The Sheikh's Reluctant American (The Adjalane Sheikhs 3)

She stepped from the water and grabbed her clothes. Malid already had swept his up. Grinning like a kid, she followed him back to one of the smaller tents. Lanterns had been lit inside, and a small fire burned in what looked like an iron stove or heater. Instant warm spread over her skin. The tent had been hung with carpets and drapery, and more carpets and pillows were piled thick to make a couch or a bed.

Before she could do more than glance around, Malid had her in his arms again. She dropped her clothing and wrapped herself around him, lifting one leg to put it around his calf. “This is not going to change my mind about wanting to buy the land for a pipeline.”

One dark eyebrow lifted. “Do you really want t

o talk business right now?”

She shook her head. He kissed her again. The stubble on his chin brushed her cheek. And then it was all tongue and teeth and passion. He pulled her with him down onto the pillows. She parted her legs, making room for him between them.

Pulling back, he stared at her, his eyes dark and heated. Putting a hand on her breast, he murmured, “Nigella, you are an amazing woman.” Bending down, he took one nipple into his mouth and sucked on it.

Letting out a soft moan, she put her hand on his back to urge him to do more. She dug her nails in, then moved her hands to that firm ass of his. She pulled him closer and dug in her fingernails again.

He chuckled and rose up on one elbow. “Someone is in a hurry.”

“I’m never in a hurry,” she muttered, and kissed and bit his neck.

Malid growled, reached down and pulled her hands away. “Before you completely unman him, enough.” He lifted her wrists above her head and pushed them into the pillows.” I plan to take my time. You should appreciate that.”

“Next time maybe.” She tried to pull free, but he held her fast.

“Many more times,” he told her and kissed her until she gave up and gave into him.

“Malid, stop teasing,” she begged. “It’s been so long.”

“How long?” he asked, rubbing his erection against her now.

Sweat slicked her skin and she could smell the salty tang of her arousal. “Two years too long.”

He brushed a kiss over her breast. “The men in your country are either stupid or blind. Lucky for you, I am neither.” Keeping her gaze locked on his own, he reached down and positioned himself at her entrance. “Do we need to think of a condom?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Not unless you’ve been sleeping with the wrong people or using needles. I protect myself, Malid.” She wiggled her hips. “Don’t go away on my account. Things were just starting to get interesting.”

He slid into her agonizingly slow. “Interesting? Is that the best adjective you can come up with?”

Smiling, she told him, “Why don’t you help me come up with some more.”

Chapter 7

Malid pushed deeper into her—Nigella, his Nigella. He shouldn’t think of her as such, but he did. She was his now. He wanted to pump his seed into her—to leave a mark on her that would claim her as his. He sank into her, buried himself to the hilt, and held still, savoring the moment.

Her eyes had drifted closed and her skin—that lovely, pale skin—glowed with arousal. Pulling out, he pushed in again—slowly. He wanted to feel every precious inch. She gave a whimper and tugged again on her wrists. Ah, so he had not yet reduced her to being utterly his.

He picked up the pace, pushing in harder now—faster. She gave a moan, and he had to catch a breath and hold still a moment. Her hips bucked up under his and her eyes opened. He could still feel her nails digging into him and he knew how she would like her sex.

Pulling out, he pushed in hard. She gave another moan and buck. He smiled. This was how he liked his sex, too—hard and a little rough. Leaning down, he bit just above her nipple. Bit hard. She wiggled under him and arched. He smiled even more, pulled out and pumped in hard, thrusting so that she would feel his weight and the length of his cock. He wanted to impale her on it—wanted her moaning and trashing beneath him.

He started to pump harder—to take her, to make her his utterly. She wiggled and arched, almost fighting him, but really he knew she was fighting for her own release. Her eyes closed again and he shifted his hips so he could screw her deeper. Setting a faster pace, sweat slicking his skin and hers, he thrust deeper until he could feel himself pushing up against her uterus. She was beautiful like this—hair spilling around her, mouth slack, eyes abandoned to anything but pleasure.

He wanted to see her with her hands tied. He wanted to have her at his mercy. He wanted to blindfold her and drip hot wax on her nipples and watch her writhe as she balanced on that edge between pleasure and pain. He wanted…

Pulling out, he thrust in harder and harder—faster now, gripping her wrists, making her ride the waves of her orgasm. She gave a cry but that wasn’t enough for him—he wanted to hear that soft almost-sob again. He thrust harder into her, glad for the firm pillows under her hips, glad she was a woman built to take a hard ride like this. He pushed in faster and faster, and now her wrists went limp under his hold, her body softened. She spread her legs wider for him, inviting a more punishing ride, and that inflamed him.

Hips bucking, he rode her, faster and harder—wanting, always wanting. She gave another cry, softened even more to him—gave utterly to him—and his own orgasm swept over him, blurring the world, leaving only the feeling of being joined utterly to her.

He came back to himself to become aware of the sweat drying on his skin, his breath slowing, and Nigella under him. He had loosened her wrists, and now she dragged two fingers up and down over his arm.

“Spectacular. Blissful. Orgasmic,” she muttered, her voice still drenched with sex. “All of those and more come to mind.”