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He grunted as he stepped out of them, then kissed her hard enough that her body lay back against the cold marble table, the newspaper squashed beneath her. He separated her legs and entered her swiftly. Not a word passed between them.
He held her breasts in his palms as he moved in her feminine core and Chloe exploded instantly. The taste of him, the feel of him, his warmth, his strength, all of it, tilted the world off its axis. She was sliding and she didn’t care.
She cried out in the cold night air and he crushed his mouth to hers, catching her hoarse exclamation, tasting her desire. She dug her nails into his back, needing to anchor herself to something tangible and real, and he moved faster and harder, until they were both spiraling out of control together. Two writhing, hot bodies, full of passion, full of need.
She lay against the table, grateful for the cool of the marble, for the hardness of the surface that stopped her from sinking into the earth’s molten core.
Slowly, she blinked her heavy eyes open, staring at her husband as though she’d never seen him before. And she hadn’t; not like this. Tho
ugh hadn’t she always felt there was an almost feral energy emanating from him? A wildness deep in his soul that could be concealed, some of the time, but never fully masked.
She shivered, but it was a movement of desire and cravings. He was still inside her, her breath was still frantic after her explosive orgasm, but still she wanted more. She needed more.
Her eyes dragged over his face and then his body, but she gasped suddenly, and had she been prone to blushing, pink heat would have spread over her cheeks.
“You’re bleeding,” she muttered, turning her face away, so he couldn’t see the shame in her eyes. She’d thought he was wild and animalistic? She’d scratched his chest and drawn blood with her nails alone. “I’m sorry.”
His frown was infinitesimal, as he surveyed the proof of her desire. “What for?”
She swept her eyes shut, and now, impatience to see her properly had him reaching down and turning her face to his. “What for?” He repeated, the words carrying a warning.
“I … for that.” She mumbled.
His shrug was pure nonchalance. He reached behind her and pulled her to a sitting position, disentangling their bodies. His eyes locked to hers, and she couldn’t look away. It was as though an invisible string connected them. Dark emotions she couldn’t comprehend swirled in his gaze, so that she held her breath, waiting.
Finally, he spoke, the words raspy and more heavily accented than usual. “Did I hurt you?”
She blinked, frowning in confusion. “When?”
“Now.”
“Oh! No. Not at all. That was… all good.” She dropped her gaze then, embarrassment making her shy. Or perhaps it was the newness of this, of him, of realizing that she could drive him to depths of wild abandon that surprised even himself.
“Your skin is warm,” she said softly, lifting a hand to his chest and touching the scratch marks he’d made. And then, courage building inside of her, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to the marks, tasting salt, iron and passion on the tip of her tongue.
He tensed beneath her, but she ignored it. Ignored whatever was making him still, making him stiffen.
“You taste like sunshine.” She ran her tongue higher, and then across to his hair-roughened nipple, flicking it with curiosity. When he inhaled a sharp breath, her confidence grew. She traced her tongue to the other, circling it, her eyes lifting to his so that she smiled against his skin when she saw the way tension had permeated his face, the way he was trying so hard to remain strong in the face of her sensual assault.
Her hands crept to his shoulders, and then higher still. She had to stretch to reach his hair, so her breasts pressed against his chest, and she was so sensitive from his ministrations that the hint of texture on his chest made her moan low and soft in her mouth.
She tangled her fingertips in his hair, pulling it loose from the bun. She hadn’t actively wondered how he styled it, but she discovered that it was simply coiled together, wrapped in on itself and held in place by its own coarseness and obedience to the sheikh’s will.
“Enough,” he growled, but there was a plea in the word.
“Why?” She wriggled closer to the edge of the table and wrapped her legs around his waist. “Are you allowed to come and take what you want and not let me do the same?”
“You want to play with my hair?”
She tilted her head to the side, pretending to consider it, then, she sobered. “I want to touch you all over. Starting here.” She tapped a finger to his forehead. “And here,” she ran her finger down his chest in a wiggling line before tapping his impressive manhood so that it jerked beneath her.
“And here,” she ran her fingers around to his buttocks, her eyes lifting back to his face.
She could see a war taking place inside of him. He was implacable and arrogant, and yet somehow, Chloe understood him on a cellular level. She could look at him and know what stirred within him, perhaps even when he didn’t know himself.
“You haven’t eaten,” he said finally, easily pushing her legs from his waist and stepping back. There was a hardness in his expression, a determination to separate from her.
He was going to go away again. To make love to her on his terms and then push her from him.
