At The Sheikh's Command. Kate Walker
clothes from her body, to feel her heat and tightness enclose his aching sex. But at the same time he didn’t want to move away from her for even those few seconds it would take to get them both into that position.
Moving would mean ending that delicious pressure of body against body, heat against heat. It would mean breaking away from the hungry, demanding caress of her hands, the way that her fingers fumbled and snatched at the buttons of his shirt, seeking out the flesh beneath, tugging lightly, tormentingly at the curls of dark hair she found there.
But he had to touch her. Just the caress of her mouth, the feel of her body beneath the thin cotton blouse, was nowhere near enough. He needed—yearned for—the sensation of skin on skin. Of hot flesh burning into flesh, the heady perfume of arousal reaching into the air and stimulating already strained senses to breaking point.
‘Abbie…’
With a rough movement he jerked her into a slightly different position, holding her captive against the wall as he brought his hands down over her thighs, reaching out and grabbing the hem of her skirt, pulling it roughly upwards, rucking it over her hips, exposing the soft skin of her legs.
The soft bare skin, he noted on a sound of surprised satisfaction, feeling the silky smoothness beneath his greedy fingertips. Just skin, not the appalling synthetic scratch of tights—just skin, soft as heated velvet, enticing as hell. Just Abbie.
And just Abbie was all that he wanted.
Her hands had found his skin, buttons were wrenched open, his shirt pulled out of the way until it was skin on skin at last and a sigh broke from her on a gasp of contentment. Her fingers smoothed over his chest, tangling for a brief moment in the curls of body hair before that wandering touch curved over his shoulders, finding the tension in his muscles, then slid down his back, along each vertebrae as far as she could reach.
And Malik needed to touch too. The pressure and heat of body against body just weren’t enough. A pressure and heat was building inside him too, rising to boiling point, creating a sensation inwardly that was like some violent volcano that was about to blow. And he would explode if he didn’t touch her.
Muttering thick-tongued endearments in his native language, he pushed the clinging skirt even higher. The feel of his fingertips on her hot flesh sent sensations like the shock of a bolt of lightning right through him and he felt the shudder that shook her. The same shudder that tormented his own hungry body.
He heard her moan softly—or was it his own voice he heard? He had no idea but the next moment his mouth captured hers, plundered deep, but then was wrenched fiercely away when just to kiss no longer satisfied. He needed to go further, explore deeper, taste more of her. And she understood totally, arching her neck into his caress, mutely inviting him to take what he wanted.
‘Yes…’
It was a sound of yearning, of encouragement, of pure need. One that made an answering need kick hard at him low down in his body.
The ridiculous apron was always in the way. Fastened tight around her waist, about her neck, it hindered every move he tried to make. But by throwing it upwards from below, he had access to the heated core of her. To the lilac-coloured, flimsy bit of nothing that guarded the centre of her femininity. The frivolous bit of silk was such a contrast to the severely practical and sensible outerwear that it brought a shaken laugh into his throat, making him catch his breath in shocked response.
‘So this is what you have hidden away under this absurd uniform. This is what the real woman wears. I like it—more than like it.’
He could feel the heat of her even from this distance, feel the moisture that betrayed her hunger. The scent of her aroused body filled his nostrils, obliterating all thought, driving him wild.
And her kisses drove him wilder. Fierce, urgent, demanding little kisses that pecked at his cheek and neck like an insistent, hungry bird. Her hands didn’t seem to know where they most wanted to be—in his hair or over his shoulders or down his arms. The jacket he wore was skimmed off, dropped to the floor, discarded carelessly. More buttons were wrenched undone, his shirt was tugged from his waistband, her fingers…
Oh, by Allah, her fingers were unstoppable, probing lower, seeking, touching, caressing…
‘Abbie,’ he groaned, but whether in encouragement or in protest at the impossibility of actually doing anything here and now, he didn’t know. ‘We can’t. We must—We—’
But a wild shake of her head denied his words, not giving him the chance to continue.
‘Kiss me,’ she demanded. ‘Kiss me!’
He would do more than kiss her! So much more!
Her breasts were tight against his chest, the hard points of her nipples communicating the sharpness of the arousal she made no attempt to hide. He wanted to get his hands on those richly curved mounds, to touch—to feel—to taste…
But first he had to get past the bib of that damned apron. The appalling flowered cotton was there between him and what he wanted so much—but not for long! With a muttered curse he wrenched at it, pulling hard at each shoulder. The thin cotton straps snapped without much difficulty, ripping apart the worn seams.
At last!
Hands shaking with hunger, with the urgency of need, Malik tugged at the buttons halfway down the prim white blouse, pulling them open roughly. The small opening he made was just enough to let him push his fingers in and touch the warm, swelling softness of one exposed breast. At the feel of his caress Abbie choked some incoherent, wordless sound of response, her eyes closing ecstatically, her mouth blindly seeking his.
Another button popped free from its restraint and now he could get his whole hand underneath her blouse. He cupped the softness of one breast, feeling its heat through the silk and lace confection of her bra. The nub of her nipple pushed into his palm in wanton demand and the ache of desire between his legs was almost unbearable.
He had to have her. Had to…
But, even as he closed his hand around her heated softness, his ears caught the sound outside the room that broke into and shattered the sensual delirium that had him in its possession.
CHAPTER THREE
‘I’LL leave that with you then…’
The voice sounded out in the hallway, coming clearly through the barely closed door. Calm and decisive and totally shattering to the heated mood that gripped the pair of them.
‘We’ll sort it out later.’
A male voice.
James Cavanaugh’s voice.
His host’s voice.
The voice of the man he had come here to negotiate with.
What the hell was he doing?
Dazed, shaken, blinking like a man dealing with the aftermath of a blow to his head, Malik lifted his eyes to lock with Abbie’s silver gaze. He found that she too had frozen into immobility, her eyes wide and staring straight at him. She looked glazed, unfocused, not seeing anything, and her head was tilted slightly to one side as if she was straining to hear.
‘Cavanaugh…’ he managed, his voice croaking roughly.
‘My—’
She swallowed hard, unable to continue to form the words.
‘Your boss.’
Malik nodded, understanding the embarrassment she would feel at being caught like this—especially with the important visitor that the family must want to impress and please as much as possible.
Your boss?
It took the space of a couple of uneven breaths for the words to penetrate the buzzing haze of shock that filled Abbie’s mind, and even when they did finally hit home they made no sense at all.
Your boss!
He thought