The Sheikh's Impetuous Love-Slave(9)

By: Marguerite Kaye



‘Stop thinking, just feel,’ Khalid whispered to her urgently. He nudged her against the side of the bath, encouraging her to use it for support. ‘See how beautiful you are,’ he said, nodding at the mirrored tiles now blurred by condensation.

She looked, and saw a sensual creature who must be her, skin streaked with suds and bubbles, hair clinging in damp curls to her arms, her breasts. She, who had always been encouraged to think and talk and act like a man, was being forced to take on the role of a woman. A woman whose body looked more voluptuous than Juliette had thought possible. Her curves, in the steamy light of the bathing chamber, looked lush and ripe, blooming like the flowers in the overgrown garden. It all added to her sense of unreality. This wasn’t, couldn’t be happening.

Instinctively, she arched her hips towards the sponge, where Khalid soaped between her thighs with long, languorous strokes. The tightening feeling inside her increased. Her nipples began to throb, a steady aching thrum that yearned for the same touch, too. The throbbing was taken up inside her. Another tiny moan escaped her as she braced herself against the tiles, eyes tight shut, wanting this exciting, excruciating feeling to go on and on forever, and at the same time wanting it to come to some sort of juddering conclusion, some aching crescendo. The water lapped tantalizingly at her thighs. She arched her back more, unwittingly thrusting her rosy-peaked breasts upwards, in the classic pose of abandonment.

Khalid caught his breath at the sight. So devastatingly, innocently, wantonly beautiful. He had not meant things to go this far. He had not meant things to get so out of hand. Beneath the soaking wet tunic, his erection thrust itself upwards, engorged and insistent. He should stop. He would stop, but not yet. Not until she cried out for him. Not until she begged him. From the flush suffusing her breasts, from the hard darkening peaks of her nipples, he could tell it would not be long. He wanted to abandon the sponge. He wanted it to be his hands, his mouth, which brought her to the edge and over the precipice, but that would be to break his own self-imposed rules. He cupped her, squashing the sponge flat between her sex and his palm, and felt the hard nub of her. Juliette moaned, a throaty, harsh sound that made his erection swell. He rubbed just a little harder, just enough for the exquisite combination of friction and lubrication from the soap, from her own arousal, to make her shudder. She was close. By the gods, she was close, and so too was he.

Khalid squeezed the sponge again, and saw the rippling and tightening in her stomach. He rubbed harder, and at the same time took one of her delightfully hard nipples into his mouth, sucking greedily. Juliette gasped. Khalid sucked again; he slid the sponge over her sex and before he could stop her, before he could stop himself, she came, with a harsh, sharp cry, pulsing onto him.

She felt as if she was being twisted and spun in a maelstrom before being flung out to float to the surface. Crimson lights flashed behind her lids, sparks seemed to heat her blood. Another twisting tightening sensation, and it happened again, more powerfully this time. Helpless, she cried out, slumping back against the side of the bath, panting, shaking, clutching, squirming as it happened yet again, and she couldn’t stop it.

She shuddered. Flesh, hard flesh, held her. She clung tight, afraid that if she did not she would drown. The shuddering died away, rippling and eddying, leaving her feel light-headed. She opened her eyes, momentarily forgetting where she was and what had happened. When she finally did, she pushed herself free of Khalid’s embrace and retreated to the opposite corner of the bath, crossing her arms over her breasts.

What had happened to her?

Something irrevocable, she knew that instinctively.

What must he think of her?

She wasn’t sure. Something had changed between them; he was looking at her quite differently. He might as well have been naked, for a start, the way his tunic hugged his body. He was staring at her through hooded lids, his eyes dark with suppressed passion. His face was fierce, but not with anger. His hair stood up in rumpled spikes. There was a sprinkling of black hair on his chest, at the opening of his tunic. He was aroused. Juliette’s eyes widened as she took in the bulge. Very aroused.

‘No.’ She said it instinctively, without any expectation of being heeded, meaning it more for herself than for him, knowing that at this moment she would not be able to deny him. He had prepared her, just as he had promised, and though it shamed her to admit it, Juliette could not ignore the fact that he had prepared her very thoroughly indeed. Whatever he wanted from her, her body was ready to grant him.

She waited, anticipation mingling with shocking excitement. She waited for him to pull his robe over his head, for him to lay her down on the tiles and to take her. She was not the only one who was prepared. His manhood arced up under the damp of his tunic, hard and thick and proud. She waited, her breath coming hard and fast, but he made no move towards her. Instead, he turned away and slowly ascended the short flight of steps out of the bath. Disappointment, absurdly acute, welled up inside her. She stared at his retreating back, telling herself it was a welcome reprieve, quite unable, for the moment, to believe it was happening. As Khalid turned to look at her, she bit her lip, desperately trying to wipe her face clean of emotion.

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