Pretty Things (The Pretty Trilogy #3)

by Donna Alam

  ‘Forget I mentioned it.’ Not that he looks contrite, more like a touch of mocking dismay. ‘What I really should’ve asked is, do you think you could you drive a car with my head between your thighs?’

  ‘Is there insanity in your family?’ I squeak, picking up my own glass. ‘Maybe I should have insisted on some sort of genetic pedigree before marrying you.’

  ‘Too late,’ he answers laughingly. ‘Car cunnilingus. Doable or no?’

  ‘You’d be in the way of the pedals, so probably not.’ Don’t imagine I’d be able to slide the seat back, either. Not without tying stilts to my feet. Short arse, see?

  ‘Think, kitten.’ I start as he reaches across the table, taking my hand in one of his. ‘From a concentration viewpoint. My head between your legs, each of us focused,’—he leans his body a little more, barely breathing the next words— ‘on that one, sweet spot.’

  ‘What point is that supposed to prove?’ I pull my hands from his, even as the urge to pull him nearer tingles in my fingertips, the atmosphere going from levity to lust in the space of a few words.

  ‘That this kind of mutual pleasuring is like the holy grail, that this . . . this experience you’re referring to—’

  ‘Oh, for god sakes, just say it. Sixty-nine, it’s called a sixty-nine!’

  Kai bursts out laughing, his hand slapping the table once in mirth. ‘I thought I’d never get you to say it!’

  Frowning, my arms automatically fold over my chest, my annoyance clear at having fallen into his trap.

  ‘I love how you become all schoolmarm. Sorry, Miss,’ he adds, straightening in his seat, eyes bright with a triumphant sort of mischief. ‘If I promise to be a very good boy, will you whisper more dirty words to me?’

  ‘You want me to recite my times tables, too? Because it’s a limited vocabulary that resorts to profanity.’ God, I so sound like my mum.

  Fuck, balls, bastard, arse. Someone get me a gun!

  ‘Please,’ he purrs, very unlike a wheedling child. ‘There’s just something so delectable hearing such vulgarity from such a beautiful mouth.’

  ‘Fine. You’re a cock.’

  Head thrown back, he laughs again. And this time, I can’t help but join in, repeating that he so is, as our laugher calms.

  ‘Getting back to figures.’ His words are lazy as he reaches again for his glass, his gaze studying mine. Figure, that is, not my gaze. Or glass.

  ‘Sorry, I’m obviously so easily overcome in your presence, I must’ve missed how you explained it only equals to, was it, half the pleasure?’

  Eyeing me over the rim, he sets the glass down and leans back in the chair, the movement pulling the shirt tight across his muscular chest, framing a triangle of caramel skin at the hollow of his throat. I suddenly want to burrow myself in there. Open his shirt, climb in and make myself at home. Feel the beat of his pulse against my skin, maybe kiss my way along his elegant neck. Graze my teeth across the sharpness of his jaw. Take his full bottom lip between my teeth. Then suck.

  Gooseflesh springs to my skin as I shake away the images, the desire to crawl into this man’s lap. I raise my eyes to his, and damn it if it isn’t like he’s sat front row to my thoughts.

  The atmosphere changes like a flipped light.

  ‘Overcome, kitten?’ His is a dangerous sounding purr, and I can’t for sure say why. Lower in register, his tone is smooth but dark. A complex combination. Like a great espresso, I think.

  ‘What is the point, otherwise? Imagine it for a moment. Dark hair spilling over creamy thighs. Soft open mouthed kisses, the caress of my tongue . . . stroking . . . sucking. My fingers pressing on your stomach, the muscles tightening as you raise yourself to me, craving. Needing me deeper. Your whispered moans echoing through the room, your whispers of pleasure, though I need no encouragement. Because I want each of those noises, want to lose myself in your pleasure, feel your walls tremor with those sounds. You’re focussed. I’m focussed. There’s no space for anything else . . . and you didn’t let me finish.’

  With this, he pushes back his chair, holding out his hand as I blink rapidly, staring up into his face.

  ‘The question was, would you rather be the recipient or beneficiary.’ His voice lowers to a knicker-dropping register as he adds, ‘I think a practical demonstration is in order.’

  The bedroom is shadowed, though the blinds aren’t drawn, twilight’s expansion casting the room in an indigo hue. Cicadas sing from their hiding places in the gardens, scents of jasmine and ocean drifting in through the open terrace doors.

  Kai stands behind me, fingers against my hips as I still by the window, staring out at the ocean. In that moment, there’s barely a ripple, its surface smooth and glass-like as it reflects the evening sky.

  ‘The blue hour,’ I murmur, fingers touching the blinds. Nowhere on earth has such beautiful sunsets, I think, nor such an expanse of sky.

  Kai turns me in his arms, my hands rising for no other purpose than an instinct—a longing to touch him. My fingers tremble as I begin loosening the buttons at his chest. I wished they wouldn’t, wished they wouldn’t betray my need, but that would be like asking the sky to stay blue, warding off the nearing night.

  ‘Stop staring at me,’ I whisper, sensing his smile, feeling his gaze as though it were a tangible thing. I work from chest to waist, loosening the tiny hindrances, pulling the shirt free from his jeans until his heart beats steadily beneath my palm.

  ‘I can no more stop watching than I can stop wanting you.’

  I bite the corners of my mouth, not wanting him to see my smile, giving in as his hand cups my jaw, knowing he can feel it there.

  ‘Flattery will get you everywhere.’

  ‘That sounds encouraging.’ He leans nearer, his words barely a breath in my ear. ‘Carte blanche?’

  A quicksilver fission rolls down my spine, my heartbeat faltering. I raise my arms, lifting them around his neck, pulling him nearer as our mouths meet in a melting kiss. It’s a slow kiss, not frantic or hurried, but no less passionate. A long, breathless kiss, a kiss that, unless I’m mistaken, he plans on replicating a bit further south . . .

  Give oral, or receive?

  The words echo through my head and I make my choice, fingers at his belt, jeans pushed down his legs, shirt pulled from his back, black boxer briefs following closely behind.

  His thighs tremble under my fingers as my lips touch his silken tip.

  ‘Kate.’

  I’ll never tire of this tone, the one that borders on an actual groan, the combination of spoken words and baser, much less verbal forms of communication: part masculine growl, part sounds of plaintive pleasure. I get such a kick that I have this power over him, the power to make him lost to the rational.

  And that’s why I couldn’t choose.

  I move my mouth lower and hum, causing him to twitch and groan, grating out more breathless words as his hands feed into my hair.

  ‘God, yesss . . .’

  I draw my lips slowly upwards, swirling my tongue around the sensitive underside of his crown, not exactly feeling like a god, but maybe a goddess. A goddess of cock.

  Hear your mistress—that’s right, say my name!

  So sacrilegious.

  ‘I’m a bad girl.’ Licking the tip, I engulf his satin head.

  ‘I’m not complaining.’ Kai’s body jerks, his cock pushed further down my throat.

  Oops. I’d said that out loud. Murmured, anyway.

  ‘You’re suck—’ Breath leaves his chest in a sort of strangled chuckle, his cock now in my hand. ‘Such a bad, bad girl.’

  ‘I thought I was a good girl,’ I purr, licking him again.

  ‘You’re so good, you have to be bad.’

  I stifle a giggle, continuing to tease the taut tip of him with a full, flat tongue. I love that he makes little sense. Revel in these lapses from his usual eloquence.

  Pulling me to my feet, he simultaneously pulls my T-shirt from my shorts and begins walking backwards towards the
bed.

  ‘Seriously unbalanced on the clothes front, kitten.’ His voice rasps between frantic kisses. ‘Love that you’re as good at giving as you are on the other end.’

  ‘The feeling’s mutual,’ I pant breathlessly, Kai loosening my shorts as he bends.

  One knee on the floor, thumbs brushing my hipbones, he stills, staring up at me through his thick, dark lashes. My need is instant—a rush, a detonation burning against my skin.

  ‘I’m supposed to be giving you a practical demonstration.’

  ‘Were you?’ I smooth his unruly locks, the husky timbre of his voice doing nothing for my quivering insides. My voice a little shaky, too, as I add, ‘I think you were supposed to be proving me wrong.’

  ‘Never.’ Kissing one hipbone, he hooks his fingers into the elastic of my undies, sliding them down my legs.

  Then he stands.

  ‘Assuming the position,’ he says, answering my confused expression.

  Pulling on my hand, he moves me a little ways from the bed, stationing himself there instead, lying against the mattress with his head hanging over the edge.

  ‘Come here.’ He reaches for my hand, pulling me to him before I can protest.

  This I’ve never done, stood over a man’s face . . . I never done it this way.

  His outstretched hand feeds between my legs, fingers curling and sweeping through the evidence of my arousal.

  ‘God, you’re so wet.’

  Somewhat balanced over him, I feel myself falter—that tone again, heightened by an almost reverence as his fingers stroke me.

  ‘Oh god.’ Words fail me, my turn now to tremble and plead with the heavens above.

  Hands against my hips, he pulls me towards him, parting me, his tongue quickly flicking and finding my clit. My thighs instantly feel like jelly, but I try not to dissolve or collapse on top of him. In fact, I try to wriggle away, aware as I do that my physical position leaves me not exactly uncomfortable . . . maybe discomforted?

  You know the scenario: arse/face?

  His hands tighten against my tentative struggle and he raises me almost imperceptibly—a better angle?—his breath soft between my legs.

  ‘Kitten,’ he growls. ‘Stop fucking about and get on my face.’

  Is that an offer—an order—I can refuse?

  ‘That sounds so sexy—say it again.’

  He pulls me roughly, my upper body surging forward, my hands either side of his thighs . . . and his cock almost in my face.

  Never one to look a gift horse in the balls, I mean mouth, I grasp him in one hand—that piece of his anatomy that’s all satin over steel—balancing on my opposite elbow. Lowering my mouth over him, I simultaneously release one, long tremulous moan as his mouth finds me again, licking me wetly.

  I’m conscious, sort of distantly, of the noises he makes as I suck him. Because that’s what I do. There’s little finesse as I plunge my mouth over him again and again. There’s also little thought because I no longer have the ability; his mouth and tongue almost stealing my cognizance. My own mouth and hands work almost by sloppy rote, my insides turning molten as I ride a wave of heat, a swell of slick pleasure, so seducing that I feel I’ll surely burst.

  Unlike my own, his tongue and lips continue to work me expertly, exquisitely, as I arch my back, pushing into him, a desperate yearning overriding everything else.

  I’m aware of his thumbs digging into my hipbones, his fingers hard on my hips. I’m brought back to the moment as he lifts me slightly. Afraid now I might be a little more into this than him. Somehow, and it could be his mouth now actually kissing me, I realise this isn’t the case. I may well be sat on his face, but this is his show. He knows me, knows my responses, and seems determined to dissolve my very being on the brink of this pleasure.

  On the edge as I am, I become aware of his cock neglected in my hand. I return my attentions to it with vigour, my mouth and tongue embracing his slick length, desperate to give him a taste of his own delightful medicine. But each touch of his tongue, each brush of his own mouth against me, causes me to falter in my purpose, pulling me further into the moment and his actions, and further from my intentions. His tongue, his mouth on my clit, works me expertly until I’m writhing desperately against him. The musky scent of him overwhelming, his wet, hard length in my hand, I’m reduced to begging him in a hoarse whisper, please. Please, just let me.

  Please, please, please let me come.

  Somewhere in this pique of desperation, I find myself under him, my back to his chest. I push up onto my forearms, the sheets grasped in my fists just as he slides into me. Our sounds hit the air simultaneously; my gasp and his groan vibrating against my shoulder. One arm wrapped under my waist, he pulls me higher to meet him, sliding my legs wider, pushing in deeper still, though it seems impossible until the moment he does.

  ‘I love seeing my cock between your lips,’ he rasps softly. ‘Love the visual.’

  His body over mine, we’re skin to slick skin, unable to get any closer, as Kai slides the hair away from the side of my face.

  ‘And I love being in here.’ He punctuates, pressing himself deeper, so deep that it almost borders on discomfort. Almost.

  As he releases my waist, I pull away. But for that movement, that moment of relief, I raise my hips higher, pushing into him, making him groan again.

  ‘Fuck, that’s so good.’

  He rests his hand against the small of my back, stilling me as he withdraws slowly before pushing inside once more, my body surging across the bed. Again and again he ploughs into me, each stroke buried in my belly, a pleasure so deep, I cry out.

  Pulling me swiftly, we’re once more skin to skin. His arm bands my waist, my breast in one hand, sliding down my body to between my legs.

  ‘You wanted mutual pleasure.’ His words curl around my ear, intimate and ominous. ‘We’ll come that way.’ I groan an inarticulate response, my body jolting as his teeth find my shoulder. ‘Or not at all. Understand?’

  I push back against him as his fingers find my clit, pinching me, prompting me to answer.

  I do so, telling him he’ll need to work fast.

  ‘Your concentration is required,’ he says, chuckling darkly as be begins to move.

  I think, abstractly, that I might well be boneless, held up purely by his arm, or maybe his will, all of the blood in my body now pooled and concentrated on one spot. One swollen bundle of nerves, every ending tied in a tight knot. As his fingers begin to stroke, to circle, to work me in time with his thrusts, pleasure climbs through me like a vine, drawing higher and tighter until I can hardly breathe. Reduced to sharp gasps, the only other noise in the room is Kai’s rasping breaths and the slap of our flesh as we meet.

  My limbs begin to tremble as he whispers words I don’t understand. It could be English, it could be Arabic, it could be bloody Swahili, because I can’t seem to make sense. Fuck, I can barely see, it’s so good. But as his fingers scissor, sliding along my clit, the heel of his hand pressing firmly, I’m done.

  Sheets twisted in my fists, I’m like a cat stretching in the sunshine as I push back onto him. I grate out his name, yes, yes, yes, my arms no longer holding me, the thought of him feeling himself inside me while feeling himself, and me—

  ‘Wait . . .’ It’s half growl, half breath, but wholly too late as I begin to clench around him. I come undone, dragging him with me. ‘Oh fuck!’

  As he comes, my shoulder is between his teeth, sucking, biting, his whole being trembling as his body surges behind me for one last thrust, as mutually, we come.

  Chapter Nine

  What a difference a day can make . . .

  Tonight I can’t sleep. Restless limbs pull me from the bed to sit curled in an armchair by the window where I’ve opened the blinds. Across the darkened room, Kai lies in an enviable sleep, the sheet pulled across his waist and tangled between his legs, now slack with slumber. One slender bare foot pokes free from the twisted bedding.

  It’s strange how sleep ca
n strip the intent from a person. Moonlight kisses. Mouth softly pouting. The carelessness of just being, of just lying there. But it’s subterfuge, really. A sleeping ruse, because beneath the sheet lies a man capable of calculations. A man with a will of steel. A man so confident in his decisions, he thinks nothing of riding roughshod over whatever stands in his way. Lying there, draped in no more than those fine, pale wrappings, he looks so innocent. When in reality, asleep or not, the man is ruthless.

  I bet even in his dreams he wins.

  Yesterday evening seems a lifetime away. Yesterday evening was all about mutuality; coming together, being together, and for a short while, I thought today would be the same.

  It doesn’t feel so right now.

  I glance down, realising I’m creasing the papers in my hand. Not that it matters, they’ve already been screwed up into a ball. Right before I’d chucked them at him, my fit of temper ignited like a match by his superior calm.

  Pressing the papers between my thigh and palm, I attempt to smooth their rumpled state.

  Contract. Nikhar. Mahr.

  The words jump from the top page, the knot in my stomach tightening and a wash of anger prickling against my skin. It’s too dark to read with any great success, not that I need to at this hour. Besides, I already know what the papers contain.

  ‘How could you?’ I’d yelled just a few hours ago, overcome with a sense of fury that burned me outside and in.

  ‘You’ve read it,’ he’d answered, his tone indifferent. ‘Was there anything contained not to your advantage? Anything really to complain about?’

  Millions of things, it turned out.

  ‘It’s normal that the bride take no part in the wedding contract. She doesn’t even have to be present at the wedding. That, habibti, is what a wali is for; to represent.’

  ‘How could you expect me to place my future in the hands of someone I don’t know?’

  ‘And we’re back to the heart of the matter,’ he’d replied in a steely tone. ‘Your lack of trust.’

  Things spiralled from there; his assertion that the papers had been drawn to my advantage offered me no comfort at all. He’d coldly reminded me, that as a lawyer he’d managed the contract on my behalf, then had it signed by another lawyer, who’d agreed that he’d played me fair.