Seduced by the Sultan. Sharon Kendrick
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a lot,’ she prevaricated. ‘I was just wondering what time you’re going to get here.’
‘Soon, my beauty. Very soon. But I don’t want to waste time talking about my schedule when there are so many more interesting things we could discuss. And there’s only one thought on my mind right now after so many weeks of being away.’ There was a pause. ‘What are you wearing?’
Catrin’s perfectly manicured nails tightened around the handset of the phone and she swallowed down the sudden lump which had risen in her throat. She knew what was expected of her and usually it was all too easy to play this game. Of course it was—because Murat had taught her the rules and, consequently, she had become very accomplished at it. And she liked it. She liked playing the sexy mistress who was up for it any time of the day or night.
But today the seeds of uncertainty had been sown in her mind. She felt like a tennis player who had walked out on court to find an enormous hole at the centre of her racquet.
So pull yourself together, she urged herself. Count your blessings and enjoy the life you’ve been given instead of the one you secretly crave.
She ran her hand over one hip, her fingertips encountering the rough texture of her denim jeans. But instead of describing an article of clothing which Murat despised, she injected a sultry note into her voice and pretended. Because wasn’t fantasy everything to lovers? Hadn’t he taught her that, too?
‘I’m wearing silk,’ she whispered.
‘What kind of silk?’
That stupid lump was still sticking in her throat, but it didn’t stop her from continuing with the game. Quite honestly, she couldn’t imagine having a telephone conversation with Murat which wasn’t erotic. The kind of conversation she’d never have been able to carry off when she’d just been that naïve girl from Wales. But in spite of her background, she’d always been smart. She devoured books and was a fast learner—and learning to please a man was a skill just like any other, just like arranging flowers or making a cake rise.
‘Soft silk,’ she said. ‘Butter soft.’
‘Tell me more.’
She thought about the ribboned and crotchless purchase still lying in folds of soft tissue paper in the bedroom. The one she was planning to slide into as soon as she’d had her shower. The one which would probably be ripped apart by Murat’s impatient fingers within minutes of his arriving here. ‘They’re midnight blue,’ she said, almost conversationally.
‘Excellent.’ A pause. ‘And are they tiny panties?’
‘Oh, yes. So tiny you can barely see them. Honestly, it’s almost a waste of time me wearing them—they’re so flimsy.’
‘I see.’ Another pause—much longer this time. ‘And you have on a matching bra, I hope?’
‘Oh, yes.’ She paused—trying to rid herself of the sudden feeling of guilt which settled on her skin like a cold mist. Telling herself that she had nothing to be guilty about. That Murat liked these games. And so did she.
And that her mother’s words meant nothing.
Nothing.
‘The bra is a bit on the small side,’ she continued, allowing her voice to dip into a provocative note as her imagination took wings. ‘But it’s edged with lace, so at least my nipples aren’t completely on show.’
He didn’t answer. At least, not straight away.
‘And stockings?’ His eventual response was unsteady; his tone gratifyingly deep. She heard him swallow and that was gratifying too. ‘Are you wearing stockings?’
‘Mmm,’ she agreed, closing her eyes to blot out the sight of her jeans. ‘Of course I am. Black silk stockings all the way from France. Though they cling to my thighs terribly in this heat.’
‘I’d like to see them do that,’ came his husky response. ‘And then I’d like to peel them off, very slowly.’
‘Would you?’
‘Mmm. And then I’d like to slide my tongue up between your thighs and lick you until you come. Would you like that, my beauty?’
But for some stupid reason the fantasy suddenly evaporated, like champagne which had been left in a glass too long. Catrin’s eyes snapped open and in one instant, she felt completely flat. ‘Of course I would. I’d like it very much. What time...what time will you be getting here?’
‘Soon,’ he repeated. ‘Very soon.’
Catrin was just about to say goodbye and hang up, when she heard the sound of a key being inserted into a lock and her head jerked up in surprise. She turned towards the sound and nearly dropped the phone when she saw who was standing there. Her first thought was that it couldn’t possibly be Murat because his timetable was always planned to the nearest second—and her next thought was that it couldn’t be anyone else. Because there was no one in the world who could be mistaken for him. No man matched him, nor ever could.
Murat the Mighty, they called him in his country of Qurhah, but he was also known as Murat the Magnificent—and he looked nothing less than magnificent now.
His hair fell in rich, dark waves around the hard outlines of his face and the soft sensuality of his lips contrasted with the distinctive hawk-like nose and ebony glitter of his eyes. He had the body of a desert warrior—a fact which could never quite be disguised by the Italian suits he favoured when in the west. Catrin knew that back home in Qurhah he wore flowing robes and headdresses but she’d only ever seen him in this kind of clothes, except in photos. And sometimes when she looked at those photos, didn’t it make her wistful that she only ever got a tiny part of him? That so much of his life was forbidden to her.
‘Murat?’ she said, her voice rising in surprise. ‘I wasn’t expecting you yet.’
‘So I see,’ he replied, shutting the door softly behind him. He began to walk towards her, a complicit smile lifting the corners of his lips as he cut the connection on his phone and slid it into the pocket of his trousers. But his gaze was thoughtful as he looked at her, as if her response wasn’t what he had been expecting. ‘Aren’t you going to say hello to me...properly, my beauty?’
‘Hello,’ she said, putting down her own phone with fingers which had started to tremble.
There was a pause as Murat let his gaze travel over her body, his eyes narrowing. Something about her was different and at first he couldn’t work out what it was. Something which made his heart twist in a way which was unfamiliar. And then he realised what it was. She looked like the Cat he’d first met. The beautiful, country girl who had captivated him from the moment she’d turned those extraordinary green eyes in his direction and blinked at him, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she had seen.
Dressed down and casual, her hair was dishevelled—almost wild. The dark cascade of waves tumbled down around her shoulders as if she’d been frantically running her fingers through it. And her clothes...
Her glorious legs were covered with jeans—a garment he despised on women and which she had tacitly agreed never to wear in his presence. And although her thin T-shirt outlined her breasts in a way which couldn’t fail to please him—this wasn’t what he had been anticipating.
He thought how much she had changed. How his rough diamond had become a smooth and polished gem. And if sometimes he missed the rather outspoken minx he had first seduced, he could not deny that she had grown into her role well. Almost too well...
‘You promised me stockings,’ he said slowly.
Her fingers flew to her hair, as if she had suddenly become aware of its unruliness, and she stared down at her jeans before looking up at him, a faint look of guilt staining her face.
‘I didn’t realise you were so close,’ she protested.
‘I thought I’d surprise you.’
‘You’ve