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Badly she wanted to turn around and claim the kiss that was surely waiting. His tongue wetted her neck and delivered sensual heat as he kissed up and down.
The music was mesmerising—each pluck of thequanoon’s strings seemed to match her internal frenzy. His hand moved from her stomach when she wished it would not, for the subtle pressure was divine. But then Ilyas tore at her slip and robe so that she was naked from the waist up. His hands found their way to her breasts, and they caressed and teased and stroked until she could barely remember her own name.
Maggie was desperate to taste his mouth, so she arched her neck and, finally, their lips met. The kiss they exchanged was deep and served only to increase her desire for him.
He pushed down her robe and slip so they fell to the floor, and as they did she heard him unbuckle the low belt of his robe and the sound of ripping muslin. At last, there was the feel of his naked flesh along the entire length of her body.
His hand grasped the back of her head and pushed it down so that she was exposed to him.
A finger ran the length of her spine and then he cupped the cheek of her buttock. Maggie wriggled to free herself of his hold.
Her fight was not about consent, for she could not want him more.
Maggie just wanted to turn and look at him, so she would remember this moment for ever.
But one of his hands held her in place, the palm putting a subtle pressure on her neck, his other hand holding himself at her entrance. Her fear now was real. ‘It’s my first time,’ she gasped, for, though she was on the edge of orgasm, he would tear her in two, she was sure.
‘Good,’ he said, with the compassion of an ant, for Ilyas was more than pleased to be her first and he would teach her well.
Yet Ilyas felt her buttocks tense against his skin, and as he nudged inside her he could feel more than virginal resistance, as if the writhing wanton woman was braced for displeasure.
She was gulping in air, and as his arm slipped around her stomach, he realised she was leaning on his solid forearm as if grasping a pool edge.
Torn between desire and fear, Maggie refused to simply close her eyes and go with it.
‘Ilyas...’ She slipped from his grasp and turned to face him. She stopped, shocked into stillness. It was not the man she had known, for his robe was open and his outstanding body was on full display to her.
Oh, he was exquisite—muscled and strong and glistening. She put a hand up to feel him.
His skin was warm beneath her fingers as she pushed into the wall of his chest. Ilyas took her other hand in his and lowered it so she could feel his hard length.
‘Take me slowly,’ Maggie said, stroking him with her hand.
Ilyas was far from used to a woman dictating the pace—he was about quick satisfaction, straight to the top, not a lingering, gradual ascent.
His lovers knew that.
But she was not his lover...yet.
Her touch was sublime. Now they were face to face, he shrugged off his robe so they were both fully naked, and then he explored her body as she explored his.
Maggie closed her eyes at his surprisingly tender touch and then, as their mouths met again, the heat of him against her stomach had her mouth tense in a frenzied kiss.
Each bruising action of his lips melded them closer together as they lowered themselves to the floor and both discovered the bliss of unhurried pleasures.
His mouth found her breast and, already tender, he stiffened her nipples to painful peaks with his skilful tongue.
She did not know true bliss, though, until he kissed her down her pale stomach and then parted her legs, kneeling between them and stroking the Titian-red curls.
‘Ilyas...’ Her voice choked as his tongue first explored her glistening lips, and then probed more deeply and intimately. He lifted her calves over his wide shoulders and she fought again, for she did not know how to relax and sink into the bliss.
‘Please,’ she begged, trying to raise herself up on her elbows, because this delicious torture was relentless and surely could not be sustained. But he pushed her back down and lifted her hips, taking her with his tongue. Each beat had her writhing.
‘You want it slow?’ he checked as she neared her peak, but Maggie could not answer. Instead, her fingers did, for they pressed into his hair in a plea for more of the same.
He did not relent, not even as she came—he kept probing as she arched and the sensation was so intense, so consuming, that she only recalled her name when he said it.
‘Maggie.’
