The Last Prince of Dahaar(60)

                He pushed her back onto the bed with his weight and Zohra folded, as if her limbs were nothing but sensation. He kissed her navel and downward, and she came off the bed. With a silky, golden-hued scarf, he gently tied her wrists before she could understand his intent. With a kiss on her mouth, he put some pillows under her head. “So that you can see what I am doing to you,” he whispered.

                Heat unlike anything she had known scoured through her as he trailed wet, hot kisses over the hem of her thong. Then he pressed his mouth against her mound, drew a shuddering breath in. The sheer fabric was no barrier to the sensations that grew within her.

                And then he was tugging them off her unresisting legs, spreading them wide, and leaning over her. “Look at me, Zohra,” he said, in a voice so heavy with desire, so laden with pleasure that it echoed through her.

                Zohra met his gaze and forgot to breathe. She fought against the ties at her wrists, the need to touch him, the need to return the pleasure a dark craving inside her. His fingers were featherlight on her inner thighs, his gaze lust-soaked, primitive, that of a conquering warrior.

                And then she felt his breath on the most sensitive part of her and he swiped at the throbbing flesh of her clitoris with his tongue.

                Zohra bucked off the bed, shaking, the pleasure that spread through her so acute, so addictive that her hips moved on their own. She cried aloud when he took another long, leisurely lick. A kiss came next, the image of his lush mouth against that quivering bundle shockingly intimate in her mind. He did it again and again and tight coils of sensation gripped her lower belly.

                She made sounds—sometimes a sob, sometimes a moan, sometimes his name, begging, whimpering, her head thrashing against the bed, her throat dry. Spiraling need pulled at her, pushed her out of her skin, building when he was there, fragmenting in the infinitesimal moments his touch retreated.

                And then he sucked at her core.

                Her orgasm rocked through her with the force of a sandstorm. She gasped for breath, the sound spilling from her mouth was erotic to her own ears. Waves of pleasure—acute, breath-robbing—drenched her inside and out. And yet he didn’t stop. His hands locking her hips, he continued stroking her with his tongue until he wrung every ounce of pleasure from her body, until she was nothing but a mass of quivering sensations.

                The aftershocks of her climax still tumbling through her body, she fell back against the bed. A shiver climbed up from the base of her spine and this time it arose from something inside her, something that wouldn’t settle down, something that asked questions she couldn’t answer. Keeping her tied hands above her, she moved to her side, a strange shyness coming over her.

                His face a dark shadow in front of hers, Ayaan pushed the damp hair from her forehead and kissed her temple. His palm moved over the curve of her hip, over her shaking legs, over her back. The way he cocooned her soothed something inside her that shouldn’t have needed soothing. “Zohra?”

                Her name on his tongue nestling deep into her, Zohra heard the unasked question and gave an answering nod.

                Unwilling to look into the strange feeling, she pushed her bound wrists toward him.

                He shook his head, pure masculine arrogance brimming in the golden brown depths. “I have never seen anything so erotic as you coming.” His fingers traced the curve of her butt, drew maddening lines up and down her spine. “I think I might get addicted to it.”

                When he touched his mouth to hers, she moved her head, although not before the taste of him seeped into her lips. “I think the entire encampment heard me, Ayaan,” she said, her lust-soaked body catching up to the niggling warning from her mind. “Is it—”