CAROL MARINELLI - Midnight in the Harem - For Duty's Sake / Banished to the Harem / The Tarnished Jewel of Jazaar

Angele didn’t do any of that, though, because for the first time in all the years she had known this man, a glimmer of vulnerability showed through his super-controlled exterior.

“All yours.” For tonight.

His teeth flashed in another sensual smile. “All mine.”

If he sounded like he was making a permanent claim, she convinced herself it was simply her ears hearing what they craved. Not a truth that resonated in her heart.

“You will make love to me now?” she asked softly. “I have been making love to you since you stepped into my room.”

She did not question it. She certainly could not deny it.

He began to undress, pulling back the layers that named him crown sheikh of his people until he stood before her in the soft glow of a hundred candles, his perfect body completely open to her gaze.

Skin a shade darker than hers covered bulging muscles she would not have expected in a man who spent his days playing politician. She’d always known he was strong, but now she believed the rumors that none of the security force in the palace could best him on the sparring mat.

“You look like an ancient Bedouin warrior.”

“A man cannot be weak and lead his people.”

“I have never questioned your mental stamina.”

“You mean you have questioned my physical prowess?” he asked and then laughed, the sound free and full of genuine amusement.

That laugh was as much a gift as the pleasure he drew so unnervingly from her body.

She choked on her own amusement. “Of course not, I just …”

Her eyes could not help devouring him with hungry need. He was so incredibly masculine, his hardened sex standing out from his body in impressive splendor.

“I think you like looking.”

“I think I do, too.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I don’t make it a habit of looking at naked men.”

There was that laughter again and she could not even mind it was at her expense. “I should hope not.”

“It suddenly occurs to me that I’m debilitatingly naive for a woman from my adopted country.” She doubted there was a single woman who worked on the fashion magazine that employed her as an editorial assistant that was as innocent to sexual things as Angele.

“You are exactly as you should be.”

She knew he meant it, but she could not help thinking that if she’d been a bit more experienced, perhaps he would not have found Elsa such a fascination.

She dismissed the thought as unnecessary and destructive. Elsa Bosch was not here, was not even in Zahir’s life any longer. Angele was. For now. And at this moment in time, that was all that mattered.

“I think I could stand here and let you look and you would come from that alone.”

“Arrogant.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps, but you cannot know what a pleasure it is to have those doe-soft brown eyes eating me up like the tastiest dessert at the feast.”

“I doubt there is another man alive who I would find more appealing.” She didn’t mind telling him the truth.

Tonight was not for self-protection. That started tomorrow. When she flew back to the States, no longer a virgin and no longer the promised future bride to the heir to the throne of Zohra.

“Naturally.”

She laughed again, her heart tripping in her chest at his obvious desire to be seen as the best in her eyes. “Naturally.”

“No other woman can compare to you lying on my bed as you are.”

Wearing his grandmother’s galabeya, he meant, looking like the bride she would never be. But surprisingly the thought did not make her sad, but rather brought a smile to her face. “You’ve never brought another woman in here, have you?”

“Of course not.”

“You’re living out your teen fantasies, aren’t you?” she teased.

He shook his head. “They’re much more recent than that.”

She opened her mouth to say something else, but he reached down and caressed his shaft with a sure hand. She gasped. She wanted to be doing that.

“All in good time,” he said as if reading her mind.

Then he stepped forward until he stood against the bed. “It’s time to undress my bride.”

It wasn’t a real wedding night, but he was going to make it as close to one as possible for her. And she was going to let him.

She wasn’t surprised when his first action was to remove the slippers on her feet, but it shocked her speechless when he leaned down to take each foot into his hand and place a soft, sensuous kiss on the arch. He didn’t stop there, either, but caressed her feet, pressing points that seemed directly linked to the empty ache inside her.

She was moaning and clenching her thighs by the time he’d moved his attention to her calves.

“Such soft, silky skin, but I know a place you will be softer.”

Her breath came in harsh pants and she shook her head.

“I assure you, you are. Soft, delicious and wet.”

Delicious? Did he mean … but her thoughts splintered as he pushed her gown up to expose her thighs to his gaze and that talented mouth.

Words gasped out of her without meanings as she discovered that her inner thighs were far more sensitive than she’d ever realized.

He chuckled, the sound wicked and delicious. “Are you sure it is the right time to be praying, ya habibti?”

“I … what? It …”

That smile that told her he was about to do something naughty creased his sensual mouth. Then, he pushed her galabeya higher and suddenly stopped, letting out a deep sigh of clear approval. “Oh, this is nice.” “You like my panties.”

“Oh, yes, ya habibti, very much.” He stroked a single finger right over her clitoris and pressed down into the silk.

She jolted, arching her body toward that teasing touch.

“I do like these, but I am going to adore what is underneath them.”

“You are so much earthier than I ever expected.” “I told you, I am a traditional man of my people. We celebrate the delight of pleasure.” “Your Bedouin tribes, perhaps.” “You would be surprised.” Maybe she would be. Like Jawhar, Zohra was one of the few Arabic countries whose outlook and culture had always suffered less religious oppressions than their surrounding neighbors or the rest of Eastern Europe. “I’ll take your word for it.” “You should not have to.” It was the first time he had outright criticized her upbringing in America rather than Jawhar.

“So, show me now.” She wasn’t about to get into a discussion on that particular topic right now.

“Oh, I fully intend to.” And he did, caressing her until she was in a fever pitch of desire.

She wasn’t sure how it happened, but she lost the galabeya. Finally. He took a moment to admire her in her lacy bra before removing it. He paid the kind of homage to her breasts that felt almost spiritual, but at the same time was very, very carnal.

Her nipples were aching and her panties literally soaked before he pulled back to ask, “Are you ready for me?”

“I’ve been ready.” She’d meant to yell it out, but her voice was gone it was a barely there croak. “I also.”

But still, he took his time removing her wet panties. And then, instead of covering her with his body like she expected, he pressed her thighs wide apart and began to touch her with careful, knowing fingers.

“Zahir,” she pleaded.

“It will be easier for you if I deal with your maidenhead with my fingers.”

“What?” she gasped in a shocked whisper. And then shook her head frantically. “No. I … That’s …”

But his forefinger and middle finger were already pressing inside, pushing against the barrier that stood between her virginity and their ultimate connection. He rubbed gently, making circles with his fingertips, pressing, pressing … always pressing.