Lucy Monroe - The Sheikh's Bartered Bride

By the time Hakim pulled his black car to a halt in the parking garage of her apartment building, Catherine’s nerves were stretched tighter than an overtuned violin string. They wound one notch tighter when he insisted on seeing her inside.

She watched his dark hands as they unlocked her door and turned the knob to open it. Such masculine hands and yet so fluid in their movement, she desperately wanted them on her.

He pushed the door open and ushered her inside, one of the hands she found so fascinating secured around her waist. Her lungs stopped working while her heart went into overdrive. He closed the door and locked it, indicating he wasn’t leaving any time soon and her already racing heart went turbocharged.

He led her toward the living room and she was surprised when her legs were able to move. She felt like her bones had all melted to jelly.

When they reached her bright yellow couch, he gently pushed her down onto the overstuffed cushions and then sat beside her. So close beside her that her shoulder was pressed against the hard wall of his chest. “I wish to speak with you.”

“Oh,” she squeaked.

He laid the hand that was not attached to her waist on her thigh, succeeding in surrounding her completely with his body and putting her on the verge of hyperventilating.

What would he do if she turned to him and did what she’d been longing to do for so long, touch the black silkiness of his hair and kiss the sensual line of his mouth? She clasped her hands firmly together in her lap to stop them from taking liberties that might end in her humiliated rejection.

For several seconds, neither of them spoke, the rush of air going in and out of her lungs at such a rapid rate the only sound in the room. He started to draw small circles on her thigh with his forefinger, sending awareness arcing up her leg and to the center of her being. She stifled a gasp of pleasure. She couldn’t move. Nor could she look at him. Her attention was firmly fixed on that darkly tanned hand as it moved lazily against the black knit of her skirt.

Still he said nothing.

The quiet became unbearable. “Hakim?”

His silence beat against her and she sensed he wanted something from her, but she did not know what. Finally, when she could not tolerate one more second of the tortuous anticipation, she raised her head and tilted it backward to look at his face.

It was what he’d been waiting for. Eye contact.

Dark ebony bored into her. “You have enjoyed these past weeks in my company, have you not?”

“Yes.”

“Am I a fool to believe you would like our association to continue?”

“No.” She had to clear her throat before she could get more words out. Necessary words. “You could never be a fool.”

“Then I would also not be out of bounds to hope you might want to deepen our relationship?”

He wanted to be her boyfriend? Her mind couldn’t quite grasp the concept, but she nodded her head in agreement anyway.

“Yes, I would be out of bounds, or yes you want to deepen our relationship?”

“I want…” She forced her halted lungs to pull in a breath of air. “I want to deepen our relationship.”

Would he kiss her now? The mere thought sent her pulse on a ride like a runaway stagecoach.

“Marry me.”

She was daydreaming. She had to be.

But there was something wrong with the fantasy. “But you’ve never even kissed me.”

“I have not had the right.”

“What do you mean? Were you… Were you attached to someone else?”

“No, not that, but I was not as you put it attached to you, either. It would not have been right for me to kiss you before formal declarations were made.”

Did he mean declarations of love? No. He’d said formal declarations. “Do you mean you have to be engaged in your country to kiss?”

His hand moved from her thigh to her cheek and he cupped it, his expression almost tender. “To kiss a virgin, yes.”

Was her lack of experience so obvious? She supposed it was. “But this is not Jawhar.”

“Nevertheless, I will treat you with the respect due you.”

That was nice. “If I say I’ll marry you, will you kiss me then?” This was by far the strangest daydream she had ever indulged in, only she knew on some level it was all too real.

A distinctly predatory light entered his obsidian eyes. “Yes.”

“Yes,” she repeated, not ready for the fantasy to end.

“You will marry me?”

“Yes.” He couldn’t really mean it and she would say just about anything to experience his mouth on hers. “Now you can kiss me.”

He lowered his head, until his lips were centimeters from hers. “I can?”

“Yes.” When he didn’t close the gap, she said, “Please.”

The kiss was as soft and fleeting as a butterfly flitting from one flower to another, but he did not move his head away and their breath continued to mingle.

The scent of his cologne mixed with a fragrance that could only be him. Male. It called to the primordial woman in her. She wanted to claim this man.

“Are you teasing me?” she asked, wondering why he had not kissed her again, more thoroughly.

“I am teasing myself.”

His admission was flint to the gunpowder of her self-control. To say such a thing implied he wanted her and that was as exciting as having his body so close she could feel his heartbeat. She closed the gap of those few centimeters, her mouth locking to his with enthusiasm, if not skill.

He didn’t seem to mind. His grip on her tightened and he took control of the kiss almost immediately. His mouth moved against hers, his tongue running along the seam of her lips. She opened her mouth on a small rush of air and he took possession of the interior. She’d thought of kissing like this before of course, but it had seemed messy.

It felt wonderful.

He tasted like the tiramisu he’d had for dessert at the restaurant. He also tasted like Hakim and it was a flavor she could not get enough of.

She moaned and sucked on his tongue.

He growled, his grip on her going painfully tight now and she found herself in his lap, her breasts pressed against his chest.

She wanted to touch him. She had to touch him. Her hands landed against his shoulders and stayed there for a full five seconds while the kiss went on and on. But just feeling the heat of him under her fingers was not enough. She wanted to explore.

First she let her fingers trail through his hair. It felt soft, almost like silk and she explored the shape of his head through it. He was so male, even his head felt a particularly masculine way to her searching fingers.

A sense of desperation, laced with fear that this would end soon and she would miss having touched the rest of his body, she brought her hands down on either side of his face, slowly sliding them toward his neck, then shoulders. With each centimeter of movement, she memorized the feel of his warm skin against the pads of her fingertips.

Sliding her hands down the polished cotton of his shirt, under his jacket, she outlined each muscle, each ridge and valley on the masculine torso so close to her own.

He shuddered and she rejoiced that she could affect him.

His hands were kneading her backside and she could feel a growing ridge of hardness under her hip.

In the back of her mind, she registered that meant he was getting excited which sent her emotions careening out of control and the impossible feelings she harbored for this magnificent man poured out through her lips and fingertips.

As if the release of her emotions had freed something in him, his ardor increased and the kiss went nuclear.

His tongue dueled with hers, demanding a submission she was only too willing to give. While he conquered her mouth, she tore at the buttons on his shirt, getting enough undone to slip her hand inside and feel the smooth, hot flesh of his naked chest. It was at that point that she accepted this was not a waking dream. No fantasy could possibly be this good.