‘I said look at me.’
It takes me a beat to do so, blinking away my confusion, staring up into his beautiful and unreadable face. Unreadable but for the flash of heat now in his gaze. My eyes are drawn to the deep pulse in his neck, and when they return to his, those flecks of cognac and amber are a little more intense.
In relief, I lay down the last resistant inch, laying myself open. Submitting to him.
‘Do you trust me?’
He could well be asking what I think the chances are for rain, as his eyes leave my face for the first time, flicking to where he holds me still.
But it’s such a loaded question, and I’m painfully aware we’re here right now because of my lack of trust. His hotel room. Sofia. Essam. My heartbreak. My absolute conviction of who was between her lips.
Tears begin to gather at the corners of my eyes, leaking onto the pillow as he watches me.
He blinks, the warmth in his gaze evaporating like steam. ‘I get to see your tears now? Am I supposed to feel sorry? For you, I mean. Is this partway to making me understand how you could think so little of me?’
When I don’t answer, his hand flexes again.
‘Trust, sweetheart. It’s such an overused word, don’t you think?’ His thumb presses a fraction tighter, panic darkly bordering around the sensation as I begin to swallow convulsively. ‘How can you profess to trust me?’ His voice is so very even but for a suggestion of emotion simmering. ‘How could you say you love, yet think so little of me? Did you ever, really? Trust that I’d do you no harm?’
His mask of ennui falters, a glimpse of something passing over his face, but he’s quick to cover it. The pressure in his fingers lingers as the fire in his eyes reduces like a stove’s gas flame.
I swallow. Again. Nervous. Give me heat and anger, hell, I’ll even take cold. Because right now his intentions are frighteningly hard to gauge.
Suddenly, his fingers loosen and he pushes his palm into the downy pillow next to my head. I inhale deep, exaggerated breaths, sucking in air like a drowning man as he leans over me, his mouth covering mine, and I inhale Kai, instead.
Damn him, and damn my responses as I feel myself melt into the bed, moaning softly as our lips meet.
Has it been so long since we’ve kissed? Because, really, it feels like an age.
His soft, full lips slide over mine, leading this sensual dance. I moan again, wantonly this time, as his tongue glides against my lips as light and as deft as a butterfly’s wing. It isn’t a conscious act, I’m not trying to distract him, nor spur him on. It’s just him, my need for him outweighing everything.
Our kiss becomes frantic a moment later as his lips move over my neck, my hands feeding into his hair, anchoring him, pulling him closer as his mouth burns holes in my skin. And this? His kissing me? It hurts no less than his hand on my neck, stunting my breath. It’s no less frightening, because it hurts to want him so badly. To physically ache with need.
‘Torn open.’ His words rasp over rough bark as he climbs onto the bed, pulling back the sheet. Sliding his legs between my own, he moves them wider with his knees. ‘How could you leave me?’ His words are delivered through clenched teeth. ‘Leave me feeling like I could tear open my own chest.’ His whole body shudders above me, forearms holding his weight as I pull him closer, kissing him the words I can’t say, words I can’t find.
From the stiff length of him—his hard chest pressed against mine—to there being nothing but cool air between us, as he exhales roughly, pulling away. On his knees now, his hair is chaos from my fingers, his mouth red and darkly swollen, but I’m not sure if it’s the sudden cold blast from the air-conditioner, or the look in his eyes that makes the hairs on my arm prick and stand.
‘But there’s one thing you can always count on me for. Right, babe?’
This isn’t right. This isn’t his endearment for me. I’m Kate, kitty-kat, sweetheart, habibti, generic or otherwise. Babe is what I am—what I was—to Shane.
‘Kai, please—’
My words cease as his hands slip under my cotton tee, the sudden heat of his palms on my stomach dissolving the words on my tongue, and liquefying my reasoning. My reaction is purely visceral as I buck against where we join, skin to skin. It’s a touch that I’ve dreamt of since leaving Dubai—leaving him—both through eyes open and closed. But even through my desperation, my need to feel him, I can tell he has no plans to be kind.
Would I want him to be?
His hands travel over my ribs, skimming over my white cotton bra. He doesn’t comment on its plainness, nor tell me how good I feel under him. Reaching my shoulders, he helps bring the shirt up over my head and I fall back to the pillows as, towering above me, Kai rents the fabric in two by the seam.
‘You don’t mind do you, babe?’
‘Please,’ I repeat, unable to articulate exactly what I mean.
‘I know,’ he says, his lips a mock moue as he twists my torn shirt into one length, sleeve to sleeve. ‘No one likes to be called out, do they? You might not trust me, but at least you can always rely on me to know what you need.’
With that, he drops the ruined garment by my head, sitting back and staring at me for several, long loaded beats. He’s not looking at me with adoration, or like he can’t wait to be inside me. I’m strung out and nervous, but try as I might, I can’t ignore the pulse beating between my legs, the yearning to have him inside.
He must be aware of my nervousness as he slips the shirt from his shoulders, dropping it onto my legs as they tremble around his. Maybe it’s this that prompts him to begin stroking my arms like you might a nervous animal. It’s a cold sort of comfort, contradicted by nerve endings pricking and igniting beneath my skin. Sensation and emotion swirl like an electrical current through my limbs as he entwines his hands with my own, raising them from the bed. Kissing the very tips of my fingers, his eyes scorn the tender moment before he lowers them again. Grabbing my torn T-shirt, he twirls it around and around until it resembles some kind of cotton rope.
