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.
‘Kaisbin 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 hedoessmell great and Ihavebeen 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.’
Ah, the accent! The sexy inflection, too.
‘So you’ve been about a bit? I mean, you’re a bit of a Bedouin?’ I regret the words as soon as they’re in the air. Talk about foot in mouth. Just how culturally insensitive was that, I wonder?
‘I suppose.’ He smiles, as though humouring a small child.
‘With tent and camels?’ I squeak, to my further horror, as my imagination conjures up images of him dressed a bit likeLawrence of Arabia.Complete with a harem of supermodels.
He chuckles then, my expression obviously something to laugh at. ‘Camels and a tent, check.’
‘And you’re Kais, not Kai?’ I ask, fighting to ignore my prickling skin and trying to return to sensible ground.
‘Kai is short for Kais. It was my mother’s choice of name.’ His face clouds with introspection before clearing almost as quick. ‘Then Bin Faris, son of Faris. Faris is obviously my father’s name. Bin Hamad, or son of Hamad, my grandfather. And Al Khalfan, which is my family name.’
‘Wow, it must really suck learning to write that as a kid. Not to mention the complications of marriage.’
Really, I’m a redneck at this moment.
‘I can’t say I remember, a benefit of the passage of time,’ he says, smiling indulgently. ‘And women don’t change their name on marriage here, they stay daughter of the father, granddaughter of...’ He runs a hand through his bed-head, the action almost self-conscious.
‘Kais is a lovely name,’ I murmur, blushing as his eyes return to mine.
‘Thanks. She’s a bit of a romantic at heart, my mother.’
‘It’s a romantic name?’ God, I sound so high school, maybe I can blame the kids?If-you-hang-around-with-them-long-enough-you’ll-end-up-speaking-like-them, sort of?
‘It’s the name of a literary hero, the love story of Layla and Kais? It’s the Eastern version of Romeo and Juliet, I suppose.’
‘Kais, he’slike, a Romeo?’
‘You could say that.’
‘You’re making it up.’ I narrow my gaze.
‘But what’s in a name?’ He pouts, paraphrasing the Bard himself. ‘But if you’re interested in the actual onomatology, Kais means firm.’ His fingers slowly inch up my leg. ‘And lover.’
