Her nod was frantic. “Yes, yes. I’m yours. Yours. Love me, ya habibi, show me what being alive feels like.”
He fell to his haunches under the import, the conviction of her words, groaning, “Maboodati …”
He bunched her nightdress in his fists, looked up at his goddess, peach-flushed, eyes almost black, the totality of her hunger and trust shooting to his heart, tampering with its rhythm, crimson lips swollen with his passion, panting for more, beckoning him to lose his mind, once and for all.
He raised the nightdress up, exposing her an inch at a time, replacing it with his lips, tongue, teeth, coating her velvet firmness in suckles and nibbles, knowing just where to skim and tantalize, where to linger and torment, where to draw harder and devour. Her moans became cries, then keens, then loud, labored gasps.
The pressure in his loins was reaching unbearable levels until he feared the first time wouldn’t be the languorous seduction he’d hoped it would be. The accumulation of need had reached critical levels and it would be like a dam breaking the moment he thrust inside her.
No. He couldn’t let her first intimacy with him be anything less than perfect bliss. He had to show her what she meant to him. Show her he craved her pleasure far more than he craved his own, that his pleasure stemmed from hers.
Yes. He’d show her how he cherished her, what he’d give, what he’d endure to give her the best, give her everything. Always.
Her nightdress was now past her midriff, past her ability to stand the sensual torment. He took pity on her, straightened, taking the nightdress with him, over her breasts, over her head.
He stood back, took his first gulp of her, exposed but for the lacy morsel Hessuh had helped Janaan put on before he’d brought her here, and almost dropped to his knees again.
He’d seen parts of her as he’d treated her, but he’d been out of his mind with fear, his surgeon side in full control. Now he saw her as a woman, not a patient. And there she was. Beyond his fantasies. Ripe, strong, tailored to his every last fastidious taste and beyond. His woman. And she was dying for him, as he was for her, quaking with the force of her need, weeping with it.
Her arms stretched out in demand, in supplication, and sabotaged what was left of his reason.
He yanked her to him, bending her over one arm, her breasts an erotic offering. Pouring litanies of worship into her lips, all over her face, he kneaded, weighed one breast, seeking one erect, deep peach nipple, pinching and rolling it before he moved down, captured the other bud of overpowering femininity and need in his mouth, felt as if he’d captured a vital, missing part of his life’s meaning.
She screamed. With each pull she screamed again, shuddered. His hands glided over her abdomen, shaking with the privilege, the freedom, closing over her trim mound, stilled in awe. This was his home. His home inside her. And she was letting him have it, own it. He squeezed his eyes, her flesh.
Just as she screamed again, he slid two fingers between the velvet slickness of her exquisite folds, spreading them, getting drunk with the scent of her arousal, the evidence of her love and dependence. She was ready for him.
He slipped a careful finger inside her, needing to know how much and went blind with another blast of arousal. Soaking, for him, but … so tight. And she lurched, as if he’d hurt her.
So not so ready for him. But ready for pleasure. And how he’d pleasure her.
He stroked her, spread honey from her slit before his fingers made way for his thumb to find the knot of flesh where her nerves converged, her trigger. The moment he touched it, he felt as if he’d touched the core of the sun, her cries of love, of his name, strangled and she bucked in his arms.
He roared with pride, swept her off her feet, deposited her with all the cherishing and gentleness pouring out of his being for her onto the bed, crashed to his knees in front of her, spreading her shaking legs, bringing them over his shoulders, his hands and lips and teeth devouring their every inch. Tension invaded her body again, until she was thrashing again.
“Malek, please … I n-need you …”
For answer, he spread her core, gave her one long lick. She bucked off the bed, screamed again. “Please, Malek … you … you.”
He subdued her with one hand flat on her abdomen. “Let me taste you, taste your pleasure,” he begged. “I’ve been starving for you. Let me have my fill, give me everything you have.”
She still tried to squeeze her legs closed, her eyes wet and beseeching. And he realized. She was shy!
Following on the heels of this realization came the certainty. No one had ever tasted her before. His wild flower of the desert had never allowed anyone this privilege! And she would give it to him. The privilege was his alone, now and forever.
He staked his claim. “Aren’t you mine?”
She nodded mutely, her color high.
He surged up, dragged pillows, propped her up against them so she was half-sitting. He withdrew to look at his arrangement, Janaan, open and willing for his ministrations. Blood whooshed, a geyser in his head, in his erection. He gritted his teeth, watched her hands convulsing in the sheets, her body tensing up.
“Don’t be shy, ya hayati. And don’t close your eyes. Watch me worship you, pleasure you, own your every secret. Look me in the eye as I bring you to orgasm this time.”
She squirmed, hiccupped. “Malek, I can’t, please …”
“You can. You will.” He latched onto her core. He drank her, her essence, her need, her pleasure. Then when he knew her body was screaming for release, he tongue-lashed her clitoris, and she shredded her throat on ecstasy, unraveled her body on a chain reaction of convulsions. And looked him in the eyes all through. It was the most erotic, most intimate, most fulfilling experience of his life.
But, then, every touch, every glance from her had been that. Now he’d take her, and union with her would reinvent the terms of eroticism, intimacy and fulfillment. He prayed she was ready enough now.
First, to bring her to fever pitch again.
He slid up her sweat-slick body, snatching the pillows from beneath her, flattening her to the bed, soaking up her drugged look, the looseness confessing the depth of her satisfaction.
But as soon as he branded her lips, letting her taste her pleasure on his, her breath hitched, her cool sweat evaporated on a blast of heat radiating from her core. She was aroused that much, that fast again? He hadn’t even started stimulating her.
He withdrew to make sure, and she clutched at him, tearing the abaya from his shoulders. “I want to see you—all of you. Oh, please, I don’t want pleasure—I want you, I’m dying to feel you, deep inside me, filling my body, please …”