Undone by the Sultan's Touch

The kiss was carnal and hot. Khaled felt like a glutton and a god, and she was his. His. Yielding to him and testing him, tasting him and arousing him in turn, and he couldn’t seem to get enough.

Never enough, something hissed inside him, dazed and deliriously intrigued. Never enough of this. Of her.

This was no lazy dance toward sensuality, as he’d intended. This was a great deal more than a taste. This was fire. Need. A dark, disastrous blaze of hunger that Khaled couldn’t control, and while he lost himself in the exquisite feel of her, the addictive taste, he didn’t care the way he knew he should.

The way some part of him imagined he would—but he shoved that aside.

He didn’t know when they moved, when he did, but he took her with him as he sat on one of the stone benches. He pulled her across his lap, her knees on either side of him, the soft heat of her pressed tight against the hardest part of him.

Cleo sighed, and the yearning in the sound only made him hungrier. Moonlight bathed her in silver, making shadows of her lovely eyes, but not hiding that heat. That need. The starkness of the shocking desire that he could no more deny in either of them than he could rise up and fly away.

He tugged her mouth back to his and it was the same hot punch. The same wildfire, pulling tight inside him, demanding he take her. Right now. Right here. Again and again, until the spell she cast was broken. Or until she cried out his name and her need in that voice of hers gone husky with passion. Or until this madness killed them both, and he didn’t think he’d mind the dying.

He used his mouth to follow the line of her jaw, then tasted the delicate skin she bared when she tipped her head back, allowing him access. He tasted her collarbone, then moved lower, until he reached the bodice of her dress.

Khaled didn’t hesitate. He’d always preferred larger breasts on his women and yet when he peeled the fabric away, the sight of hers, small and plump at once, delicate curves and taut nipples, almost undid him.

“Khaled,” she whispered, a broken sound, honeyed and rough, like gas thrown on open flame.

He slid his hand over her left breast, abrading the tight peak with his palm, watching her expressive face as her eyes drifted shut and she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth.

She was a wonder. She was his. He increased the pressure and her hips bucked against him, a rocking, rolling ecstasy that shot fire into every part of him and made her breath catch audibly. A rosy sort of flush stole over her, almost as if...

He couldn’t resist.

Khaled bent his head to her other breast and licked over her nipple, then pulled the proud crest into his mouth. Hard.

And Cleo broke apart in his arms, shuddering and sighing, flushed red and wild, and he understood that he was in deep trouble with this woman, after all.

* * *

When Cleo came back to herself, she felt weak and boneless—and ashamed, slumped as she was in Khaled’s arms. He’d shifted her, holding her in his arms rather than astride him, and she could sense the difference and the distance in him at once.

What must he think of her? That she was a wanton slut, to start. That she was so oversexed she came apart at a lick against the completely wrong part of her body. She shuddered, appalled at herself—and mourning this glorious dream he’d allowed her to live over the past two weeks that she’d no doubt tarnished with her horrendous lack of restraint.

And then, as swiftly, she was furious. Almost blindingly so.

“I’m sorry,” she bit out into the night, because she didn’t dare look at his face. “Is there a ‘no touching the sultan’ rule I didn’t know about? You should have said so.”

“Do not ever apologize for your responsiveness,” he said, his voice cool but dry, too, as if he was amused by her outburst. “Or for falling apart in my arms. These are gifts.”

Cleo struggled to sit up and he let her, but embarrassment pumped through her as she pulled away from him, making her feel obvious and strange. She could still feel the magic of his touch spinning around inside her, making her skin too tight and her head fuzzy, but she concentrated on straightening her dress as if, once she was appropriately covered, it would erase the whole thing. Make everything right and wonderful again.

Make her something other than humiliated.

But her body had other ideas. Her nipples were like white-hot lights, blasting her with leftover sensation, and between her legs, she ached. She ached.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” she said. Stiff and cold.

He shifted on the stone bench beside her and the moon high above them made him gleam like poured metal, as though he was a statue of himself. All of that power, that corded strength, and she’d finally felt it beneath her hands. Her palms itched with the memory, the imprint. She thought of his demanding mouth on hers and something within her melted and then ran hot.