The Sheikh's Bartered Bride
It was unlike anything she’d known, even in his arms. The intimacy of his action mortified her on one level, but the physical sensations more than conquered her mental misgivings.
Pleasure built. Tension increased. Her body strained against his mouth, her hips against his hands. Her mouth opened on a silent scream. She thrashed. Her hands gripped the quilt. Her heels dug into the bed.
All the while, the sensual torment continued.
Then it all coalesced into a crescendo of delight so intense, she screamed wildly with the joy of it.
It was then, at that moment of intense delight that he moved up her body and slid inside her, breaking through her small barrier with a pain she hardly acknowledged. Her body was too busy dealing with the aftermath of what he had just given her.
She looked into his black eyes, her own swimming with tears and said the words she knew he was thinking. “I’m yours now.”
“Yes.”
She smiled at that one arrogant word. “You’re mine too.”
“Can you doubt it?”
And he started to move and incredibly it all began again. This time when her body convulsed, his feral shout joined her feminine whimpers as the overwhelming pleasure ignited a crying jag of monumental proportions.
He was no more affected by this than he had been by her shaking earlier. He hugged her close and whispered to her in a mixture of Arabic and English, every word and caress seemed to be assurance and praise for her femininity and passion.
Her tears finally subsided and he carried her to the bathroom where he showered with her, washing her body with meticulous care and then groaning in delight when she insisted on returning the favor.
She discovered that a soapy hand and curiosity could end in a very male satisfaction.
She was still smiling at her own daring had success when they exited the shower and he began drying her with a towel.
“I can do that.”
“But it gives me greater pleasure to do it than to watch.”
“Are you going to let me dry you?” she asked, grinning cheekily at him.
He laughed out loud. “You are flushed with your triumph in the shower, are you not?”
She felt herself blushing, but nodded. “It’s nice knowing you aren’t the only one giving the pleasure around here.”
He stood up and placed his hands on her shoulders, his expression terribly serious. “The joy your response gives me is greater than any I have ever known.”
Her breath caught in her throat. She could definitely get used to the flowery and extravagant way of talking passion seemed to elicit in him. “Thank you.”
They went back into the bedroom and he brought forth that same uninhibited response in her three more times before they fell into exhausted slumber, wrapped tightly in one another’s arms.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Myriad impressions stamped Catherine’s awareness through the tinted windows of the stretch limousine on their way from the airport to the Royal Palace of Jawhar. The gray of the window glass muted the harsh light glinting off the desert sand and roads that seemed to stretch into nothingness. Yet Hakim had assured her that they were quite close to the Royal Palace as well as the capital city of Jawhar.
Both would be found on the other side of the tall sand dunes that appeared to swallow the road on which they traveled.
She was grateful for the air-conditioned car as her skin already prickled with the heat of nerves. She would be sweating if the car matched the heated temperatures outside.
Catherine adjusted the long chiffon scarf draped over her hair for the tenth time in as many minutes and the fragrance of jasmine tickled her senses. This time she crossed the filmy fabric at her neck, letting the excess dangle down her back. She was glad women in Jawhar did not wear veils. Hakim told her she didn’t even have to wear the head covering, but she wanted to out of respect to his uncle. The King.
The car topped the sand dunes and suddenly her vision was filled with the massive domed structure of the Royal Palace.
Hakim had grown up here since the age of ten. He’d shared that bit of information over breakfast, but had not told her why and she hadn’t asked, being too awed by the prospect of meeting the rest of the royal family. What if they didn’t like her? How could an American woman be their first choice for Sheikh Hakim bin Omar al Kadar? For here, he was a sheikh, not just an extremely wealthy businessman.
And he looked the part. Her gaze strayed momentarily from the rapidly approaching palace to the man she had married less than twenty-four hours ago.
Hakim in full Arab mode was somehow intimidating. Dressed much as the sheikh in her fantasies, he wore white, loose-fitting pants, along white tunic over them, and a black abaya that looked like a cross between a rove and a cloak over that. His head covering was the only deviation. It was white like his pants and shirt with a gold egal holding it in place, then ends of the golden rope twisted and tucked into the band that circled his head.