Midnight in Arabia. Trish MoreyЧитать онлайн книгу.
even further.
She’d made the right decision to let him make love to her. This coming together would be healing … it already was.
“Another time, we will discuss these things.” He moved toward her. “But now is not the time for talking.”
She wouldn’t argue. It had been six years since she felt the level of excitement coursing through her body now and he hadn’t even kissed her yet.
He rectified that with a swift movement, bringing their bodies flush and their mouths together in perfect union. Passion and need exploded inside her with nuclear power.
Everything she’d been suppressing for six years, but especially over the past two days broke through her mental restraints, making her body strain against his even as her lips gave him kiss for kiss, caress for caress.
He broke his mouth from hers, gasping. “It’s been so long. Too long.”
She had to agree. “Yes.”
“For you, as well?” he asked, his brown eyes almost black with the depth of his feeling.
And she could not deny him the truth. “For me, too.”
It had definitely been too long since she touched him, as the depth of her excitement showed. They’d had one explosive kiss and she felt like it would take only the slightest touch to her intimate flesh for her to climax.
He’d always known just how to touch her to bring her the ultimate in pleasure, but this was something different. This bliss was coming from deep inside her at the knowledge that, for a little while, they were going to be one again.
But she would not love him. Not this time. Their bodies would join, but not their hearts. She was too smart for that. Please, God, let her be too smart for that.
He shrugged his shirt off. “Come with me to my bed. Let us make new memories to supplant the old.”
He knew exactly what to say, but that should not surprise her. Other than when he dumped her, Asad had always known exactly what she needed to hear from him.
“New memories,” she agreed breathlessly as he gently pulled away the scarf covering her hair.
“I always loved your hair, the red is so rich and unique. It feels like liquid silk.” He combed through it with his fingers, his expression intent.
“That’s the shampoo and conditioner I use,” she said with a smile.
“You think?”
She nodded. She wasn’t a vain woman, she didn’t think, but Iris had always insisted on using salon quality products on her hair. The way it slipped through Asad’s fingers now made her little idiosyncrasy worth it.
“I think it is the magic of the woman, myself.”
“You think I’m magic?” she asked softly, tears stinging her eyes that she would not let fall.
“I do.” He stopped with his hands poised to undress her. “You are sure you want this?”
She was shocked by his question, but maybe she should not have been. No matter how determined Asad was, he was and had always been a man of honor.
She nodded.
“We will erase the ugly memories of the past.”
“What memories are you trying to erase?” she couldn’t help asking, though she so wanted to move forward with the seduction.
He shrugged, but then surprised her by following it up with words. “You were the last woman I bedded that brought nothing but honesty to our time together.”
“You were honest, too.” Though for a long time, she’d thought he hadn’t been.
“Yes.”
“So, this is a reset? For both of us?”
“Yes.”
She got that. He’d been hurt badly by Badra’s infidelity, Iris was sure. Asad wanted to go back to a time when he could trust the woman in his bed. Iris wanted the same thing. “Then, I’m sure.”
He nodded and then removed her galabia with reverent hands, his expression unreadable, but intense and primitive.
Was that possession glowing in his brown gaze? Or desire?
It didn’t matter. For a few brief hours, she would let her body be his, just not her heart.
He reached behind her to unclasp her bra. “You still wear such feminine underwear beneath your T-shirts and jeans.”
“I wasn’t wearing jeans tonight.”
“But you brought this with you regardless.” He drew the silky champagne lace bra down her arms and dropped it to the carpet under their feet.
She couldn’t deny it. She might dress like an asexual scientist most of the time, but underneath, her bras and panties were her one consistent feminine indulgence.
His large hands cupped her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her hardened nipples.
She sucked in a breath.
Approval flared in his dark eyes. “So responsive.”
His gaze dipped low and she felt the caress of his eyes on her most sensitive flesh, though it was still hidden behind the stretch lace boy shorts that matched her bra. “This style is new for you. I like it.”
“It’s been six years since you’ve seen my underwear.”
“I’m keen to see what else you have in store for me.”
Which implied this was not a onetime deal. And she’d known that. He’d said as much when admitting he wanted her back in his bed, but this further proof that tonight was not their only and last night together still settled over her in an unexpected delight.
“Take off your panties,” he ordered in a guttural tone.
“Why don’t you?”
“I can’t stop touching you.” The admission affected something deep inside her she didn’t want reached and she almost pulled away.
But the way he played so intently with her breasts, giving her pleasure and so obviously taking his own from the caresses, made it impossible for her to deny him. Or herself.
Soon, they were both naked and lying together in the big bed, the covers tossed back. His hands mapping her body as if memorizing it, comparing it to memory and marking all the similarities and differences.
She could not remember a time they had made love before when he had been so intent on learning her every dip and crevice. Not even their first time together.
Something about tonight was different for him too, but she wasn’t about to speculate what that might be. She’d make the wrong assumptions as she’d done before and her heart couldn’t afford such mistakes again.
He leaned up over her, his regard serious. “You are the first woman I have brought to this bed.”
But he’d been married. “Badra?”
“Had her own room.”
Iris couldn’t imagine him having sex with his wife on that tiny bed, so Badra’s bed must have gone the way of her other things.
“Do you want me to be flattered?” she asked and then wished she could take back the facetious comment.
It might not be love, but this moment was too profound for sarcasm.
His tender smile said he was not offended. “It is I who am honored to have you here.”
So that was what he wanted, for her to feel honored by the distinction. And really? She did. Not that she was going to tell him so. It seemed like too much an admission to make after she’d opened herself to him in a way she’d been determined never to