Lost to the Desert Warrior

The light in the tent was dim, but not so dim she couldn’t see his face, and she remembered Yasmin dreamily telling her how handsome he was—how he was ‘hot’. At the time Layla hadn’t understood how a word used to describe temperature could be used as a positive indicator of visual appeal, but now she realised that looking at him made her feel hot. Burning hot. Her skin, her lips and other more sensitive parts of her that she rarely had reason to think about. And while he was kissing her he extracted her from her clothing. The ease with which he accomplished that feat was almost as embarrassing as being naked in front of him.

Grateful for the semi-darkness, she somehow resisted the desperate urge to cover herself. Never in her life had she felt so out of her depth and inadequate, and she lay there, her breathing shallow, staring up at him as he wrenched off his shirt, all the time watching her with eyes almost black in the candlelight.

Layla held her breath because even she, with her limited experience and previously limited interest in the masculine form, could see that his was perfectly proportioned.

Unable to help herself, she let her gaze slide over bronzed, muscular shoulders, down over his chest with its haze of dark hair, and lower still to his board-flat abdomen. She didn’t look lower and he slid his fingers under her chin and lifted her face, forcing her to look at him.

‘You’re scared.’

‘No.’ Her voice was a whisper. ‘But I wish I’d read more.’

‘Not all the answers can be found in books.’ His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth and his fingers slid into her hair, cupping the back of her head. ‘Perhaps you know more than you think you do. Follow your instincts.’

As he drew her head down to his she wanted to tell him that she didn’t have any instincts when it came to men, but her tongue wouldn’t form the words. Instead it tangled with his, and she heard herself moan into the heat of his clever mouth.

And she discovered she did have instincts, because it was instinct that had her sliding her hands into his hair, clutching his head, meeting his hot, seductive kisses with her own. And instinct had her pressing herself closer to him. Later, she’d wonder how a kiss involving her lips could have an effect on her whole body, but right then she wasn’t capable of wondering about anything except what was going to happen next.

‘Next’ was his mouth on her neck—slow, lingering, as everything he did was slow and lingering—and she lay still, hardly breathing as the warmth of his tongue traced the line of her shoulder and moved lower, to her bare breasts.

Her nipples were standing erect and she watched in tense fascination as he paused with his mouth close to that sensitive part of her. She felt the warmth of his breath brush over her skin, followed by the slow, deliberate flick of his tongue as he skilfully teased and toyed with that part of her that had never been touched before. Sensation shot right through her, pooling in her pelvis, until she found it almost impossible to keep still, until the urge to cry out was so powerful she had to bite her lip to stay silent. And what he did to one nipple he did to the other, and when he finally lifted his head and looked at her she found it impossible to look away.

For a moment they stared at each other.

There was a hardness in his eyes, a coldness she wished she hadn’t seen, and then he leaned across the bed and blew out the candle, sending the tent into darkness.

She could no longer see, but she could feel, and the feelings became more acute because everything was focused on that one sense—touch.

The warmth of his palm rested low on her abdomen and she wondered if he knew how much she was aching, just how badly she needed—needed something. But of course he knew. She remembered Yasmin’s breathless statement that he was supposed to be a skilled lover and knew now that it was true.

No wonder he hadn’t bothered returning her book.

I will teach you everything you need to know.

The fact that he knew her body better than she did embarrassed her, but nowhere near as much as when he gently spread her thighs and shifted lower on the bed.

Shocked, and feeling intensely vulnerable, Layla gave a soft gasp as his hand moved with sure, leisurely ease over her abdomen and lower still. He took his time, but whether that was out of respect for her inexperience, patience or just a maddening ability to know how to ramp up the tension until she was at screaming pitch, she didn’t know. All she knew was that she was moving her pelvis against his hand, and then his fingers were there, sliding skilfully over that part of her, exploring her with slow, knowing strokes of strong, clever fingers, until her breathing was shallow and her hands fisted in the sheets.