I flinch as I realise what he is touching. “My scars,” I whisper, ashamed. “They’re so ugly. I had acne as a child.” I know he must be feeling the raised, discoloured bumps which mar my skin.
“We’ve all got scars.” He’s dismissive, as if it’s of no consequence. “And yours are hardly noticeable.” Before I can object, explain he’s wrong, describe how my scarring has ruled my life, he deepens the tone of his voice. “Take off the hijab! Your headscarf.” His palms cease their exploration of my face.
I hesitate, only for a second, thoughts of the way I look for once vanishing into the background. He seems to be the one in control as my hands reach up automatically and pull off the scarf. My hair’s long, a nondescript, mousy-brown colour, the one most people cover up with dye. I don’t bother cutting it in any particular style it so it falls straight, reaching almost to my waist.
He touches it, almost reverently. “So soft,” he murmurs.
Again I shrug. It’s hair. It’s long. It flops down over my face and gets in the way. Nothing special. So I tell him: “It’s mousy, lank …”
Nijad takes a step back; his beautiful olive skin illuminated by the golden light of the lamps hanging from the roof. His brow furrows and his demeanour changes as he hazards a guess.
“Who did this to you? Who destroyed your confidence?” He sounds furious and looks like a warrior. His posture frightens me, but I quickly realise he’s not angry with me. My first glimpse of the fierce sheikh and his wrath is in my defence.
“No one,” I gasp back. He’s hit the nail on the head, but I’m not going to discuss it. I’d been told the truth; I confirmed it the last time I looked into a mirror, and have carried that mental picture with me ever since. Everything Nijad has told me flees my mind; the words spoken seven years ago coming back into my head. I hear his voice again. The voice of my father. I look round one way then the other, frantically trying to find an escape route. I can’t have this conversation, can’t admit how that man destroyed me with just a few well-placed words. I’ve nowhere to run, so there’s only one thing I can do to avoid this conversation. I take a deep breath.
“Look, can’t we just get it over and done with?”
“It? What do you mean: it?” His eyes are hooded, unreadable.
As blood rushes to my face, my only answer is a blush. He’s trying to hold back a smile.
“You’re going to have to tell me what you mean. It was you who wanted to talk. For us to get to know each other.”
“I’ve changed my mind.” I’m flustered. I don’t talk about myself; I never admit what made me who I am.
“So have I,” he replies thoughtfully. He takes another step back as though giving me space, and I feel a sudden chill, missing his closeness. “Talk to me. Who was it?” His voice changes again; while not loud, it was still commanding. “Tell me!”
I can’t tell him. I start to beg for him to leave it alone; my voice comes out as a whisper.
“Please, please no. Not now. I can’t talk about it. I can’t tell you.” It’s embarrassing and humiliating, and I want him to leave the subject alone.
He looks at me for a long while. What he sees makes him take pity on me, as he relents and doesn’t press me further. I find I can breathe again. But his next words stun me.
“Cara, you are a beautiful woman.” He smiles. “Believe me: I, your husband, think you’re beautiful.” He touches his fingers briefly to my lips. “That’s all you have to think about tonight. No one else matters. But one day, and soon, you will tell me why you find that so hard to accept.” His voice lowers, and his face grows stern. “Trust me, Cara. Believe me. I can’t abide liars and I, myself, never lie.”
My mouth drops open as I read the sincerity on his face. Can it possibly be true? Can he find me attractive? How can he? Then the other word in the sentence hits me hard. Husband! God, he really is my husband. And he isn’t put off by the way I look. Immediately I find an explanation: cheap words to get me into his bed. But hang on: he’s on a certainty tonight. He needn’t lie or cajole to get me there. I stare at him, but however hard I try I can see no disgust on his face, no disappointment. I exhale a sigh, as if an enormous weight has been lifted off me. I feel my shoulders relax, and my fear begins to transform into something else, the beginnings of hunger that his words have awakened deep inside. Now a different type of shiver that runs down my spine and my breathing quickens as I raise my eyes to his. What he sees there makes further conversation unnecessary.
The atmosphere becomes charged; we both know we’ve reached a turning point. I watch his face grow taut with expectation and intention. Cocking his head to one side, he considers me. I feel a rising excitement as I wait for his next words.
“I’m not going to force you to do anything you don’t want to do, Cara.” His soft, but authoritative tones allow his earnestness to shine through. “But I hope you want to please your sheikh, your husband.”
My insides seem to twist at his words. I look up into his ruggedly handsome face. As innocent as I am I can’t misunderstand what he is asking. I realise it’s equally impossible for me not to agree. Yes, I do want to please this incredible vision of a man standing in front of me, although I’m sure that I’ll be a disappointment to him. My experience is zero; anything I know about what might happen between us is purely theoretical, and vicariously gained from the books I have read. But I trust him to open up a whole new world for me; I don’t know why, or at what point it started, but I feel safe enough to place myself in his hands. So with a husky catch to my voice I give him a simple, but honest, answer. “Yes.”
He nods slowly, indicating his pleasure. His features remain tight, looking like he’s fighting to maintain control as he commands me softly, “Take off your tunic.”
His request startles me. In my anticipation of this moment, I’d pictured him tearing off my clothes while I resist him, valiantly trying to protect my virtue. Or even of him undressing me slowly and seductively, like I’d seen on films. I had never envisioned that I would voluntarily bare myself for him, but my heartbeat quickens with this almost illicit instruction as I prepare to be naked in front of him. I hesitate, uncertain I can do this, but, as he stands patiently waiting, giving me time to process his command, I find my hands going to the buttons of their own volition and the action thrills me. As I slowly undo them, one by one, I see his eyes narrow and darken in appreciation of my uncertain striptease, and his legs shift, drawing my attention to his groin where his jeans are bulging. Warmth from my core makes my skin flush. I didn’t expect to have this effect on him. The knowledge makes me bolder so I push the robe off my shoulders.
“Fuck! What the hell is that?” he barks, incredulously, breaking the moment.
As his eyes open wide in surprise, homing in on my wrist, I suddenly remember with horror the knife, still bandaged to my arm. I start as fear and embarrassment flood through me.
“I …” I falter; the emotions that led me to bring such a weapon with me tonight seem so ridiculous now. I look at the floor, wishing it would open up and swallow me.
Then I hear a deep, sexy laugh. “Oh, Sheikha. You’re a brave woman.”
“I’m sorry,” I manage to gasp out.
He glares down at the binding and his fingers come out to trace the shape of the knife. I give an inadvertent shiver at his touch.
“This is no way to carry a knife; you’re more likely to do yourself damage than me.” As he presses lightly on the tip, it presses into the delicate skin around my wrist. “You could have cut yourself if you had stumbled and fallen. Or did you desire to harm yourself? Is death preferable?”
As he asks me the question, his eyes flick to mine, his anger showing until I shake my head, assuring him suicide never entered my mind. Satisfied, he gently unwraps the knife and moves it away, tossing it in his hands, feeling the weight, and then running his fingers over the tip.
“You need a sharper knife than this to cause any harm,” he tells me, grabbing hold of my hand and
pushing the handle into my palm. He closes my fingers around it. Next he brings my hand up so the tip of the knife is pressing against his chest.
“Not a good place to try for unless you have a good grasp of anatomy. Too great a chance of catching a rib. But here” – he moves the blade up so it lies across his neck – “here’s a better bet if you only have one chance.” He gives me a second to process the information, and then drops his hold, removes the knife from my hand and lays it on a table.
“If you feel you need to use it, don’t forget what I’ve told you. And tomorrow I’ll get you a better weapon, and an ankle sheath. It will be safer for you.”
My mouth drops open in surprise; why would he want me to be able to defend myself? But as I go to speak he touches his finger to my lips. He nods, giving a wry smile.
“Now, Sheikha. I believe we were in the middle of something. Ah, yes. Remove your bra.” His voice drops and his sudden resumption of intimacy catches me unawares but, tentatively, I return his smile. I can’t ignore the command.
My effort to protect myself was futile and embarrassing, and I’m glad that my stupidity hasn’t broken the mood. I reach behind me, clumsily fumbling to undo the clasp. With only a momentary hesitation I let the straps fall down my arms. I’m not particularly well endowed, and my eyes drop, not wanting to see his disappointment. But as he emits a satisfied sigh, I take it as a sign of approval, and it gives me confidence. Rather than crossing my arms over my breasts to cover myself I let them drop to my sides, unconsciously pulling back my shoulders to give him a better view.
He reaches out his hands and touches the sides of my breasts, slowly drawing his fingertips down with such a light touch I can barely feel it, but it’s enough to ignite the nerves in my spine. As he removes his hands, he gently brushes his fingertips across my nipples. An unfamiliar clenching grips me as muscles roll in my stomach, and a strange feeling seems to arrow down to that area between my thighs. I realise I want him to touch me again.
“You say you’re a virgin. Has anyone touched these before?” he asks softly. His touch becomes firmer. This time, he takes my nipples between his fingers and thumbs and gives both a little pinch. My legs almost buckle at the unexpected arrow of pleasure it sends to my groin.
I shake my head. I’m having difficulty finding words as I try to process the alien feelings inside me.
“No? Has anyone ever seen them?”
Again I give a negative reply. Nijad softly whistles as he sucks in his breath through his teeth, and I see a fleeting glint of possessiveness flash in his dark eyes. The look does something to me and I have to squeeze my legs together to try to ease the strange feeling. All of a sudden, I know that I need something; I need him.
Instead of touching me again, he abruptly removes his hands and steps away, leaving me feeling bereft. Returning to the cushions, he seats himself by folding his legs underneath him, his movements strikingly graceful for such a large man, making me acknowledge I’ve never seen a man move in such a sexy way before. Although he’s distanced himself physically, he never removes his focus from me.
“Come closer,” he instructs. He is in command of my body now, not I, as my feet move without conscious thought. I stand in front of him, waiting for his next directive. My heart is beating fast, my breathing erratic.
“Take off your trousers.”
I flinch. I can feel my knickers are wet, and he might be able to see that. The position we’re in means his eyes are at the level of my pelvis. I’m embarrassed. Do good girls do this? But a voice in my head reminds me: You belong to him. The thought, so terrifying to me earlier, now sends warmth through me, and his soft but masterful commands are doing strange things to my lower tummy again. That this might be the desire I’ve only read about makes my hesitation momentary. I undo the belt and push my trousers down. Not allowing myself time for a second thought, I step out of them, and stand before him in nothing but a thong.
He’s staring at me, letting his eyes roam lazily across my body, his constant scrutiny taking in everything from head to toe; the intensity of his gaze sends a quiver down my spine that ends with throbbing. Then, with a swift movement that alarms me, he reaches behind his back and draws out a knife of his own. Automatically I recoil as he grins widely, and, in one smooth action, he leans forwards. The blade flashes and my underwear falls to the floor. Like a conjuring act, the knife disappears again.
Shocked and naked, I stand before him, suddenly too nervous to look him in the eye, so I gaze instead at a point on the floor. I’ve fully exposed myself to him. Now he’ll be able to see my rounded tummy and oversized bum. I can feel his eyes on me, his gaze almost burning.
“Exquisite,” he breathes. “And I particularly like this.”
Looking up I see him grinning at my shaved pelvis. The unfamiliar exposure of that part of me to the air, and his close examination, makes the blood rush to my cheeks. As my face reddens, I tell him, “The women made me.”
“I’m glad.” There’s a light-heartedness to him that I haven’t seen before as he continues to ogle me. He looks as happy as a schoolboy as he adds, “You’ll keep it like that.”
It is a command, not a request. But seeing the delight on his face and a lifting of the gravity which had surrounded him earlier causes a spasm of muscles that nothing has ever triggered before, and swiftly my embarrassment fades. Suddenly I want him to touch me. There, where no one has ever touched me before.
He is watching me closely, his look one of pleasure, and his next instruction reveals he must have read my mind. “Come closer.” The breathlessness in his voice tells me I’m not the only one affected.
I take another step towards him. He reaches forwards and places a gentle kiss on my naked mound. The unexpected light touch makes me shudder, and without warning my legs feel weak. I sway. His reaction is quick and he reaches out his hand to steady me.
“Stay still.” There’s a catch in his voice, but it still oozes absolute power. “Open your legs for me.”
I hesitate. He says nothing more: just waits. I’m so far out of my depth here, but there’s a desire within me to follow his commands, to explore this unfamiliar territory. To become a willing partner in the inevitable loss of my innocence tonight. The newly awoken needs of my body are overruling any other emotion. With a sense that I’m now entrusting myself to this man, who is still a stranger to me but who has aroused me in ways no other has, I move my legs apart.
“More.”
He’s patient, and again allows me sufficient time to obey.
One of his hands stays on my hip, the other rises and shocks me as he wipes his fingers back and forth gently between my legs. His touch sends sharp, new sensations through my very core. I should be offended by his actions, but as I shiver in anticipation, I realise his touch is so sure. I’m glad that at least one of us knows what they’re doing. As his hand begins to explore more intimately, my breathing starts to quicken. He pushes one finger into me and I stiffen at the foreign invasion, but he withdraws it and circles my clitoris until I reach forwards, my hands gripping his shoulders to keep myself from falling. He’s playing my body as if he knows it better than I do myself.
“You’re wet for me, sweetheart.”
Mortified that he’s noticed, I try to bring my legs back together, but he gives a stern shake of his head, silently forbidding me to move. His eyes meet mine, and I see the satisfaction there, even before he chuckles softly. Then, bringing his fingers to his mouth, he licks my essence from them. I still, believing I should find his actions disgusting, but instead I feel a new flood of wetness making me even more ready for him.
He grins knowingly and pauses, as if for effect, before asking, “Now, am I going to have to force you into my bed?”
I’m no longer capable of forming words; all I can do is moan softly.
His voice is husky as he tells me, “No, I didn’t think so.” Rising effortlessly and gracefully he cups his hands around my face and leans forwards, hesitating just for a
moment before pressing his lips to mine.
I’d never planned or even thought about my seduction scene but if I had I would never have expected to be standing, naked, exposed as I’d never been before, for what is my first ever kiss. I feel so ignorant and naïve as he moves his lips over mine, keeping the kiss gentle. How do I kiss him back? But he starts to nibble on my lower lip, and then slowly increases the pressure, sweeping his tongue across my mouth and seeking entrance. I let him take over and guide me, relaxing totally in his arms. With my breasts squashed against his warm, naked chest, I allow him to take what he wants. As I open, he seizes advantage immediately, his tongue diving in, toying with mine. As the kiss deepens and his tongue thrusts in and out, mimicking actions that he’ll be taking soon with another part of his body, I feel increasingly weak. My legs begin to give way as his hands stroke my back, his touch eliciting feelings I can neither understand nor control, and then I’m unable to think at all as I give in to the pure physical responses of my body. He notices the point of my complete surrender, sweeps me up into his arms and carries me to the back of the tent where he places me gently down in the middle of the large, ornate bed. I’m vaguely conscious of luxurious curtains and hangings surrounding us, but I can focus on nothing but this man.
Nijad slowly comes down to lie beside me, stretching out along my length. His eyes are hooded; his breathing has become ragged. His hand possessively touches my breast, squeezing my nipple, softly, and then hardening his touch. All the time he’s watching me carefully, gauging my reaction. Then he moves his hand to my other breast. My head rolls on the pillow as sensations bombard me. Leaning over he takes a nipple into his mouth, sucking on it and closing his teeth around it. The small bite of pain causes a pulsing response elsewhere, and I moan. When he gives the same attention to the other, my head thrashes. Still sucking my nipple, his hand moves down, caressing my stomach, and then lower. As his fingers move across my newly naked mound my whole body shivers in anticipation and I tense, waiting to feel him there, where I burn for his touch. It’s as if he’s teasing me with his fingers still, and I can’t help but wriggle like a wanton, desperate for him to continue what he’s started. I feel his chuckle against my breast as he taunts me, and then, just as I’m about to scream in frustration, his fingers move again. I’m so ready for him that in just a few seconds I’m tensing, coming up off the bed as I have the most intense orgasm. And Christ, I must be greedy; I want more. He sits up, his warmth leaving me. I feel empty and I protest, raising my arms to pull him down again, but he removes my hands firmly, holding them against my stomach, emphasising that he is in control.
Stolen Lives (Blood Brothers Book 1) Page 14
