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The Last Prince of Dahaar(63)

By:Tara Pammi


                But of course his willful wife paid no heed. “It doesn’t hurt, Ayaan, not anymore. It just feels...” Her hands gripping his shoulders, a thoughtful look on her face, she wiggled her hips upward again. “Ahhh...it feels full and achy and so good...Please, please move...”

                Heat spiraled down his spine. With a curse that reverberated around them, he pushed back into her. Her throaty moan scraped along his skin, the experimental thrust of her hips blinding him to anything but sensation.

                Pleasure soaked into his skin, rammed through his nerves until there was nothing but the wet heat of Zohra, of his wife. Giving in to his body’s natural rhythm, he moved again. There was no finesse to his thrusts, no filter on the words that left his lips. Her thrusts met his in perfect rhythm, the sounds she made became needier, faster. He willed his body to wait for her pleasure by the skin of his teeth.

                On the next move, he rubbed the swollen flesh with his fingers and she fell apart like a thunderstorm. Her muscles contracting against the sensitive flesh of his arousal, pulling every inch of pleasure from him, he thrust again and orgasmed in an explosion of heat that touched every nerve, rocked through every inch of him.

                Pleasure receded, the first wave of need blunted for now, and questions pounded back into him. He reversed their positions, still joined intimately.

                Her arms instantly rose to cover her breasts. She looked down at their bodies still joined and a fierce blush claimed her cheeks.

                “You were a virgin.”

                Her gaze flew to his. “Yes.”

                He pulled her hands from her breasts, fresh need rippling through him at the sight of those pale pink nipples. She held herself stiff, and the savage that he was, it turned him on. “You said—”

                “Let go of my hands, Ayaan.”

                “No,” he said and pulled her up until she was astride him in his lap. His erection thickened, lengthened inside her.

                Her brown gaze flared wide. “Oh....you are—”

                “Yes, ya habibi. It’s a long way down from the edge.”

                The most masculine, arrogant, savage satisfaction gripped him now that the initial anger at her lie faded. He frowned, even as he relished the feral feeling.

                Fierce emotions—either passion or fury or even love, he had never been capable of them. And yet in that moment, he couldn’t stem the savagery of his emotions.

                Questions hurtled through him but he fought the urge. He would not bring another man’s name into this bed with her. Not tonight, not ever.

                He was the only man to have possessed her, the only one who had known her in the most intimate of ways.

                Her hands resting on his shoulders, she tried to wiggle out of his lap. The erotic friction of their joined bodies intensified a thousandfold.

                Their mingled groans, the scent of sex—it was an irresistible aphrodisiac.

                “You lied to me.”

                “I said and did whatever I thought I needed to, to get out of the wedding,” she said. “But Faisal never asked for what I would have offered. I used to tease him for being so bound to traditions and customs that were laid down ages ago. But I think I understand now. And I...”

                He clasped her chin, forcing her to look at him. “Finish your thought, Zohra. Because this is the last time I will tolerate his name on your lips, the thought of him on your mind.”