“You and he—you don’t see eye to eye on much. Have you ever thought you’re too much alike?”
Khalid frowned. “No—he is all business.”
“And you’re all pleasure. Because you don’t want to be like him—is that it?”
His frown deepened. He shook his head and smiled. “The talk grows too serious. Let’s have entertainment.” Straightening, he clapped his hands.
Women came out to dance, but not in the costumes she would expect. Instead of flashy belly dancers, two women in veils and striped robes came out to sway to the music. Another two women came over to Casey and sat next to her, spreading out what looked like brushes and paste of some kind.
“Henna,” Khalid said. “A bride must be decorated. My father will be pleased to see you wearing henna on your arms. And don’t worry—it lasts only a few weeks and then washes off and slowly fades.”
Casey gave her arms over for the designs, and then the woman gestured for her to change position and give them her feet as well. They giggled as they worked, Khalid fed her dates and she leaned back, swept away by the beauty of the stars and the music.
This had to be a dream—not reality. Here she was dining with a Sheikh, the dusty gold walls turning dark as the sun set and the moon rose. She closed her eyes and let the women work on their designs, the brushes tickling at times and somehow seeming soothing, too. And then the music stopped. She sat up.
The women had left them, the meal was done. Khalid stood over her, a hand held out to her. “Come home with me.”
She hesitated only a moment, and then put her hand into his.
9
He watched his beautiful supposed bride-to-be walk into the palace carrying her boots, her feet bare and decorated. Quietly, they wandered up the stairs to her room. For once, she did not shut the door on him but left it open. He closed it behind him and leaned against it.
Casey glanced at him and smiled. Slowly, she began to unbutton her shirt, dropping it to the floor. Her painted hands and arms seemed elegant to him—the designs swirling as she moved.
She
laughed and said, “This stuff itches.”
He came over to her and took her hands. “You cannot wash it off until the morning. But I know a remedy—honey.”
She shook her head. “Seriously?”
Heading into the suite’s kitchen, he found the jar of warm honey on the table and came back to her. Coming up to her, he drizzled honey over her arms, put down the pot and then began to lightly smear the thick liquid over her skin. She smelled like honey now, and he did not resist the urge to lift her hand to his lips and suck on her fingertip.
She gave a small gasp. “That feels….wonderful.”
“I know what will feel better.” Leading her to the bed, he stripped back the covers. He swept her up and stretched her out on the white linen. She arched her back, unbuttoned her shorts and wiggled out of them.
“So practical,” he said, running a hand over her soft cotton bra, trailing his fingers down to her cotton briefs.”
She smiled and shook her head. Her hair fanned out around her face. “No, practical would be tossing you out. Now, shut up and show me just how you got that reputation for being a great lover.”
He started with her feet, drizzling honey over her toes and rubbing it up her legs. The henna left few places for him to lick, so he settled for teasing touches to the souls of her feet and to the inside of her ankle, left temptingly bare.
Getting up, he stripped off his shirt and came back to her to straddled her thighs. “Enjoy,” he told her. He drizzled honey onto her stomach and licked it off. She gave another gasp as his tongue touched her skin. She seemed as warm as the desert now—as open as any flower to the rains. Reaching around, he unhooked her bra. She wiggled out of her too practical garment and threw it aside.
“You should be in silks,” he told her.
“How about nothing?”
“That would be even better.” Getting off her, he stripped quickly. She wiggled out of her panties and lay sprawled on the bed, legs parted. Golden hair curled at the junction of her thighs and lower belly, more dazzling than the henna patters on her legs and feet and hands and arms. He came back to her, put two fingers into the honey and began to draw patters on her breasts, swirls of golden liquid.
She didn’t say anything but arched up as if begging for more. Done with his designs—and out of honey—he leaned over to trace the patterns he had drawn with his tongue. Desire for her swept through him, hotter than the Sharjah sun. He licked her skin, swirling his tongue around her hardening nipple. He was hard, too—and his erection brushed over her thigh.
Moving lower, he kissed her belly, and then dipped his fingers into the honey and pushed them into her. She parted her legs wide and moaned.
Her pale skin glowed in the moonlight that fell into her room from the French windows. He kissed her neck while he slid two fingers deeper, mixing the honey with her own wet need. Pulling his fingers out of her, he kissed her. Hard. She moaned into his mouth and wrapped her arms around him.