The Sheikh's Last Seduction

by Jennie Lucas

  The woman left, and he took over, pressing his hands against Irene’s back, massaging the warm, pink skin of her naked, overheated body.

  * * *

  Aziza had told Irene that the hammam, or Turkish bath, would be steamy. “A sort of middle place between heaven and hell,” she’d said, then added hastily, “but you’ll like it. Trust me.”

  Irene had already sat naked on a marble slab in a dark alcove for an hour, sweating profusely in steam that was thick as mist. Periodically, the female bath attendant had returned to splash Irene’s naked body with hot soapy water, dumped from buckets, then used a coarse hand mitt to scrub her skin from top to bottom. After several times of this procedure, Irene had started to feel like her skin was glowing and also slightly raw.

  The worst was that she couldn’t see anything in the hammam except patterns of shadow and light. She’d taken off her glasses, leaving them with her clothes in the changing room. Without them, she felt disoriented, even helpless, but maybe it was all for the best. Getting totally naked in front of a stranger, even one as businesslike as the female attendant, was a brand-new experience. Without glasses, and with no contact lenses either, she couldn’t tell if the attendant was judging the shape of her body. Irene couldn’t have even said what the attendant’s face looked like. Especially in the deep shadows of the hammam. The only light came from the enormous dome above, gleaming tiny pinpoints of light, leaving dappled stars onto the white marble. Heaven and hell indeed.

  Just like the last three months had been.

  She’d seen Sharif every day, lived in the same palace, even the same hallway. Every morning, every evening, she’d sat across from him at the dining table. She’d seen his darkly handsome face, heard his voice. They’d spoken about politics and world affairs; they’d discussed Makhtar’s recent international film festival and new art gallery. And that was just in public. In private, when they were alone, they’d teased each other about everything and nothing.

  Sharif knew her now. He knew her as no one ever had. He knew her, though he hadn’t kissed her since that night in Dubai.

  After she’d started learning Arabic with a Makhtari tutor, Sharif had asked her to be his de facto hostess, entertaining ambassadors and heads of state. Breathlessly, Irene had dressed in designer gowns from local boutiques. She’d entered the ballroom on his arm. Once she would have been shy and afraid of strangers, but now, at his side, she was ready to do battle, to do her best to charm his friends and enemies alike. For him. All for him.

  She wanted to make him proud. She wanted to make his dark eyes gleam as he smiled at her across the ballroom. And afterward, when they were alone, she wanted to hear him say in his deep, sensual voice, “Thank you, Miss Taylor. You are a pearl beyond measure. Makhtar is grateful for your service.”

  “I know,” she would tease in reply. “You’re seriously lucky to have me. All the other emirs keep calling.”

  He would laugh, then his eyes would turn dark and he would start to say something—then stop himself. Irene would catch her breath and turn away. Without even asking what he could not say. Because she knew.

  Heaven had turned to hell. Having Sharif so close, but never being able to touch him, never being able to say what was truly in her heart...it was agony.

  How could she bear to stay another day?

  How could she ever bear to go?

  In a week, whether she was willing or no, Irene would leave Makhtar forever. Aziza would be married to a man three times her age, and Sharif would take as his queen a woman he despised. No one was marrying for love here. All those lives ruined.

  Including, she was starting to fear, her own.

  “Stop thinking,” the bath attendant barked in English, sloughing Irene’s shoulders with the rough hand mitt, scrubbing her skin until she flinched. “Too tense!”

  “Yes.” She sighed, and tried to obey. The woman pulled her to standing and rinsed her with a shock of cold water, then stepped back and made some sort of gesture. She waited expectantly.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t see,” Irene said apologetically for the tenth time.

  “Come,” the woman said roughly in English, grabbing her hand. “I take.”

  She led Irene out of the alcove, to the center of the hammam, beneath the dome. She gently pushed her to lie down, with her naked belly against the marble slab in the center of the room, on the edge of the illuminated blue pool. Irene sighed as she felt the cool marble beneath her skin. Her backside was covered with a towel, and thick white steam floated beneath the tiny beams of light, between the shadows.

  “Close eyes,” the attendant said, and Irene obeyed. She tried not to think, not to let herself feel the rising heartbreak inside her, but quiet her mind and soul and just let the attendant’s hands massage the aching muscles of her shoulders.

  But just as Irene started to relax, the hands were gone. She heard a heavy step, the attendant’s intake of breath. Then the hands returned to rubbing her back, even more intently than before.

  She tried not to think about Sharif. It was impossible. In just a week, Irene would leave this country, and never see him again... Never feel his eyes on hers. Never feel the heat of his body as he brushed innocently against her in the hallway. Never feel his hand take hers, or the soft innocent press of his lips against her cheek. Never see his smile, or the wicked gleam of his dark eyes.

  Cold water was splashed on her naked body in the semidarkness. She heard the hiss of hot coals. Felt the hard, firm hands slowly kneading into her tense back, going slower, deeper...

  Why couldn’t she forget Sharif? Why wasn’t this working?

  She couldn’t be falling in love with him. She couldn’t. He was promised to another. And she’d made promises to herself, to her own future, that she intended to keep.

  How she wished there had been another choice. But there wasn’t. Soon, another woman—his bride and queen—would take Irene’s place at all those diplomatic dinners.

  “Walk with me,” Sharif had said quietly last night, as he often did when they were dining just as a family, without all the fuss and pomp of ceremony. For two hours after dinner, they’d been alone, walking together in the moonlight of the garden. But for the first time, there had been no teasing laughter between them. No laughter of any kind.

  “What is the emir’s future bride like?” she’d asked Basimah wistfully that morning.

  The older woman had turned red. “Do not ask me about her.”

  “But you’ve met her. Aziza said your sister worked in her household once, was even her personal maid.”

  “The emir is getting what he deserves, that’s all I’ll say,” Basimah muttered. “Making my poor lamb marry that sultan. If I could do something to prevent his wedding, if I knew something that would prevent it, I still wouldn’t lift a finger. That’s all I’m going to say about his fine bride with her fine fancy feathers. They deserve each other.”

  So Irene had been forced to go looking online for pictures of the Makhtari heiress. It didn’t make her feel better. The beautiful future queen of Makhtar was all brilliant eyes and severe cheekbones and pouting red lips, skinny as a rail and always dressed in the highest fashion.

  She’d seen pictures of Kalila Al-Bahar at a royal polo match... Skiing in Gstaad... Coming out of a club in London, dressed in a fur... Attending a royal wedding. After graduating from an expensive boarding school in Switzerland, she had skipped college to become a full-time jet-setter. She would fit into Sharif’s world as she, Irene, never could.

  The pressure gentled on her back. Rough fingertips slid down her naked skin in a way that was distinctively...sensual. And Irene’s eyes flew open.

  Twisting her head, she looked back and saw a dark blur. She couldn’t see a face. But she knew.

  “What are you doing here?” she choked out. “You aren’t supposed to be in here!” />
  Sharif’s voice was low, even silky. “I rule this country. I can go where I please.”

  “Not in the women’s bath in the palace!” Sitting up, she tried to twist around in a way that would hide her body. It was impossible. She wanted to cover herself with a towel, but couldn’t find it. She was naked, sitting on a slab of marble, in the hot steam of the hammam, alone with the man she wanted most. The man she couldn’t—mustn’t—have!

  “What are you doing here?” she cried again, covering her breasts with her arms.

  She felt, rather than saw, his eyes slowly rake over her body.

  “I came to...” His voice was hoarse. “To tell you...”

  His words trailed off. He abruptly pulled her against him.

  “Irene,” he whispered against her lips. She felt his hands grip her upper arms. Felt the heat of the steam room and the rawness of her pink, freshly scrubbed skin. His hands tightened. She heard his ragged intake of breath.

  And he savagely lowered his mouth to hers.

  This kiss had nothing of tenderness in it. It was searing. Hungry. Demanding. It took possession, hard and deep.

  She felt Sharif’s lips on hers, and after her three months of yearning, something snapped inside her. She forgot she was naked—or didn’t care—she just needed him, needed this, or she would die. Wrapping her arms around him, she returned the kiss desperately, kissing him back so hard that it bruised her lips, needing to taste him, to possess him in return.

  He shoved her back against the marble, kissing her as if he’d lost his mind, and she kissed him back with equal force, because she’d certainly lost hers. They held each other in a frenzy of mutual passion and need. He roughly started pulling off his clothes, ripping off his shirt, then his trousers. Above the hiss of water dripping against hot coals on the other side of the darkened, domed room, empty of everything except the six-sided marble slab surrounding the illuminated blue water of the pool and the pinpoints of light above, she heard the gasp of his breath as he pulled her back hungrily into his arms. His hands swept down her naked skin, and she touched him all over, realizing he was naked, too. Naked against her, in the hot, steamy hammam, suspended directly between heaven and hell.

  She kissed him, nibbling on his lower lip, gasping as she felt his hands cup her aching breasts. He licked up her neck, sucked on the tender flesh of her earlobe, then moved down her body, tasting every inch of her as he went down, down to the valley between her breasts.

  “I’ve wanted you—for so long,” he choked out. “For months I’ve thought only of you—”

  He pushed her full breasts together with his large hands, pressing his lips in the cleavage between before he moved to suckle her. She cried out. She’d never felt any sensation like this before. Never imagined what it could be.

  She twisted on the marble as he moved down her body, his wet, hard body sliding slowly against hers. He gripped her hips, then went down farther. She trembled beneath him as his fingertips traced the outside edge of her body, her waist to hips to knees, all the way to the sensitive soles of her feet, which he kissed, one by one. Then he slowly moved upward, pushing her legs apart—kissing to her inner knees—upward, upward...

  He used his powerful hands to part her thighs. He lowered his head. Irene suddenly couldn’t breathe, as she felt the warmth and heat of his breath against her most sensitive core. If some part of her was screaming that she had to stop, stop this now, she wouldn’t let herself hear it. Later. She’d let herself think later. When her body wasn’t on fire with need for him... For only him....

  He inhaled, exhaled, as if breathing her into the rhythm of his own heart. Then he moved his head closer and licked her inside thigh. Her eyes squeezed shut, her lips parted in a gasp. He moved up higher, gripping her legs, holding her down against the marble. Finally, with agonizing slowness, he lowered his head.

  He took a long, lingering taste between her legs, so deep and slow that her hips bucked with the intense wave of pleasure that crashed over her, nearly drowning her with desire and need.

  “Sharif...” she gasped. “You...you can’t...”

  But he could. And he did. Using his mouth and tongue, he teased her, using her body as if he’d known it all his life. As if he knew it better than she did. She twisted beneath him, side to side, nearly weeping with the weight of her desire. She would do anything. Anything.

  As he continued to lick and suckle her aching wet core, she felt him push a single thick fingertip inside her. Then another. He invaded her tight, virgin body, slowly stretching her with his fingertips, as she expanded to accept him inside her. Caught in the onslaught of brutal pleasure she’d never imagined possible, her body went tighter and tighter still, as her hips lifted of their own accord. Her lips parted with a long intake of breath that seemed to go on and on and on, until she felt dizzy beneath the shadows and light of the Turkish bath, beneath Sharif himself, as the world spun around her, and sent her flying.

  She hung on to his shoulders with her fingernails as she flew and flew. She heard a scream as the black-and-white world exploded into a million bright colors, and fell, chiming like music.

  Sharif moved over her almost instantly, lifting his body so that the thick hardness of him was between her legs, demanding entry.

  She lay beneath him, limp with pleasure, unable to resist. Not wanting to resist. Any thoughts she’d once had of the future or honor were washed away from her mind, like sand beneath an ocean wave. Who cared about something so unimportant as the future? What was that, compared to this?

  He drew back his hips, to plunge inside her.

  Her eyes lifted to his face. Even this close, she couldn’t see his face. All she could see was shadow.

  The moment before he would have entered her, he hesitated. He held himself still.

  Then, with a low curse, he rolled off her.

  It took several moments before she realized he wasn’t coming back. She blinked, struggling to understand, to awaken from the sensual haze.

  Something white flew toward her. Looking down at her lap, she saw a towel. He’d thrown her a towel?

  “Get dressed,” he growled. Bending over the tile floor, he picked up his trousers and pulled them over his naked, hard, unsatisfied body.

  Irene’s throat suddenly hurt. She looked down at the towel, at her own naked body. She’d thrown herself at him, she realized. She’d been willing to throw everything away for the sake of a single moment—and he was turning her down.

  “I don’t understand,” she said in a small voice.

  “Don’t you?” he said in low fury.

  Wrapping herself in the towel, she rose from the marble. She felt humiliated. She hadn’t known. She hadn’t fully realized how overwhelming sex could be, the need that could block out all reason, as primal as the need to breathe or eat or sleep.

  Close as she was, without her glasses, she still couldn’t see his face. As her cheeks turned hot in shame, she was glad. “I can’t imagine what you think of me.”

  “No. You can’t.”

  She said over the razor blade in her throat, “Was it to teach me a lesson? That I’m nothing more than a naive fool, a prude, with my ridiculous dreams of love and saving myself—”

  “No,” he cut her off. “It wasn’t a lesson.” She saw the tension of his shoulders, the set of his body that was like a trap waiting to snap shut. “It was a mistake.”

  “I never knew it could feel like that.” She suddenly felt like crying. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry?” Going to her, he lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. Now they were so close, she finally saw his agonized dark eyes. “I am to blame,” he ground out. “Only me. When I came here, I never meant...but I saw you and—” Dropping his hand, he clawed back his dark hair. “I am the only one to blame.”

  So it hadn’t been a t
est? Her heart started beating again. “Then why did you stop? I couldn’t have stopped you.”

  “You could have stopped me at any time—just by saying no.”

  “But I couldn’t. The way it felt...” Irene took a shuddering breath. “I lost all control, I lost my mind. If it wasn’t a test, then I don’t understand. You had me in your power. Why didn’t you...”

  “Why didn’t I take you?”

  Wordlessly, she nodded.

  Sharif stared at her for a long moment. “You say that you now understand how overwhelming passion can be. I now understand what you were talking about as well. Making love should be an expression of love. Love that lasts forever.” Reaching out, he stroked her cheek and whispered, “I won’t take your dream away from you.”

  Irene realized that tears were spilling over her lashes. And it was in this moment that she knew, knew it to her very blood and bones, that if she’d made love with him today it would have only been the expression of what was in her heart.

  She loved him. All of him, his honor and ferocity and humor and selfishness, all of him, with every bit of her soul.

  “Sharif...” she choked out. Don’t marry that other woman, beautiful as she is. Marry me. Love me.

  “You’re getting what you want,” he said in a low voice. “That’s what I came to tell you.”

  She gaped at him.

  He gave her a smile that didn’t meet his eyes. Dropping his hand, he stepped back. “I’ve canceled my sister’s wedding, Miss Taylor. You’ve won.”

  “Aziza’s free?” Irene closed her eyes as she pictured the young girl’s face. She looked at him in gratitude. “Thank you.”

  “No. Thank you. For reminding me of my place.”

  “But what about you?”

  His expression hardened. His voice was even as he said, “Canceling Aziza’s wedding means that my own must go forward as soon as possible. I will be phoning Kalila and—”