As they swayed to the music on the dance floor, he gave her a sensual smile, brushing an errant tendril of dark hair from her face. Just feeling the soft brush of his fingertips, even though they were in the middle of the ballroom with hundreds of couples around them, made her almost forget to dance. She stumbled, but he caught her smoothly, lowering her into a dip.
“Thank you,” she whispered breathlessly, looking up at him.
Sharif’s eyes were dark with heat. “My pleasure.”
It seemed like minutes or hours that he held her in the dip, almost horizontally, and she wondered wildly if this was the way he would look over her in bed. Her knees went wobbly, but before she could collapse completely, he pulled her back upright, tight against his hard body.
She licked her lips, pressing her cheek to the shirt of his tuxedo. She could feel his warmth beneath the fabric, feel the power and strength of his body towering over her own. She thought she could hear his heartbeat.
He stopped dancing. Took a ragged breath.
“Irene,” he said in a low voice.
Terror struck her—or maybe it was excitement—she no longer knew the difference. She only knew what was about to happen and that she could not stop it, even if she wanted to. And she didn’t. Slowly, she pulled away from his chest. She lifted her gaze to his.
Sharif’s eyes seemed to burn with dark fire. He ran his hands over her bare shoulders, softly down her back. She felt the roughness of his hands, the size of them, the strength. He ran his fingertips up her arms, to her neck. He stroked the edge of his thumb softly against her aching lips, sizzling where he touched, making her yearn, making her need.
Cupping her face, he tilted back her head. She felt the warmth of his breath. Felt the hard heat of his body against hers. For an instant, time seemed suspended. She forgot the people around them. Forgot to dance. Forgot all rational thought. Forgot to breathe.
He lowered his mouth to hers, and kissed her.
It was like nothing she’d ever experienced. The memory of Carter’s sloppy kisses of two years ago instantly evaporated, became laughable. Sharif took command, holding her in his arms, his lips hard and hot and sweet and soft. The music stopped. She heard only the rush of blood through her veins, making her dizzy, lost in the riptide of pleasure that tore through her, body and soul, leaving her weak and clutching his shoulders as if only this kiss could save her. As if his kiss were life itself.
She wanted him. She wanted this powerful billionaire sheikh, who had become simply Sharif to her. She wanted him. Even if it destroyed her...
“Fireworks! Come out now for the fireworks!”
The words rang out multiple times, in multiple languages. Irene heard the delighted response of the crowd, felt the rush as people started to leave the ballroom. Sharif pulled away. Her eyes opened slowly. She felt almost bewildered as she looked up at his handsome face, at his dark eyes, half-lidded with desire. Then she saw something else in his eyes.
Smugness. Masculine smugness.
She blinked. Took a deep breath. Eyes wide, she put her hand to her forehead.
“What are you doing to me?” she whispered.
“Don’t you know?” Sharif tilted his head as he looked down at her, his black eyes hot with desire. He stroked her cheek. “I am seducing you, Irene.”
A shock of awareness blasted over and through her, causing prickles to go up and down her body from her earlobes to her breasts and lower still. “You’re—you’re seducing me?”
“Forget the fireworks outside.” Running his hands down the bare skin of her shoulders above her strapless red gown, he lowered his head to her ear. “Come back to my suite and we’ll have our own.”
He pulled back from her, and she saw in his face that he expected her to say yes. He thought he’d won. In spite of all her protests, he’d always expected to win. Dawning horror rose inside her soul.
“All of our time together—it’s just been one long set-up? From the moment we met?”
Sharif twirled a tendril of her long dark hair around his finger. “I’ve never had to work so hard for any woman. But no woman has ever intrigued me more. Come back to my room, Irene. Let me show you everything the night can be...”
Irene ripped out of his arms, pressing her hands against her temples. One long set-up. All the laughter and banter. All the camaraderie and delight. She’d thought it was magic. She hadn’t seen the secret work of the magician pulling the strings.
“It was all just to get me into bed?” she whispered. “All our—our friendship was a lie?”
Sharif’s smug expression disappeared.
“Not a lie,” he said sharply. “A seduction. Surely even you can see the difference.”