Her eyes hooked to his and with fingers that shook just enough to make him at serious risk of exploding, she touched him right where he needed it, wiping over him then lifting her hand slowly, while her other fingers pressed against herself in a way he found mesmerising and impossibly hot. A string of expletives was running through his mind like a freight train. She parted her lips and slid her fingers inside her mouth, sucking on them, sucking on his essence, eyes fluttering closed as she tasted him, then pulled her hand away and slowly, seductively, licked her lower lip, as though he were the best thing she’d ever tasted, as though she wanted to lick him all over.
Hell.
It was no longer enough to watch.
Samir was not, at his heart, passive, in anything he did.
“Enough,” he grunted, to himself, more than her. The torture he’d planned to extract information was simply torturing him now. She tilted her head enquiringly, but there was a smile twitching on her lips, so he knew she understood, that she was playing him.
“Oh? Enough of what?”
Her impish act was setting his blood on fire and ravaging his self-control.
She moved forward, dangerously close, so he swore and pulled back, reaching around for his wallet and pulling out a condom before he was far too gone to think of anything so important.
Her eyes dropped to the square. “Allow me.”
It was a bad idea, but nonetheless, he found himself handing it to her, watching as she opened the foil with her teeth then pressed the rubber against his almost painful tip, her fingers still shaking a little as she stretched it over his length.
“Impressive,” she murmured, flicking a glance to his. Again, there was the hint of something in her eyes he didn’t understand, but Samir wouldn’t have been a red-blooded male if he was capable of devoting even two brain cells to decoding her inner-most thoughts at that point in time.
He was not interested in her praise for his size, mainly because he was aware that he compared well to other men—he’d heard it before.
“But it’s not what you have, so much as how you use it, right?” She murmured, deliberately provoking him to prove himself, to show her exactly what he intended to do.
“You really are a tease; do you know that?”
“Oh, but I’m not teasing,” she said, leaning closer, pressing a kiss to his lips. “I’m begging.”
It was more than he could bear.
With a grimace at his fanciful ideas of making this last all night in the face of such temptation, he lifted her up, right to the edge of the sofa, and thrust into her, his eyes lancing hers as he drove deep into her feminine core, groaning at her unexpected tightness, at her immediate responsiveness—she began to moan against him, her hands moving from his shirtfront to his shoulders and then his back, her nails digging in, dragging along fabric so the fibres screamed and every cell in his body exulted in his power. Her orgasm was swift and complete—almost the moment he entered her, she exploded, and he held her tight, murmuring in his own tongue, words that spoke of beauty beyond compare, of nights beneath the desert stars and atop ancient grains of tribal sand. He spoke to her of myth and legend because in that moment, it was all that was worthy.
And when her breathing slowed and her cries grew quiet, he began to move, the ancient, primal rhythm driving him, them, to another, this time shared, orgasm, to a release so powerful Samir could almost have thought he was broken down by its perfection, and rebuilt to be the same, but altered, better, complete in a different way.
He held her tight, her dress wrapped around her hips, his body still almost fully clothed, and already, the question began to form in his brain:Are you ready for more?
* * *
Cora stretchedlike a kitten in the sunlight on a milky winter’s morning, her smile instinctive, her body moving with lithe grace as she arched her back and pressed her hands higher, up into the sky. Everything felt different, and wonderful. Sore and stretched in the best possible ways. She blinked, first up to the ceiling, then towards the windows of her bedroom, and then, her brain began to spin, the wheels turning as she pieced together the fragments of what had happened the night before.
The art gallery opening. Her loneliness. Memories of her marriage. The divorce. The paparazzi.
The prince.
She gasped, eyes flying open at the same time she turned her head sideways and saw him, propped up on one elbow, watching her with the same languid heat and absolute right-to-stare as he’d employed the night before.
“Samir,” his name felt different in her mouth now, and she realised why a moment later. She’d called it out, over and over again, as he’d moved inside her, as he’d driven her to orgasm after orgasm. She’d tasted his name, rolled it with her tongue, breathed it against him, sucked it deep into her soul and turned it into something else altogether. Heat flushed her cheeks as the intimacies they’d shared flooded her brain all at once.
“You’re still here.”
A dark brow lifted. “Would you prefer I wasn’t?”
The heat deepened, so she was sure her cheeks must be a deep rosy pink. “I just thought—,” His expression was quizzical, and she laughed. It was such a pleasant surprise to feel amusement rather than awkwardness. “I’m not very good at this,” Cora explained apologetically.
“At what,jamila?” Tingles ran the length of her spine, but they were nothing compared to the bursts of pleasure she felt as he lifted a finger and traced an invisible line down her arm.
How to explain? Contrary to the image the press had constructed of her, it had been such a long time since Cora had been with a man—since her husband. She was not someone who regularly had strangers in her home, much less her bed.