Pretty Hot (The Pretty Trilogy Book 1) (11 page)

‘‘Dunno about that. I have enough trouble with the obvious without wondering if I’ll end up tied to the bed.’

‘A gentleman never handcuffs a lady to his bed,’ he replies, his smile taking on a curious sort of edge. ‘Not without her permission, at least.’

‘Not given,’ I counter, heat expanding below my waist. Handcuffs and beds, not a proven combination in my kind of experience. Which amounts to very little, but still.

‘Yet.’ That one word seems both like a promise and threat, a shivering sensation snaking through my insides. ‘Tell me you want this.’

‘I . . . I . . . ’ Want handcuffs? To be tied to the bed?

‘Come on, Kate, something brought you here.’

‘Yeah, it’s called a cab.’ Sarcasm is my usual go-to response. I can hide anything behind curt words. But this time, his firm expression makes me feel a little ill. I don’t like it, don’t want to feel as though I should hide. Wrapping my arms around my legs, I rest my chin on my knees. ‘I wanted to be someone else,’ I say quietly, not daring to look at him. ‘Experience something else. And,’ I add in a whisper, ‘I just wanted you.’

I risk a look at his face and his smile steals my breath. I know at this moment, whatever happens from here, even after this bites me on the behind in the not too distant future, I will never forget this smile. His smile. This moment. And the fact that I was brave enough to follow him upstairs.

‘That was the perfect answer,’ he says, pulling me into his arms and nestling my head into the hollow of his shoulder, his fingers tracing the outline of mine. ‘What should I tell you?’

‘What about?’

‘As I see it, your concerns are due to our positions, my being your boss, which,’ he adds quickly, ‘technically, I’m not. And the fact that we’re, well, new friends. So let’s get acquainted. Tell me what you want to know and then you can tell me all about you. The bits not included on your CV.’

‘Wait, what, technically you’re not my boss? What’s that supposed to—you haven’t seen my CV, have you?’ My body tenses and I suddenly feel a very bit sick; doesn’t he know the C in CV stands for calumny, at least for me? Everybody lies a little on their resume, surely?

I hope he doesn’t have a flute lying around because I can only play champagne ones.
      

‘Relax,’ he says, dismissing the question. I try, and fail, to come up with a response as he pulls me back against him. ‘Cat’s got your tongue again, that was what your friend called you, wasn’t it, Kitty-Kat?’

‘Niamh,’ I grumble, ‘calls me whatever she likes.’

‘I like it. Kitten,’ he says as though trying out the word. ‘It suits you.’ I don’t ask why, just accept the warmth in his voice, though correct me if I’m wrong, isn’t it a bit early for pet names? Wrapping an arm around my shoulder, he twists a lock of my hair between his fingers. ‘What should I tell you . . . pretty kitty?’

‘Anything,’ I answer, not daring to move. ‘Whatever you like.’

‘Shall I start with the fun parts? Proclivities, sexual and otherwise?’

‘We could start with shoes.’ Christ on a bike, I did not just say that.

His body is immobile for a beat before a subterranean laugh racks through his chest. ‘Is there something in particular you’d like to know?’ He chuckles darkly, not unlike a villain setting a trap.

‘You . . . like . . . shoes?’ And I’m guessing he does. I’ve never before had sex with something on my feet. Unless you count socks. Don’t judge, winter nights in Brisbane can be pretty brutal.

‘I like heels, but no more than the next man, I imagine. Not that I’ve ever asked the . . . next man.’ His brow puckers. ‘The key is whom the shoes adorn.’ He kisses my head lightly, rising and reaching under the tangled sheet for my foot, in doing so, revealing much of my leg. My heart pounds as the lack of covering reveals more than I’d normally be comfortable with, but I refuse to move and keep very still, desperately trying to channel sophisticated nonchalance.

‘For me, shoes are a matter of aesthetics,’ he murmurs.

From my heel in his palm, his eyes follow the line of my exposed leg. I swallow the urge to snatch my foot back instead, rising onto my elbows, chin raised in defiance of myself. Not that he seems to notice as he stares intently at my pink painted toes balanced in his hand.

‘I like the way the arch of your foot is stretched and elongated in a heel.’ My body jolts in reflex, his finger stroking my high arch, as I fight the deep-seated instinct to pull away. ‘And I’m fascinated by the pain in wearing heels, for pleasure. It’s almost masochistic, don’t you think? Pain in exchange for beauty.’

His low-spoken words mirror his touch, blending the sensations as he strokes a fingernail against my sensitive sole. I resist in small, helpless movements, my body arching from the bed.

‘There’s something very seducing about the combination; such feminine elegance set against the edge of danger in the weapon-like point of a heel.’ His voice seems to drop in register, his fingers travelling along the inside of my leg. ‘Almost your whole being balanced on that one, thin point. Like it’d take nothing to push you over the edge.’ Blinking heavily, he pulls back, lowering my foot to the bed. ‘And, of course, they just make your arse look great. How was that; answer enough?’

‘Y-yes, thanks.’ My words are strangled and higher than I’d like. I feel hot. Turned on. How could I not be?

‘Any other burning questions?’

I blink rapidly. ‘Your name, we could start with that.’

‘Kai doesn’t qualify?’ he asks with a quirked brow.

I don’t need to answer that, right? 

Sweeping his right hand to his heart, he bows his head.
I
t’s something I’ve only seen done in old movies. Without the amused air. And of course, usually the hero is clothed.

‘Kais
bin Faris bin Hamad Al Khalfan.’ He peers solemnly from beneath his lashes.

‘Wow, that’s some name. It’s um, a bit of a mouthful,’ I bluster, trying very hard not to look in the general direction of his crotch. ‘So, you’re from here, an Arab, from the Emirates, I mean?’

I hadn’t even considered the possibility, especially given his accent; elocution so crisp I’m surprised it doesn’t cut his tongue. But I was warned and he
does
smell great and I
have
been charmed into parting with my undies. But really, that isn’t fair. I expect the elastic in my good girl knickers snapped the minute he walked into my classroom.

‘Yes and no,’ he says, as my attention returns. ‘I suppose it depends on your perspective. The term Arab relates more to culture, rather than nationality. My mother is English and my father is Emirati, and by virtue of that, so am I.’ This makes no sense to me. I must look confused. ‘Culturally speaking,’ he continues, ‘or at least in the Arab culture, you are considered the same nationality as your father, regardless of where you or your mother were born. As I grew up between the UK and here, I’m a little culturally schizophrenic, I suppose.’

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.