The Sheikh's Pregnant Lover (Sheikhs of Al-Dashalid 1) - Page 20

“Oh…” She leaned backward into his strong chest. “I was feeling sorry for myself. None of my clothes fit anymore.”

She could feel Kyril’s smile. “You look radiant,” he said, and she raised her eyes to catch a glimpse of herself in the mirror. In the light from the setting sun, framed by Kyril’s muscular arms, she did look radiant. “Don’t think about it for another moment. I’ll have these clothes taken away, and we can have maternity clothes sent up. It’ll only take a minute. I’ll make the call.”

“All right,” she said. But she frowned a little, dissatisfied.

“Ah,” he said. “I can hear it in your voice—you’re disobeying me.”

It sent a little shiver of passion down her spine, and she gave a little laugh. “What? How?”

“You’re still sad. I won’t have it.” Kyril scooped her effortlessly into his arms and took her to the bed. “I know the perfect way to cheer you up.”

“New clothes?”

“No clothes.”

"No clothes? But how will I go out sightseeing?"

"I'll see what I can do, if and when I let you out of this bed again." He undid the belt on the robe and slipped it from her shoulders. “Lie back.”

She did. “But you’re still wearing clothes. That’s not—ah…” The words flew from her mind as Kyril bent his head between her legs.

God, he was skilled with his tongue. Hannah squeezed her eyes closed as the sensations arced up through her body, each lick, each stroke, a different tenor from the last. Hard and soft, fast and slow, and soon they blended into a singular hum of pleasure that pressed her against the bed. She twined her fingers through Kyril’s hair. She was going to explode, and all of Santorini would know about it. How could she keep this pleasure inside?

She couldn’t.

Writhing against him, Hannah came hard, bucking against Kyril’s mouth, and he held her in place, his thumbs pressing into her hips. Oh, god, she loved it; oh, it was so good. It was so loud—

T

he fire alarm.

It was screeching its warning, and Hannah jerked upward even as she rode out the last of her climax. Kyril was already in motion, tugging the robe up around her shoulders, throwing it closed, yanking the belt into a knot. Then he swept her into his arms again and made for the door.

She could hear Abir calling from the lower floor, and then, in the distance, another wail. The fire department. Her heart beat hard in her chest while Kyril carried her down the stairs and out into the driveway, barking orders and accounting for his staff and security team.

Hannah looked over Kyril’s shoulder as the fire truck arrived, followed by several unmarked cars. Cars?

“Who are they?” she asked. He seemed to realize that he was still holding her at that moment and set her gently on her feet, looking grimly out at the narrow street.

“Paparazzi.”

Firefighters rushed in, and Hannah held her breath. A fire in the villa. It was lucky they’d escaped. Fires could go so wrong, so quickly. The paparazzi snapped photos, and she turned, drawing her robe closer to her chest. Here she was, in a robe and nothing else. She edged closer to Kyril, who put a protective arm around her shoulders.

“Did you see the smoke?” Kyril didn't seem to be speaking to her.

Abir stood between them and the paparazzi and turned his head to answer.

“From the kitchen, sir.”

The kitchen?

Oh, no.

Hannah buried her face in her hands. “Oh, Kyril, I’m so sorry.”

He rubbed a hand on her arm. “For what? You have nothing to be sorry about.”

“I do. It was—it was—”

Tags: Leslie North Sheikhs of Al-Dashalid Billionaire Romance
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