Unfortunately not; she inwardly groaned. He was standing, half-turned away from her, slicing something at the kitchen bench and wearing low-riding denims, his hair slightly damp as if he, too, was not long out of the shower; his torso and feet were bare.
The leap in her pulse was instant and she drew in a deep breath, the scent of bacon and coffee making her stomach rumble. Hearing the embarrassingly loud noise, Zach turned towards her, his leonine eyes raking her from head to toe in that intense way that made her body burn.
He cursed, a swift, harsh sound, before he brought the side of his thumb up to his mouth.
Realising what had happened, she rushed to his side. ‘Oh no, did you just cut yourself?’
She took his hand in hers, examining the line of blood that appeared as soon as he stopped sucking on it. ‘You need to wash this under running water so we can see how deep it is.’
‘It’s not deep.’
But he complied and Farah tested the skin around the cut. He was right. It wasn’t deep. ‘It will still need a plaster. Do you have one?’
‘No idea.’ His eyes darkened as he watched her. ‘Don’t you think it’s strange that I always seem to bleed around you?’
‘That only happened once before,’ she said indignantly. ‘And you can hardly hold me responsible for this incident.’
‘You walk in wearing nothing but my T-shirt, what do you expect? It’s more of a weapon than the damned sword.’ His eyes drifted over her again. ‘Please tell me you at least have panties on underneath.’
Her skin felt hot under his eyes. ‘You ripped them.’ Right about the time he’d fallen to his knees.
He stilled and she knew he was remembering the same thing that she was. ‘So I did.’ He drew her into the circle of his arms. ‘How are you feeling this morning?’
Embarrassed. Confused. Wanton... ‘Good,’ she said gruffly, unsure what the post-sex etiquette was with a man who was still a virtual stranger to her.
‘You’re not sore?’ His eyes scanned hers. ‘I wasn’t exactly as gentle as I had promised for your first time.’
Farah knew she was blushing and hated the way he so effortlessly undermined her self-possession while he remained so composed. It hardly seemed fair. ‘Not sore at all,’ she lied blithely. If he was unaffected by her, then she was equally unaffected by him.
About to pull away and ask for a coffee, she gasped as his hands skimmed up her waist and cupped her breasts. Her eyes flew to his as her hands manacled his wrists, her breathing uneven. ‘Zach?’
He strummed his thumbs across her nipples. ‘How about here? Was I too rough here?’
He knew he hadn’t been. He knew right now she was so turned on she was about to melt at his feet. ‘I... I... What about your finger?’
He lifted her onto the bench and stepped between her legs. ‘My finger is not the part of my anatomy that is concerning me at the moment.’ He tugged at the zip on his jeans, his eyes on her mouth. ‘Something else is.’
Farah’s insides clenched hungrily as that something else sprang thick and long from the opening in his jeans. She licked her lips and did what she had wanted to do ever since she’d felt him against her: she reached out and touched him, circling him with her fist.
He groaned and gripped the bench either side of her hips, tension drawing the skin on his face tight. Forgetting all about how awkward and confused he made her feel, she moved her hand experimentally along his smooth, solid length, loving the loss of composure she saw in his expression.
‘Firmer,’ he rasped, his head bowed back, the muscles in his neck straining.
‘Like this?’ She stroked him again. Harder.
His nostrils flared as he brought heavy-lidded eyes back to hers. ‘Oh yeah, just like that.’
Not giving herself time to think, Farah bobbed her head and took the tip of him into her mouth. The sound he made was deep and guttural, and his hands came up to cup the back of her head. The taste of him was hot and male on her tongue and a rush of liquid heat pooled between her thighs.
‘Enough.’ Zach urged her head up and yanked his T-shirt over her head, pushing her back on the bench and following her down to clamp his mouth over hers. He pushed her legs wide, his finger sliding inside her, and he groaned again. ‘So wet, so ready, habiba.’ And then he was there, sliding her forward off the bench and onto him.
Five minutes later, Farah was a sweaty mess on the bed with a heavy male panting on top of her.