by Alam, Donna
‘Better?’ I hope it’s a rhetorical question as I try very hard to absorb the sensations. ‘I think you still need to cool down.’ Arrogance masquerades amongst his words, but I’m beyond caring as again, the frozen torment begins. I pant, the anticipation of the ice almost too much to bear.
Its borderline painful and I moan loudly as my body surges against the chill, my nipples hardening further, singing with the sensation.
In a swish of air, he moves and my heart sinks.
I sense he doesn’t move far. Cloth rustles over the sound of my breathing and then the slow descent of his zipped fly. Almost immediately something bites against each nipple in turn; something tight, not quite piercing. I cry out in surprise, the sound lengthening as I try to process the sensation of pain, actual pain this time. My breath comes in small panting bursts as he speaks.
‘You look so beautiful,’ he murmurs against my ear. ‘Try. For me.’
The stinging sensation begins to dissipate, the now dull, needy throb radiating to my clit, the line between pain and pleasure becoming somehow hazy. As he peels the silk away from my eyes, his naked abs and hard cock jut out between us. And a moment later, I’m staring down at a familiar pair of ornamental butterflies perched against my skin, their purpose now painfully clear.
Kai’s eyes shine with intensity, an almost amber liquor-lustre, as he watches me, watching the butterflies as I breathe through the insidiously tempting pull of the clamps. Beautifully sadistic. My nerves are jarred as I try to absorb the almost overwhelming bitter-sweet sensation.
‘Sweet . . . fuck,’ I moan out.
‘That you are.’ Husky voiced, he swallows more wine, our gazes connected over the top of the glass. His eyes are clouded with intent, darkly dilated and hungrier than I’ve ever seen. I thought I knew about desire, about sex. I was wrong. More than action and words, the knowledge of his passion, his desire to restrain and control me, to have me helpless like this, is a thrill like nothing else.
He places the glass on the floor and begins placing cold kisses across my skin. Each touch of his ice-cold lips sends my blood rising to the surface in greeting. Lips trail kisses across my torso, down further still, the tip of his tongue pushing inside.
I cry out, surging against his mouth as his tongue suddenly swirls ice against my clit. My body struggles against the restraints, convulsing, before the ice melts into nothingness.
‘So cold!’ I writhe against him, shocked as the familiar sensation begins to expand. Surely not . . . no, it can’t be.
‘I know, but so good,’ he breathes as he swirls and licks, not yielding an inch.
All reason abandoned, I’m a mass of sensations I can’t process. It hurts, a little? Not enough? I can do nothing but concentrate on his sweet, sweet torture and just submit to the pleasure and pain slicing through my insides. Torturous and wonderful, the intense pressure continues to build in my core.
I cry out as Kai removes the butterflies, discarding them to the floor. Replaced by his ice-cooled mouth, the bite reduces to a delicious throb.
‘Please, Kai . . . I can’t.’
I’m panting, not able to swallow a full breath of air as silks are loosened, my hands falling limply against the chair arms.
‘Say it,’ he demands, manoeuvring me with his hands under my legs.
‘I need you.’
My legs feel strangely unfamiliar but move of their own accord, flexing against him, willing him inside. He moves unexpectedly, pulling me upwards until my legs are wrapped around his waist as he stands.
‘Say it,’ he repeats, eyes dark and luminous. He begins to walk across the room.
‘Please, Kai,’ I breathe, ‘please, just fuck me!’
I cry out as I’m pressed against the cold of the mirror as he slams into me with a growl. His head lowers, eyes watching where our bodies join as he slides in and out, again and again.
‘I want to hear,’ he growls, moving deeper. Slipping one hand under my butt, his other splays flat against the mirror, his hips driving between my legs.
The ache builds, growing, intensifying with each powerful thrust. Teased, tasted, tortured and thoroughly fucked, I cry out as climax tears through me, shattering all confusion, all illusion. At this moment, this precise moment, I have complete clarity.
Fuck virtual strangers.
I’m possessed by this man. And I’m in trouble.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I wake groggily, rubbing sleep from my eyes and straining to hear the morning prayers sung from distant minarets. But the room is almost silent, insulated from the outside world, the only sound the quiet hum of the central air circulating the room. I should get out of bed; instead I pull the pillow over my head and stretch out a tentative hand. The sheets are cool.
On some level, I’m pleased I’m alone. A moment to consider, to decide how I feel. Surely it’s too soon to be in love. It must be some kind of endorphin related emotion. It’s not like I’m a blushing virgin. Well, I blush, but I’m not a virgin, though maybe I can be considered virgin-esque as far as last night. I begin to replay the evening in my mind, diametrically hot and cold, intense and extreme. Nerve endings begin to spark and heat, embers of the evening’s passions flickering to life between my thighs. I stretch out along the bed, my libido stirring one moment before muted voices carry from the adjoining room. As I tighten my grip on the pillow, the door opens wide.
‘Sabah al khair.’ Do I imagine the touch of self-satisfaction as the edge of the bed dips under his weight? ‘Good morning, beautiful.’
Peeling away the pillow, I upend it and shove it behind my head. He’s dressed for the gym, all post-workout yum: black sweat-shorts and what appears to be a damp t-shirt slung around his neck. He leans back, elbows against the bed.
‘How are you feeling?’
Debauched? Delighted? A little sore?
‘Too early,’ I croak.
Ignoring the intellectual, I make a quick assessment of my body: Nipples still attached—always a bonus—arms and legs in their usual places. No lasting damage, I’m all good. Aching a little, but not unpleasantly so.
‘What time is it?’ I ask, choosing to ignore his expression and my pinking cheeks. Diversionary tactics. As someone who works with small children, I’m well versed in these.
‘A little after seven.’
Crap. I plant my head back on the pillow. ‘I’m late. Again.’ Early the hour may be, but I’ll never make it to work on time. I have to get home, get dressed. Grab my things.
‘It’s fortunate you have influential friends, then, isn’t it? You’re welcome, by the way. The gimlet eye . . .’ his words draw off in chuckle. ‘Not so much.’
‘Do I even want to know what you’ve done?’
I cautiously lift my head an inch or two as his gaze travels my body, reflections of the evening playing across his face. He looks like he’s enjoying himself a little too much.
‘I put in a call,’ he eventually purrs. ‘Did you a favour. Like friends do.’
There’s that word again. ‘I don’t want any favours.’ I sound petulant I realise, ridiculously so, as I sit up. ‘I appreciate you’re trying to help, but I have a job and responsibilities.’ Not to mention he’s not supposed to have any influence. ‘I don’t understand, the alarm is always set on my phone.’ My eyes skim the room for the offending item.
‘I switched it off, on the way to the gym.’
‘What! Why?’
‘You seemed to be doing a good job of ignoring it, so I switched it off.’
‘You can’t do that! I’ve got things to do.’ I grind a palm against one eye. ‘Look, I see where you’re coming from but this is how most grown-ups live.’
‘Are you calling me childish?’ he asks, the burn becoming a blaze.
‘No.’ I sigh, my tone softening. ‘But maybe you don’t have to stick to the same set of rules as I do.’ His mouth firms, the t-shirt pulled from his neck, hitting his thigh with an audible slap. ‘I just need to do some thi
ngs for myself,’ I placate, nudging his thigh playfully with my pink painted toes. ‘I’m a pretty capable girl. Anyway, what kind of masochist leaves the comfort of a warm bed to go to the gym?’
His expression lightens in an instant. ‘I think you might want to check your definitions, and you a teacher.’ His words are teasing, his tone kind of gravelly. ‘Endorphins, I needed my morning injection and you looked too cute to disturb. I’m driven purely by natural opiates, habibti. What, I wonder, gets you going in the morning?’ Leaning toward me, he smiles anticipating my answer.
‘Caffeine.’ I giggle, leaning away.
‘If you’re insistent on going to work, I suggest we shower.’
His tone is guileless, but his eyes smoulder with the depths of something else. I swallow audibly as he pulls on the sheet covering me, throwing his tee over last night’s major prop, which will be known from this point forward—at least to me—as the chair. I notice the bondage-chic Louboutins arranged neatly underneath and wonder how they got there as he draws a black, silk robe from the arm, curling his fingers all come-hither.
Tempted, as always, I dig in my metaphorical heels. ‘You go on ahead,’ I assert, albeit rather wobbly.
‘I’d love to know what you’re thinking,’ he purrs. ‘Your mouth and body are so at odds.’ My eyes snap to his and follow the path of his eyes as it falls to my chest . . . and an exposed nipple. A very prominent, exposed nipple.
Blame the air con? ‘Mind reading not one of your talents?’ I rasp, readjusting the sheet and covering the offending pink bit.
‘Sadly not,’ he murmurs, eyes rising to mine. ‘Bodies I’m pretty good with.’
This I already know.
‘It wouldn’t help. I don’t function on a cerebral level before caffeine.’
‘I’m sure I could rouse you, given the chance. Or should I ask Rashid to bring in the coffee pot?’
My eyes dart nervously to the door. ‘Rashid’s here?’
‘When is he not? I wasn’t about to expose you until I make sure you’re thoroughly awake.’ His hands resume tugging.
‘Shower.’ Both voice and resolve wobbles as I make a shooing motion with one hand, the other hanging tightly to the last threads of my modesty.
‘Spoil sport,’ he chides, laying the robe across my legs as he stands.
As the bathroom door clicks closed, I flop back against the pillows, blowing out a large puff of air. Relieved or not; I can’t decide. I swing my legs over the edge and slide on the robe, knotting it at my waist, trying very hard to ignore the splashing cascade of water and the accompanying images swirling through my head. It isn’t long before the bathroom door opens and steam drifts out.
‘Your turn.’
Seal black, wet hair drips beads of water to his shoulders as he tucks a white towel low on his hips. Smiling, he reaches for his toothbrush. ‘Silk suits you.’
My stomach flips as I recall the sensation of it against my wrists. Padding across the marble floor, I try not to stare at his wet, toned flesh while somehow managing to harrumph a little so as not to appear affected. ‘You’re just all about the aesthetics.’
‘Is it so wrong to appreciate beauty?’
I shrug, plucking the toothbrush from his hand. Switching it on, I pop it in my mouth. He is beautiful. He surrounds himself with the same. Maybe I’m an anomaly.
‘You are beautiful,’ he asserts, moving to stand behind me. ‘Can I not appreciate you?’
I rinse the brush, gaze moving from his reflection to my own. Maybe he needs an eye exam. I’m okay looking, pretty even, though not so much this morning. Lacking that soft mussed-up just laid look, I lean more toward scruffy and sport a massive post-coitus pouf.
‘Stop.’ A soft finger presses the creased skin between my eyes. ‘You’re exquisite, you know.’
His hands snake around my waist, loosening the belt. He’s all minty and moist in the steam filled room, his reflection burning with challenge. Taking the brush from my passive hand, he slides the silk from my shoulders, dropping it to the ground. And I’m naked and looking at myself again.
‘Inti amar. See? Beautiful.’ He draws a finger down my torso, eyes following suit. ‘And it’s better to be beautiful than good.’
‘Did you get that out of a fortune cookie?’ I watch his expression. ‘And who says I’m not good?’
‘I don’t think you even know how good you are.’ With a sinful smile, he turns me in his arms. ‘And I’m sure Oscar Wilde never worked with the Chinese.’
I snort. I’m now naked and snorting. Great. ‘Words of wisdom from the man who also said, I can resist anything but temptation?’
‘A philosophy to appreciate, I’m sure. Not quite Aristotle’s aesthetics, but a man of high ideals, all the same.’ His hand is large and warm on my hip, his thumb drawing small circles against the bone.
‘It’s way too early for philosophy,’ I whisper, relaxing into his touch.
‘Too early for philosophy and too late for sex.’ His thumb continues to circle in a slow, methodical motion. ‘You’re quite sure about that?’
I don’t answer as my body jolts, the handle of his toothbrush pressed between my legs. And it’s switched on. With the brush balanced in the palm of his hand, he presses it against me, the bristled head nearer his wrist. I gasp, my hands grabbing the vanity at my back as I lean against it.
‘Oh!’ The sensation is unusual and, well, electric . . . very . . . pleasant.
‘Oh?’ he teases, his mouth a hairs-breadth above mine.
‘Ohhh,’ I breathe as he changes the angle of his hand, my own now grasping his shoulders, my mouth against his. I feel his lips curl against my own as I begin to whimper, trying to wriggle away or draw closer, I’m not really sure.
‘Pervertables,’ I think he murmurs, but that can’t be right.
‘Not a pervert,’ I mewl, ‘‘mmm not the one using the toothbrush wrong.’
‘Wrong?’ he questions, tilting the brush the opposite way.
‘No! Nooo. That’s better.’ He tilts it back. ‘Yesss . . . that’s right.’
My fingers are like claws in his arms—if he moves, he’s going to pay. In moments, I’m panting and grinding as the handle slides wetly, tingling and vibrating, pushing me toward that unseen edge. Suddenly, it clatters to the floor, leaving me breathless but not quite done, my hands now fisted in his hair. I pull his head down and kiss him hungrily, a wet, tongue-sucking kiss. I pash him—kiss him passionately—not coming up for air.
‘Come back to bed,’ he whispers hoarsely, the words dripping with promise, an erotic fog enveloping us as real as the steam-filled room.
‘I need to go to work.’ My voice is a little breathless despite inhaling his words, not yet ready to relinquish his mouth.
‘All work and no play.’ He groans, his hands dropping to cup the swell of my arse.
‘Pays my bills,’ I gasp as he begins to lift me onto the vanity, my legs sliding wider. ‘I need to be responsible. My boss is a real hard-arse.’ He stills, peering at me through those liquor-lustre eyes. ‘I think he’d tie me to his desk, given half a chance.’
‘Are you enjoying getting to know him in a less than professional capacity?’ he purrs, his hips pulsing into mine.
‘Oh, yesss! Think I’m in for an amazing performance appraisal.’
‘Ah.’ He groans, hips retreating a touch. ‘You deserve a raise on the strength of your oral skills alone.’
At this I giggle, lowering my lashes in an exaggerated fashion, the lack of subtlety in the male form making a towel tent. ‘I think the performance indicator agrees.’
He joins my laughter, his rather smuttily, lowering his mouth to mine again.
I whisper his name as he presses into me, closing my eyes, without really considering closing my legs.
Restraint. I know I need some. Not to be in restraints, but a bit of self-control wouldn’t go amiss.
‘You’re sure you don’t want to be late?’ he whispers, taking the lobe of
my ear between his teeth.
‘I can’t,’ I groan, without conviction, pushing back against him.
His fingers skim my wetness, breath leaving my body in a sigh. ‘Then this must be one of those things,’ he murmurs, kissing my cheek. ‘Things capable girls do for themselves.’ His hands fall away, his body following suit.
‘What?’ Dazed, I blink rapidly as he pauses, reaching the door.
‘I’ll leave you to finish that off,’ he says, ‘you being a capable girl and all that.’
And with that, he leaves me weak legged and willing, confused and clinging to the sink.
Entering the bedroom some time later, squeaky clean and as horny as all hell, Kai is seated in the chair—though sprawls might be a better description—looking both heart-stoppingly handsome and incredibly louche. How he manages to look disreputable, I don’t understand, dressed as he is in his usual Saville Row affair; charcoal pants and a pristine white button down. I bet he rarely buys off the rack. Mobile to his ear and speaking Arabic, he smirks as I enter, making a lazy gesture to a luggage cart at the end of the bed.
The cart hangs heavy with garment bags. A whole new wardrobe, judging by the boxes of high-end shoes stacked at the bottom. A designer wardrobe, and not for him. I stare uncomfortably at the bags that seem to hang heavy with reproach.
He buys fuck-me heels so he gets to fuck me . . . in heels; which friend has the benefit here?
I jump with a start as his hand runs down the curve of my robe covered butt. Switching to English, his voice is quiet but ice cold.
‘Not possible.’ Reaching over my shoulder, he plucks one of the bags from the rack, lying it against my chest and letting go. ‘I must speak with her today . . . I don’t care.’ The bag slides down my chest a little before I wrap it in my arms, turning with a frustrated gesture.
Watching me, his conversation reverts to rapid-fire Arabic, guttural and hostile almost. With his eyebrows drawn together in censure, he indicates the bag in my arms. ‘Maa-i-khussni,’ he growls, ending the call, his eyes still on mine. ‘Not my problem at all.’ His eyes are wary as he places the phone down. ‘Well, do we have a problem?’
