The Sheikh's Defiant Bride. Sandra MartonЧитать онлайн книгу.
paused for breath. “I’m in a high tech field, myself, and—”
She might as well not have bothered. He’d started talking again, his words silencing hers, about his expensive condo, his expensive car, his Miami pad…
“Oh, there’s someone I promised to say hi to,” Madison had said brightly, and she’d zoomed straight for the only man who’d seemed to be by himself.
She’d wanted a savior.
What she’d found was a man who would never save a woman from anything but would surely lead her straight into sin.
He was gorgeous. There was no other word to describe him. Tall, tall enough to still tower over her even though she was wearing spiked heels. Dark-haired, with eyes so gray they were almost silver. Broad shoulders, trim waist, long legs. He had the faintest accent that only added to his sex appeal.
He was a magnificent predator and it would be oh, so easy to celebrate this last night before her life changed forever by giving in to what was happening because she knew it was happening, that he wanted to take her home, take her to bed and she—and she—
Madison took a shaky breath and stepped back. Or tried to step back; the room was so crowded that she couldn’t.
“Listen,” she said quickly, “What I started to tell you a couple of minutes ago is the truth. I don’t blame you for misunderstanding. I mean, it’s my fault entirely, but—”
“Have we met before?”
Her eyebrows lifted. Such a trite line from a guy like this?
“No, we haven’t. And as I was just saying—”
“We must have. At a party, perhaps?”
“Sorry. I just have that kind of face.”
His gaze moved slowly, almost insolently over her face, lingering on her mouth with such intensity that her heart began to gallop.
“Trust me,” he said softly. “You don’t.”
The surge of the crowd pushed them closer. Madison felt her breasts brush against his chest. Heat raced through her at the contact.
His reaction was far more blatant.
His body hardened.
She felt it, felt that swift male arousal…and felt the shock of an answering curl of desire low in her belly.
Quickly she put out her hands and pressed them against his chest.
“Thank you for your help,” she said brightly.
“Planning an exit, habiba?”
His voice was soft, filled with sexual promise. No, she thought wildly, no, I am not going to do this, not with the rest of my life so perfectly planned.
“I am,” she said in that same artificially bright tone. “He’s gone.”
His smile was wonderful, slow and sexy and completely male. “But he’ll be back.”
“I’m sure he won’t.”
“He will, if he has an ounce of blood in his veins. No man would be fool enough to let you walk away from him.”
“Look, I don’t—I mean, you don’t—” Madison’s gaze slid past the stranger. “Oh, hell,” she said unhappily, “here he comes.”
“Come on.”
The man’s hand—big, hard, powerful—clasped hers.
“Where?”
“Out those doors. See? There’s a patio…or would you rather let the toad catch you?”
The blonde hesitated, but only for an instant.
“All right,” she said, and Tariq hurried her through the crowd, through the French doors, onto the patio.
He knew damned well he could have gotten rid of her pursuer with one look but why do that when he could, instead, bring the woman here, where it was quiet and cool?
He hadn’t come here looking for a night’s diversion but he’d told her the truth. Only a man with no blood in his veins wouldn’t want her. He was going to have her for the night. Hell, for the weekend, and nothing was going to stop him.
The French doors swung open.
The toad stepped outside.
He looked at them and his face lit.
“There you are,” he said. “I’ve been looking everywhere. I never did finish telling you about the place I just bought in Miami—”
Tariq looked at the blonde. She bit her lip, just lightly enough to make him wish he was the one doing the biting.
“Oh, hell,” she whispered.
Tariq felt his blood leap.
“Indeed,” he said softly.
A heartbeat later, he had her in his arms. She looked up at him, eyes wide.
“What are you—”
“I’m making it clear who owns you tonight,” Tariq said thickly, and he bent his head and kissed her.
She gasped. Her breath sighed against his lips. He made a sound deep in his throat and drew her closer.
“Kiss me back,” Tariq whispered.
And she did.
Her lips parted; he slid the tip of his tongue between them, silk meeting silk, heat meeting heat, and the patio faded, the toad faded, nothing existed but the woman in his arms, the feel of her…
“Oh,” she whispered, and he knew it was the same for her.
Her hands rose, flattened against his chest, slipped up and up until her fingers were deep in the thick, silky hair at his nape. She leaned into him, her breasts soft against his chest, her scent in his nostrils.
Tariq groaned.
All the taut sexual control he’d maintained for the past two months fell away. His sex hardened; he felt it leap against her and when she moaned and lifted herself to him, he gathered her closer, deepened the kiss, tasting her, letting her taste him, running his hands down her spine, cupping her bottom, lifting her, bringing her hard against him, cradling the power of his erection in the hot vee of her thighs.
Somehow, they were moving. Off the patio. Into the garden, letting the gathering night close around them, sealing them in its velvet darkness, its sweet floral scent.
The sounds of the party faded; the light spilling from the house diminished. Tariq felt something at his back. The wall of a small building. A summerhouse, screened and secluded, lit by only the softest of lights.
He drew the woman inside; she clung to him, her mouth hot and open to the penetration of his tongue, her breathing as ragged as his, her hands clasping his face as she gave herself over to the wildness of his kiss.
“I want you,” he said thickly.
“Yes,” she whispered, “yes…”
His mouth was at her throat; his hand was on her breast, cupping it, shaping it, his fingertips moving over the engorged nipple that pressed through the silk of her dress and teased his palm.
“You are so beautiful,” he murmured, “so beautiful…”
She slid her hand under his suit jacket, then inside his shirt. Her touch scalded him; he groaned again, grasped the hem of her dress, pushed it up her thighs.
And reached between them.
Skin. Silken and smooth. A strip of lace. Heat. The softness of damp curls…
By Ishtar, he was going to come. He, who never let passion fully sweep him away, who always maintained just enough emotional distance to observe the woman in his