“Instead of calling 911,” he interrupted, “you opted to try rescuing me with a kitchen knife?”
Shit.
I could feel my cheeks burning as the gross extent of my stupidity hit me, and since the only defense I could think of was that I had actually been so fucking worried about the sheikh that I had ended up acting on impulse…
I saw the smirk that was unfolding over the sheikh’s lips, and my cheeks grew hotter. I could already see in the gleam in his eyes that he had come to the same pathetic conclusion as I did, and I had to fight against the urge to stab him with the knife I was still holding up in the air.
“Fuck you.”
But the asshole only brushed the insult off with another smirk. This piece of sheikh was so damn cocky it seemed as if every time I dropped an F-bomb, he was hearing something else like ‘you’re hot’ or something equally delusional.
“Your concern for my well-being is touching, habibti.”
“I repeat: Fuck. You.”
“I will, my Story. Just say when.”
I couldn’t answer this time, distracted as I was with the way the sheikh seemed too damn efficient as he put the safety back on before tucking the gun away in a secret compartment behind the hairdryer holder.
When he turned to face me again, he took one look at my face, and his expression turned pained.
“You still think I’m the Mafia?”
“You can’t blame me,” I defended myself right away. “You’re so damn secretive, what else am I supposed to think?”
“That I enjoy my privacy?”
“Plus,” I added triumphantly, “you have a gun.”
“So does the majority of the American population,” he derided, “but I don’t see you suspecting anyone else for being involved in syndicated crime.” He glanced at my kitchen knife and shook his head. “Give me that before you hurt yourself.”
I made a face even though I was secretly grateful to hand it over. I had been feeling a little silly, holding on to it.
After placing the knife on the marble counter top, the sheikh glanced back at me, a thoughtful look on his handsome face.
I remembered right away what I was there for, and I found myself glaring back at him…until my gaze absently clashed with his rock-hard abs.
Shit.
I knew I wasn’t supposed to stare, but those damn abs were a killer, and they had my fingers literally itching to run over them, just to see if there was the slightest ounce of fat I could find. I doubted it, to be honest, but it wouldn’t hurt to check—-
Ah!
The sheikh had suddenly yanked me close, and I bit back a cry as he forced my palm to come into contact with the hot, smooth skin of his six-pack.
My eyes flew up to him, and a corner of his lip turned up. “Staring didn’t seem to be enough for you,” the sheikh purred.
“Fuck…y-y-yoooou.” I ended up half-gasping, half-moaning the word out when the sheikh forced my hand to start moving over my abs. Gaaaah. My gaze dropped to where my fingers were doing what it had been dying to do, and I barely managed to keep myself from trembling at every inch of satin-smooth hardness that I managed to touch.
The sheikh noticed right away when I pressed my legs closed. “You’re getting wet again…”
Coming from him, those words were nothing out of the ordinary. They were pretty tame, actually, when compared to the other shitty stuff that he could say. But what made this time different was what I knew now – what the professor had revealed to me – and when combined with the silky mockery I heard in his voice…
I pushed him off as hard as I could while wrenching my hand out of his hold, and it was humiliating, the way he had obviously found my resistance so completely unexpected that I was able to free myself in a snap.
The sheikh’s dark eyes narrowed at me. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Not the type to beat around the bush, I didn’t back down from giving it to him straight. “I was talking to the professor this morning,” I said tightly, “and imagine my surprise when she described you as an ‘absolute charmer’.”
The sheikh raised a brow. “And I suppose you made sure to correct her opinion, is that it?”
“She also described you as a gentleman in every way,” I went on doggedly, “and obviously, that got me wondering…”
“If your teacher happens to be a poor judge of character?”
“If you’re only nice to her…or you’re only an asshole with me?”
The sheikh blinked.
“Which is it then?” I demanded.
The sheikh’s gaze glinted. “Do you really not know what the answer is?”
An asshole just to me then, I thought, and a part of me had already sort of expected this.
But what I didn’t expect?
I heard the sheikh curse, and it was only then that I realized my tears had once again trailed silently down my cheeks without me being aware of it.