The Sheikh's Undoing

He watched as she picked up his discarded tie and began to roll it into a neat silken coil. ‘So, did you miss me?’ he repeated.

Isobel put the tie down and looked at him. What would he do if she told him that she always missed him? That she wished she could suddenly become one of his ties, so that she could wrap herself round his neck all day and stay there? He would run a million miles away—that was what he would do. Declarations of adoration were not what Tariq wanted, but she could see perfectly well from his darkening eyes just what he did want.

She rose from her desk and walked towards him, aware of his gaze on her and conscious of the fact that her thighs were bare above her stocking tops. She’d dressed with deliberate daring for the office this morning, knowing that he was bound to want her as soon as he arrived—and determined to feed into the fantasies he had assured her on the phone last night had been building all week.

She might be new to all this, but some survival instinct had made her turn herself into the best lover she could possibly be. Because wasn’t that her default method? To do something to the best of her ability? Didn’t that usually mean security? If you became so good at something then you wouldn’t be replaced.

Only this wasn’t a new job, or a new project which was going to enhance her life. This was all about a relationship—it was strange new territory. Her mother’s often repeated warnings still came to her from time to time, but how could she take them seriously when she was looking into the glittering hunger of Tariq’s black eyes and feeling the lurch of her heart in response?

‘Of course I’ve missed you,’ she said softly.

‘How much, on a scale of one to ten?’

‘Well …’ She pretended to think about it. ‘How about seven?’

‘Seven?’

‘Eight, then. Nine! Tariq! Okay—ten!’

‘You’re wearing stockings,’ he breathed in disbelief.

‘Well, you’ve nagged me often enough about my tights.’

‘With good reason. Let me see.’ He lifted up her skirt and expelled a small appraising sigh. The tops of the dark silk stockings had been embroidered with deep turquoise and green, so that it looked as if some peacock had wrapped its feathers enticingly around her thighs and left them there. ‘You know that there are consequences to dressing like that?’ he questioned unsteadily.

‘What kind of consequences might they be?’

‘Can’t you guess?’ he breathed, as he placed her hand on the fly of his trousers.

‘T-Tariq.’

‘I want you, Izzy.’

‘You always want me,’ she whispered back, her fingertips caressing the thick, hard shaft.

He swallowed. ‘And is it mutual?’

‘You know it is.’

He caught her by the shoulders and looked down into her widened tawny eyes. ‘Then why don’t you show me how much you’ve missed me?’ he questioned unsteadily. ‘Because I have missed you too, kalila.’

She savoured his unsteady words as she rose up on tiptoe to kiss him, revelling in the sheer pleasure of being in his arms again. She closed her eyes as his practised fingers began to reacquaint themselves with her body. At times like this, when he could reduce her to boneless longing within seconds, it was easy to imagine that a unique bond existed between them. Was that because they seemed to have the ability to anticipate each other’s needs—despite the disparity of their experience—or was it because they simply knew each other so well?

Or was it something far more commonplace? He’d told her candidly that making love without having to wear a condom was the biggest turn-on he’d ever known. For him, that was a brand-new experience, and that was rare enough to excite a man who’d been having sex since he was a teenager. She’d tried telling herself that Tariq’s reaction to her was purely physical. Because if she looked the

truth straight in the face then surely there was less likelihood of her getting hurt?

If only her own feelings were as straightforward. If only she hadn’t started to care. Really care. She wondered if it was normal for a woman to become a little more emotionally vulnerable every time her man made love to her. For her to start wanting things she knew she wasn’t supposed to want—things he’d specifically warned her against? Things that Tariq was renowned for never delivering—and especially to a woman like her. Stuff like commitment and happy-ever-after.

‘Izzy?’

She closed her eyes, letting go of the last of her troubled thoughts, allowing pure and delicious sensation to take over instead. ‘Yes,’ she whispered, as he pushed her down onto the floor and sank down beside her. ‘Oh, yes.’

His fingers were on her flesh now, stroking open the moist and heated flesh at the very core of her, and he was saying, ‘Luloah …’ softly and fervently beneath his breath, something which Isobel had learnt meant ‘pearl’ in his native tongue.

‘You taste of honey,’ he said on a shuddered breath, his mouth high on her thigh.

‘Tariq—’ His tongue had reached the most sensitive part of her anatomy, and Isobel gave a little gasp of pleasure as she felt its delicate flick. Glancing down, she could see the erotic image of her boss’s black head between her legs, and the sheer intimacy of it only increased the sensations which were beginning to ripple through her.