Clare Connelly Pairs: Warming the Sheikh’s Bed & Love in the Fast Lane

by Connelly , Clare

  Her tongue teased him and she felt him throb. “Enough,” he grated, reaching down and pulling her up. “I want to be with you.”

  “I want that too,” she nodded. Her fingers lowered to his erection again but he shook his head.

  “Just you.” He pushed her with his body, so that they fell together onto the soft mattress. His entry was swift; they were both ready. Their coming together was a swift, blazing flame; a race of need and overwhelming, suffocating desire. She cried out as he moved within her and she held him tight. This was just sex, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy it with her whole heart.

  It took several minutes for Cassie to drift back to earth. She had been floating in heaven, weightless and divine. As gravity began to reassert itself, she shifted a little, so that she could see his face.

  “That was nice.”

  “Nice?”

  She grinned and nodded.

  “You wanted to know who I am,” he murmured, pulling away from her so that there was space between them. He kept a hand possessively on her hip. And she liked it. The weight of ownership, the touch of reassurance.

  “You’re the man who can drive me crazy with a single look.”

  His laugh was unexpected. “That too, then.”

  “Okay. Break it to me gently.”

  He stroked her side rhythmically. “My mother is Elena, and my father is Adin. My father’s brother is the Emir of Takisabad.”

  “Takisabad. The faraway Kingdom from whence you come?” She was still teasing, and it made him pause. She didn’t know what he was about to say. Her lack of gravity made that much obvious.

  He tilted his head. “The same.”

  “I’ve heard of it. But I don’t know much about it, I’m sorry.”

  His eyes assumed a faraway glaze. “It is the most beautiful country in the world. Nestled by mountainous ranges on three sides and ocean on one, it has everything. Pristine beaches, long expanses of desert, and sand dunes that glow the colour of gold in the heat of the day, freezing cold nights with stars that glitter like diamonds, and mountains that look as though they’ve come from a fairy tale for their rocky perfection. They provide a natural border to our lands and are almost impassable. We have been left unbothered. War has not knocked on our door, despite the rich oil beneath the land. Our country is rich; our people prosperous. Education is not only a right but an expectation and crime is low. Takisabad is a country like no other.”

  Cassie let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. “You make it sound like heaven on earth.”

  “In many ways, it is. As Emir, my uncle has been progressive and magnanimous. Our government is fair. His legacy is a valuable one.”

  “Emir is … King?”

  “Yes, more or less. He has a parliament but his authority is absolute. It is not a figurehead position.”

  A frown etched in his brows.

  “And this is why you have that insane security detail downstairs? Because of who your uncle is?”

  “Partly,” he murmured. “When I was fifteen, I realised the importance of my being. The reason I have been trained not just in classical education but in politics and diplomacy. My uncle did not have an heir. He and his wife had many babies, but not one of them breathed outside her body.”

  “That’s terrible.” Tears sprang to Cassie’s eyes in ready sympathy for this poor woman. Her swift empathy fascinated him. “I’m sorry for them.”

  “Yes. It is a tragedy they mourn to this day.”

  Realisation finally dawned. “You’re the heir. You’re the Emir-in-waiting.”

  “Yes.” He dipped his head forward. “I am to inherit this legacy from my uncle.” He pressed his lips together, thinking of the frail man who had once been strong and great. “And soon.”

  She flipped onto her back, and stared at the ceiling. Did it surprise her? Not really. Though she couldn’t have imagined the degree of his power, it had been somehow apparent from the moment she’d met him.

  Did it change how she felt about him?

  She couldn’t have said.

  “You won’t be in London long.”

  “No.” He thought of the meetings he had lined up over the following fortnight.

  She turned her head to face him, her eyes thoughtful. “I hope you don’t think this means I’ll start calling you sir or something.”

  It was such a light-hearted and unexpected response that he burst out laughing – something he hadn’t done much of in the past year. It felt good.

  Being with Cassie felt good.

  5

  “So, a King huh?”

  He paused, mid-way through slipping a coffee capsule into the pod machine, then nodded.

  “A King is making me coffee.”

  He pulled the short black out and handed it to her. “I aim to please. You.”

  She slid it back across the bench. “Then would you add some milk?”

  He shook his head. “You will enjoy this. These pods are blended for me especially. They are filled with cardamom and honey. And they are designed to be had black.”

  Unsure if she found his tone sexy or dictatorial, she decided to at least sip the brew.

  “Well?” He prompted, watching her from across the kitchen island.

  “It’s delicious.” She took another sip, enjoying the way it was both sweet and spiced. The coffee had a robust quality to it.

  “We grow our own coffee beans.”

  “In Takisabad?”

  “Yes, but more specifically, these beans are from the palace.”

  “Wow,” she sipped it again. “That’s kind of just showing off now.”

  He grinned. “Is it? Then you should see my private jet.”

  She pulled a face. “How the other half lives, huh?”

  “Indeed.”

  “So what brought you to a pretty ordinary little bar in Mayfair?”

  He scanned her face thoughtfully. It wasn’t a secret, exactly. But discretion was required. And he got the distinct impression she was on friendly terms with the bar staff.

  “Business,” he said, finally.

  “Business? You weren’t meeting anyone.”

  He ran a hand across his chin. The stubble was rough; he needed to shave. “No.”

  “And you were angry, remember?”

  “Yes.”

  She rolled her eyes. “If you don’t want to talk, I can go sit somewhere else.”

  He wasn’t used to being spoken to so curtly. And certainly, no one had called him on behaviour that didn’t please them. It interested him enough to bring a smile to his face, and the truth to his lips. “A friend is looking to buy the building.”

  “The whole building?” She thought of the Victorian beauty the Wine Underground was nestled snugly at the basement of. It was five stories high and Dickensian in its glory.

  “Yes, the whole building. However it is not official yet, and he would not like any rumours to make the purchase difficult.”

  “I understand. What’s he going to do with it?”

  “A hotel.”

  “A hotel,” she nodded slowly, as always, thinking of business opportunities. Hotels needed artwork, and she was one of the top agents in London. But she wouldn’t ask Layth for help. She could, however, make touch with his friend as soon as news of the purchase spread.

  “Your cogs are turning,” he drew an imaginary circle on the side of her head.

  Her smile was distracted. How many rooms? What level of furnishings? She had her eye on some impressionist paintings that would be spectacular behind a reception desk.

  “What are you thinking about?” He wondered, fascinated in the subtle shift of her features. “You are far, far away from me.”

  “I’m sorry.” She blinked, to clear the distractions. “I was thinking about … work.”

  “Work?” It hadn’t yet occurred to him to wonder about her life. Beyond a very sexy woman who liked to drink cocktails and champagne, and who lived a rather adventurous and liberated s
ocial life, he knew very little about Cassandra Walton, and what made her tick.

  “Would you like some breakfast? I would like to hear about your work, but I fear my stomach will growl distractingly if I don’t eat.”

  She bit down on her lip to stop from laughing. The sun was shining with the power of flame through the window, sending little darts of gold towards them. It felt, for a strange, disconcerting moment, like a perfect snatch of time. She instantly dismissed the idea, and mentally downplayed it as ridiculous.

  He was just someone she planned to enjoy spending time with. And by time, she meant sex.

  “Yes,” she nodded, feeling reassured. “Food would be a good idea.”

  He kept his eyes on hers as he reached for a receiver hanging against the wall. “What do you want?”

  “Oh, um,” she shrugged, not sure what was available. “Whatever you’re having.”

  He continued to look at her, his dark eyes glowing with intensity. He spoke in his own language, and Cassie was instantly transfixed. It was unlike anything she’d ever heard before. Musical and magical, deep and secretive. It sounded like he was singing. She set her coffee aside so that she could stand, and walk around the island bench to stand right in front of him. Her blue eyes were locked to his as he replaced the receiver. He didn’t move.

  “That sounded beautiful.”

  “Breakfast?” He didn’t comprehend. “You do not speak my language.”

  “No. But you do. And it’s lovely.”

  He laughed, and whispered words in her ear that she didn’t understand but that she craved to hear more of. Words that were dark and mysterious and sounded sexy.

  “What did you say?”

  He wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her against his body. “I said you are as beautiful as the morning sun against the desert sands. That your body makes me feel as powerful as the first Bedouin sheikh of my land. That your kisses are magic on my soul.”

  Cassie stared up at his face, completely stunned. Her body, however, had no such lag. Her mouth sought his, and she kissed him with passion and heat. Her arms reached to twist in his hair, curling behind his neck. She groaned against him, as desire flooded her system once more. He was irresistible.

  He lifted her onto the bench, grateful she’d pulled on one of his shirts and nothing else. As for his boxers, they were easily discarded, so that he could enter her quickly. He couldn’t wait. She lay back on the cold marble and he pulled at her knees, so that he had full access to her. As he moved, he ran his hand down her front, between the valley made by her breasts. He couldn’t stop watching her, as she reacted to this total invasion. She writhed before him, twisting and turning in an agony of sexual need. Her libido was unlike anything he’d encountered. She was fire and more fire, flame and heat. She was burning in his hands, and only he had the power to cool her. And even then, only for a while.

  He felt his own sense of power inflate like a balloon in his chest.

  No lover had made him feel so indispensable.

  No woman had made him feel like such a man.

  He teased her nipples with his fingers while he drove her closer and closer to inexorable release. She arched her back, and he thought she was simply trying to express her need, but she sat, and wrapped her legs around his waist, and her arms around his shoulders. He grunted and moved away from the bench, carrying her to a wall. He held her against, burying himself in her with all his strength. She shuddered, finally, her fingernails digging into his shoulders, as she collapsed her head against him. He felt her muscles spasm and released himself gratefully, whispering more of his language into her ear as he exploded.

  He kept her wrapped around him. He liked her there. He moved easily through the apartment, kissing her and holding her, running his fingers over her naked rear.

  He felt her sigh, and smiled. It had been a long week. He looked back on the bad-tempered brute he’d been and almost groaned. To have experienced the pleasure that was Cassie, and then have contemplated losing her, had brought him an intense sense of disappointment. He eased her down his body so that he could place her on a bed. She stretched like a sleepy cat.

  “Rest, Cassie. I will wake you when food arrives.”

  She reached for his hand and held it. Her eyelids were heavy. They were drifting down. “Stay.”

  His shirt was rumpled over her body. He reached for the blanket and covered her, and experienced a pang of something like jealousy. She had not slept with the fair-haired man at the bar the night before. But how many men had felt the pleasure of Cassie? How many men had worshipped at the altar of her body as he was doing?

  And did he care?

  Hell, of course he did.

  Did it matter, was more to the point. She was nothing to him but a bit of fun. Fun before he returned to Takisabad to pick up his duties and life. He stroked a hand over her soft hair, a smile playing about his lips.

  She was asleep already, and her gentle snore was bleating into the room.

  He laughed softly as he detached her hand and stepped out of the bedroom.

  And though breakfast arrived shortly after, he waited – impatiently – for over an hour. She didn’t wake.

  Finally, he went back to the bed. She hadn’t moved. He stroked her face again, admiring the way her fair head was like an angel’s halo against the pillow. He ran his finger around her lips. They were full and pink.

  “That tickles,” she murmured, stretching her arms above her head and batting his hand away at the same time.

  “Sleeping beauty stirs.” And he was glad. “Breakfast is here.”

  “Did I sleep long?”

  Long enough. He shrugged. “You must have needed it.”

  “Mmm,” he rubbed a hand across her neck. “I’ve been so busy at work this week. Late nights. Early mornings.” Not to mention the sleep she hadn’t been getting because she’d been obsessing over him.

  “Come.” He held a hand for her and she put hers in it. She felt tiny and fragile compared to him. Even more so when he held a chair out for her.

  She stared at the selection of shining covers spread across the table. It was distractingly abundant. He lifted the lids off one at a time, revealing an enormous array of foods she couldn’t identify. Her pale blue eyes sought his and she burst out laughing. “What is this?”

  “Breakfast.”

  “But …” She put her head down, into the palm of her hand. “I thought you meant something like toast.”

  He shot her a quizzical look as he took the seat beside her. She liked that he’d chosen that seat, instead of one across from her. “For breakfast?”

  “Yes.” She giggled again, rolling her eyes. “When else would you eat toast?”

  “Never, by choice.” He shook his head. “It is bland. A waste.”

  “But this is … what is it?”

  He pointed to the first dish. “Smoked fish with fennel seeds and preserved lemon.”

  “For Breakfast?” It was Cassie’s turn to be scandalised. She wrinkled her nose and moved her focus to the next plate.

  “That is Mafruka. It is sweet. You will like it.”

  She arched her brows curiously. “How do you know?”

  “Because you are sweet.” He tapped the tip of her nose and smiled in a way that crinkled his eyes. “And you like sweet drinks, so I am presuming that translates to food.”

  She nodded.

  “Try it.” He placed one on her plate, then scooped some strange looking egg onto his own plate.

  “What is that?” She was dubious.

  “Eggs that have been scrambled with goats milk and ash.”

  She pulled a face.

  He grinned. “You were beginning to tell me about your work, before.”

  “Yes.” She had been going to – a lifetime ago. Her cheeks flushed as memories of the way they’d become distracted flashed through her mind. She took a small bite of the pastry and relaxed when the delicious flavour hit her tastebuds.

  “What do you do?
’

  “I’m a corporate art broker.”

  He shook his head. “I love the way you British have these job titles that sound frighteningly formal and yet poorly describe the actual work involved.”

  “Look who’s talking! What is your job title exactly?”

  He laughed and nodded. “Point taken. So a corporate art broker means, I presume, that you sell art to businesses.”

  “More or less. Some of my clients like to swap their art around once a year. My company has an extensive catalogue and I juggle various clients’ needs with what we currently have in our library.”

  “What kind of art?”

  “Everything from painting to sculpture to light installations. We’re very flexible. Some of our library features renaissance classics, or Mondrian masterpieces. But we also have a stable of emerging artists who are able to provide cheaper, more bespoke works for one-off impact statements.”

  “I see,” he murmured. “You would be good at this.”

  “Thank you,” she took the compliment with a small nod. She was excellent at her job, and that wasn’t vanity speaking.

  “I imagine you are able to seduce your clients into whatever you wish, in the same way you probably have men wrapped around your little finger.”

  The pleasure she’d taken from his praise evaporated. “Oh.”

  “As you have me wrapped around your little finger,” he added, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to her lips.

  Her heart was racing and her blood was zipping. She pulled away, not wanting him to know how easily he could affect her. “You taste like ash.”

  “And I look forward to learning what you taste like,” he responded with dark intensity.

  Her stomach flipped. His meaning was clear. Her cheeks darkened and she stuffed a big piece of the pastry into her mouth simply to bite back on any kind of ridiculous comment she was about to make.

  She sipped her coffee to clear her mouth. The silence seemed to spark between them with an electrical current. “Why are you in London?” She blurted out, when the pulsing heat was almost unbearable.