“I do.” She nodded. “But not enough to lie.”
“I cannot stay in Greece beyond this weekend,” he said simply. “My life is far away from here.”
“I know.”
“And without wanting to seem indelicate—,” He paused, searching for words that wouldn’t offend her.
“Yes?”
“You have a reputation that my people would find…”
Heat coloured her cheeks and even though she barely knew this man, it was impossible not to feel the insult of that summation deep in her gut. She blinked away the steaming hot tears that assailed her out of nowhere, refusing to let her hurt show. But he was too observant, and her features too difficult to school into an appearance of non-concern.
She refused to help him by offering a conclusion to that sentence.
“It would be better for our connection to remain private,” he finished gruffly, but there was an apology in his features, which was slightly mollifying. “Any woman who’s been married and divorced—,” he started to explain but she shook her head, her eyes meeting his even as there was a strange, stitching pain in her chest.
“It’s important to me that you understand something, Samir.”
He nodded once and her heart gave a strange lurch. She wanted to tell him that her reputation was wrong. That the media had written so many stupid, fake stories about her she’d lost count. That her ‘party girl’ lifestyle was far removed from the reality. That all the exaggerations and lies had cut her deeply. She wantedhimto know the truth, even when she’d long ago given up caring that the tabloid press ran such silly stories about her. But something stopped her from opening up to him.
It would be so much easier to do this with Samir if he believed the stories. If he thought she was someone who went out partying every second night, who hooked up with random guys, who flippantly married and divorced, who’d had affairs, and been cheated on. If he thought her so emotionally flippant, it would just make everything easier. Besides, Cora had a lot of experience of acting like a careless, good time girl.
She smiled brightly and leaned forward, purring in his ear, “I just want one night. No matter how much fun you have, don’t go getting obsessed with me, got it?”
3
THE WORDS SEEMED TO light fire to his soul, making it impossible to look beneath them, impossible to analyse the slight tremor to her voice, the ambivalence that shaded her eyes as she leaned forward—not an ambivalence for him, but about something, something he couldn’t fathom in that moment because all of him was focussed on the rush of need flooding his body, making it impossible to think or talk or do anything but kiss her—not chastely now, not teasing and tormenting her, but rather staking his claim to her, for this one night they would share, making her his with utter completeness.
The dress was an added temptation, so silky to the touch, so rather than remove it, he ruched it up on either side, to her hips, until it formed a band of colour, so soft, almost as soft as her thighs. He ran his hands over her possessively, enjoying the way she shuddered at his touch, so responsive, so aware, so alive with sensation, it was all he could do not to undress and thrust into her then and there. But this was a pleasure Samir intended to savour, a pleasure he wanted to make last.
If one night was all she’d give him, then it would be a long night of pleasure and indulgence. A night to remember.
He’d spent no time imagining what underwear she wore—his mind had been too engaged by her conversation to get that far, but now, he caught a glimpse of the palest ivory silk and lace, a thong, tempting him, so he moved his hands to the elastic sides, loosening them from her body and lifting her in one movement to free the lingerie so he could slide it down her legs, his fingers glancing over her skin as he went, enjoying her supple, toned limbs, her quivering breath against his cheek as he dropped the scrap of fabric to the floor, leaving her naked except for the silk dress.
“I want to remember you like this,” he said, pulling up to stare at her, her eyes wide, lips bruised and parted, pupils dilated. “Or like this,” and he dropped his head then, kissing her breasts not as he had before, but with all the hunger that coursed through him, his stubble rubbing over her.
Without the barrier of her briefs it was so much more intimate, laced with so much more purpose, he felt a little of his seed spilling at the tip of his arousal, pressing against his own cotton boxer shorts, so he groaned against the soft flesh of her breasts, stroking her with his hands, his mouth, aching to possess her even as he wanted to make this moment last for as long as possible.
When he pulled up to look at her, her pale breasts were pink from his touch, his kiss, his stubble, his need, raw like his ache for her, so a guttural expletive was drawn from him. “Thisis how I want to remember you.”
She simply stared at him, transfixed, wild-eyed, hungry: just as he was. Her silent plea filled his with a rush of power so he shook his head once.
“No, like this,” he murmured, carried away now with making her the complete object of his desire. He placed a hand on either knee, separating them wide, revealing her sweet womanhood to his desperate gaze, so driven he had to freeze and draw in a deep breath to make sure he didn’t come then and there. He swallowed a curse, eyes half reproachful when they met hers. She was watching him with a look of total devotion; it went completely to his head. Slowly, he reached for one of her hands and placed it between her legs, her little gasp making his pulse run riot through his body.
Without moving away from her, he undid his pants and pushed them down, just low enough to release his cock. Her eyes fell to it and her cheeks flushed pink.
“Touch me,” he commanded, every bit the Sheikh.
She moved her hand, but he shook his head. “Not that one.” He wanted her to keep touching herself as well.
Eyes wide, she replaced her hand between her legs and reached for him, her touch tentative at first, and somehow, that drove him a thousand times crazier than if she’d boldly encircled his length. Instead, her fingers ran little lines up and down before wrapping around him, avoiding his tip. It wasn’t enough.
He gripped her wrist, moving her hand up and down a couple of times and when a pearl of liquid broke free, he guided her hand just close enough without touching.
“I want you to taste me.”
It was a bold statement from a man to a woman he barely knew but suddenly, it no longer seemed relevant that they’d just met an hour ago. In that moment, theirs was a pre-ordained connection of some sort, this night written in cosmic dust millennia ago.