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‘You are a goddess,’ he said, his big hand scooping over her shoulder and down, inexorably down, to cup one achingly heavy breast. Breath jagged in her throat, her senses momentarily shorting before he brushed the pad of his thumb against her nipple and she gasped as her entire circuitry lit up with exquisite pleasure that made her inner thighs hum.
She mewled with pleasure. ‘I think,’ she uttered, breathless with desire, ‘maybe you must be the evil twin after all.’
And he growled out a laugh that worked its way into her bones and stroked her from the inside out. ‘Make love to me, Aisha,’ he said, before his lips found hers again. ‘Be my goddess tonight.’
Tonight?
Already?
But before she could protest and say it was too soon, he sucked her back into his kiss with his hot mouth and his dangerous tongue and drew her close against him, shocking her when she felt his rigid heat hard against her, frightening her with the realisation that she must take that part of him inside her body. And, even though her logical mind told her that men and women the world over made love this way and had done for centuries, the unknown was equally as persuasive. Surely not all men were so large? How was she—the untested—supposed to accommodate him? There was no way he could not know she was a virgin. There was no way it would not hurt.
Yet something about that rigid column pressing against her belly, something wild and wanton that was written on the pulsing insistence of her own body, made her yearn to try.
‘Please,’ she cried between frantic breaths, not knowing let alone understanding what she was asking for as he dipped his head to her breast and suckled her nipple in his hot, hot mouth, sending spears of sensation shooting down to where her blood pulsed loud and urgent between her thighs.
‘Aisha,’ he said, his breathing as wild as hers as he reclaimed her mouth, her lips already tender from the rub of his whiskered cheeks. She wondered why she was hesitating and not already in his bed.
It wasn’t as if she had a choice. She was already married to this man. She was expected to bear his children and provide the country with heirs, and the officials would already be counting the days.
Why should she wait when the night was so perfect and her own need so insistent?
Why wait, when she already hungered to discover more?
His mouth wove magic on her throat, his hands turned her flesh molten and made her shudder with delight, and through it all she sensed the greater pleasures that were yet to be discovered, yet to come.
And still a crack opened in the midst of her longing, a flaw in the building intensity of feeling, a space in which to give rein to her doubts and fears.
For this was not how she had planned her first time to be.
Even though her breasts were heavy with want, and her body pressed itself closer to this man of its own wicked accord, this was not how she had imagined giving away her most private, guarded possession.
She had wanted to give it up with love, not merely in the heated flames of lust.
She had wanted to give it to a man she loved because she wanted to. Because she had made that choice.
And through that widening crack came the mantra, the words she’d rehearsed and practised and that had seemed so important to cling to.
‘I won’t sleep with you,’ she breathed. Yet she faltered over the words even as she spoke them out loud, struggling to comprehend what they meant and why they had suddenly seemed so very necessary to say, why they now seemed so strangely hollow.
‘But that is good news,’ he said, his mouth at her throat, his hands scooping down the curve of her back to press her even closer to him, ‘because I don’t want you asleep. When I make love to you, I want you very much awake. I want to see the lights in your eyes spark and shatter when you come.’
She gasped, her heart thudding like a drum in her chest at the pictures so vividly thrown up into her mind’s eye. And once again she felt herself drowning under the waves of desire, lust and all things sensual. Unable to breathe or think or make sense of where she was.
Able only to feel.
And the fear welled up inside that soon she would have no choice; that maybe it was already too late.
‘I’m afraid,’ she admitted. ‘It’s too soon.’
‘You want me,’ he said, his mouth once again on hers, coaxing her into complicity, convincing her that this was the best way. The only way. ‘It’s not too soon to know that.’
He might be right, but still she wavered, because she had seen her sister give in to passion and take what she wanted of a man, had seen her left with his child and nothing else.
She did not want that for herself. She did not want a fleeting affair that might rapidly turn from lust to resentment or worse. She did not want a marriage that could turn so quickly empty, and from where she could not simply walk away.
