge even, he had stolen a part of her and imprinted himself on her.
No wonder she had followed him across the world.
“Zafir...please...”
His hand on her knee stopped her when she tried, too late but still, to shield her sex from his hungry gaze. And by the glint of masculine satisfaction in his gaze, he knew it. He liked that she trusted him, that she was putty in his hands while he did as he pleased.
He parted her sex with a possessive, intrusive, yet arousing touch and stroked her.
A hoarse moan left her mouth.
“Wet...you’re so wet for me. How do I take this slow?” He sounded almost angry as if his loss of control was her fault. As if he didn’t thoroughly relish having her drenched in the desire he created in her with one mere look.
Lauren saw the deft flick of his wrist before she felt his long fingers inside her.
A million nerve endings in her groin went ballistic.
Sobbing and moaning, Lauren gave in to the fire he set inside of her.
Her body arched off the bed as he slicked his fingers in and out while his thumb pressed down at the swollen nub crying for his attention. Again and again, he pressed on that bundle while she writhed under his touch.
And just when a tremor started in her lower belly, he withdrew his fingers.
She cried, so close to release and yet so far away again. Her fists landed on his shoulder, his chest as he knelt over her. Opening her eyes, she met the dark, male heat glittering in his.
A golden flame, an incinerating hunger.
“I can’t wait any longer,” he said, through clenched teeth, his hands roughly pushing the silk folds out of his way. Almost apologetic. “I should have known...”