The Sheik's Kidnapped Bride(Desert Rogues, Book 1)(43) by Susan Mallery
He lightly scraped the tip of his fingers over her palm. “I don’t see my name here, do you?”
She thought about telling him that she couldn’t really see her hand, that he held it too far and angled away from her, but the tingles shooting up her arm made it difficult to talk. He turned her hand over and stroked it.
“Nor here,” he murmured before pressing her fingertips to his mouth and rubbing the sensitive pads with his tongue.
Had she not been sitting, she would have fallen in a heap on the floor. Muscles quivered, joints gave way. She wanted to sag against him, to sigh, to moan. Instead she bit her lower lip and endured the exquisite torture.
He licked and nibbled his way across her palm, then up the inside of her wrist and arm, all the while speaking of his name and hers, of the weaving of time and futures and how she belonged to him. She didn’t really listen. They didn’t have a future, she didn’t belong to him, and right now she didn’t care about anything but the way he touched her.
His mouth pressed against the inside of her elbow. Strong hands splayed across her back as he urged her to recline against the mound of pillows on the bed. She thought about protesting, but it was too late for pride. She was here because she couldn’t imagine surviving without knowing what it was like to make love with him again. She might play the fool, but she wouldn’t play the hypocrite.
When she’d stretched out on the bed, he leaned over her. “Dora,” he whispered, speaking her name with a husky passion that made her ache inside. She was already wet between her thighs, wet and swollen and so very ready for him. She wanted to know his body again, his weight on hers, his maleness pressing inside of her.
She waited for his kiss, but he didn’t touch her lips. Instead he nibbled on her shoulder, then moved lower, taking her nipple in his mouth.
She still wore her silk chemise. As he suckled her, the thin, gossamer fabric dampened. When he raised his head she saw that the material was now transparent. She could see the peachy-pink bud puckering against the undergarment. He saw it, too. Holding her gaze, he deliberately touched the tip of his tongue to the sensitized peak. To see as well as feel his seduction was more than she could stand. She half raised herself, grasping his head, pulling him down so she could kiss him.
Their mouths met in frenzied passion. She needed all of him. Next to her, in her, on top of her. More and more of him. She pushed at his clothes, fumbling for the ties of his robe. He shrugged out of them quickly, then pulled off his loose shirt. He had to leave the bed to remove his trousers, and she was shocked to hear herself whimper when he stood up to shed the garments.
But then he stood before her, naked and so incredibly beautiful. She studied the hard planes of his chest, the thick coils of his muscles, the dark hair crowning his arousal.
“Tell me,” he commanded, standing by the bed but just out of reach. “Say the words. Tell me that you want me.”
She shook her head. “I can’t.”
“Want me, or say it?”
Both, she thought, but she wouldn’t tell him that. He moved closer…close enough that she was able to reach out her hand and stroke the powerful length of him. She encircled him with her fingers and moved back and forth, savoring the feel of him. Baby-soft skin over the unyielding pulse of his desire. She looked up at him and found herself caught in his hooded gaze. Only the tightening muscle at his jaw indicated that he was the least bit affected by her ministrations.
Slowly, gently, she moved lower and slipped her hand to his hard thighs. The hair on his legs tickled her palms. She moved up and down, learning his textures, his body, and in the process, arousing herself even more.
Without warning, he bent over and reached for her right foot. He examined the pattern made by the henna, tracing lines and circles with the tip of his finger. When he tickled her, she squirmed and laughed. She tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t release her. She was caught.
“Tell me,” he commanded, moving onto the bed and settling between her ankles. “Tell me you want me.”
She mutely shook her head, then closed her eyes when he pushed up her gown and kissed the inside of her thighs. Her legs moved of their own accord, falling open, knees pulling back. There were no panties to impede him, no reticence on her part. She wanted him to touch her and kiss her there. She wanted to experience the passion and then the release.
He moved under her chemise and parted the secret folds of her flesh. She couldn’t see what he was doing, but she felt the first warm caress of his lips and tongue on that most sensitive spot. He teased her, touching her lightly, circling, moving away and then returning.
It was more intense than it had been before, probably because she knew what to expect. She knew the glory at the end of the road and she tensed, rushing toward her paradise.
Involuntarily her hips moved in time with his tiny strokes. Her breathing increased, and her body heated. The coldness was long gone, as was her anger and her pain. All that remained was the wanting, the needing, the man. Khalil. Her husband.
He moved faster, bringing her closer to her release, then slowing, driving her mad. He pressed a finger into her, pushing up and teasing her from the inside. Then he slid that single finger in and out, imitating the love act to follow.
Pressure increased. Need increased. She wanted, desperately, to find her peace. Her heels dug into the mattress, her hips raised. She moaned his name. He moved faster and faster, lighter, better, closer and closer and closer.
In one quick movement, he sat back on his heels and pulled her into a sitting position. She stared at him unable to believe that he’d stopped what he was doing. Didn’t he realize that she was going to die?
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