The Last Prince of Dahaar(59)
Her breath balled up in her throat. His mouth moved along her neckline, trailing wet heat along her skin, kissing and tasting, winding her tighter and higher. The ache between her thighs flared stronger and hotter.
She was so lost in what his mouth did, how it hovered over the curve of her breast, how his very breath seeped into her skin that she had no idea when his fingers had tugged the hem of her gown upward and over her head in one smooth movement. A cool breeze greeted her skin, and instinctively, Zohra lifted her hands.
But his gaze remained lower and she followed it. Molten heat spread across every cell, every inch of her. Her panties were of the sheerest cream-colored silk, cut so deep that they barely covered her mound. And they had tiny white stones at the hem that caught the light of the lanterns hanging from the top and glittered.
“I...” Zohra swallowed as he ran a knuckle over the hemline, a fierce rush of wetness drenching her. “My stylist packed my bags,” she finished lamely. He laid his palm, big and warm, fingers down, against her mound and Zohra jerked, and arched into his touch. The bundle of nerves at her sex cried for more. His mouth against her temple, he applied the tiniest of pressure with his fingers. And she sobbed, dug her teeth into his shoulder.
“I told them to ready you for me.” He swiped his tongue along the seam of her ear. And she shivered. “Also, remind to me thank your stylist.”
The roguishness in his tone was just as arousing as his fingers, and Zohra pushed into his touch.
His hands clasping hers, he bared her torso to his sight.
His eyes, darkened like a desert sky at dusk, roved over her breasts. Her nipples tightened into aching buds.
She squeezed her eyes shut. The sound of his breath, harsh and uneven, pinged over her nerves and she felt a hot rush of satisfaction. “My imagination could not do you justice, Zohra. Do you know how many times I have imagined this?”
She felt his fingers on the curve of her breast and moaned, the relentless dull, ache between her thighs turning into a sharp pull. Felt his abrasive fingers cup the weight of her breasts and jerked. Felt the tip of his fingers circle the tight, painful bud and shivered. Felt the wet heat of his mouth at the valley between, heard him draw in a deep breath, almost reverent. And she shook all over, her legs folding under her. But of course he held her up.
His hair-roughened arms wrapped around her waist, keeping her exactly where he wanted her. Her breasts turned heavy and aching, her throat dried, her breath stilted, but he didn’t touch the tautened tips, didn’t give her what she wanted, teasing, taunting, until a sob crawled up her throat.
She clutched his hand, ready to push herself into his touch. But he gripped her wrist. His breath fanned over her mouth just before he laved her lips again. “Open your eyes, Zohra.”
She looked down and saw the blunt square tips of his dark fingers tweak one aching nipple. Jerking at the pleasure that arrowed right to her core, she moaned. “Look at what I am doing to you,” he said in a roughened voice that was pure eroticism.
The sight was so compelling that Zohra couldn’t close her eyes even if he asked her to.
He pinched the nipple, and her knees came off the bed. His arm around her waist locked her in place as he bent and sucked the nipple into his mouth.
His name was a cry on her lips that reverberated around the tent, probably in the desert itself. Sinking her hands into his thick hair, she held him in place—a shameless request, a raw command, all rolled into one.
And he suckled deeper, longer, until all she could feel, could see, could hear was the raw strokes of his tongue over the hard tip. Pleasure drenched every cell, every thought on him, every inch of skin quivering with need.