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“That’s the robe you wear when the cops show up to question you about killing your first husband.It’s a husband-killing-rich-widow robe.”
Tareq gripped it by the shoulders and held it out like a coat.“Your confession robe, madam.”
She turned her back, sliding her arms into the sleeves.He pulled it up onto her shoulders, then tugged her hair out from under the neck.
“You don’t confess,” Nomi informed him.“You absolutely deny killing him.”
“Ah, so this is the ‘despite all appearances I didn’t murder my husband’ robe.”
“Totally innocent, but now wealthy widow.”He watched as Nomi closed the robe, which fastened with two buttons, one hidden inside, the other on the outside edge.She wrapped the very long, wide fabric sash twice around her waist, hiding the buttons, and then tied it in a bow near her hip.He took mental notes so he’d know how to unwrap her later.
Now technically covered from shoulder to ankle, the sheer material did nothing to hide her body.There was slightly more coverage in the front where the edges overlapped, but it only made her pussy slightly harder to see.
The outline of her breasts was clearly visible, as were her nipples.Tareq leaned to the side, and she obligingly twisted to show him the back.
Even through the fabric, the faint flush of the skin on her ass was visible.
Tareq ran his hand down her butt and she shivered.
They had to get out of here before he changed his mind, lost his self-control, and bent her over the bed.
He held out one elbow.“How about you tell me how you murdered your husband over dinner?”
“As long as you let me make you a drink.My drinks are to die for.”She added a theatrical evil laugh.
Tareq grinned as he led her out, and tried to remember the last time he’d had this much fun during a BDSM scene.
Chapter8
Nomi shivered and leaned into Tareq’s warmth.
“Cold?”
“Not really.”
It wasn’t a lie—the nights were temperate right now, so even in a sheer robe she wasn’t truly cold.
The shiver had more to do with the situation, with walking to dinner on the arm of a man who caused unexpected reactions to known stimuli.
She realized she was probably analyzing this more than was necessary, that she was applying clinical thought processes to something she should concentrate on just enjoying.
The dining room was nearly full, something she’d never seen before.There were heavy-dark wood tables and chairs as well as several sunken seating areas.Tareq found them a small table for two on the far side of the room, tucked into a corner.
Tareq pulled out a chair for her.
Nomi eyed the wood, then him.
“You’ll have to sit at some point.”
Nomi gingerly lowered herself onto the chair, hissing in pain as her abused ass made contact.
“Do you want me to help center you?”
The question was one she’d never been asked before, and she wasn’t even sure what he meant, but Nomi jerked her head in a nod, eyes screwed closed.She needed his touch, and she hoped “centering” would include some physical contact.
Tareq’s hand came around her neck, forcing her chin up and squeezing just enough to make her moan, not enough to restrict her breathing or make her pulse pound in her ears.
“Harder,” she pleaded.
