Her tummy knotted. “Why?”
“A groom should have the honour of undressing his bride,” he said, simply, moving behind her and standing so close his powerful thighs brushed the backs of her legs and bottom. His hands came to her bare shoulders, and she sucked in a large gulp of air as he ran his fingers over her flesh, exploring, investigating, familiarizing himself.
She bit down on her lower lip, aware a groan was making its way from the pit of her stomach to the tip of her tongue, and wanting to contain it as long as possible. He ran his hands lower, to the tops of her arms, before connecting with the lace of the fabric and sliding it lower and lower, slowly, so, so, slowly, so the dress shifted downwards, over her breasts and back, revealing her to the room, if not to him. And she was grateful he was behind her, so she could take a moment to get used to this, to brace for the fact he was going to see her naked.
He moved his hands to her waist, holding the dress there, leaving it, as his fingers feathered over her skin, brushing the smooth, creamy flesh. She held her breath as his fingers crept upwards slowly – so slowly – until they brushed the underside of her breasts and she could no longer stave off the groan. It escaped low and hungry. His head dropped lower, his breath fanning the sensitive flesh at the side of her neck as his hands lifted higher, brushing over her breasts so lightly she pushed forward, needing more.
She thought she heard him laugh, but perhaps she’d imagined it, because when she leaned back, pressing against him, surrendering to what he was doing to her completely, she felt his rock hard body behind her – all of him, so hard, so incredibly hard that her cheeks flushed pink. And now his hands weren’t slow, nor gentle. They cupped her breasts, feeling their weight in his hands and he spoke to her, low and soft, in words that were familiar yet not, words that were close to Abu Fayan but must have been a dialect for she didn’t know them; words that sounded magical and breathed magic all around her.
When his fingers curled around her nipples, squeezing them, she let out a cry of surprise, hoarse and low at the same time, and then her body was writhing and she wanted more of this, more of him plucking at her nipples, pulling at their sensitive tips, flicking them with his insistent fingers. She pushed her body backwards and one hand dropped lower, to the dress, and inside it, gliding down her flat stomach to the flimsy lace thong she’d been dressed in that morning.
Per Abu Fayan traditions, she’d been waxed bare, and his fingers glided over the flesh of her womanhood, parting her seam as his other hand continued to torment her nipple. He brushed her sex until he found the sensitive cluster of nerves at her clitoris and he moved faster, and now his tongue lashed her neck and she whimpered, her body quivering and shaking for a completely different reason.
Pleasure built inside of her like some kind of wave; a wave she’d never before surfed and yet it had no care for her lack of experience, it was grabbing her and dragging her along the surface, so she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. She tilted her head back and now his teeth clipped the skin at her neck, just enough to make her cry out and then he was sucking, while his fingers plucked her nipple again and again and his hand drove her higher and higher and she was – in that moment – incoherent, and completely his, just as she’d vowed in the ceremony.
“Look at yourself,” he muttered, turning her slightly, angling her so she could see their reflection in the mirror, placed in the corner of the room.
Her instinct was to look away, but he growled. “Watch yourself come, watch what your husband can do to you.”
And then, she couldn’t look away, she was mesmerized, as his dark head dipped forward and he chose another place on her shoulder and began to suck and she saw he’d marked her flesh, marked her with a pale, pink circle from his ministrations, and he was doing so again, and a rush of pleasure fired inside of her at this – at being marked. It wasn’t worthy of her and in a calmer moment, she might push the idea away but in this mad slice of time, high in a tower above Abu Faya, she felt it all.
She felt the depravity of having sex with someone she didn’t know, of having married a stranger. Worse, a man she actively despised! And she gave herself over to it.
He moved his hand lower, then drove a finger inside of her and she bucked backwards as stars filled her eyes at this unfamiliar invasion. He lifted his head, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror, and he spoke low and huskily in the strange, ancient dialect and with a finger inside of her and his hand moving over her breasts, he held her tight, he watched her, as her very first orgasm drew her onto the top of the wave and tumbled her deep, deep under the surface…
Her innocence was startlingly obvious, even if he hadn’t known as many women as he had. The way she trembled and shook, the wide-eyed look of surprise as her orgasm wrapped around her, he felt her inexperience in every single minute change of expression, every husky exhalation, every movement.
He stared at her, his eyes devouring her reflection as wave after wave of pleasure had her face crumpled and her body vibrating in his arms.
Malik loved sex.
He’d loved it for as
long as he could remember.
And because he’d never had the pressure of carrying on the royal lineage, he’d been happy – and free – to sleep with whomever he wanted. Addan had turned a blind eye to his younger brother’s ways, even when Malik knew how little Addan approved.
Malik loved sex. But sleeping with this woman, the woman his brother had loved?
It tore through him, he was sickened by the very idea – worse, he was sickened by how much he wanted her.
Sex is just sex, he told himself, staring at her pale, near-naked body – so American, so different to his caramel complexion, skin that had been ordained for this desert country’s climate.
This woman was like satin and moonlight, the petal of a fragile, cream-coloured rose. Her hair was the colour of the beaches of Tharani, all gold and glossy with silver strands flecked through. Her nipples were pale pink, so sweet, giving new meaning to the idea of strawberries and cream. They were hard too, begging for his touch. Her body was covered in goose bumps. He stared down at her, telling himself she was Addan’s, she would always be Addan’s, except in this one way.
Her body had to be his.
It was unavoidable.
This was just sex.
He’d had enough meaningless sex to be able to add this – to add her – to the catalogue. Addan had never slept with her – no one had. They were married, and within moments, he would possess her completely.
He could absolve himself of any guilt here, and yet he didn’t. Guilt was there, possessing him, controlling him, tormenting him. She was Addan’s.
Sophia’s lips parted and her body shifted, the shock-waves of her first orgasm making her moan a little.
There was nothing for it – they would sleep together until she was pregnant and then he would go back to pretending he could ignore her.