Wounded (25 page)

I want so badly to strip and step in there with her.
 

I see her glance at me out of the corner of her eye, and I wonder if she’s expecting me to go in with her. If she wants me to.
 

I’m afraid of pushing her too fast. Of making her think I expect it. I want her to want me on her terms, in her time. I want her to want me in her own way. It will take time. I might explode before that happens, but I don’t see much choice.

I turn away, and as I do so I see a flash of something almost like disappointment in her eyes, but she doesn’t call me back. I undress to my boxers and lie on the bed, waiting. She comes out in a towel, stops, facing me on the bed. Her eyes are wide.

My throat is dry, my pulse pounding. I can feel myself hardening.
 

I watch a bead of water run down her neck and between her breasts, beneath the towel.

We’re both breathing deep, neither of us speaking. I make a vow to always let her make the first move, to wait for her.
 

It’s testing my control right now. She’s wet and clean and sexy as hell, and all I want to do is crawl across the bed, rip the towel off her, and kiss every inch of her lithe, lush body.

I don’t dare, and I have to fist my hands into the sheet to stop myself.

RANIA

He does nothing, just watches me. I know him well enough now that I see the desire raging in his eyes. His manhood is hard, and his hands are bunching into the sheets. But he does nothing.

Does he not want me? I am clean, and the shower was glorious. So hot. No end to the hot water, soaking me, warming me. Cleaning me. I feel cleaner than I have ever been. But he does not move. Just watches me. I do not know what he waits for.
 

I want him. I want to feel his arms around me, holding me. I am still nervous at the idea of true sex with him, but still I want it, and even the desire itself is a strange, foreign feeling.
 

Everything about my life now is strange and foreign. I am in this huge, fast, busy, wealthy place. He bought me so much, more than I need or thought existed. Makeup I do not know how to use. Things for my hair, six different kinds of shoes. Enough clothes that I could go for a month and never wear the same thing twice. The amount of money he spent, the number I saw on the computer in the store, it was more than I could comprehend, and he did not even blink as he gave them his card.
 

And none of that matters, not now. My heart pounds like a drum in my chest. I want to let the towel fall, I want to tell him to show me how to make love to him.
 

My hands shake as I grip the towel where it is rolled tight around my chest. My thighs tremble, and I remember how I shook and moaned when he touched me there, kissed me there between them. I want him to do that again. I want to beg him,
please touch me
,
please kiss me
. When he kisses and touches me I am not so afraid, and I can forget the horrible darkness that was my life…my existence.

I need it. Need it. Need the forgetting that exists only when I am in his strong arms.

My tongue is frozen and my words are stuck. I cannot speak. I try, move my lips, but nothing comes out. Actions are the only way I can ask him to give me what I need.

I make my feet move, and suddenly I am standing next to him. He is on the left side of the bed, wearing only a pair of loose red and black underwear like shorts, but not.
Boxings
, I think he called them. I can see his hardness making a tent of the fabric, and there is a gap in the material, showing me glimpses of his manhood. I want to touch it again.

My breasts rise and fall in short, sharp breaths, making the towel tighten and loosen. I am not afraid of him seeing me naked; he has before. I am afraid of truly giving in to my desires, because then I will need him completely. Being able to resist how much I want to feel him and touch him is the last of my independence. It is a small thing, a foolish thing. I want him, and he is my husband, so it natural that we should share this thing we both so badly want. But I
need
him.
 

I have never needed anything but money for food and somewhere to sleep.
 

Now, I need this man.
 

“I need you,” I whisper in Arabic. “That is why I am afraid.”

He does not answer. He sits up, swings his long, thick legs off the bed, and frames my knees with his. He puts his hand on my thigh just beneath the edge of the towel.
 

“I need you, too,” he says in Arabic. “And that is why
I
am afraid.”

The knowledge that he has the same fears I do comforts me, erodes the paralytic grip on me.
 

Now I can smile at him, a true smile. I am not trying to be seductive, because I know he wants me. His hands are curling around the backs of my thighs, pulling me closer. I look down at his soft, loving blue eyes and find the courage to tug the end of the towel free. His eyes widen, and he licks his lips. His hands tighten around my thighs.
 

I think he can hear my heart beating so hard my ribs shake.
 

It is done. The towel is billowing open around me, falling to the floor, and I am naked before him. There is no going back now. I could hyperventilate, but I do not. I keep breathing, forcing myself to take long, slow breaths, lift my chin, and gaze down at him.
 

His chin brushes my navel as he looks up at me between my breasts. “Tell me what you want, Rania. Tell me what you want, so I can give it to you.”

I can only shake my head. “I do not…I do not know.”

“Yes, you do.”

He is right. I do know. I tangle my fingers in his hair and pull his handsome, rock-chiseled face against me, against my belly. I back up a little, and his face is lower. He turns his head sideways slightly, looks at me, grins.

“Say it, Rania. I know what you want, but I want to hear you say it.”

“Why? I am embarrassed. I cannot say it.”

“Yes, you can.” His voice is soft and confident.
 

His lips touch my belly, hot and moist on my flesh, which pebbles with need. Between my legs I am wet and warm and trembling. I know now how his lips and tongue feel, pressed there, moving there, and oh, by Allah and Mohammed his holy prophet, I want it so badly. I feel a rush of guilt for swearing so, but then I no longer care. Blasphemy or not, I no longer believe in Allah. He did not rescue me; Hunter Lee did.
 

And I want Hunter’s mouth on my privates.
 

“I want you to kiss me…down there.” My words are whispered so low, so soft and hesitant I can barely hear myself.
 

Hunter hears me. His mouth touches one of my hips, the right one, tongue tickling and trailing heat. Then my thigh, the crease of skin where my leg joins to my hip. I widen my stance, legs spreading farther apart. His kisses trail down my leg, and his arms wrap around my waist so his strong hands can cup my bottom. He pulls me closer, and I gasp when his tongue laps against my entrance.

“Oh, god,” he says, “you taste so fucking good.”

I blush furiously at his words, but cannot speak my embarrassment. My back arches and my head falls back. He does not give me immediate satisfaction, but draws it out. Oh, what excruciating joy his game gives me, his tongue darting into me, lapping at my flowing juices, flicking at my sensitive little nub of nerves.
 

One of his powerful hands stays cupped on the half-globe of my buttock, and the other roams around, caresses my thigh next to his face, and then I am gasping again because his fingers are probing into me, moving into the soft wet folds, then farther in, curling to graze that sensitive little spot inside me.
 

My legs do not want to hold my weight, but Hunter’s arm curls under my bottom to hold me up, and I am gripping his hair so hard it must hurt, but he does not protest.
 

Fire billows inside me, centered on my hot, quivering feminine core. Oh, this feels so good. This is heaven. His fingers sweep inside me, his tongue brushes my clitoris, and then he presses his lips around me and sucks, tonguing me. I cannot stop my moaning and do not try to. I do not care who hears me. My legs continue to give out beneath me, and then I find my strength again and stand up. This turns into a rhythm as he licks me, kisses me, fingers me.

I am on the edge of the abyss again, and this time I go willingly into abandon. A storm overtakes me, sweeps me into shivering ecstasy.

Hunter pulls away at the peak of pleasure, and I look down at him in panic.

“Please, do not stop now,” I say. I am begging, and I do not care. “Please, do not stop.”

Hunter licks at me, but it is not enough to drive me over the edge. “Say something for me, baby.”

“Anything.”

“I want you to say ‘I’m going to come.’”

“Come?”

“It’s the word we use in English. It means orgasm.” He licks me again, slowly, so slowly.
 

I sink down almost into a crouch at the glacial slowness of his tongue against my womanhood. “Please, Hunter. I am going to come. Please, make me come.”

He growls against my folds. “Fuck. I’m gonna make you come so hard, Rania.”

He moves his fingers inside me, brushing that special spot swiftly now, and his tongue circles my clitoris and I am bowing my legs to get closer to him. I do not know when, but at some time he sank to his knees in front of me. He is on his knees in front of me. This makes me want to cry, although I do not know why.

I explode without warning. I am on the edge, wavering, closer and closer, and then I am falling against him, unable to support my weight. I am gasping, making high-pitched whining noises as he sucks and licks and flicks my clitoris, driving me into explosion after explosion.

Then I know I cannot stand any longer. “Please, Hunter, catch me. I cannot stand up anymore.”

My legs give way, and his arms are around me, under my neck and my bottom. He lifts me effortlessly. I could be held by him like this forever. So content, so safe in his arms, against his chest so I can feel his heart beating. He lays me down on the bed and leans next to me. He does nothing but look at me for a moment.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispers. “Do you know that?”

I shake my head. “I know that men think—”

He cuts me off with a kiss. “Man. One man. Me. I’m all that matters. No one else can have you. You’re mine.”

I shiver at his words. “Do you promise me?”

“Yes, my love. I promise.” He kisses my jaw, then my neck, and I am still trembling from the force of my orgasm.
 

But he is not done with me. He kisses my shoulder, then my chest, then the underside of my breast. One of his hands is roving my body, brushing my waist and my belly and my other breast, grazing my face, then down to my leg and up my thigh.

He is leaning not quite against me, but close enough that I can feel his manhood nudging my hip.
 

“I want to touch you,” I say. “I want to make you come.”

“You will,” he whispers, his mouth around my nipple. “I promise, you will. First, just let me kiss you.”

And he does. He spends an eternity just kissing me. He kisses every inch of my body, my arms, my hands, my fingers, my knees, the soles of my feet; he rolls me to my stomach and kisses my spine, my buttocks, the backs of my thighs. He kisses me until I cannot bear it any longer.

I stop him, push him to his back, and strip his boxings off him. I am not sure that is the right word. Before I toss them to the floor, I hold them up.

“What is the word for this kind of underwear?” I ask. “Boxings? Something like that? I cannot think of it.”

He laughs hard. “Boxings? Oh, god, Rania. That’s funny. Boxers. They’re called boxers, sweetheart.”

I frown at him. “Are you making fun? I do not know all the right words yet.”

He takes my face in his and draws me into his embrace, still laughing. “No! No, baby. No. I’m not making fun of you. It’s just funny. I mean, ‘boxers’ is a funny word now that I think about it, but for some reason, ‘boxings’ is funnier.”

He stops laughing, and suddenly we’re gazing at each other. His eyes, the thing about him that first arrested my attention, they are impossibly blue in the light from the bathroom.
 

He puts his palm to my cheek. “I love you, Rania Lee.”

I gather my courage once more, and tell him what I want. “Make love to me, Hunter.”

I touch his manhood, find it hard as stone and leaking fluid from the tip, yet when I grasp him in my hand, he is softer than soft, and I love that wonderful contradiction, as I love the way he arches his body when I touch him like this. As I love his lips on me, as I love his voice when says my name.

I love him.

It is so unbelievable, even still, in this impossibly luxurious house he calls a “condo” that a man such as Hunter could love me, a whore.

But I am not, am I? He would be upset with me for thinking that. I must not think it. I am not a whore.

I am not Sabah.
 

I am Rania Lee, and I am Hunter’s wife.
 

Hunter kisses me, and I lose myself in his lips, his body hard and strong next to me. I am ready. I settle onto my back, such a familiar position, and ready myself for him. He kisses me, plants his hand next to my face, moves slowly above me.

I cannot help the panic that hits, the feeling of memory overtaking me, of so many other men moving above me. My fingers curl into claws on his shoulders and I fight it, fight so hard, but I cannot, and my breath comes in short sharp gasps. My eyes are squeezed shut tight, my knees pressed together, and Hunter is whispering in my ear, but
 
I cannot hear him, cannot understand him.

Then, motion. Hunter’s hands are on my waist and I am rolling, lying on top of him. I bury my face in his shoulder and weep.

“I am sorry, Hunter. I—I cannot. I thought I could,
 
but—”

He touches my lips. “Hey, it’s fine. I’m so sorry, I didn’t think, I didn’t know it would have that effect on you. It’s fine.”