Male pride and ego flared in his gut.
No woman had ever treated his love-making with such clear contempt, and suddenly, he was fired by a desire to exceed every expectation she had, to show her just what it felt like to lose her mind to sex.
He could offer her nothing else – no love, no companionship, no comparison to what she and Addan had known.
But he could give her pleasure. He dropped his head to hers, his mouth so close to hers he felt her warm breath snatching from her.
“I’m going to make you scream my name, sharafaha,” he ground out, tipping his cock over her seam. She moaned softly, her eyes still flecked with anxiety. “Again,” he nudged her thighs further apart. “And again,” he pushed his arousal deeper, and her moan grew louder. “And again.”
Then, he thrust into her hard and fast, kissing her mouth, swallowing her little gasp of surprise at his possession, absorbing her cry, tasting the brief shock of pain, waiting for it to pass before he pulled out of her and drove himself back in.
She was very still beneath him, her small, fragile body completely unused to this invasion. “Don’t stop.” It was a whisper. A hoarse plea that surprised them both.
What surprised him more though was how much he liked hearing her say that. He was ashamed by how much he wanted her to beg him.
“Don’t stop, who?” he murmured against her ear, dropping his mouth to her breast, rubbing his stubbled jaw over her sensitive flesh before rolling a delectable nipple in his mouth, his tongue tracing the erect tip, feeling every little dip in her skin, tormenting her with the lightness of his touch. He pulled himself from her, just enough for her to whimper in complaint, and lift her hips off the bed.
His laugh was deep in his throat. He held himself above her, his power going straight to his head, and his rock-hard arousal.
But she stayed quiet, and when he lifted his eyes, looking towards her face, she was glaring at him with pink-faced indignant silence.
“Tell me what you want,” he challenged. It wasn’t just male ego; this came from deeper with him – the part of him that needed reassurance that this was okay, that she wanted this, that having sex with him wasn’t just an act of servitude and obligation.
She glared at him wordlessly, as though the very last thing she intended to do was verbalize her own needs.
He laughed under his breath, then thrust into her, his eyes watching her response, reveling in her obvious relief as his body possessed hers. Her responsiveness though was something he hadn’t prepared for.
“You’re so damned wet,” he groaned, his hands balling in her hair, holding her steady. His eyes bore into hers, hard, tight, demanding. Anyone who knew Malik would have recognized the cold blade of his resolve. Malik was not a man who backed down from anything, as his adversaries had discovered again and again.
“I want you to beg me,” he said, simply, his eyes locked to hers.
“Why?” It was a whisper, barely audible.
His expression tightened, his gaze dropped to her lips. “I have no wish to force you to sleep with me,” he said, finally, his eyes holding hers. Something passed through her features, a look of comprehension and pity, a pity that made him want to scream, because he’d had enough pity, he’d seen enough sorrow and empathy to last a lifetime.
“You think you’re forcing me?”
Her eyes glared back at him. Neither spoke. They simply stared, an intensity in their expressions that was full of flame and defiance.
But Sophia was unlike any
woman he’d ever met. Her eyes held his as she lifted her hips, and he didn’t pull away, so she drew him into her tight core, and before he could pull out, she wrapped her legs around his hips, holding him there, so deep, so completely buried in her that his head was spinning.
“We have to do this,” she said, simply, and once again he felt a surge of determination to remove any idea of duty and obligation from her thoughts. In his mind, he swore every curse he knew, in every language, and then he moved his arousal slowly, small movements, in and out, each one just a gentle thrust, but with a building intensity. Her eyes, still locked to his, morphed, showing surprise, and something akin to confusion, as pleasure and heat overtook her body.
“It is okay, Sharafaha,” he promised, in his own language. “Feel this. Feel it all.”
Her nails clawed his back, her cry animalistic as her muscles squeezed him, her whole body giving way as pleasure exploded through her. She came hard, her orgasm like an earthquake, tearing her apart.
“Oh, god,” she moaned, and he stilled, momentarily, fighting an urge to demand she use his name. There’d be time for that. Time to make her beg for him by name, to make her cry his name at the top of her lungs.
He winced as she scratched her hands down his back, undoubtedly scoring marks on his golden flesh.
She was whimpering, pleasure making her voice shrill.
He didn’t give her any time to recover.
He thrust into her again, pushing up so he could see the effect on her dainty features, his body tensing with his own needs, which he fought to control. Because he didn’t want this to be over.