Never Resist a Sheikh (International Bad Boys) (15 page)

“No,” he said, slowly. “I do not think you are very convenient at all. I do not want to want you, Felicity Cartwright. In fact, it would be most convenient for me if I did not.” His thumb stroked her neck, up and down, a hypnotic kind of touch. “My father
had a harem I used to visit, with many beautiful women, always willing. But I disbanded it after my brother died. I have not had a woman since, nor have I felt the urge. Yet…you have only been a couple of days in my palace and already I have to have you.”

Her throat was dry and she could barely breathe. And yet, weirdly, although she was lying beneath him and he had his hand around her throat,
although she was his prisoner and she couldn’t get away even if she wanted to, she felt a certain sense of unexpected power. Of triumph.

He wanted her. This hard mountain of a man, this king, wanted her. He’d had a harem of beautiful women that he’d been easily able to put aside, but he’d been unable to resist her.

“W-why?” she stammered out, suddenly wanting to know.

His thumb kept stroking
her, making her shake even harder. “Because you are different. You have fire in you. Curiosity, intelligence. Bravery. And…” His hand drifted down over the swell of one breast and his fingers spread, cupping it through her T-shirt. “…passion.”

If felt like he was conducting electricity straight through her, a current that ran from her breast straight down between her thighs. She gasped, arching
helplessly into his hand, the sound echoing around them.

“Put your hands above your head,” he ordered softly.

And she did, desperate to find out more about what he was going to do.

“Good. Keep them there.”

The position made her feel exposed, as if she was offering herself up to him. A virgin sacrifice to a hungry dragon.

The blackness of his eyes had deepened even further, his strong jaw
hard. The stubble along it made him look like a pirate or an outlaw, though his cheekbones were pure aristocrat. His hair was the same color as his eyes, soot-dark, with straight slashes of eyebrows and eyelashes like they’d been drawn with bold strokes of a black pen.

Yes, he was beautiful. And now all that hard, male beauty was above her, surrounding her. The dark bronze of his skin, the carved
muscles of his chest and abs. The ink of that lovely, cursive tattoo across his pectorals.

Unlike any man she’d ever known.

“The tattoo,” she said, “what does it mean?”

Zakir’s hand dropped to the hem of her T-shirt. “You are full of questions, little one.” He took the cotton in his fist, something fierce in his eyes. “Now is not the time.”

“But, I—”

“Stay quiet.” The words were gentle but
held that note of absolute authority in them. “You will have your answers soon enough.”

And he began to draw her T-shirt up, slowly, pulling it up over her head and off, discarding it onto the floor beside the chair. She shivered again as his gaze raked over her, hunger glittering like diamonds in a seam of coal, and instinctively she lowered her hands to cover herself. But he caught her wrists
and slowly, inexorably pushed them back above her head. Then he kept them there as he slid his free hand beneath her, deftly undoing the catch of her plain, black cotton bra. The material loosened and she let out a soft, protesting sound she couldn’t seem to stop herself from making. He ignored it, pulling away her bra, baring her completely.

Maybe she should have felt defenseless and exposed.
Yet the fierce look in his eyes that intensified as he gazed down at her didn’t make her feel either of those things.

Yes, there was a vulnerability to being nearly naked in front of him, but there was also a strength, too. A power she’d never imagined. The power of being female, of being wanted. It made her hungry to see what else he could show her.

“Keep still,” he murmured as she strained
against imprisoning fingers. His other hand at her waist, his palm hot against her bare skin.

Then he began to move it up, slowly, and it was as if he was stroking her with a naked flame, her skin igniting, burning, wherever he touched. Her breathing got ragged, out of control, and in the silence of the training room she could hear the harsh, hitched sound of it.

God, so good. She’d never experienced
anything like this before. How on earth was she going to survive it?

His hand moved higher, until he was cupping the underside of her breast, and she was trembling so hard she thought she might break apart. She could feel the brush of the calluses on his hand on her bare skin and for some reason the roughness of them made the growing ache inside her even worse.

Then his hand was on her breast,
his thumb circling her nipple, and she groaned, a sharp rush of pleasure flooding through her.

He made a deep, male sound of appreciation, the expression on his dark face full of heat and hunger, his attention on what his hand was doing to her. “Perfect,” he said roughly. “You are perfect.”

He pinched her nipple gently and she made another desperate sound, the dizzying rush of sensation arrowing
down the length of her body.

And then he bent his head and she could feel his warm breath against her skin, the only warning she got before his tongue circled her nipple.

“Z-Zakir,” she gasped, every nerve ending suddenly sensitized.

He didn’t respond, instead drawing her nipple into his mouth and sucking hard.

Felicity shut her eyes, arching up off the couch, another moan tearing from her
throat. She’d dismissed physical pleasure, had never thought it was particularly important in the greater scheme of things. But this… God, she’d never have anticipated this in a million years.

Now can you see what all the fuss was about?

Oh, yes, she could.

Zakir growled, his hand sweeping possessively down her body to the buttons on her jeans, flicking them open with an easy movement of his
hand. And she couldn’t seem to help herself, her hips rising off the couch, her legs parting, wanting him to touch her. Ease the growing tension inside her.

He pushed his hand down beneath the waistband of her jeans and panties, his fingers sliding through the curls between her thighs, finding the slick, wet heart of her. She gave a soft cry, beginning to lose herself, feeling herself slipping
away as the intensity and need began to take hold.

He circled her clitoris, his touch gentle at first, then pressing a little more firmly, at the same time as he sucked on her breast. And all the pleasure began to gather into a tight, hard knot.

She panted, her body shifting restlessly under his, seeking more friction, a harder touch, something, she didn’t know what. “Zakir,” she whispered,
pleading. “Z-Zakir, please…”

He said something soft in Arabic and then lifted his head, looking down at her, his cheekbones flushed, raw hunger in his eyes.

She met the look head on, any remaining self-consciousness gone, canceled out by desire.

“Wait there,” he said, rough and deep.

Then, making one of those quick, fluid moves she found so mesmerizing, he got off the couch, striding across
the room, and bending to pick something up. Seconds later, he was back, something gleaming in his hand.

The dagger.

The last of her air escaped her lungs in a sharp gasp, her body tensing.

But then he was over her, running one hand down her leg. “Stay still,” he growled.

There was a split second’s pause, then his hand pulled up hard. Denim parted in a soft ripping sound, material falling free,
before he did the same to the her other leg.

Cutting her jeans off her.

Perhaps she should have protested at this treatment of her clothing. But she didn’t. She wanted them gone as badly as he did.

But even as he pulled the ruined jeans from her body, he hadn’t finished. He moved the dagger again at her hip, more fabric tearing. Her panties being cut away.

And then she was lying on the couch,
naked but for her high tops.

She blinked, staring up at him.

He looked wild, savage, and it struck her with the force of a freight train yet again, how very different he was. And not just from the men she knew, but from everyone she knew. Bearded and black-eyed, heavily muscled and tattooed, he was a man straight out of the history books, a medieval warrior, uncivilized and rough, obeying only
the laws he set himself.

He could do whatever he wanted with her and she wouldn’t be able to stop him.

The thought exhilarated her in a way she didn’t understand.

He threw the dagger to one side, then he leaned over her again, all hard muscle and bronze skin, that hot black gaze sweeping down her naked body and back up again. “You are mine now.” His rough, dark voice was almost a touch in itself.
“Do you understand, little one? Mine.” He put his hand on her stomach, his fingers splaying out as if for emphasis, his eyes glittering with desire. “All of this”—his hand moved lower, between her thighs—“is mine.”

There was a finality in his voice that brooked no argument, no denial. A claiming that dared the world to contradict him. That dared her to refuse.

But in that instant, she knew she
wouldn’t. She’d never been able to be what her parents wanted. But right now, right here, without even trying, she was everything Zakir wanted.

“Yes.” She heard herself say. “Yes.”

His beautifully cut mouth curved in a savage kind of smile. He didn’t speak, merely leaning down and kissing her hard. Then he lifted his head again and shifted, moving down the couch, running his hands down her sides
in a caressing movement, before he reached her thighs. Then he pressed them wide apart.

Felicity’s breath caught.

He pushed his shoulders between her legs, sliding his hands beneath her thighs, lifting one leg, then the other over his shoulder. And everything pulled tight inside her as he looked down at her bared sex. Closer, he needed to be closer.

“Zakir,” she whispered, her hands reaching
to touch him, to pull him near.

“Hands above your head,” he ordered. “Do not make me tell you again.”

She swallowed and did as she was told, shaking. She could see the look on his face. He was gazing at her like she was the main course at a feast he’d been waiting his whole life for.

His hands slid beneath her buttocks, tilting her like a cup he wanted to drink from. Then he bent his head and
buried his face between her thighs.

*     *     *

He heard her
cry, the satisfaction inside him deepening as he opened his mouth and licked her, tracing the folds of her sex with his tongue, circling the hard little bud of her clitoris. Her hips jerked and he squeezed the soft flesh of her buttocks, holding her down, keeping her still.

He was so hungry
and he couldn’t remember why he’d thought this was a bad idea. Not when he had the hot, spicy flavor of her in his mouth.

God had not played a joke on him after all.

God had given him a gift.

This woman, all soft, silky, pale skin and fragile limbs. Tiny and delicate, yet so strong. So passionate. She’d trembled beneath him yet when he’d touched her she’d moaned his name.

Brave. Beautiful.
He was glad he hadn’t taken Princess Safira after all, not when he had Felicity Cartwright.

He pushed his tongue deep inside her, hearing her cry out again. Yes, he wanted that. Needed to hear it, especially all desperate and husky, his name a soft stutter.

He gripped her tight, licked her, devoured her as he squeezed her soft flesh in his hands. The rubber heels of her boots pressed hard against
his shoulders as she tried to lift her hips, her cries harsher.

A growl of approval tore from him. Having her exactly as he’d imagined her—naked but for her boots—was making this an exercise in extreme self-control. But he thought he could manage it.

Taking her now, while he still had the control to remain in full possession of himself, seemed the best way to deal with the desire. And perhaps
if he indulged himself, then it would cease to bite with such sharp teeth.

But those teeth were biting into him hard now and he couldn’t wait too much longer. He had to have her. It was a need he could not longer resist.

Shifting his hands, he put one on her stomach, his fingers sliding down, through the tangle of copper red curls to the folds of her sex. Circling and rubbing her clitoris as
he licked right up the center of her, again and again, before pushing his tongue back inside.

She shook, her body tensing like a drawn bow. And then she gave a ragged cry, the tension releasing as her climax hit her, her thighs clamping around him with surprising strength.

He didn’t want to stop touching her, tasting her, but he lifted his mouth from her, watching as the orgasm gripped her tight.
Her eyes were closed and her face was deeply flushed, her lovely red mouth open. She looked wanton, so infinitely desirable. And he was full of a primitive, inappropriate satisfaction. That he was the first man who’d done this to her. That had seen her like this.

The only man.

Yes, he would be. She would not have another. He would kill the man who dared take her from him.

He remained where
he was, stroking her soft thighs, waiting until she’d quieted. Then he rose, pausing only to pull open his pants and shove them down his hips, freeing himself, before settling between her legs once more.