The Last Prince of Dahaar(74)

                “Zohra?”

                A whisper, a question, a command—her name on his lips reverberated around her.

                Did he doubt her compliance? Did he not realize yet that her mind, her body, her soul—they were all his to command?

                “Ayaan,” she replied simply, knowing that he would understand.

                Languorous heat uncurled inside her at the friction of his palm over her inner thighs.

                The other hand continued playing havoc with her nipple, pulling, tugging, bursts of sensation arrowed down straight to her sex.

                She moved restlessly, needing his touch at her core, her skin too frayed to contain her. He instantly understood. His fingers delved through her curls, opened her for his touch and stroked the quivering bundle of nerves. And then he thrust two fingers inside her.

                Her release was so close that Zohra closed her eyes, clasped his wrist tight as if afraid he would stop. He kissed her temple as though understanding her need, whispered scandalous words that drove her another inch closer. Her entire body was poised over the edge, desperate to soar, when he rubbed his thumb over her clitoris.

                Again and again, with a sure rhythm that toppled her over the edge. Her orgasm exploded inside her, turning her body into a million sparkling lights.

                Her muscles were still quaking with the force of her release, her lungs struggling to catch a breath when he said, “Lift your leg, Princess.”

                His tone was nothing but raw command. Not that Zohra wouldn’t have done anything he asked of her. She lifted her leg and he entered her.

                This time, there was nothing but carnal intent, nothing but desperate desire in the way he thrust inside her.

                The force of his passion, the wild abandon with which he took her, did not scare her. She followed where he went, trusted him with her body, splintered again when he wrenched another orgasm from her oversensitized body but underneath his desperate caresses, underneath his uncontrollable hunger, Zohra could sense a black cloud building.

                His body convulsed behind her, his climax going on and on but even his hard kiss on her mouth couldn’t shake her fear that something was terribly wrong.

                Her muscles were weightless, her skin clammy with sweat. She made no sound as he picked her up and walked to the attached bath. Something was coming, she knew it in her bones, something wrong. But this time, she had no courage to face it head-on, no energy to fight. So she stayed silent, let him wash her in the huge sunken tub.

                When he tugged her to him in the tub, she went willingly. When he pulled her onto him until she was straddling him, she hid her face in his shoulder. When he kissed her softly, slowly, as though she was the most precious thing in the world, she melted. When he suckled at her breast in deep, long pulls, she thought she would burst out of her skin. When he ran his hands all over her body, masterful, exacting, inciting, she gave in to the pleasure riding her again. When he buried his face in her neck and thrust upward into her, she let the tears fall.

                He didn’t ask her why there were tears and she didn’t tell him. She didn’t ask him what drove him tonight and he didn’t tell her.

                His hunger for her was insatiable, his every touch, stroke and kiss increasingly desperate and less controlled. And Zohra’s need for him was no less powerful. Every caress, every sensuous assault of his mouth, of his fingers, she took everything with a relish and returned it back.

                At some point, when she knew not, her mind simply shut down and Zohra sighed in bliss. She only wanted to feel right then. He carried her back to the bed. She thought he would find his own bed. But he didn’t leave her.