Never Seduce a Sheikh(30)

The sun turned her hair bright gold, and pink and orange. Warm, beautiful and alive. He couldn’t stop looking at it. Couldn’t stop imagining it loose, not tied up in that ponytail she always had it in, or that elegant chignon back at the palace. Couldn’t stop the need to touch it, wanting to feel the softness of it against his fingers and not the slickness blood.

“What are you doing?”

“Let your hair loose.” He had meant it to sound like a request, but it didn’t come out that way.

If she was surprised she didn’t show it. “Why?”

“Because I want to see it.”

“I’m not sure I—”

“Please, Lily.”

For a long moment, she remained silent, looking at him. Then, she reached up and pulled at the hair-tie that held her hair back. A mass of pale gold fell over her shoulders, longer than he’d thought. More beautiful than he’d imagined. It looked so silky.

The need to touch became too great to contain so he didn’t try to, moving his hand slowly to where the silken strands lay against her shoulder. She remained still as he touched her hair, his fingertips stroking. So soft. So good to feel it against his skin.

“Are you going to tell me why you’re doing that?” she asked quietly.

He twined his fingers around one pale blonde lock, warm silky hair replacing the slick feeling. Better. So much better. But it wasn’t enough. He wanted more.

Isma’il looked into her dark eyes, her face bright with the last rays of the sun. Held her gaze as he slid his hand behind her head, watching her, gauging her response. He knew what he was doing. He knew what he wanted. Just as he knew that this was the one woman he should not be doing it with. But he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

Her breath caught and he felt her muscles stiffen. And yet, in her eyes something had ignited and one thing he was sure of—it wasn’t fear that burned in them.

“I want to kiss you,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Do I need to ask permission?”

Lily didn’t reply, but her gaze was so intense it felt like she saw right inside him. Then, taking him utterly by surprise, she moved. But not away from him. She leaned forward towards him instead, going onto her knees, placing one hand on the sand near his thigh. So close, her hair falling everywhere, almost brushing his shirt, the clean, fresh scent of her like an oasis in the dry heat all around them.

“What are you doing, Habibti?”

Still, she didn’t reply, her gaze fixed on his. Intent. Purposeful. Then, she leaned forward a fraction more and brushed her mouth over his.

Sweetness and fire flared hot inside him. An aching, searing heat. She tasted like apples and wine, heady. Intoxicating. It was all he could do not to grab her, haul her into his lap and devour her utterly. But he didn’t, because he would not do that to her. Would not take what she did not want to give. Instead, he curled his fingers into the sand, desperate to hold onto something, fighting to contain the desire that opened up inside him, dark and hungry and wild.

Lily’s kiss was hesitant, as if she wasn’t quite sure of what she was doing. As if she wasn’t quite sure of the taste of him. So he made himself stay quite still, letting her explore his mouth, her tongue running along his lower lip, tracing it, her mouth opening a little more, deepening the kiss. The hesitant quality to it began to fade as she leaned into him, her head tilting to deepen the kiss even further.

It was too much. Too intense. Too sweet.

He pulled away, his control thin and ragged against the desire that roared inside him. That wanted her beneath him, panting in his ear. Screaming her pleasure, as her nails sunk into his skin.

“Sheikh?” Her voice sounded breathless, a note of uncertainty in it he’d never heard before.

He didn’t want to look at her. Didn’t want to move in case the tenuous grasp he had on his control slipped and the hungry thing inside him broke free. God in heaven, what was he doing bringing her here? Thinking that he was protecting her, that she was safe with him. A foolish assumption. She wasn’t safe with him. It was him she needed protecting from.

“Did I do something wrong?”

Isma’il made himself look at her. “No.”

“Then, what is it?” Her eyes were full of doubt. “Why did you pull away?”

Sand, dry and gritty against his skin, such a contrast to the smooth warm of her hair.

Better than blood. Better than the slick leather of the riding crop.

“You are not the only one with memories you would rather forget.” His voice sounded harsh, but he didn’t try to moderate it.

“What memories?”

“Memories of the desert.”