The Sheikh's Heir. Sharon Kendrick
to do. He’d expected a little more gratitude that he’d forgiven her for her shocking display of temper, and the seductive removal of her shoes would usually have guaranteed that by now she’d be glancing up at him from beneath her lashes and flirting like crazy. But she was doing no such thing. Instead her gaze seemed fixed firmly ahead of her, like a runner who had their eyes on the finish line. Like someone longing to reach their destination.
Was she?
Or was she just trying to dampen down the desire which had been so apparent since they’d first set eyes on each other? He let his eyes linger on her body as she moved. The shimmer of her silver dress was enhancing her willowy frame and the thick gleam of her dark hair made him want to run his fingers through it. And somehow her bare toes, with their gleam of silver polish, were much sexier without the stilt-like shoes he’d just removed. He felt a renewed stab of lust.
‘So would you like a glass of champagne before you leave?’ he questioned. ‘Or is that just asking for trouble?’
‘Champagne?’ It was the hint of unexpected humour in his voice which made her waver, until she reminded herself of her dramatic exit from the ballroom. She stared up at him, her hair shimmying around her face. ‘But I don’t want to go back to the party.’
‘I know. But since we’re right by my own suite, I thought you might like to see it.’ His lips curved into a smile. ‘Especially as it happens to contain some fabulous paintings.’
It was ironic that he seemed unwittingly to have hit on the one thing designed to make her heart beat faster and yet Ella’s one feeling was one of disappointment. It seemed that all men were predictably similar, whether they were desert princes or hedge fund managers. ‘As in, “Come up and see my etchings,” I suppose?’ she questioned sarcastically. ‘Gosh, you really do need to take a refresher course when you’re trying to chat up a woman!’
‘I had no idea that I was dealing with such an expert in chat-up lines,’ he murmured. ‘Or perhaps you just don’t like beautiful paintings?’
She heard the subtle put-down. There was that judgement of his all over again. Did he think she was too common to appreciate anything of beauty, that a Jackson would only ever enjoy some mindless pap on TV, or flicking through an undemanding glossy magazine? The anger which she’d thought had been extinguished now began to simmer once more. But infuriatingly, it was manifesting itself in the prickle of her breasts and a soft, melting feeling at the fork of her thighs. It was making her throat dry just to look at him, and her heart fluttered madly. ‘Or perhaps I just don’t like strange men coming on to me with sexual innuendo?’
‘Ah, Cinders, Cinders,’ he mocked as he watched the battle between her provocative words and her blossoming body. And wasn’t it echoing the same battle which was taking place in his own? ‘I was simply talking about art, yet all you seem to want to talk about is sex. And just what is your real name, by the way?’
‘It’s Ella,’ she said, her head spinning. ‘And will you please stop twisting everything I say? I don’t want to talk about sex!’
‘Neither do I,’ he agreed unexpectedly. ‘Since talking about it is a complete waste of time.’
Before she properly realised what he was going to do, he had pulled her into his arms. Pulled her right up close to his aroused body and, with a thrill of shocked recognition, she was letting him. An urgent kind of hunger overwhelmed her as she felt the weight of his hands at her back. The touch of his fingers on her bare skin was as electric as it had been on the dance floor and it had precisely the same sizzling effect on her. Only this time they weren’t in a crowd with the curious eyes of the other dancers on them. This time they were dangerously alone.
She opened her mouth to say something but by then his curiously empty eyes had begun to blaze into life as he lowered his head towards her. And then it was too late.
His lips came down to meet hers and Ella’s mouth opened of its own volition, and she found herself unwillingly lost in the most sensational kiss of her life.
ELLA swayed as Hassan kissed her, his arms tightening around her so that every hard sinew of his powerful frame seemed to be imprinted indelibly on her body. She could feel the pricking of her breasts and their sudden aching heaviness as they pressed against him. And she could feel the coiling heat which was building inside her, pooling in an erotic, silken warmth at the juncture of her thighs.
The thunder of her heart played a backing-track as his lips explored hers and she sank against him. Yet even as his tongue slid inside her mouth and her eyelids fluttered to a close she knew that something wasn’t right. Through a haze, she tried to remember just what that something was, but her greedy body seemed intent on pushing all sane thoughts from her mind. The blood pooling in her breasts and at her groin was denying her brain the vital fuel it needed in order to think clearly. But how could she think clearly when she was feeling like this?
She gasped as Hassan caught hold of her breast, his big hand splaying with arrogant possession over its hardening swell. Against the finely beaded surface, he teased the already-aching nipple with his finger, and at that split second she remembered the source of her discomfort.
She hated him.
And he hated her.
He was supposed to be showing her the way out of the palace … and instead he had her pressed up against some cool palace wall where he seemed intent on having hot and urgent sex with her.
So why wasn’t she pushing him away and professing outrage at his seduction? Why was she winding the arm which wasn’t holding her shoes around his neck and breathing urgent little sounds of encouragement?
Because she’d never felt like this before.
Never imagined that a woman could feel like this when a man kissed her. As if this was what her body had been invented for. Her one previous sexual experience now just seemed a mockingly bland rehearsal for this rapid awakening which was making her blood fizz.
But it was wrong. It was very, very wrong.
‘Hassan.’ With an effort, she tore her mouth away from his as her high heels nearly slipped from her fingers onto the floor. ‘This is … absolutely … crazy ….’ She thought how weak her voice sounded. As if he had somehow sapped all her strength and resolve.
‘Don’t break the spell, Cinderella,’ he warned unsteadily, pushing open the door to his suite. Pulling her inside, he kicked the door shut, before taking her into his arms and beginning to kiss her again, as if that might obliterate any objections she might have.
And it was working, wasn’t it? It didn’t seem to matter that she was in the bedroom of a man who was a virtual stranger—a dark and empty-eyed sheikh who had spoken about her family with the cruel lash of his tongue. Such was his skill that he melted away every single doubt beneath the practised caress of his lips. His hands stroked their way down over her body as he kissed her, until her nerve endings were raw with desire and she was moving restlessly in his arms.
Her skin felt heated, her body on fire. She groaned when he cupped her breast again, his thumb brushing negligently against the bead-covered nipple. Why couldn’t he touch her bare skin instead, she wondered distractedly when, as if he’d read her thoughts again, he reached out and peeled down the flimsy bodice of her dress.
He leaned back a little to survey her, the way people did in art galleries when they wanted to get a better look at a painting. His eyes seemed to devour her breasts and she felt the skin tighten and tingle beneath that fierce black scrutiny.
‘Do you always go braless?’ he questioned unsteadily.
She wanted to tell him that the fashionable dress had made the wearing of a bra impossible but somehow the words seemed to have lodged in her throat.
‘But then