"But in the meantime, my little vixen..."
I'm starting to feel really feverish and restless again, and it's making me question my hearing. Did he really say 'my little vixen'? Or maybe I heard it wrong, and the sheikh actually said 'my little villain'?
"I'd like a taste of you."
That's it. Something is definitely wrong with my ears, since he can't possibly have said—-
"Now."
That one word tells me two things.
Firstly: I did hear him right.
The sheikh actually said what he said—-
I'd like a taste of you.
And secondly: this royal son of a bitch is out of his fucking head if he thinks I'll let give him what he wants.
I turn around to make a run for it, but I've barely taken a step when the sheikh comes for me—-
Aaaaaah!
All I can do is scream as his big hard body slams into me, and I suddenly end up with my wrists behind my back, and my heaving breasts squashed up against the door.
God, no!
His hand clamps down over my mouth before I can scream, and as his powerful form presses harder against mine, all I can do is cry out against his palm as a sensory overload of intangibles bombard me from every direction.
There's the heat of his breath tickling my hair. The invincible wall of muscles weighing down on my spine and the sinfully earthy scent of his skin. Every one of these things are dizzyingly new to me, and the weight of it all threatens to swallow me whole.
I don't understand.
Is this fear I'm feeling or something even more terrifying?
"Here are your choices, Seven."
The sheikh croons into my ear like he has all the time in the world to torture and play with me, and the thought makes me shudder and burn.
God, oh God, what the hell is happening to my body?
My skin should be crawling by now, but the sound of his voice only makes me inexplicably sensitive to the blatant rawness of his masculinity.
"If you look at each corner of this room—-"
My gaze is already darting to the corners as he speaks, and I feel sick to my stomach at what I see. There are security cameras everywhere.
Everywhere, dammit!
"You understand, don't you?"
I wish I didn't, but I do.
"I have the necessary evidence to get you arrested...if that is what you choose."
A thrumming silence follows, and even though I hate myself for taking the bait, I hear myself ask stiltedly in the end—-
"What's my other choice?"
I feel his lips curve against my hair, and just imagining the sheikh flash a dangerous smile almost has me whimpering.
Why?
Why aren't all these things not making my skin scrawl?
"Your other choice, my beauty—-"
Even though I know those words are nothing but a lie, they still make me feel like I'm floating, and I hate it. I hate him. Really!
"—-is me."
All I can do is gasp right after, with the sheikh spinning me around without warning, and I find myself suddenly confronted by the blaze of lust in the sheikh's eyes...just as something long, thick, and unbelievably hard starts pulsing between my legs.
"Which do you choose, Seven?"
Oh God.
I wait desperately for fear to kick me back into my senses. I want - no, I need to be scared just like I was a while ago, when I thought he was some psychotic gunman about to kill me.
To be afraid of him means my brain is still working, but as the seconds tick by, and with his golden eyes never leaving me, the fear just won't come back—-
Why? Why? Why?
Instead of being scared, I find myself pummeled by a fast-rushing plethora of sensual forces, and this time, each and every one of them is blisteringly shameful. My nipples have suddenly puckered into life. My breasts are swollen with need. And between my legs is this creamy flow of moisture that makes me want to scream and moan and cry and swear—-
I don't understand.
"Do you want to be arrested?"
My brain demands one thing, but my body clamors for the other, and oh God-—
The sheikh's fingers cup my chin, and I feel like I'm drowning under his gaze.
"Or do you choose me?"
My lips part, but even though no words come out, the way his golden eyes glitter tells me I don't need to say a thing. He hears the desires of my flesh just absolutely fine—-
Oooooooooooooh!
I end up gasping yet again, just gasping like an idiot as the sheikh goes down on his knees and pushes the tight skirt of my uniform up to my waist. My senses reel, and I stare at my surroundings in a daze.
Is this really happening?
I'm in my workplace. And this is one of our hotel rooms. Same fancy wallpaper. Same carpet. Same furniture. And yet everything feels completely unfamiliar, and all because I have the sheikh now gripping the lacy sides of my panties.