Never Seduce a Sheikh(38)

She gasped, unable to stop herself, cool air moving over her heated bare skin as the silk fell away. Isma’il said something soft in Arabic, his gaze drinking her down. “You are so beautiful.” His voice had gone hoarse, the look on his face that of a man pushed to the edge.

It felt good to have him look at her. To be proud of her body, to see it as something beautiful, not a machine to get her through the water or evidence of a femininity she wanted to hide. To see that look on his face and know she’d put it there.

Lily let him look, let him push the remains of her tunic off her shoulders and when he gripped the back of her neck, holding her in place for his kiss, she arched against him. Wanting his touch. Needing it. And when she finally got it, she moaned against his mouth, heat pulsing through her body as he cupped her breasts in his hands, circling the aching hardness of her nipples with his thumbs, brushing over them, sending incandescent sparks over her skin.

“Lily . . . ” The edge of desperation in his voice sent a thrill straight down her spine. “Get on the bed.”

She ignored him, running her hands beneath the white cotton of his torn shirt, over his hot brown skin, wanting to test him. Taunt him. He responded by pushing her forcefully down onto the mattress, the heat of his body pressing down between her thighs, blue eyes blazing into hers.

The need in them made the breath lock in her throat. He said nothing, as he jerked the loose trousers she wore from her body, the sound of material ripping loud in the space around them.

She reached for the zip on his pants, but he caught her hands, shackling her wrists with his fingers and forcing them up above her head and down onto the pillows. She cursed and then cried out as his free hand pushed between her thighs, fingers sliding through the soft, damp curls of her sex to find her wet and slick and hot for him.

“Isma’il!” Sensation tore through her, his touch burning everything away. The shame. The anger. The helplessness. Leaving white hot pleasure in all the aching empty spaces in her heart. “Oh, Sheikh . . . ” She couldn’t stop the sob that broke from her. “What have you done to me?”

One finger slid inside her, the pad of his thumb brushing over her clitoris at the same time, intensifying the sensation a hundred-fold and she cried out again, her body arching.

“Give me your surrender, Lily Harkness,” his voice a hot, dark whisper in her ear. “Give it to me now.”

She’d given him all her secrets, all her anguish. Let him take it all away. She’d given him everything and now, for the first time in her life, she was finally free.

Lily trembled under his hand, the intense, irresistible pleasure pulling her in. Pulling her under.

And surrendered.





Chapter Eight





Isma’il turned his head into the soft warmth of Lily’s hair, the sound of her wild cry of release still echoing in his ears.

His body burned. Ached. He was so hard it hurt. And he felt torn in two.

He hadn’t held back, had given her the fight she’d wanted, something he’d never allowed with any other woman. Because she’d asked. Because she wasn’t a victim and never had been.

But it had come at a cost.

He’d liked it. No, he’d loved it. Loved that she hadn’t given in. That she’d matched him with all her strength. That she hadn’t been afraid of him, not even for a second. And when she’d given him her surrender, the sweetness of it had stopped his heart.

Taking Lily had shown him what he’d been missing with all those sweet, submissive women in his bed. Something he’d denied himself for years—freedom from the rigid control he lived his life under. And now he knew what it felt like, he wanted more.

But it was something he could never have. Freedom wasn’t allowed. Without limits, without control, there was nothing between himself and the dark violence he knew for a fact lived inside his soul.

Isma’il shut his eyes for a second, battling the echoes of Khalid’s voice that whispered in his head. A satisfied voice that that told him this was a slippery slope. A slope that led to a sunny room, a bloody riding crop in his hands, and a man lying on the white tiles in a pool of his own blood.

His heart squeezed tight in his chest and he couldn’t breathe.

No. No. No.

Lily’s warm body moved, a hand resting on his shoulder, and the tightness eased all of a sudden. Shoving the thoughts away, Isma’il, slowly pushed himself up, looking down at her. She lay on her back on the white sheets, her golden body the perfect blend of athleticism and womanly curves, her hair spread out in pale silken wave. Her eyes were so dark, cheeks flushed, the color going all the way down to her perfect, pale breasts.