Nalini Singh - Craving Beauty.htm

by Craving Beauty (lit)

  Hira wondered how she had never, in all her re­searches, come across the mention of how erotic it was to be made love to by a fully clothed man when one was almost naked. Though she couldn't remember how they had got there, she was now in bed, completely naked. Her forest-green gown was hanging over the back of a chair by the vanity. Beside her, Marc lay sprawled on his back, one arm thrown across his eyes. He remained dressed except for his shoes, which he'd apparently kicked off at some stage.

  Very carefully, she sat up and looked down at her husband. Over six feet of long, lean man, he was pres­ently asleep. She was glad. Tonight something fundamental had changed in her thinking about their rela­tionship and she needed time to come to terms with it. Her husband had behaved as an enraged male whose wife had done something that displeased him, rather than as a man annoyed with a woman he'd acquired for her ornamentation value alone.

  It was a very sharp distinction. One was a reaction fueled by emotion, the other by logic. Whatever else it had been, their joining had not been logical. It had been decidedly out of control and that was something her hus­band guarded fiercely against. Tonight, at the party, she'd overheard people discussing his reputation of icy control in the most stressful circumstances.

  Except, with her, he'd always been fire and heat.

  The bruised bloom in her heart unfurled into full flower at the revelation that her husband was truly not indifferent to her. The hope she'd felt the night she'dre-alized they'd somehow become a unit, reawakened. She had yet to understand the depth of what Marc felt for her, but it was surely something far more than mere de­sire.

  Perhaps the love in her heart wasn't doomed.

  It had taken her a long time to accept that this wild hunter of a man had found a foothold in her soul, but she was a woman who knew herself. Marc Bordeaux was the one. The only one. In her deepest heart, she must've known that when she'd acceded to her father's demands; she was far too smart a woman not to have found a way out if she'd been desperate. She'd been stalling Kerim for months before Marc came on the scene.

  Marc shifted on the bed, throwing his arm wide, and she realized he had to be uncomfortable. Experimentally she reached out, undid his bow tie and slipped it off his neck. He didn't react. Emboldened, she managed to get his jacket and shirt off him by moving him around when it didn't seem to wake him. Then, biting her lip, she got rid of his pants and socks, leaving him clad in plain black briefs. Still asleep, he turned over onto his stom­ach, and she couldn't help stroking his back, his skin hot and vibrant under her fingertips.

  A glance at the clock showed that it was 2:00 a.m., but she was hungry, having eaten nothing but hors d'oeuvres since lunch. Carefully covering Mate with a light blanket, she pressed a soft kiss to the back of his neck, slipped into his formal white shirt and went down to the kitchen.

  Marc chanced opening his eyes after a minute of si­lence. Groaning, he turned over in an effort to ease the pressure on his rigid arousal. Growing up as he had, never knowing when a vicious blow would shatter his rest, he slept lightly. He'd woken the moment Hira had but had kept his eyes closed, wondering what she'd do. And had learned that being undressed by a naked woman, whose breasts kept teasing you with every movement, was sheer torture.

  He hadn't been ready to talk to her, uncertain of her reaction to what had happened between them tonight. Whatever else, she couldn't back away from this in­ferno. She was no more a trophy wife than he was a prize husband. However, his little deception had had an unexpected side effect.

  His chest tightened as he recalled her tender kiss on his nape and the way she'd carefully covered him up. They hadn't been the acts of an angry woman or even a woman who saw him as a duty. It had been care, pure and simple. He'd already known his wife had a big heart from seeing her with the children, but until now he'd never really felt the power of that heart. She'd done lit­tle things for him but they were all very wifely things, and he'd thought she felt duty bound to do them. But, tonight...tonight she'd gone far beyond duty.

  Throwing off the blanket, he went in search of Hira, finding that he was greedy for her. He located her at the kitchen counter eating a piece of bread slathered with crunchy peanut butter. Her eyes widened at his entrance but he didn't stop, walking around to stand beside her. Leaning down, he bit off the other end of her bread.

  She swallowed. "You are hungry, too, husband?"

  He nodded. "Why did you put on a shirt to come down?"

  Taking another bite, she offered him more. He took it, demolishing almost the entire remainder. She waited and fed him that last bit before turning to get another slice from the loaf at her elbow. It was another small ex­ample of her inherently generous nature.

  "Because it would be immodest to walk around un­clothed." With efficient movements, she spread peanut butter on the bread.

  "But it's only us." He moved closer, rubbing her cheek with his knuckles, daring to display the affection that had changed his view of himself. "Come on, I dare you to take it off."

  A soft smile on her lips, she raised the hand holding the piece of bread to his mouth. After a bite, he nudged her hand back to her own mouth. She took a small bite and chewed. Then, a smile flirting with her lips, she asked, "Why are you in such a mood?"

  "Let's see, I had amazing sex with my wife a few hours ago and, since she doesn't appear to be holding my somewhat Neanderthal behavior against me, I'm raring to go again and I was hoping to create some sexy atmosphere. How's that?" He allowed her to feed him again. "Humor me."

  She smiled and blushed. "But—"

  "If we can't be free with each other, who can we be free with?" Even as he said it, he realized that it applied to more than sexual exploration. He'd never truly trusted anyone and he badly wanted to trust his wife.

  She handed him the slice of bread. Then, nibbling at her lush lower lip, she lifted her hands to the buttons of his dress shirt. His eyes were riveted to those elegant fin­gers. She undid the first button. He took a deep breath. She did the second one. He groaned.

  "Faster, cher." He wanted to reach out and haul her to his chest, but no way was he going to interrupt this very private show.

  "What would be the fun in that?" Her question held teasing laughter, and the look in her tawny eyes said she was enjoying herself.

  "Did I indicate this was supposed to be fun for you?" He fed her a bite from the remaining bread. "This is sex­ual gratification for me alone."

  "Is that so?" Another button. The valley between her breasts was a shadowed treasure, the softness of her belly a silky plain for his exploration. "What if I wish for some gratification, too?"

  "You can have it later. After I'm done." Finishing off the bread, he stood there, completely concentrat­ing on her.

  She laughed, the sound husky and intimate, and re­leased the last button. The darkness between her thighs was an invitation he gladly took, cupping her gently. Sighing, she leaned closer. With a single lithe movement of her shoulders, the shirt went to the floor.

  He ran his hand up from her heat to flatten over her stomach. "Damn, you're lovely." Her face fell. "No," he ordered. "None of that. Sure, your body is hot, but you know what makes you perfect?"

  She shook her head slowly, wary eyes holding a vul­nerability that made him want to cherish her forever.

  "The fact that you adore my body despite my scars, say yes to playing with me at this ridiculous hour even after the stunt I pulled tonight, and have peanut butter stuck to your bottom lip."

  Her hand flew to her mouth, eyes wide. He pulled the hand off and licked the spot off. "Yum."

  She giggled and stepped back. As he watched, she put her finger in the peanut butter jar and dabbed a spot on her lip again. Surprised, he leaned forward and licked it off. Her hand went to her breasts and each nipple was coated.

  "You sure know how to gratify this man." First, he sucked the finger she held out to him, cleaning it off. Then he made slow work of each morsel, his hands stroking her bottom. When he stood to his full heig
ht again, it was to face a woman with a passion-soft face, eyes heavy-lidded and a sweet, sexy smile on her lips. Reaching out a hand, she traced the shape of his mouth.

  "Still hungry?" Her voice was a husky whisper.

  "A little." He backed her up until her bottom hit the edge of the counter. Then he lifted, setting her down on die marble. She spread her legs and he stood between them. Reaching to the right, he found the squeezable bottle of honey that was one of her favorite treats. Grin­ning, he held it up. "Want to play some more?"

  Her eyes widened. "Husband, you are bad." An in­viting look appeared on her face. "I love honey."

  "So do I, cher. So do I." He'd never felt this carefree in his life. Flipping open the lid, he held the bottle up­side down and started to draw meandering swirls of honey over her breasts, her stomach, lower.

  She sighed when he put down the bottle and started to lick his way down her body, swirling his tongue, using his teeth to scrape, his fingers to smooth. Minutes later she began to tremble. He stroked his hands on her thighs as he bent over to lick her stomach. Her beauti­ful feminine muscles clenched under his attentions. He kept going, pulling her bottom closer to the edge to fa­cilitate his taste of honey.

  Her hands clenched in his hair as he tracked the last possible drop, lapping at her most sensitive flesh. Moans filled the kitchen as his wife climaxed, surrendering to the pleasure he lavished on her. Satisfied by her shud­ders, he rose and picked her up in his arms. Her legs wrapped around his waist.

  "Where are you taking me, husband?"

  "Do you care?"

  "No. You may take me wherever you wish,"

  He narrowed his eyes at that double entendre, unsure whether it was just her grasp of English or deliberate provocation until he caught the hint of mischief in those tawny depths. "I'll remember that the next time I see you bent over the kitchen table."

  Her laughter filled the night. When he sat down in a chair, with her spread over him, she slid her hand be­tween their bodies and down. "Why is it that you are al­ways clothed when I'm naked?"

  "Bad timing?" He groaned as she slipped her hand under the elastic waistband of his briefs. Stroking him gently, she chuckled at his response.

  A man could only take so much. Barely ten seconds later, he'd kicked off his only item of clothing and got himself covered in a much more pleasurable fashion. She slid onto him like hot silk. And then she rode him.

  Given their newfound joy in each other, the plane trip to Zulheil the next day was markedly different from their first flight together. Marc had brought along pa­pers to look over but didn't even take them out of his briefcase, too enchanted by his wife.

  More at ease on this flight, she teased him to laugh­ter and tangled her fingers with his, her eyes holding a look of pride. "You're a most magnificent man," she whispered, halfway through the flight.

  He could feel a blush creeping up the back of his neck. "What brought that on?"

  She winked at him and pressed a spontaneous kiss to his cheek. "Can a wife not simply compliment her husband?" Putting her head on his shoulder, she settled against him, warm and...loving?

  He didn't dare think that he might've found his dreams, but he could almost imagine that he was see­ing the real woman, with none of her customary masks.

  Only one thing gave him pause—the way she still occa­sionally looked at him after a particularly saucy com­ment, as if anticipating a rebuke.

  He knew that her reaction was rooted in the emo­tional abuse she'd witnessed in her home, scenes of a wife being humiliated by the very man who should've been her champion. He hated it, but he could forgive her that instinctive reaction: Yet so long as that look was in her eyes, he couldn't expect her full commitment to him as a man, as a husband. Before she took that chance, she'd have to accept that he'd die before turning into a man like her father. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do to help her reach that point. In this shatteringly important moment, he was helpless.

  "Have you ever been inside the royal palace?" Marc asked Hira on their second night in Zulheil, fiddling with his bow tie and hoping die evening would be cool.

  She moved to him and took over the job. "Yes, of course. The royal palace is open to its citizens, aside from the private wings for the family. But you're one of the very few foreigners who has been allowed access."

  He was aware of the privilege and the duty it carried. Trust in this desert land was given slowly but would hold fast unless he abused it. "Impressive, isn't it?" His eyes followed Hira as she moved away to pull on a top coat of the finest gossamer silk.

  The sheer fabric was an almost metallic silver and was gathered under her breasts with a single tie. The rest of the coat fell to float just above the floor, splitting open over her legs to display an underskirt of thick silver satin. The long-sleeved silver top she wore underneath the gauze overlapped the top of the skirt and was heavi­ly embroidered with tiny white pearls. The material seemed shot with shards of pure crystal.

  "I may be a mere male but I like what I see." Marc was looking at her appreciatively when she turned.

  In Hira's eyes, he was the gorgeous one, big, dark and very masculine. "It's a Jasmine Zamanat creation."

  His eyes sharpened as he recognized the name of the sheik's wife, a well-known designer. "Clever little witch. Getting us brownie points with the palace, are you?"

  She was pleased by the compliment in his eyes. "It will not hurt, though they won't be so easily swayed. But I truly like her designs so it's no hardship."

  "You're definitely easy on the eyes. Let's go, princess. The drive from Abraz to Zulheina will take a while. Wouldn't want to be late for this meeting."

  Though informal, the meeting with the sheik was important. If things went favorably, Marc would be al­lowed to sign an agreement with Zulheil to export a du­rable, flexible plastic discovered by its scientists.

  "And aside from its other advantages," Marc said as they got out of their limo in front of the palace, after hav­ing been cleared by security, "it crunches down into small packages. So it's very portable and can be used for tents, et cetera."

  "Which means it can have military applications as well as many other uses." Hira nodded. "Why hasn't it already been exported?"

  "It hasn't been a priority for Zulheil with their gem-stone business bringing in so much income. But the rest of the world could do with it."

  Just then, a beautiful redhead dressed in a lovely sky-blue top and skirt in the way of Zulheil, walked through the palace doorway. "Welcome." She smiled and held out her hands to Hira. "I'm so delighted-you could fi­nally make it. I hear that you had to reschedule because of the welfare of a child."

  "Jasmine al eha Sheik, it is an honor," Hira began, a little overcome at the easy welcome from the most pow­erful woman in the country, though it was well known mat neither the sheik nor his wife stood much on pomp and ceremony.

  Jasmine waved a hand. "Call me Jasmine. Ah.. .here he is." Letting go of Hira's hands, she looked over her shoulder at the man who'd appeared beside her. Her eyes held such deep and abiding love that the warmth of it was an almost physical touch.

  Hira noticed the way Sheik Tariq's hand immedi­ately settled on his wife's hip, the way the two shared a secret smile before he spoke.

  "Dinner is served and the demon who is pretend­ing to be our son is fast asleep. Welcome to our home." He shook Marc's hand and turned to lead them inside.

  Almost immediately the men fell back behind the women, already beginning to talk business. Hira was a little irritated at being disregarded so easily.

  "You're annoyed," said the woman by her side.

  Hira glanced at Jasmine. "Lady..."

  "Call me Jasmine and don't worry about it. He an­noys me on occasion, too." Her smile was open.

  Hira decided to be honest. "I don't like being side­lined when serious matters are being discussed."