Ah, but she was heaven—she was demanding and like nothing he had ever known. He lost track of time…lost track of everything except her. The feel of her in his arms. The softness of her mouth. The sharp edge of her teeth. He almost forgot to breathe.
She pulled back slightly and stepped from his arms, her eyes glinting. Picking up her glass, she drained the last bit of her wine, tipping her head back and exposing her throat to him. “I’m not wasting an ounce of a Montrachet.”
He laughed, poured the last of the wine into her glass—and the last of his wine, too. Taking her free hand, he pulled her with him, up the stairs and to the loft bedroom.
She came with him, her steps only a little dragging.
The maids had turned down the bed and had left only one light on. Below in the main room, the drapes hung open, giving a view of the lights of New York and light floated up from the open dining room.
Melanie glanced around, took a sip of wine and wet her lips. “I’ve never been someone to jump into a one-night stand.” She lifted a hand and fluttered her fingers.
“Good.” He came to her and put his hands on her waist. “Now I wish for the dessert I have been wanting all evening.”
Taking the wine from her, he set the glass on a night table. He unbuttoned her shirt, pressing a kiss on each inch of skin revealed. She sucked in a breath. Straightening, he pulled her closer. She was trembling. He shifted and urged her onto the bed. She lay down, her hair spilling around her face. He took a moment just to admire the breasts now straining against a very practical white cotton bra.
She lifted a foot. “Shoes?”
With a smile, he pulled off her shoes—something flat and sensible. The black sock followed, and then he had her foot in his hand—she had lovely feet. He stroked his fingers over a high arch. She didn’t paint her toenails. Putting down one foot, he took up the other and pulled off the shoe and sock and then he leaned forward and unbuttoned and unzipped her pants. He peeled them off along with her underwear, leaving her half naked on the bed.
Unlike the women of his country—and the prostitutes he’d known—she did not shave. Dark hair made a small triangle between her legs. The scent of her arousal wound around him, musky and warm. He wanted his fingers buried in her—wanted his mouth on her. But he also wanted to take his time.
Her breathing had quickened. She sat up, reaching behind her to unhook her bra. She shrugged off her shirt and flung off the last of her clothes. Ah, she was more than beautiful. Strong arms and shapely legs, a flat stomach and curving hips were a better feast than what they had had at that New York deli.
He spread her legs and knelt beside the bed, ready to worship this American goddess.
“Lay back—enjoy. Let me feast,” he told her.
She smiled and eased down on the bed again. He pulled her to him and spread her legs even wider so he could see into the mysteries of female delight. He put his mouth on that pearl that glistened. She rasped in a breath, and he knew he’d found what gave her pleasure.
He suckled and nibbled and licked at her, tasting the honey that poured from her. She moaned again and stiffened. He lapped even harder at her, slipping one finger into her. She shuddered and gasped, small nonsense pouring from her mouth as if she could not stop the words.
Ah, his sensual American—she loved this.
Pulling away from her, he wiped her juices from his mouth and beard and stood. His shoes thudded onto the carpet. He dragged off his shirt and his pants, and went to the nightstand to pull out a condom and slip it on. His father, he knew, had left bastard children around the world—he had no wish to do the same.
Coming back to Melanie, he covered her body with his and slipped into her.
She gasped, her eyes going wide, but she wrapped her legs around his hips and pulled him deeper. “More,” she whispered to him, her voice rough and deep.
“My pleasure,” he said.
And it was. He started slow, but she would not let him stay that way. She was more than demanding, so he gave her what she wished. He pounded into her, hard, diving deep with each stroke, holding back on his orgasm until she gave a small scream.
He let go then, pushed into her harder and faster, pounded her into the soft mattress until the world went white and pleasure swept into him.
Sweating, skin slick and hot, he slid off her and pulled her close. She gave a soft hum and asked, “How soon can we do that again?”
He could feel the condom wet and clinging now, and he dragged it off and threw it aside. The maid could deal with that later. He stroked a hand down his sensual American’s back. “Drink your wine—and then we will go again. And tomorrow you may show me New York.”
4
They had sex five times that night, barely getting any sleep, but Melanie felt oddly energized. The next morning, she’d called George to ask him to keep an eye on the business and do the inventory they did after any event. George had given a low laugh and said she sounded like she was ‘getting some’ and he’d handle everything. He sounded pleased she was trusting him enough to give him more responsibility. Ahmed had done a few texts, and then they’d showered, had breakfast, more sex in the living room, this time doggy-style that had her coming with gasps. She’d never had a lover like Ahmed—and the things that beard of his did to her skin were probably illegal in five states.
Then they’d set off to see sights.
They’d done more than that.
Ahmed insisted she buy a few dresses—and then he’d bought her flowers. She’d left them at the 9/11 Memorial, and they’d gone window shopping and she’d bought him a small Statue of Liberty as a souvenir.