Carrying the Sheikh's Heir(48)
His hands spanned her rib cage, his thumbs grazing her nipples as he pinned her body to the wall with his own. Her pulse raced as her nipples tightened painfully. Her breasts were so sensitive now and they both knew why.
He found the closures to her dress and opened them deftly. Then he was pushing the garment off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. She wrapped her arms around his neck and arched into him until he growled again and stepped back to rip her panties down her legs. She stepped out of them as she fumbled with the soft trousers he wore beneath his dishdasha, trying to free him.
He helped her and soon she had her hands on his hot erection. But he didn’t give her a chance to play. His broad hands went to her bottom, lifted her high against the wall—and then he plunged into her as they both gasped.
“Sheridan.” His voice was a hot whisper in her ear and her heart twisted tight. “I need you.”
“Kiss me, Rashid,” she begged. Her skin was too tight, her belly too hollow, her body too hot. She needed the things he gave her, needed the connection and release. She didn’t understand it, but she craved it. Craved him.
He fused his mouth to hers—and then he began to drive up into her, harder and faster and deeper than before, until her body was alive with sensation, until she had to wrench her mouth from his and sob his name as she splintered apart in his arms.
He didn’t release her, though. He took her again and again, until she was a quivering mass of nerve endings, until her body couldn’t take another moment’s pleasure, until he finally let go of his rigid control and came, his seed filling her in warm jets.
He laid his forehead against the wall behind her, his breath coming in gusts. His skin was hot and moist and so was hers. She turned her head into him, tasted the salt on his skin on impulse.
And found herself released. He stepped away from her and fixed his trousers, then reached down and picked up her gown for her. She snatched it out of his hand and he met her gaze evenly.
They stared at each other for a long moment, her clutching the dress in front of her like a shield, him clenching his fingers into tight fists at his side. As if he wanted to touch her again but had to force himself not to.
Her legs were weak and anger bubbled hot in her veins, but if he reached for her, if he kissed her again, she’d open to him like a flower.
And she really despised that about herself. There was such a thing as being delightfully impulsive, as being friendly and open, but this was too much.
“I don’t understand you,” she said. “If you don’t like being with me, why do you touch me in the first place?”
She thought they had a chemistry that was unusual, but maybe she was fooling herself. Maybe he just saw her as an option for quick sex. He found his pleasure in her body and he was done. And she was just stupid enough to make the same mistake twice.
He shoved a hand through his hair. “I like being with you. But it’s over and I have work to do.”
She shook out her dress angrily and slipped into it. Then she turned her back on him. “I can’t do this without your help.”
He came over and stood behind her, his fingers brushing her skin as he zipped her up and fastened the hooks. When he finished, she turned around and glared at him.
“This can’t happen again,” she told him tightly. “I have feelings, Rashid, and I won’t let you stomp all over them just to get your way. And another thing,” she added, pointing at him. “There are women in this palace in dresses and business suits and slacks. I’ve seen them, and while I played along with your commands to dress as a Kyrian woman, I won’t blindly do it anymore. Kyrian women seem to represent a range of styles, which you purposely did not tell me. If I want to wear my jeans, I’m wearing them.”