The Unlikely Mistress

Jane swallowed, some warning bell in her befuddled brain telling her this wasn’t right but the sensations which were shooting through her body were making objection impossible. ‘Are you sure that’s...allowed?’

‘If the King decrees it, then it is allowed.’

‘How very arrogant,’ she breathed.

‘I never claimed not to be arrogant. Just as I never promised not to bend the rules to suit our needs.’ He touched his lips to hers so she could feel the warmth of his breath on her lips. ‘We’ll be sticking to the spirit of the law, if not exactly the letter.’

‘Zayed...’ Her throat now felt so thick that she could barely get the word out, especially as his finger had left her stocking top and was slowly inching towards her panties.

‘Don’t you want to have an orgasm, Jane?’ he questioned idly. ‘To come beneath my fingers and experience a bliss like no other?’

Her mouth dried and she licked her lips as she felt his fingertip brushing over the taut, damp fabric. ‘I—’

‘You’ve read all those erotic Kafalahian texts, haven’t you?’ he said. ‘I know you have, because I’ve seen them open in that book beside the bed. You’ve seen all those different acts of pleasure which are possible between a man and a woman. You know very well that fulfilment can be attained through use of the fingers, the mouth and the tongue. It’s not all about the penis, Jane.’

‘Zayed!’ she remonstrated, colour flooding into her cheeks because nobody had ever said that word to her before. Nobody.

‘Haven’t you ever thought that you might like to try some of those techniques yourself?’ he persisted softly—now stroking his finger up and down the centre panel of her panties.

Of course she had. But that was a bit like someone stuck in a land-locked country imagining what it would be like to go swimming in the sea every morning. She’d just never associated it with her. She was stolid Jane and serious Jane, but never sexy Jane. Or at least, she hadn’t been. Until now. Now she was feeling very sexy indeed and it was all down to this man.

He edged his fingertip

beneath the elastic of her panties and she shuddered as she felt his fingers touch the acutely sensitive flesh which was growing wetter by the second. ‘Zayed,’ she said faintly as she squirmed with pleasure.

‘Do you want that, Jane? Only I need you to tell me,’ he murmured. ‘I promise I won’t do anything to you unless I have your consent.’

And in that moment she hated him for his need to control and for his desire to have her capitulate when he must have known she could no more have stopped what he was doing than she could have grown wings and soared high up to the ceiling of the ambassadorial suite.

‘Yes,’ she gasped.

‘You want me to make you come?’

‘Yes! I want you to make me come. Just do it, will you, Zayed? Please.’

She could scarcely believe she’d been so bold but he stopped his teasing then. The playfulness was replaced by a brief shuttering of his eyes, as if the control which was so much a part of him was in danger of slipping away. But when he opened them again all that control was back. His mouth was hard and determined as he shifted his position slightly. Slithering her panties down over her knees and ankles, he tossed them aside before sliding his hand between her thighs once more and lowering his head to kiss her. And Jane moaned with pleasure because it was a double onslaught—the touch of his lips on her mouth and the touch of his fingers on the most intimate part of her was threatening to send her out of her mind.

Her thighs parted as he tangled his nails in the soft fuzz of hair there, before his finger dipped deeper to explore her heated flesh. He kissed away her mounting cries as he strummed against her with a practised touch and she could feel her fingernails digging convulsively into the fabric of his suit jacket. And when it happened it took her by surprise—a great whooshing feeling which gathered her up like a rising wave, before dashing her back down to a heavenly place as spasms racked her body and she said his name, over and over again.

Some time later—she wasn’t sure how much because time seemed to have slowed and entered a completely different dimension—she came back down to earth. Her fingers had somehow burrowed inside his suit jacket and she was nestled up close to his chest, like an abandoned kitten who’d unexpectedly been given warmth and shelter. As if she’d found her own little portion of paradise. She could hear the beat of his heart against her ear and it felt as though up until that moment she’d only ever been a shadow of the person she was meant to be. As if a whole new Jane had emerged into a world where everything seemed different. She opened her eyes and looked around. The colours in the room looked more intense. The ticking of the grandfather clock sounded like music to her ears. But when she glanced across at him, she saw he was staring at the ceiling, his profile like granite.

‘Zayed?’ she said hesitantly.

He turned his head to look at her but she could read nothing in the blackness of his eyes.

‘Better?’

His words were a shock—no doubt about it—and her intense feelings of pleasure began to shut down. He’d made what had just happened sound like an itch she’d needed to scratch, or a hunger she’d had to feed. Was that how he saw it—as nothing but a very physical response?

And what if he did?

This wasn’t real, she reminded herself fiercely. Did she really want him murmuring meaningless words of affection which would fill her with a hope she had no right to feel? No, she did not. There was nothing wrong with experiencing pleasure for pleasure’s sake and she would match his attitude with a coolness of her own.

Stretching her arms above her head, she knew she wasn’t imagining the watchful flicker in his eyes but now wasn’t the time to give into the stupid urge which was making her long to shower his hawkish face with a million soft, little kisses. Because that was nothing but a hormonal reaction to what had just happened—the logical side of her brain knew that.

‘Much better,’ she agreed.

‘Your first orgasm,’ he observed.