the garment to the ground. But when his hands moved to the belt of his trousers she looked away, suddenly and shyly aware of her total lack of experience.
Should she tell him? Would he think she was some sort of frigid freak? Worse still, would he be overcome by an outdated chivalry and refuse to make love to her?
Clamping her mouth to hold back the confession that threatened to tumble out, she kicked off her shoes, not caring whether they landed on the stone terrace beside the bed or in the pool a few feet away.
Lithely, Rafiq came down beside her, muscles shifting and coiling, a study in gleaming bronze power. Lexie swallowed to ease a dry throat as the sheer size of him struck home. Without the civilising influence of his superbly tailored clothes, the difference between her female slenderness and his forceful masculinity overwhelmed her.
But that initial qualm was immediately eased by his gentleness as he began to slide the dress down her body.
Only to stop when he saw the faint shadows on her ribcage. She said quickly, ‘They’ve just about gone now.’
‘I don’t want to hurt you.’ He bent his sleek black head and kissed them, his lips sending darts of sensation to her very soul.
‘You couldn’t hurt me.’ When he hesitated, she held her breath in an agony of supplication.
He said, ‘I will be very careful, and you must tell me if there is any pain.’
‘I will.’
Her eyes flew open in dismay as another thought presented itself. What if he thought she was using contraceptive medication?
As though he’d read her mind, he asked, ‘Are you protected, my sweet one?’
‘No,’ she mumbled, rigid with embarrassment.
‘It is no problem.’ He got off the bed.
Lexie knew she should be relieved, and was shocked to discover that the thought of carrying Rafiq’s child sent a subversive pang of longing through her.
Keeping her eyes away from what he was doing, she looked downwards. Her gaze stopped on the thong her sister had insisted she wear under the silk dress.
Should she take it off?
Colour mantled her skin, and desire ebbed under the weight of her embarrassment. How on earth did people ever make love with all these things to think about?
‘What is worrying you?’
It was scary just how easily he could read her. ‘Nothing.’
But once she was in his arms again, and his mouth on hers wreaked the familiar havoc to her busy mind, the need came back, swift and sure and compelling. Her virgin fears and worries vanished in an intense, voluptuous craving for something only Rafiq could give her.
‘You taste like desire,’ he said. ‘Warm and silken and mind-blowing.’
His hand touched her breast, and she was unable to prevent a convulsive jerk of response.
‘What is it?’ he demanded.
‘I just… I can’t… I want you so much,’ she finished in a rush, scarlet with an odd sort of defiance, but determined to be honest.
His laughter was deep and intimate. Her hips thrust upwards in an involuntary plea and demand for something she craved so much she could feel the wanting in her bones.
Against her skin, he murmured, ‘So fierce you are, so responsive, so passionate, my dove. But shy—I won’t break if you touch me.’
Almost dazed by the ferocity of her need, she smoothed a hand over his chest, her fingertips tingling at the resilience of his skin, the subtle shift and move of the muscles and tendons, their power and promise.
‘Yes,’ he whispered, his warm breath tantalising the sensitive tip of her breast. ‘Touch me, Lexie, as you want to—and as you want to be touched.’
Cautiously she ran a coaxing, tentative hand across his shoulder, her fingertips thrilling at the heat of his fine-grained skin, the coiled strength that called to something deep inside her. Her breath came quickly; she bent her head so that her hair fell across him in a golden-amber flood, and then she kissed the path her fingers had made, rejoicing at the sudden thunder of his heart.
Emboldened, she opened her mouth and licked him, savouring his taste—a hint of salt, faint musk, all vital male.
Passion was a painful flame, an exciting demand, a surge of sensation through her so intense it was all she had room for. She said in an aching voice, ‘You are beautiful.’
‘Ah, no.’ Rafiq sounded oddly shaken. ‘That is for me to say to you. But beautiful does not convey enough—you are lithe and graceful, a woman of flame and satin and desire. The moment my eyes found you, I knew that this was inevitable.’
And he kissed her again, banishing her final fears and worries so completely that she willingly followed wherever he led, her body arching in uncontrollable urgency as he showed her what pleasure points lay in her breasts, her waist, the tiny hollow of her navel, the sleek curves of her hips…
And the removal of the thong became an erotic experience that almost banished all of her shyness.
But when his black head moved lower, she stiffened. He dropped a final kiss on the plane of her stomach and looked up, his eyes unexpectedly keen.
Colour flooded her skin. Rafiq smiled slowly, almost cruelly, and stroked one lean, long-fingered hand from the hollow of her throat. A thread of fire followed that deliberate claiming, radiating between the high peaks of her breasts, across her stomach, finally erupting when he cupped the wildly sensitive mound at the junction of her legs.
It was a gesture of pure possession—a statement of ownership—and oddly it gave Lexie a confidence she’d never have achieved otherwise.
Eyes holding his, she mimicked the sweep of his hand, letting her fingers linger on the antique pattern of hair across his chest, discovering the small, masculine nipples. The dark flush across his high, patrician cheekbones made her even bolder; she slid her palm across his flat, taut abdomen, relishing the hardening of muscles beneath her touch.
Narrow hips beckoned. Carefully, lovingly, she outlined them, bending to kiss the lean contours of his body.
And then her confidence faltered, faded. He was acutely aroused, and she literally didn’t know what to do next.
He laughed quietly, darkly glittering eyes registering her embarrassment without censure. Silently he moved his hand and, as she bucked beneath his probing fingers, he found the passage that waited for him so eagerly, and explored it with a gentleness she found unbearably stimulating.
A soft, almost guttural sound broke past her lips. Gripping his shoulders, she felt the slickness of sweat beneath her hands, but this time she was too lost in the shatteringly sweet sensations he was conjuring to understand what was happening to him.
She needed—her whole body yearned for—something. Connection, completion, she thought inadequately, a unity she could only imagine, yet it was what she’d been waiting
