by Donna Alam
‘Ah, fuck, yes.’ A growl. A big cat purr, low and deep.
I work his hardened nipple again, flicking it with my tongue. I need more. More him. Harder. Hitching my hips, I dig the point of my heel into the firm flesh of his arse.
He groans, thrusting firmly, changing tempo at once. This time, he doesn’t stop. His pace is unyielding and I raise my hips to meet him thrust for thrust. An exquisite tension builds inside, the intensity mounting and twisting with the collision of skin. Higher and higher it spirals, pushing all the air from my chest until I come loudly, my mind fragmenting, my body flexing and arching through its chemical release.
Above me, Kai slips his hands beneath my back, fingers curling around my shoulders as he anchors himself for long, powerful thrusts. His body bows, fingers tightening enough to bruise as he thrusts once, twice more, growling a sentiment I fully understand in a language I realise I don’t.
His head falls to my neck, body sinking onto mine as my insides contract around him.
‘Khallas. Enough,’ he murmurs, kissing my neck. ‘For now.’
Chapter Ten
Be still my beating heart.
For the first time in my life I understand why the French call this the little death. Maybe you can actually die from excess post-orgasmic glow. FPOF: Fatal Post-Orgasmic Fatigue, maybe?
Kai’s heart beats against my ribs, our uncooperative limbs lying entwined. On the edge of sleep, his lips are gently parted, his lashes closed in dark half-moons against his skin.
‘Miss Saunders.’ His words are soporific and sexy. ‘That was every bit as good as I’d imagined it to be, and I have a very good imagination.’
As he rolls onto his back, my body jolts, words penetrating my sated state. Fuck a duck. I think I just boffed my boss! I’m suddenly wide awake and tense, bird-wings beating rapidly against my ribs. Pushing myself up onto my arms, my heels scramble for purchase against the bed, shoes sliding from my feet as they tangle in the bedding.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asks, grasping my leg. I immediately still, realising as I do so how ridiculous I must look. Unsophisticated. But then again, I generally am.
‘I—I’m fine,’ I answer, forcing my body to relax as far as it’s able, given that it seems I may just have humped my boss.
‘Were you going somewhere?’ His words are tainted by amusement.
‘I’m not . . . going anywhere.’ Even as I stumble over my reply, my skin begins to pink.
‘I should think not.’ He turns his head, mouth shadowed by the pillow but I don’t need to see his mouth to know I’m being laughed at. ‘I’d be surprised if you had any power at all left in your legs.’ His eyes peer over the edge of the pillow, alight with an edge of something. Mine, however, are too full of pissed off to comprehend.
‘You’re so . . . so full of it,’ I spit out, drawing my knees under my chest and pushing his hand away.
‘A prince among men.’ He sighs with theatre, but damn his eyes, they’re smiling. I narrow my own as he begins to laugh, leaning over me and kissing my thigh.
‘You’re just so easy to provoke,’ he drawls, rolling onto his back and stretching like a large, demanding cat. ‘It’s too hard to resist. Come on, what’s with the comic legs.’
‘And you’re a . . . a . . .’ I flounder, torn between laughing and insulting him grievously as he leans over and bites this time. His eyes peer up at me through those fantastically long lashes as he sucks on the skin. Oh. My. God.
‘Yes, so you’ve said,’ he whispers, licking the red sucking bite. ‘But it’s your plans for escape we’re discussing. I should warn you, you’re making me feel cheap.’
Somehow, I doubt that. ‘It’s just, I can’t believe I’ve just done—’
‘Me?’
‘Be serious.’ I sigh, unable to hold his eyes even as it occurs to me how easy it would be to turn onto my side, reach out for him. Then I remember why it’s probably not a good idea. ‘And there’s the tiny issue of you possibly being my boss.’
‘Is that all?’ he asks, eyeing me with something that still resembles amusement. ‘I promise not to tell.’
I still didn’t hear a denial.
Pulling himself up against the pillow, he traces the bow of my mouth with sex-scented fingers. ‘Teach not thy lips such scorn, for they were made for kissing, not contempt.’ Pulling away with an almost self-conscious edge, he stretches. ‘Don’t be so . . . bourgeois.’
What, me? The Aussie chick? Is that still even a thing? Bourgeois is middle class, right? I’m not even sure, as an Australian, I’m supposed to subscribe to all that crap. And besides, I don’t feel very respectable right now. But that was sweet and unexpected, other than the middle-class bit. Sex and Shakespeare; that’s quite a combination.
In one swift motion, Kai rolls from the bed, turning back to remove my shoes from the tangled sheet. All ponderings and rampant self-recriminations are silenced as he strides from the room, bronzed, toned and gloriously naked. And no tan lines—yikes!
My objections are still set to mute when he returns a few moments later, the open bottle and our barely touched glasses in his hands. Placing mine on the nightstand, he unfolds my clutch from his arm as I try very hard to keep my eyes on his face.
‘You’re bag was ringing,’ he says, dropping it to the bed.
Tucking the sheet around my bourgeois body for modesty sake, I reach for the glass, swallowing a gob-full as I fish out my phone.
I have a missed call, followed by a text, the little blue bubble reading: Hey hun, how’s tall dark & delicious? Does he make u horny? Can’t wait for details!!
I wonder why she’s texting, didn’t she have big plans of her own? Leaving the question for later, I text back my response. Hey, the porn industry called. They want their lines back. In the 80’s. P.S. A lady never kisses and tells. Good job we don’t know any ladies, right?
Bloody woman will be gloating for weeks.
I take the opportunity to study said tall, dark and delicious over the rim of my glass. Sprawled unselfconsciously on his side, modesty obviously isn’t an issue when you look like he does. Athletic and lithe, he has the kind of contouring that would rival fine architecture. Or in other words, he looks good enough to climb. I study the deliciously defined muscle lineation, my eyes drawn to his prominent hip bones as I follow the lustful path of his happy trail to his, currently, semi-happy di—
‘Everything in order?’
My body jolts and I nod furiously, cheeks sizzling hot and probably the colour of an open for business sign in a red light district.
‘Despite your escape plans, would you stay the night?’
Stunned further into silence, our eyes lock, but I don’t speak.
‘Don’t tell me, you have to get back. You’ve a goldfish to feed.’
He wants me to stay. Think girl, speak! Add a few words together, make a sentence.
‘Or maybe the cat does have your tongue, though I definitely remember it being in your mouth earlier,’ he reflects. ‘And mine.’ As he leans toward me, it’s all I can do not to inhale him right there. Swallow him whole. ‘Maybe I should check.’
‘I can stay.’ My voice is barely audible. I use it as an excuse to swiftly drain the contents of my glass and turn to place my bag on the nightstand. ‘And I’m not mute.’
‘Is that a challenge?’
I almost drop my bag. Drawling and languid, his words sound like some kind of sensual threat. Heat fans out across my skin, and not just from blushing. Forcing my frozen body into motion, I turn and clear my throat, trying for a change in subject. An alternative to melting off the bed.
‘What time is your checkout in the morning?’
‘I don’t have one. The suite is permanently booked for my use.’
‘You live here?’ I squeak. His family owns a school and he lives full time in a five-star hotel. What planet is he from again?
‘No, I have a house,’ he answers evenly, eyes sliding to my chest where the sheet is no longer i
n my grasp. ‘I don’t live here full-time.’
Quickly recovering my modesty, I tuck the edges under my arms. Of course not. Because living in a hotel part-time isn’t odd at all.
‘My house is out of the city and, well, it’s complicated,’ he says with a careless shrug. He slips a hand beneath his head, the muscles of his torso flexing. ‘It’s on the family estate. My mother and father, we each have houses there, along with some extended family.’ His expression is unreadable until I adjust the sheet, when he smiles. ‘The hotel is better located, there’s less traffic to contend with and it’s private.’
His gaze glides to mine, morphing into something more intense, electrifying the air. Like a vortex, all the energy in the room is sucked into the small space between us. I’m conscious of my chest heaving, like the huge, desperate cliché that I am. Then his mouth slides against mine briefly, tasting and teasing, before his tongue and lips make their way across my jaw. I try to hold on, my thoughts disjointed as the pleasure of his mouth licks at my skin, but one thought floats free.
His mother and father each have houses. Divorced, maybe?
‘Relax,’ he whispers hotly in my ear.
I shiver, my body’s disloyal reactions almost innate, and definitely in conflict with my brain, but I manage to hang onto that one thread.
‘Listen, Kai,’ I say, untangling myself from his arms.
‘A goldfish, then?’ he asks, pulling back.
‘What? No, it’s just, I usually get to know a person before I . . . er . . . hop into bed.’
Person. Singular. Other than a few teenage fumbles which surely don’t count. And I’ve just doubled my total, I realise.
‘I like that I’m the exception to your rule.’ Fingertips brush my collarbone, lips replacing his hand which trails lower, as words and kisses breathe against my skin. I struggle not to surrender to the sensations as he growls, ‘And I’m all for first times.’
‘Boss!’ I squeak out as his tongue dips beneath the sheet at my chest. ‘You’re my boss!’
‘Technically, not.’ The words are muffled, spoken between fabric and gritted teeth as he attempts to playfully tear the sheet away.
‘Really?’ I glance down, tightening my arms against my sides and, therefore, the covering.
‘Really,’ he repeats emphatically, pulling away with a sigh. ‘I understand your concerns, but this isn’t going to make a difference to your job. I’m hardly likely to mention it to Arwa, or anyone, for that matter. My private life is just that. And I’m very good with secrets.’ Though it’s a relief to hear, I still feel hollow. Still look easy. ‘Look,’ he sighs, still regarding me with a mixture of frustration and amusement. ‘I don’t know what the issue is here. We’re both single, no one’s judging. No one’s hurt.’
A silent yet hangs in the air, but maybe only I can hear it. Throwing a theatrical arm across my eyes, I sigh loudly. ‘I don’t need anyone’s judgement. I’ve enough of my bloody own.’
‘Very melodramatic.’ Lifting my arm, he grins down at me. ‘No man ever complained a woman got into his bed too quickly, and as I’ve been having mildly pornographic thoughts about you since you fell into my arms, this was a foregone conclusion. I’d have pursued you doggedly,’ he adds with a wolfish grin.
I find myself laughing unexpectedly, despite the fact that he’s totally missed the point.
‘Sounds slightly ominous.’
‘Only slightly? It’s a wise woman who can read the subtext.’
‘‘Dunno about that. I have enough trouble with the obvious without wondering if I’ll end up tied to the bed.’
‘A gentleman never handcuffs a lady to his bed,’ he replies, his smile taking on a curious sort of edge. ‘Not without her permission, at least.’
‘Not given,’ I counter, heat expanding below my waist. Handcuffs and beds, not a proven combination in my kind of experience. Which amounts to very little, but still.
‘Yet.’ That one word seems both like a promise and threat, a shivering sensation snaking through my insides. ‘Tell me you want this.’
‘I . . . I . . . ’ Want handcuffs? To be tied to the bed?
‘Come on, Kate, something brought you here.’
‘Yeah, it’s called a cab.’ Sarcasm is my usual go-to response. I can hide anything behind curt words. But this time, his firm expression makes me feel a little ill. I don’t like it, don’t want to feel as though I should hide. Wrapping my arms around my legs, I rest my chin on my knees. ‘I wanted to be someone else,’ I say quietly, not daring to look at him. ‘Experience something else. And,’ I add in a whisper, ‘I just wanted you.’
I risk a look at his face and his smile steals my breath. I know at this moment, whatever happens from here, even after this bites me on the behind in the not too distant future, I will never forget this smile. His smile. This moment. And the fact that I was brave enough to follow him upstairs.
‘That was the perfect answer,’ he says, pulling me into his arms and nestling my head into the hollow of his shoulder, his fingers tracing the outline of mine. ‘What should I tell you?’
‘What about?’
‘As I see it, your concerns are due to our positions, my being your boss, which,’ he adds quickly, ‘technically, I’m not. And the fact that we’re, well, new friends. So let’s get acquainted. Tell me what you want to know and then you can tell me all about you. The bits not included on your CV.’
‘Wait, what, technically you’re not my boss? What’s that supposed to—you haven’t seen my CV, have you?’ My body tenses and I suddenly feel a very bit sick; doesn’t he know the C in CV stands for calumny, at least for me? Everybody lies a little on their resume, surely?
I hope he doesn’t have a flute lying around because I can only play champagne ones.
‘Relax,’ he says, dismissing the question. I try, and fail, to come up with a response as he pulls me back against him. ‘Cat’s got your tongue again, that was what your friend called you, wasn’t it, Kitty-Kat?’
‘Niamh,’ I grumble, ‘calls me whatever she likes.’
‘I like it. Kitten,’ he says as though trying out the word. ‘It suits you.’ I don’t ask why, just accept the warmth in his voice, though correct me if I’m wrong, isn’t it a bit early for pet names? Wrapping an arm around my shoulder, he twists a lock of my hair between his fingers. ‘What should I tell you . . . pretty kitty?’
‘Anything,’ I answer, not daring to move. ‘Whatever you like.’
‘Shall I start with the fun parts? Proclivities, sexual and otherwise?’
‘We could start with shoes.’ Christ on a bike, I did not just say that.
His body is immobile for a beat before a subterranean laugh racks through his chest. ‘Is there something in particular you’d like to know?’ He chuckles darkly, not unlike a villain setting a trap.
‘You . . . like . . . shoes?’ And I’m guessing he does. I’ve never before had sex with something on my feet. Unless you count socks. Don’t judge, winter nights in Brisbane can be pretty brutal.
‘I like heels, but no more than the next man, I imagine. Not that I’ve ever asked the . . . next man.’ His brow puckers. ‘The key is whom the shoes adorn.’ He kisses my head lightly, rising and reaching under the tangled sheet for my foot, in doing so, revealing much of my leg. My heart pounds as the lack of covering reveals more than I’d normally be comfortable with, but I refuse to move and keep very still, desperately trying to channel sophisticated nonchalance.
‘For me, shoes are a matter of aesthetics,’ he murmurs.
From my heel in his palm, his eyes follow the line of my exposed leg. I swallow the urge to snatch my foot back instead, rising onto my elbows, chin raised in defiance of myself. Not that he seems to notice as he stares intently at my pink painted toes balanced in his hand.
‘I like the way the arch of your foot is stretched and elongated in a heel.’ My body jolts in reflex, his finger stroking my high arch, as I fight the deep-seated instinct to pull away. ‘
And I’m fascinated by the pain in wearing heels, for pleasure. It’s almost masochistic, don’t you think? Pain in exchange for beauty.’
His low-spoken words mirror his touch, blending the sensations as he strokes a fingernail against my sensitive sole. I resist in small, helpless movements, my body arching from the bed.
‘There’s something very seducing about the combination; such feminine elegance set against the edge of danger in the weapon-like point of a heel.’ His voice seems to drop in register, his fingers travelling along the inside of my leg. ‘Almost your whole being balanced on that one, thin point. Like it’d take nothing to push you over the edge.’ Blinking heavily, he pulls back, lowering my foot to the bed. ‘And, of course, they just make your arse look great. How was that; answer enough?’
‘Y-yes, thanks.’ My words are strangled and higher than I’d like. I feel hot. Turned on. How could I not be?
‘Any other burning questions?’
I blink rapidly. ‘Your name, we could start with that.’
‘Kai doesn’t qualify?’ he asks with a quirked brow.
I don’t need to answer that, right?
Sweeping his right hand to his heart, he bows his head. It’s something I’ve only seen done in old movies. Without the amused air. And of course, usually the hero is clothed.
‘Kais bin Faris bin Hamad Al Khalfan.’ He peers solemnly from beneath his lashes.
‘Wow, that’s some name. It’s um, a bit of a mouthful,’ I bluster, trying very hard not to look in the general direction of his crotch. ‘So, you’re from here, an Arab, from the Emirates, I mean?’
I hadn’t even considered the possibility, especially given his accent; elocution so crisp I’m surprised it doesn’t cut his tongue. But I was warned and he does smell great and I have been charmed into parting with my undies. But really, that isn’t fair. I expect the elastic in my good girl knickers snapped the minute he walked into my classroom.
‘Yes and no,’ he says, as my attention returns. ‘I suppose it depends on your perspective. The term Arab relates more to culture, rather than nationality. My mother is English and my father is Emirati, and by virtue of that, so am I.’ This makes no sense to me. I must look confused. ‘Culturally speaking,’ he continues, ‘or at least in the Arab culture, you are considered the same nationality as your father, regardless of where you or your mother were born. As I grew up between the UK and here, I’m a little culturally schizophrenic, I suppose.’