Seduced by the Sultan(3)

                But today the seeds of uncertainty had been sown in her mind. She felt like a tennis player who had walked out on court to find an enormous hole at the centre of her racquet.

                So pull yourself together, she urged herself. Count your blessings and enjoy the life you’ve been given instead of the one you secretly crave.

                She ran her hand over one hip, her fingertips encountering the rough texture of her denim jeans. But instead of describing an article of clothing which Murat despised, she injected a sultry note into her voice and pretended. Because wasn’t fantasy everything to lovers? Hadn’t he taught her that, too?

                ‘I’m wearing silk,’ she whispered.

                ‘What kind of silk?’

                That stupid lump was still sticking in her throat, but it didn’t stop her from continuing with the game. Quite honestly, she couldn’t imagine having a telephone conversation with Murat which wasn’t erotic. The kind of conversation she’d never have been able to carry off when she’d just been that naïve girl from Wales. But in spite of her background, she’d always been smart. She devoured books and was a fast learner—and learning to please a man was a skill just like any other, just like arranging flowers or making a cake rise.

                ‘Soft silk,’ she said. ‘Butter soft.’

                ‘Tell me more.’

                She thought about the ribboned and crotchless purchase still lying in folds of soft tissue paper in the bedroom. The one she was planning to slide into as soon as she’d had her shower. The one which would probably be ripped apart by Murat’s impatient fingers within minutes of his arriving here. ‘They’re midnight blue,’ she said, almost conversationally.

                ‘Excellent.’ A pause. ‘And are they tiny panties?’

                ‘Oh, yes. So tiny you can barely see them. Honestly, it’s almost a waste of time me wearing them—they’re so flimsy.’

                ‘I see.’ Another pause—much longer this time. ‘And you have on a matching bra, I hope?’

                ‘Oh, yes.’ She paused—trying to rid herself of the sudden feeling of guilt which settled on her skin like a cold mist. Telling herself that she had nothing to be guilty about. That Murat liked these games. And so did she.

                And that her mother’s words meant nothing.

                Nothing.

                ‘The bra is a bit on the small side,’ she continued, allowing her voice to dip into a provocative note as her imagination took wings. ‘But it’s edged with lace, so at least my nipples aren’t completely on show.’

                He didn’t answer. At least, not straight away.

                ‘And stockings?’ His eventual response was unsteady; his tone gratifyingly deep. She heard him swallow and that was gratifying too. ‘Are you wearing stockings?’

                ‘Mmm,’ she agreed, closing her eyes to blot out the sight of her jeans. ‘Of course I am. Black silk stockings all the way from France. Though they cling to my thighs terribly in this heat.’

                ‘I’d like to see them do that,’ came his husky response. ‘And then I’d like to peel them off, very slowly.’

                ‘Would you?’

                ‘Mmm. And then I’d like to slide my tongue up between your thighs and lick you until you come. Would you like that, my beauty?’