She giggled…giggled! He paused to stare at her. She ran her fingernails over his chest. "Well, I live in books, so why not."
He kissed the tip of her nose. "No, you are much more than any kind of bookworm. You are a miracle. A blessing. A wonder."
Heat rose from her body—he could feel it as he'd felt it when she'd come in his arms. His cock twitched, and he put a hand on it to calm the urgent thing. He slipped on the condom, and that settled his too-hot blood.
Taking hold of Christine's hips, he rolled onto his back, pulled her with him so she had to sit astride him. "I've had dreams of you riding me—ride me now, Christine. Take your pleasure as you will."
It was not the caveman advice Nasim had given him, but damn Nasim—the man went through women as if they were toys to be used and discarded. Arif would allow his Christine to take what she wanted from him.
She sat on his hips, his erection pressing against her. Her arousal left her wet and warm. He shifted, and she gave a small purr and dragged one fingernail over his left nipple. He arched for her as she had for him.
"Wow—you're sensitive." She put her mouth on him and nipped as he had her.
He groaned and grabbed her waist.
"Keep that up, and this will be the end to our evening."
She sat up again and shook her head. "Oh, no. You're not getting out of this, buster." Leaning down, she kissed him, took his mouth as he had taken hers. He wrapped his fingers into her hair to keep her in place, to hold her to him, and he plunged his tongue into her the way he wanted to fuck her—hard, demanding, going as deep as possible. She turned soft in his arms and ground her hips against him.
He didn't let go of her, but she shifted, and the head of his cock slipped into her. He groaned but didn't stop fucking her mouth with his tongue. She kept her hips hovering over him, just the head of his cock inside her. She did something—some small wiggle or rotation—and he groaned and let his head fall back. "I was wrong—you are a torment, not a blessing."
She put her mouth on his neck, and he felt her smile. She wiggled down another half inch on him.
Arif kept his hands on her hips. He would not roll over and throw her down and plunge into her. Not this time. No matter how much he wanted to. Shifting his hands to her breasts, he took them in his palms, squeezed and kneaded the softness. She sat up, threw her head back and pushed her hips down.
He nudged the edge of rapture. He wanted to buck up, to push deeper. Christine caught a breath and then caught her lower lip between her teeth. A small line appeared between her eyebrows. With a growl, Arif pulled her face down to his, took her mouth with his, and pushed his tongue between her lips. She had liked that—someday he really must fuck that wide, generous mouth, but for now, he would let his tongue do what he wished to do to her with his cock. She groaned…and suddenly he pushed fully into her.
She gave a cry, and he swallowed it down, shifted his hands to her ass and held her still. He worked his tongue now to soothe her, licked inside her mouth, nibbled on her lips, let her lie within his arms until she grew accustomed to him. She gave an experimental wiggle of her hips.
Heat shot through up into his spine. She wrapped around him, and the world became nothing but her heat and the feeling of her—so tight and clutching at him with small spasms.
Pushing up from him, she sat upright. Arif clung to her hips, trying to keep himself from exploding and coming apart. She wiggled again, lifted her hips up, and pushed down on him.
He groaned. "You will be the death of me."
She ran a finger over his lower lip. "La petite mort—the little death. Yes, just as the French say." She began to move then, lifting her hips, shifting them, experimenting with what she liked. He could only groan and hang on—to her hips and to himself.
Her orgasm hit like a desert storm—fast and hot and wild. She threw her head back. The heat from her washed into him, and the spasms shook her, milking his cock, sending him over into that fracture of eternity as well.
He became aware of her body on his, of the small tremors still shaking her, of how he was still hard inside her. Rolling with her, he put her on her back. "We are not done, yet, habibi."
Now he could push into her—and pull out fully to push in again. He spread her legs wide and started slow, listening to her soft moans, her ragged breaths, and feeling her hand on his hip as she tried to pull him deeper. This was what he had wanted—to mark her as his, to make her his own. He pulled out, heard her whimper of need, and plunged in faster now, his own need shattering his control.
He gave a low growl, and his hips bucked, and he started to fuck her as hard as he'd wanted from the moment he'd first seen her. She opened for him, took him in, arched her back and came apart for him. Her spasms shook him, but he wasn't done. He hovered on the edge, buried up to the root inside her, his arms braced either side of her so he could see her face go slack, see her eyes lose focus. And then he lost his own. The world came apart and fell back together. He put his head on her chest. Her heart pounded to match his own.
Christine stroked her fingers over Arif's back. He had a beautiful back. She didn't know what to say—or do. She could hardly move. She had a soft ache between her legs; she'd probably ruined his jacket with her moisture, and she didn't care. A marvelous lassitude clung to her arms and legs. Her lips felt bruised, properly ravished. She'd be sore tomorrow—it was like riding a horse.
She huffed a laugh, and Arif threw an arm over her. "What is so funny?"
Waving a hand, she said, "This. I think I like riding you better than I like riding a horse."
He kissed the side of her breast and settled his head on her shoulder. His beard tickled. "You can do both, although not at the same time."
She smiled again, but stilled. Arif sat up and traced a line from between her breasts to her belly. "What is it? I can hear you thinking."
"You cannot."
"Very well, I can feel it when that brain of yours kicks in. You went from feeling to thinking. You have a small twitch that gives it away, and your right hand flexes as if you wish you had a pen in it."