Mistress Of The Sheikh. Sandra Marton
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His mouth moved against hers, over and over; his teeth nipped lightly at her bottom lip. And, gradually, her mouth began to soften. She made a little sound, a whimper, and her body melted against his.
Nick groaned at the stunning sweetness of her surrender. He wanted to let go of her wrists and slide his hands down her spine, stroke the satin that was her skin, cup her bottom and lift her up into the urgency of his erection. When her hands tugged at his, seeking freedom, pleasure rocketed through him. He understood what she wanted, that she sought the freedom to touch him, explore him. It was what he wanted, too. He’d forgotten everything except that he was on fire for the woman in his arms.
He touched the tip of his tongue to the seam of her lips as he let go of her wrists and took her face in his hands. His palms cupped her cheeks; he tilted her head back so that her golden hair feathered like silk over the tips of his fingers, so that he could slant his mouth hungrily over hers—
—so that her knee could catch him right where he lived and drive every last breath of air from his lungs.
A strangled gasp of agony burst from his lips. Nick doubled over and clutched his groin.
“Amanda?” he croaked, and got his chin up just in time to see her coming at him again.
“You no-good bastard!”
He was hurting. The pain was gut-deep, but he fought it, jumped out of her path, caught her as she flew by and flung her on the bed. She landed hard, rolled to her side, sat up and almost got her feet on the floor, but by then he’d recovered enough to come down on top of her.
She called him a name he’d only heard a couple of times in his life and pummeled him with her fists.
“Get off me!”
It was like wrestling with a wildcat. She was small and slender but she moved fast, and it didn’t help that it still felt as if his scrotum was seeking shelter halfway up his belly.
Nick took a blow on his chin, another in the corner of his eye. He grabbed for her hands, captured them and pinned them high over her head.
“You little bitch,” he said, straddling her hips.
Amanda bucked like an unbroken mare, her hips arcing up, then down.
“Stop it.” He leaned toward her, his eyes hot with anger. “Damn you, woman, did you hear what I said? Stop!”
She didn’t. She bucked again, her body moving against his, her breasts heaving, her golden hair disheveled against the blue silk pillows. Her eyes were wild, the pupils huge and black and encircled by rims of gold. She was panting through parted lips; he could see the flash of her small white teeth, the pink of her tongue. Her excuse of a dress was ruined; one thin red silk strap hung off her shoulder, exposing the upper curve of a creamy breast. The skirt had ridden up her hips. He could see the strip of black lace that hid the feminine delta between her thighs.
And all at once, he felt fine. No more pain, just the realization that he was hard, swollen and aroused, separated from the woman beneath him by nothing but his trousers and that scrap of sexy lace.
The air in the room crackled with electricity.
He became still. She did, too. Her eyes met his, and for the first time, what he saw in them took his breath away.
“No,” she whispered, but his mouth was already coming down on hers.
She held back; he could feel her tremble.
“Yes,” he said softly, and kissed her again. “Amanda…”
She moaned. Her lashes fell to her cheeks and she opened her mouth to his. Her surrender was real. Her need was, too. He could feel it in the pliancy of her body, taste it in the silken heat of her kiss.
Nick let go of her hands and gathered her against him. She moaned again and dug her hands into his hair, clutching the dark curling strands with greedy fists.
Greedy. Yes, that was the way she felt. Greedy for his mouth, for his touch. For the feel of Nicholas al Rashid deep inside her.
It was crazy. She didn’t know this man, and what little she did know, she didn’t like. Moments ago, she’d been fighting him off….
Her breath caught as he rolled onto his side and took her with him. He stroked his hand down her spine, then up again. All the way up, so that his thumbs brushed lightly over her breasts.
“Tell me you want me,” he said.
His voice was as soft as velvet, as rough as gravel. His breath whispered against her throat as he licked the flesh where her neck joined her shoulder, and she moaned.
“Tell me,” he urged, and she did by seeking his mouth with hers.
Nick sat up, tore off his suit jacket and his tie. She heard the buttons on his shirt pop as he stripped it off. Then he came back down to her, cupped her breasts in his hands and took her mouth.
His skin was hot against hers. She made a little sound of need, nipped his bottom lip. “Yes,” she said, “yes, oh, yes…”
His knee was between her thighs. She lifted herself to it, against it; his thumbs rolled across her silk-covered nipples and she was caught up on a wave of heat, up and up and up. She cried out his name, shut her eyes, tossed her head from side to side.
“Look at you,” Nick whispered. “Just look at you.”
And as quickly as that, it was all over.
Amanda froze. Disgust, horror, anguish…a dozen different emotions raced through her, brought back by those simple, unforgotten words. They took her back seven years to that dormitory room, to the terrifying intruder named Nicholas al Rashid who’d branded her as immoral even as he’d looked at her and wanted her.
Bile rose in her throat. “Get off me,” she said.
The sheikh didn’t hear her. Couldn’t hear her. She looked up at him, hating what she saw, hating herself for being the cause. His silver eyes were blind with desire; the bones of his face were taut with it.
Nausea roiled in her belly. “Get—off!”
She struck out blindly, fists beating against his chest and shoulders. He blinked; his eyes opened slowly as if he were awakening from a dream.
“You—get—the—hell—off,” she said, panting, and struck him again.
He caught her flailing hands, pinioned them. “It’s too late to play that game.”
His voice was low and rough; the hands that held her were hard and cruel. She told herself not to panic. This was Dawn’s brother. He was arrogant, imperious and all-powerful…but he wasn’t crazy.
“Taking a woman against her will isn’t a game,” she said, and tried to keep the fear from her voice.
“Against her will?”
His eyes moved over her and she flushed at the slow, deliberate scrutiny. She knew how she must look. Her dress torn. The hem of her skirt at her thighs. Her lips bare of everything but the imprint of his.
A thin smile started at the corner of his mouth. “When a woman all but begs a man to take her, it’s hardly ‘against her will’.”
“I’d never beg a man for anything,” she said coldly. “And if you don’t let go and get off me, I’ll scream. There must be a hundred people downstairs by now. Every one of them will hear me.”
“You disappoint me.” The bastard didn’t just smile this time; he laughed. “You sneaked into my home—”
“I didn’t sneak into anything. Your sister invited me.”
“Did she tell you that once the party begins, no one will be permitted on this floor?”
Her heart thumped with fear. “They will, if they hear me screaming.”
“My men would not permit it.”