The Last Prince of Dahaar(64)
She looked at him, unblinking, the depth of emotion in it a reminder of what a force this woman was. “I am glad he never asked, Ayaan.”
He closed his eyes and breathed through the cloud of need that had his hips leaning upward into her. She had been a virgin, he reminded himself with the utmost effort. He needed to be gentle, even if it was a little late, he needed to let her body get used to him. “What does it make me that I am glad that he didn’t take it, Zohra? That your body has known only me, that...”
She lifted her hands, sunk them into her hair and tugged it back. It was such an unconsciously sensual movement that he lost that tenuous hold on himself. “Like I felt when you said that you don’t remember another woman’s body, when you said you never felt pleasure like this before?” He couldn’t help himself. He cupped her breasts and rubbed the tight nipples with the heel of his palm. “Whatever you think it makes you, I am one, too. So be kind to yourself,” she said, and arched into his touch with a sigh.
He bent his head and licked one nipple. She jerked, moving up and down, and it was his turn to groan. “Your breasts...I am never going to have enough. And you go up in flames when I touch them.”
“Yes,” she whispered, her spine so straight that he wondered if he would break her. Her lips were swollen from his kisses, the marks from the stubble of his jaw outlined on her neck and breasts. What in the name of God had she unleashed in him? She leaned her forehead against his and the trust in her action branded him. “I...it feels like I will combust...” She arched her body again, as if asking him for more, “...if you stop.”
Just once more, he promised himself. He would taste her just once more and then stop. Let her body breathe, let her rest. He pulled the nipple into his mouth and suckled. And she sobbed, his name falling in a guttural request from her lips. He heard his name on her mouth, the whimper of pleasure she made, that shredded his composure.
They were sounds he would never have enough of.
Burying his mouth at her neck, he fought for control. With her hands locked around his nape, she pushed closer to him until her breasts dragged deliciously against his chest. And kissed him on the mouth.
He gripped her hips when she moved, heat he had no strength to check built up inside him again. “You will be sore tomorrow, ya habibati.”
Her tongue traced the seam of his lips, her eyes twinkling. His grip loosened on her, his body moving of its own mind. She sucked on his tongue next and he lost the fight.
He thrust upward and she moved down. He pumped his hips faster, and she matched his rhythm. He cursed and she laughed. Leaving her to set the rhythm, he took her nipple in his mouth.
And she shattered with a guttural sigh. His own climax followed, rippling through him, breaking him apart and putting him back together and changing him.
Taking her with him, he fell back to the bed, and held her tight against him.
His memory wasn’t that corrupted to think his body had once known this kind of pleasure, his mind not so broken to think what had occurred was normal, to believe that it was anything short of spectacular.
Six years ago, he would have reveled in the discovery, taken it for granted as another of life’s gifts, shouted it out from the rooftops. The man he was today couldn’t stop the cold ripple of fear that churned in his gut, couldn’t shake the feeling that anything this good couldn’t last.
CHAPTER ELEVEN