Yes, because I know Kamal doesn’t attend the parties that his brothers throw. I heard the secretaries talking about it in the office.
My Sheikh follows me into the vehicle. If we didn’t already have a history together, I would be afraid of the icy expression on his face. I’m sure he’s angry, but despite what he said about reaching his limit, I don’t feel physically threatened.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm the pounding of my heart. Angry with me or not, the man exudes testosterone from every pore, and after over two weeks without seeing or touching him, my hormones are going crazy.
It shouldn’t be possible, but he looks even more handsome dressed in casual clothes than in his usual suit, like he did on our last night in Turkey.
“Why are you upset? We broke up. I wasn’t doing anything wrong. Besides, I’m free.”
“Bullshit. You still don’t know whether you carry my child in your womb. I warned you that until then you would be treated as my woman.”
“Oh!” Only then do I understand how he found me. There is probably someone watching me. Bodyguards.
“Why did you come?” he asks.
“I was feeling lonely. Zarif suggested I have some fun, so I accepted the invitation.”
“And having fun in your world means getting cozy with my brother on the dance floor?”
“I wasn’t getting cozy with him. I don’t know what you think of Western women, but I’m not going to jump from one brother to another.” I know I’m not being fair. Despite Kamal being formal and traditional in many respects, I’ve never seen him being sexist. The problem is that I’m very angry.
I don’t foresee his next move.
He picks me up in his arms and puts me on his lap. “No, you won’t. You’re mine.” His gray eyes are stormy, fierce, accusing.
I should push him away from me, force him to put me back in my seat. Instead, I pull him into a passionate kiss, my hands gripping the collar of his shirt.
My body shakes with hunger, longing, an unknown craving, and I do nothing to stop him when he lifts my dress and touches me inside my panties. With a tug, he tears them apart.
There’s no gentleness in his caresses, and that’s not what I need right now. I want him here and now, angry, possessive.
I know what we’re doing is wrong because what we had between us is over, but I’m craving his touch, the smell of him, his body.
“I do too,” he says. And only then do I realize I’m thinking out loud. “This wasn’t planned. You drove me crazy in there. We should talk.”
I’m not sure exactly what he’s referring to—whether it’s me coming to the party without telling him, dancing with Zarif, or maybe both—but when his big hand caresses me between my legs, everything else becomes unimportant. All I want is for him not to stop.
I bite his neck, then suck on his flesh. Kamal growls and touches me so deeply that he lifts me off his lap.
My head falls back, pleasure replacing anger, although a small part of me begs me to stop him from making me even more enslaved by my desire.
“Open my pants. I want to fuck that pussy.”
I bite his chest, his words making me lose control.
“Now, Madeline. You won’t come on my fingers but on my cock.”
My trembling hands unzip his and unbutton his pants.
He’s steel covered in silk when I touch him, and I love that he’s just as mad as I feel.
I stroke him twice before I hear him roar.
I lift my head and see his jaw clenched.
Then he lifts me and plunges into me. I let him sink into my body, making me whole.
I place my hands on his shoulders and start moving up and down on him, tightening around him each time.
