“Torture?” She prompted, when finally she was capable of forming words once more.
He made a throaty sound of agreement, coming to kneel before her, his eyes sparking with hers, sending little flames through her bloodstream.
“But a very nice kind of torture,” he said with a smile that melted her bones.
She tried to swallow but her throat was almost too constricted.
“Would you like me to show you?”
Speech deserted her. She nodded, her head moving jerkily to signal her agreement. He lifted his hand, touching her shoulder lightly, his eyes locked to hers as he slid his fingertips beneath the spaghetti strap of her dress. It was the lightest of touches, barely a whisper on her skin, but she jolted in response, and every hair on her arms and the back of her neck stood on end.
“Your skin is so smooth,” he remarked, his smile almost mocking as he eased the spaghetti strap lower, allowing it to fall down on her arm. A moment later, his mouth claimed the space it had previously occupied, his lips pressing to the creamy flesh of her shoulder, tasting the vanilla of her soap.
She moaned, an animalistic sound from low in her throat, surrendering to the pleasure of this even when her rational brain was firing to life, reminding her that it had been a long time since she’d been intimate with anyone. But so what? This was just a bit of fun. A kiss. A touch of foreplay. They didn’thaveto sleep together. And it didn’t have to mean anything. Most importantly, no one needed to know—particularly not the men in her family, who all had a habit of over-protecting her, particularly after her marriage breakdown.
His hand lifted to her other shoulder, his fingers pressing to the strap and sliding it down, so the silky fabric loosened around her breasts. Her breathing grew rough and hoarse, her chest moving harder and faster, and each movement, each frantic jerk, teased the silk dress, so it fell, incrementally lower with each breath, until it was caught on the tilt of her taut, over-sensitive nipples.
“This is more torture for me, I think,” he remarked, eyes dropping to the swell of her breasts and then swinging back to her face, before he moved one hand sideways, flicking the fabric so it finally gave up its hold on her torso and slithered down to her hips, puddling there, leaving her completely exposed to him.
Goosebumps lifted her skin and Cora’s breathing grew more intense, making her breasts move more quickly. His eyes feasted on her, drinking in the image of her torso as though he’d never before seen a naked woman—and she knew that wasn’t the case. But this was a first forthem, for him and her, and it felt just as loaded with wonderment as any first should be.
“I want to kiss you,” he said, and his voice was rich with desire, so a rush of womanly pride flooded her veins, bringing a Venus-like smile to her face.
“I want that too.”
She leaned forward, lips parted, eyes sweeping closed, waiting, half-holding her breath, only Samir didn’t mean he wanted to claim her mouth. Instead, his lips, warm and moist, came down on her nipple, sucking it deep into his mouth then rolling it with his tongue so she cried out in startled amazement at the rich, new sensations that rioted through her, the cold of one breast, exposed to the night air, and the fiery warmth of the other, being tasted and delighted by his mouth, being examined from every angle.
Her belly twisted and popped with lust, her breaths grew louder in the silence of the room, and then he was pulling back, just enough to glance at her face, to see the flush of her cheeks and the sparkling madness in her eyes, to observe the effect his touch had on her.
“Jamila,”he murmured in his native tongue, and though she had no idea what it meant, she felt the compliment warming her all over.
“This isn’t torture,” she said, wrinkling her nose a little.
“Even when I stop?”
Her eyes widened. “But you’re not stopping,” she said, digging her hands into his shirt and gripping him there as if for dear life. “You’re not, are you?”
He laughed right against her breasts, the warmth of his breath drugging her even more. “That depends on you.”
“Go on,” she urged, leaning forward, pushing her breasts towards his mouth, earning a gruff noise from him—half laugh, half hopeless need.
He took pity on them both, moving one hand to cup her breast, feeling the weight of it, brushing his fingers over her nipple as his eyes probed hers.
“What do you do for work?”
“Guess.”
“That’s not the game.” He moved his hand to the other breast, giving it the same treatment, so she arched her back with a soft moan now.
“I’m in the family business,” she said between bursts of breath.
“Which is?”
“Hard to explain.”
He stilled, so she blinked across at him. “Nothing illegal?”
She straightened, her smile lopsided. “No. Definitely not.”