The Sheikh's Convenient Bride

A man who would make love to his bride.

He gathered her into his arms and took her mouth with his. She moaned his name and wound her arms around his neck.

“I want to taste you, kalila. Every part of you.”

Oh yes. It was what she wanted, too. All the arguing. The battle of words and will. Had it all been pretence to hide the truth? She sighed as Caz kissed her mouth, bent and nipped at her throat, brushed his lips over the straining silk that covered her breasts.

How could she have gone all these days without his touch? She’d wanted him from the beginning, wanted him, wanted him, wanted him…

“Turn your back to me,” he whispered.

She did, and he pushed her hair aside and pressed his mouth to the nape of her neck. Her eyes closed; her head fell back as she felt his fingers at the tiny buttons that went from the top of her gown to her waist. He undid them one by one, turning it into an exquisite torment, pausing to kiss each bit of skin as he revealed it.

When he was done, she was trembling.

She began to turn toward him but he stopped her, slid the gown down her arms, lowered his mouth to the delicate juncture of shoulder and throat and pressed his lips there.

She moaned. Whispered his name. Reached back, took his hands, cupped them over her breasts.

Caz groaned as he felt the luscious weight of her breasts in his palms. Slowly he ran his fingers over her nipples, felt them bud and rise at his touch, heard her soft cry of pleasure. She leaned back against him, moved against him, and he slid his hand down to her belly, to the softness between her thighs, pressed her, hard, against his straining erection.

“Megan,” he said, his voice low and rough. “Megan…”

She swung around in his arms and he slipped the gown from her shoulders, watching as it pooled at her feet. The gown had been Suliyam; what she wore beneath it was pure, unadulterated twenty-first century seductress, bra and panties of sheerest ivory lace.

“God,” he whispered, “you’re so beautiful.”

Eyes locked to his face, she reached behind her. Undid the bra. Let it fall to her feet.

He felt every muscle in his body tighten with desire. Beautiful? No. The word wasn’t enough. His bride was like a dream. Her face. Her eyes. Her mouth.

Her breasts.

They were small. High. The nipples were the deep pink of summer roses, already budding in anticipation of his kiss. A kiss he gave hungrily, bending to her, cupping her breasts, bringing them to his lips so he could lave the sweet, taut centers with his tongue and suck them deep into his mouth.

She sobbed out his name as he scooped her into his arms, carried her to the bed and laid her on it.

“Now,” she whispered. Caz, please. I want you now.”

She reached for him, ran her hands over his muscled shoulders, the soft hair on his chest, luxuriated in the race of his heart under her palms.

“Please,” she begged, but when she touched his belt he caught her hands in one of his, raised them high above her head.

“Not yet,” he said, and watched her face as he cupped his palm over the bit of lace between her thighs.

Her cry tore through the night, and when he slid his fingers under her panties and found the hot, passion-dampened flower of her womanhood, she exploded beneath him.

Megan sobbed his name; tears glittered in her eyes but now he knew they were tears of joy. They were for him, for what he made her feel, for what was happening to them both. The realization drove him

higher than the mountains, the moon, the stars. He pulled down the scrap of lace, tore off his clothes and knelt between her thighs.

“Megan. Look at me.”

Her eyes opened and filled with him.

“Who do you belong to?” His voice was a hoarse rasp; he barely recognized it as his own. “Who?” he demanded, and she lifted her arms to him.

“You,” she whispered. “Only to you, Qasim.”