Pretty Hot (The Pretty Trilogy Book 1)

by Donna Alam

  Ah, the accent! The sexy inflection, too.

  ‘So you’ve been about a bit? I mean, you’re a bit of a Bedouin?’ I regret the words as soon as they’re in the air. Talk about foot in mouth. Just how culturally insensitive was that, I wonder?

  ‘I suppose.’ He smiles, as though humouring a small child.

  ‘With tent and camels?’ I squeak, to my further horror, as my imagination conjures up images of him dressed a bit like Lawrence of Arabia. Complete with a harem of supermodels.

  He chuckles then, my expression obviously something to laugh at. ‘Camels and a tent, check.’

  ‘And you’re Kais, not Kai?’ I ask, fighting to ignore my prickling skin and trying to return to sensible ground.

  ‘Kai is short for Kais. It was my mother’s choice of name.’ His face clouds with introspection before clearing almost as quick. ‘Then Bin Faris, son of Faris. Faris is obviously my father’s name. Bin Hamad, or son of Hamad, my grandfather. And Al Khalfan, which is my family name.’

  ‘Wow, it must really suck learning to write that as a kid. Not to mention the complications of marriage.’

  Really, I’m a redneck at this moment.

  ‘I can’t say I remember, a benefit of the passage of time,’ he says, smiling indulgently. ‘And women don’t change their name on marriage here, they stay daughter of the father, granddaughter of . . .’ He runs a hand through his bed-head, the action almost self-conscious.

  ‘Kais is a lovely name,’ I murmur, blushing as his eyes return to mine.

  ‘Thanks. She’s a bit of a romantic at heart, my mother.’

  ‘It’s a romantic name?’ God, I sound so high school, maybe I can blame the kids? If-you-hang-around-with-them-long-enough-you’ll-end-up-speaking-like-them, sort of?

  ‘It’s the name of a literary hero, the love story of Layla and Kais? It’s the Eastern version of Romeo and Juliet, I suppose.’

  ‘Kais, he’s like, a Romeo?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘You’re making it up.’ I narrow my gaze.

  ‘But what’s in a name?’ He pouts, paraphrasing the Bard himself. ‘But if you’re interested in the actual onomatology, Kais means firm.’ His fingers slowly inch up my leg. ‘And lover.’

  ‘You made that up, too.’ My voice is reduced to a husky whisper as his hand brushes higher.

  ‘Did not.’ His finger ghosts between my breasts. ‘Cross my heart,’ he whispers, tracing the outline above my own. My skin blooms where his finger touches, and as it retracts, I catch his finger, bringing it to my mouth and kissing the tip.

  ‘I think you’re trying to distract me.’

  ‘Is it working?’ he whispers, tracing my bottom lip.

  I sigh, sort of tremulous, when his finger pushes between my parted lips. Without a thought in my head, I suck hard, and we’re back to getting to know one another in the baser sense. Immediately, his body is over mine, pushing me down against the bed. His mouth slides against mine as he leans above me, grasping my hands and holding them firmly.

  Firm.

  The thought rises quickly, followed by a bubbling giggle, which I try to suppress.

  ‘Are you laughing?’ he asks, not without irritation, lifting his head.

  ‘I was just thinking how appropriate your name is, how very firm you are.’ The giggle breaks free.

  ‘Well, do I live up to my name?’ His voice rasps as he brings my hand to his hard shaft.

  I’m stunned. I hadn’t meant it that way at all. Shock gives way with touch. I curl my hand around him, fingers tightening as he exhales, placing his hand over mine. Hot breath touches my face before his lips demand once more.

  ‘You have no idea how fitting a name can be, kitten,’ he growls thickly, my insides reeling eagerly at his tone.

  His kiss deepens, tongue seeking mine. I’m done for, moaning shamelessly into his mouth as desire burns in my veins. I hold him; stroke him, my hand cradled in his. Holding the power, quite literally. His growl echoes in my mouth as I run my thumb over the smooth head. Encouraged, I flex my fingers and build a slow, stroking rhythm.

  As he breaks our kiss, his eyes are like fine cognac, their liquor lustre just as intoxicating. Without warning, he moves from the bed, drawing me into his arms and against his chest. I wrap my bare legs around his waist, feeling small in his arms and sort of exposed, vulnerable. I find, with a tinge of something bordering on shame, I quite like the indignity of it. He carries me effortlessly into the bathroom, toward the shower space running the length of the room. I brace myself for the cascade of cold water, forgetting for the moment that even the cold water is more than warm in Dubai. The spray hits his back as he lowers my feet to the floor.

  ‘Turn around.’

  His hands caress my shoulders and arms before he lifts them, wrapping my fingers around his neck. My breasts rise in the action, his hands splayed across my ribcage as they rise to stroke and cup. Our skins fuse in the humidity, my hands twisted in his hair as we stand chest to back, the air swirling around us, enveloping our lust.

  Teeth tease my shoulder as he murmurs, ‘You smell fantastic, like cinnamon and sex.’

  ‘Body wash. And you.’ I instantly regret my reply, how unsexy it sounds. Couldn’t I have come up with a more sophisticated answer?

  ‘I like that.’

  His teeth fasten against my skin in emphasis, and my resulting moan is throaty, the sensation echoing between my legs in an aching bloom. My body arches as his slick and soapy hands lather my belly, fingers bordering on the divine. I close my eyes and revel in the sensations against my skin. As he dips lower, his touch is a bare caress, rubbing soft, soapy circles close to my aching clit. I moan as he increases the pressure, my body jolting as his fingers agonizingly glide past it again.

  ‘Feeling dirty?’

  The smile in his question makes me brave.

  ‘Filthy.’

  And somehow, that one word couldn’t sound dirtier, or needier, as my hips buck, lost in the feel of him, needing his fingers everywhere.

  ‘Show me.’ Covering my hands with his, he places them on my lathered belly, moving them in slow circles across my skin. ‘Feel how soft you are.’ He glides my hands upwards, cupping my breasts.

  His direction thrills me, heightening the sensations swirling through my fingers and across my skin. My breasts are full and needy, and as I brush my hardened nipples, I exhale raggedly.

  ‘Thou shall be my dear, graze on my lips.’ Kissing a path from shoulder to neck, our linked fingers continue to soap my breasts. ‘And if those hills be dry . . . or wet.’ Fingers travel to the limit of my thighs and I can almost hear his smile. ‘Stray lower where the pleasant fountains lie.’

  In the dim corners of my mind, I recognize the verse but beyond that, I can’t care. I’m sensation alone and wholly without thought as my hands stroke my folds, bare brushes at first, building into an unravelling, knee-weakening rhythm.

  ‘That’s it, just feel.’ His voice is a low, encouraging rumble. ‘Do you know how good you taste? How I can’t wait to feel you around my cock again?’ The words curl around my ear and explode inside.

  ‘Please, don’t stop,’ I plead, breathing rapidly. My touch is his, our sliding fingers a sensation like nothing I’ve ever experienced.

  On the brink of climax, his hand slides my fingers over my clit. ‘Like that?’

  I moan and nod wildly as I buck against our hands, hard and demanding as the intensity builds. Crying out, I writhe against him skin to skin, pushing and convulsing against our hands. I can’t think. About anything. Not about his perceptions, about awkwardness, my participation, or my porn-worthy moans. I can process nothing beyond this moment, as my mind and body explodes. I spasm around our entwined fingers, calling out his name as he whispers how good I am, how jealous his cock is of our fingers, and all the while, his teeth slide over my skin.

  Holding me in his arms, his chest pressed against my back, the water continues to filter down my body, as he pretty mu
ch holds me up. Hot air envelopes us, my receding orgasm and rapid breathing filling my ears. But slowly, my equilibrium restores, and I stretch languorously against his body as I turn.

  ‘Was that . . . Shakespeare?’ I bury my face against his hard, wet chest.

  ‘Too much? You prefer dirty cock talk?’ He laughs, kissing the crown of my shaking head. ‘Elizabethan porn.’ His hands run down my sides and cup the cheeks of my arse. ‘Venus and Adonis sprung to mind.’

  ‘Ah, but unlike the hapless hero, you have already put out.’ My voice is raspy as I run a finger down his torso, edging into the soft, fine hair. ‘And look, something else has, er, sprung?’ Trailing my hand lower, I take his stiffness into my hand.

  ‘Mmm, dirty talk, I approv—’

  Words go unfinished, catching in his throat as I tighten my fingers along his hard, sleek length. He exhales harshly, jaw slackening as his eyes slowly close. My reserve forgotten, I feel emboldened and powerful. I am no ingénue; I am responsible for rendering this man speechless. The feeling is heady, potent, and a bit of a surprise.

  My fingers follow the rivulets of water making their lazy journey along the caramel of his skin. Bending, I flick my tongue against his silken head before slowly licking the smooth skin from the base up, tracing the water’s path with my tongue.

  He exhales a harsh breath, an entirely male sound, gaze hooded and dark as I take him into my mouth. I push my lips down, eyes cast upwards, watching his mouth slackening, the water cascading down his chest, feeling his torso twitch in response to my mouth. I draw in water as I drink in Kai: the symbolism isn’t lost on me.

  One hand rises to the wall at his side as I tighten my grip and increase tempo, swirling my tongue against him as I work my hand. I’m empowered in knowing that I can affect him in such a way. It drives me on. Turns me on.

  ‘Ah, Kate . . . fuck . . . like that . . . yesss.’

  From Shakespeare to incoherency, his mouth slackens as my own works still. Hips flexing, he pushes his free hand into my hair as I run mine to his solid behind, taking him in deeper. I build my slow, methodical motion into something urgent, his wet lashes fluttering as he exhales the sweetest, most desperate moan.

  His hand tightens and he flexes tentatively, his cheeks contracting against my palms. Then, all at once, his body stiffens. I raise my gaze.

  Amber eyes flash like flames as they open quite suddenly.

  ‘Coming,’ he rasps.

  Oh. What’s the etiquette here?

  Should I stop? Do I want to?

  One glance at him and I know the answer.

  With both hands now almost tenderly held at the back of my head, he groans as the thick, warm liquid pulses out of him. Brackish. Viscous. I swallow uncertainly as aftershocks rock through him, his hands tightening.

  His movement recedes, laboured breath beginning to regulate, and I withdraw with as much élan available. Given my position, it isn’t much.

  Staring up at him, I try to repress a small but triumphant smile as he pulls me to my feet, his mouth brushing mine.

  ‘Let’s go back to bed.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Struggling under layers of sleep and bedding, I wave away the whining buzz of a fly near my ear, eventually dragging myself upright. It’s like being reborn! I shield my eyes from the light streaming through the open drapes, almost knocking last night’s empty glass from the nightstand as the drone carries on. It’s my phone vibrating, set to that stupid misnomer silent. I prod the screen with an indiscriminate thumb, my brain sluggish and slow to realise it’s not my phone ringing, but Kai’s.

  ‘Far out,’ I groan, slipping the phone into my purse and grinding one palm against a narcoleptic eye. My stomach gurgles audibly. Now that I’m awake, I’m also starving, having ingested little since last night’s dubious taco. Nothing that belongs on a food pyramid, at least.

  The sheets rustle as Kai stirs, interrupting my tasteless train of thought and quite possibly stopping my heart for a beat or two. Dark hair falls stark against the pale linens, lashes echoing the contrast against his skin, his mouth pouting softly in sleep. Lying on his stomach with the sheet pulled low across one hip, he looks like some kind of reverse or modern day Death of Abel: a work of art almost too perfect to be real.

  So this is casual sex.

  I’m no expert, but I’d say last night was anything but. Sex yes, but casual? Not a bit. Intense and erotic, full of fingers, teeth and skin. And I like touching myself with an audience. What’s that all about? My pulse begins to pound and my head to ache. I’m pretty sure it’s not a hangover, despite the sudden onset of nausea, as my brain kicks into overdrive.

  I slept with a stranger. Who might possibly be my boss.

  In a country where I could go to jail for kissing in public. Faaack!

  Calm down, Kate. Deep breaths. Try not to overthink this. Yes, let’s give that a bash.

  I try to refocus on Kai, unaware of the neurotic nut lying next to him. But I can’t chase away the images of how this might end. Will he wake and make some arsehole excuse to kick me out? Maybe I should leave first, might that be the more sophisticated thing to do? Though just contemplating a walk of shame through these opulent corridors makes me want to hurl. Then again, taking off before he wakes might make me seem mysterious, leave him wanting more?

  Or glad I’d made it easy for him.

  Maybe he’s right. Maybe I am middle-class. Middle-class with weak knicker elastic.

  But one swallow definitely does not a girlfriend make, and in the absence of a decision, I begin to slide my legs from the bed.

  ‘Looks like the road to hell is paved with good intentions,’ I quietly rebuke.

  ‘Rooved,’ says a sleep roughened voice, ‘with lost opportunities.’

  Kai lays unmoving, appearance suggesting a lack of consciousness. His breathing is deep and even as my own heart beats like a deafening drum.

  ‘And possibly the overwrought corpses of girls with pretty mouths.’ My body jumps as his pouting and somnolent lips form the words. ‘Penny for them.’ He yawns, rolling onto his back and stretching along the bed, hair deliciously dishevelled, dark lashes spiked by sleep.

  ‘I’d have to give you change,’ I mutter, readjusting the sheets and drawing my legs back under the covers.

  ‘You’re having cheap thoughts? I think I like the sound of that.’ Propping himself up on one arm, his grin becomes a teasing sort of corner-of-the-mouth arrangement.

  ‘As in not worth much,’ I answer stroppily.

  ‘Were you going to leave me a note?’ His voice is low, tone mockingly severe as his fingers pull at the sheet playfully, though I’m guessing he’s also serious about uncovering me. ‘Or just sneak out?’

  ‘I . . . well . . . I . . . ’

  Rolling onto his back, he stretches long and fully, lifting his toned torso from the bed.

  ‘You know I know where you work, right?’

  The words are spoken through gritted teeth and a stifled yawn, but I’m stopped from witty repartee—or a sarcastic comeback—by my stomach growling. Loudly. I could curl into a corner and die.

  ‘Someone worked up an appetite.’ With a smirk, he lifts his phone from the nightstand.

  ‘It rang. Earlier. While you were still sleeping.’ His eyes lift from the screen before sliding back. I’d say sheepishly, but why he’d be self-conscious when it’s my stomach that sounds like a lion that’s just ingested a walrus, I’m not sure. ‘Thanks, so I see. I’ve got to make a couple of calls.’

  Throwing back the sheet, he stands and stretches unhurriedly, leaving me free to perve at the rear view: a graceful and muscular back, highly defined lats leading to a narrow waist and butt cheeks you could bounce pennies on. Freakin’ unreal! Just in time, I pull the edge of the sheet to my chest before it’s wrenched from the bed. ‘No escaping, now.’

  Slipping into his discarded pants, he saunters from the room, phone in hand, his voice murmuring then falling away. I take this as my cue, almost
jumping from the bed and making a nudie dash toward the bathroom, slamming the door with a click of the lock to follow.

  In the vanity mirror, a stranger stares back through bright, wild eyes. My cheeks look almost wind burned and I definitely don’t have that sexy bed-head-hair going on, because my hair is just . . . fucked. I look like I’ve been getting it on in a wind tunnel. Grinning like the five year old that’s just discovered the keys to the lolly shop, I fan my hands across my cheeks and resist the urge to an undignified squee!

  Could this be a sudden onset of bipolar?

  Kai-polar, more like?

  ‘Don’t think much of your hair,’ I say, running a hand through the tangled mess. ‘The new me is supposed to be fabulous, didn’t you hear?’

  The new me is fabulously sore. And I mean that, fabbbbulously sore, my body aching in a way that only great sex can provide—like the best massage or workout that pours satisfaction into the very centre of your bones. With a smile wider than I’ve any right to, I stretch my arms above my head as I turn, startled by the dark bruise against my shoulder. I’ve been bitten before, though maybe it’s more the case that I’ve had a hickey or two. But this isn’t some half-hearted suck and more like an autograph bitten into my skin. I run my fingers over the minute depressions, aftershocks of pleasure shooting through my limbs.

  My reflected smile falters a little. I’m not going to over analyse these feelings. I’ll just . . . revel in them for a little bit.

  As I step into the cavernous shower, the heat of the water bites at my skin, my muscles unlocking and relaxing. And the water isn’t the only thing that flows, as my mind fills with X-rated images of all the dirty things you can do while keeping clean.

  Pink from the heat of the water, mostly, I wrap myself in a large, white towel, feeling reinvigorated, but for my mouth, which feels like something has crawled in overnight and died. There’s nothing for it. I’ll have to brush my teeth with the only toothbrush available: his. I suppose I’ll just have to trust his oral hygiene, though there is something undeniably intimate about the sharing of a toothbrush. It’s ironic, I think as I pause with the brush in my hand, that I’d feel so circumspect, given the intimacies—not to mention fluids—we shared last night.