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Karim whispered her name. She looked up. Her eyes were pools of hot darkness; I could drown in those eyes, he thought, and die happy.
“Touch me,” he said thickly.
Rachel had never wanted to touch a man so intimately, never really looked at a man’s hard, erect flesh.
Now she wanted to do both.
It took less courage to look. She did, and caught her breath.
This part of her lover that gave her such pleasure was beautiful, a symbol not only of his virility but of his desire for her.
“Rachel.”
Karim’s voice was low. Strained. Gently, he clasped her wrist and brought her hand closer.
And waited, barely breathing.
Slowly, slowly enough so he could feel the sweat gathering on his forehead, he watched her reach out.
Her fingers brushed his taut flesh.
He groaned.
She jerked back.
“I don’t—I don’t want to hurt you …”
Did a man laugh or cry at such a moment?
“You won’t hurt me,” he said, his voice gruff. He made a sound he hoped was a laugh. “You may kill me, habibi, but you won’t hurt me.”
Rachel slicked the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip. Karim bit back another groan—and then she closed her hand around him.
He shuddered.
“Yes,” he whispered, “yes, sweetheart. That’s it. Touch me like that. Like that …”
His hand closed over hers; he taught her how to make that soft groan rise in his throat again, but now she understood that it wasn’t a sound of pain.
It was pleasure.
Pleasure only she could bring him.
She saw it in his face, the way his golden skin seemed to tighten over the bones, the way his nostrils flared …
Until he caught her wrist again and stopped her.
“Wait,” he said thickly.
