He slipped a careful finger inside her, needing to know how much, and grunted with another blast of arousal. Soaking, for him, but…so tight. And she lurched, as if he’d hurt her.
So not so ready for him. But ready for pleasure. And how he’d pleasure her.
He stroked her, spread honey from her slit before his fingers made way for his thumb to find the knot of flesh where her nerves converged, her trigger. The moment he touched it, he felt as if he’d touched the core of the sun, her cries of pleasure, of his name, strangled, and she bucked in his arms, coming apart in an instantaneous orgasm.
He roared with pride as he drew out her release, rode its waves, easing two fingers inside her clamping flesh, stroking her inside and out until she sobbed into his mouth. He paused inside her depths, loosening her, nipping her nipples until he felt her flesh rippling around his fingers then began to stroke, until tension reinvaded her body and she was thrashing again.
“Shehab please…I n-need you.”
For answer, he spread her core, bent, gave her one long lick. She bucked off the platform. “Please, Shehab…you…you…”
He subdued her with one hand flat on her abdomen. “I’ve been starving for you, give me everything you have.”
She still tried to squeeze her legs closed, her eyes wet and beseeching. She was shy? How, when she was so experienced?
But nothing he’d been told mattered. His instincts told him she wasn’t, that his wild flower of the desert had never allowed anyone this privilege. But she would give it to him, and the privilege would be his alone, now and forever.
He invoked his claim. “Aren’t you mine?”
She nodded mutely, her color dangerous.
He hooked his forearms below her knees, slid her forward, gliding her over the smoothness slick from her sweat until he had her feet propped against the platform’s edge, her thighs spread. He withdrew to look on his arrangement, Farah, open and willing for his ministrations. She overpowered him with her surrender. Blood was a geyser in his head, in his erection. He gritted his teeth, kneeled in front of her, spreading her shaking legs, his hands and lips and teeth devouring their every inch, before he slid her forward until her buttocks were in his hands, bringing her core to him. Her fists bunched, her body tensed up.
“Don’t be shy, ya hayati. Sit up and watch me worship you, pleasure you, own your every secret. Promise you’ll look me in the eye as I bring you to orgasm this time.”
She squirmed, hiccupped, then finally nodded, and sat up.
He spread her core, groaned as lust jackknifed in his system. “Hada ajmal ma ra’ait wa ah’sast-the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, felt.” Overwhelmed, he licked around her lips, capturing them between pulling lips and massaging teeth, circling her trigger, subduing her gently as she bucked with each nip and lick and pull, bringing her to the edge, listening to her explicit pleasure, feeling her flood with it, surge with heat, hurtling toward completion. The moment before it all burst, he blew on her quivering, engorged flesh, withdrew his stimulation until she simmered, keened. He placed a palm on her heart until he felt it start to miss beats. Then he tongue-lashed her trigger and she shredded her throat on ecstasy, unraveled her body on a chain reaction of convulsions. And she looked him in the eyes all through. It was the most erotic, most intimate, most fulfilling experience of his life.
But then, every experience with her had been that.
Now he would take her, and union with her would reinvent the terms of eroticism, intimacy and fulfillment. He prayed she was ready enough now.
First, to bring her to fever pitch again.
He slid up her sweat-slick body, flattening her to the marble, soaking up her drugged look, the looseness confessing the depth of her satisfaction.
But as soon as he branded her lips, letting her taste her pleasure on his, her breath hitched, her hips undulated against him, urgent, insistent. She was aroused that much, that fast again? He hadn’t even started stimulating her…
He withdrew to make sure, and she tore at his swimsuit. “I want to see you-all of you…please…”
Hearing the last pillar in his mind give, he snatched at her lips with rough, moist kisses, nothing left in him but the corrosive need to bury himself inside her.
He tore off his swimsuit. She fell to her back, held out her arms, her eyes streaming her plea for him.
He climbed on top of the platform, covered her, felt her softness cushioning his hardness. She opened her legs, and as he’d long dreamed, he guided them over his waist.
Then it registered. Her coolness, her shuddering.
Ya Ullah, how oblivious could he get? After the blows her body had received, her heat-regulating system must be shot.
He withdrew from her and she cried out. “Shehab…”
He made her a pacifying gesture, strode below the arches to a wardrobe nestled in the curved marble walls, produced a pestamal shawl and hurried back. He covered her, stood back and marveled at how the red, gold and bronze striped cloth seemed to be made to match her blush-tinged tan, her hundred-shades hair.
She tried to cling to him and he bent to her lips. “I’m going nowhere, ya galbi. I’ll be back in seconds.”
Farah watched him coming back in the seconds he’d promised with steam already billowing around him, a colossus of virile beauty stepping from the shroud of myth and time.
She felt parched again as she watched the vapors entwining with the evocative lighting, drenching the whole exotic setup in a mystical, hypnotic ambiance, worshiping the perfect sculpture of his endless shoulders and chest, his cabled arms and ridged abdomen. Then her eyes fell on the wrap around his waist, very much like the one he’d covered her with, parting on one rippling, muscled thigh with every step, tenting on an erection that rattled her with arousal and intimidation.
She lay back, struck mute, her dry mouth suddenly watering, her core cramping, dizzy with the aftershocks of what he’d done to her. Ready for more. For anything. Then he came to stand over her and the sunbeams cascading from the bottle-glass openings in the dome above poured on him, illuminating slashes across his beloved face and glistening, aroused body.
“Let me warm you, ya galbi.” His croon was hot, dark molasses pouring over her, making her realize how cold she’d been. But warmth was spreading through her now, generated by the wrap, the steam. And what had flames licking through her nerves was the heat of his hands running up her legs and thighs, kneading, bringing circulation gushing back through her limbs. Then he turned her onto her belly, dragged the wrap to cover her legs, exposing everything above them.