deep, but then was wrenched fiercely away when just to kiss no longer satisfied. He needed to go further, explore deeper, taste more of her. And she understood totally, arching her neck into his caress, mutely inviting him to take what he wanted.
‘Yes…’
It was a sound of yearning, of encouragement, of pure need. One that made an answering need kick hard at him low down in his body.
The ridiculous apron was always in the way. Fastened tight around her waist, about her neck, it hindered every move he tried to make. But by throwing it upwards from below, he had access to the heated core of her. To the lilac-coloured, flimsy bit of nothing that guarded the centre of her femininity. The frivolous bit of silk was such a contrast to the severely practical and sensible outerwear that it brought a shaken laugh into his throat, making him catch his breath in shocked response.
‘So this is what you have hidden away under this absurd uniform. This is what the real woman wears. I like it—more than like it.’
He could feel the heat of her even from this distance, feel the moisture that betrayed her hunger. The scent of her aroused body filled his nostrils, obliterating all thought, driving him wild.
And her kisses drove him wilder. Fierce, urgent, demanding little kisses that pecked at his cheek and neck like an insistent, hungry bird. Her hands didn’t seem to know where they most wanted to be—in his hair or over his shoulders or down his arms. The jacket he wore was skimmed off, dropped to the floor, discarded carelessly. More buttons were wrenched undone, his shirt was tugged from his waistband, her fingers…
Oh, by Allah, her fingers were unstoppable, probing lower, seeking, touching, caressing…
‘Abbie,’ he groaned, but whether in encouragement or in protest at the impossibility of actually doing anything here and now, he didn’t know. ‘We can’t. We must—We—’
But a wild shake of her head denied his words, not giving him the chance to continue.
‘Kiss me,’ she demanded. ‘Kiss me!’
He would do more than kiss her! So much more!
Her breasts were tight against his chest, the hard points of her nipples communicating the sharpness of the arousal she made no attempt to hide. He wanted to get his hands on those richly curved mounds, to touch—to feel—to taste…
But first he had to get past the bib of that damned apron. The appalling flowered cotton was there between him and what he wanted so much—but not for long! With a muttered curse he wrenched at it, pulling hard at each shoulder. The thin cotton straps snapped without much difficulty, ripping apart the worn seams.
At last!
Hands shaking with hunger, with the urgency of need, Malik tugged at the buttons halfway down the prim white blouse, pulling them open roughly. The small opening he made was just enough to let him push his fingers in and touch the warm, swelling softness of one exposed breast. At the feel of his caress Abbie choked some incoherent, wordless sound of response, her eyes closing ecstatically, her mouth blindly seeking his.
Another button popped free from its restraint and now he could get his whole hand underneath her blouse. He cupped the softness of one breast, feeling its heat through the silk and lace confection of her bra. The nub of her nipple pushed into his palm in wanton demand and the ache of desire between his legs was almost unbearable.
He had to have her. Had to…
But, even as he closed his hand around her heated softness, his ears caught the sound outside the room that broke into and shattered the sensual delirium that had him in its possession.
CHAPTER THREE
‘I’LL leave that with you then…’
The voice sounded out in the hallway, coming clearly through the barely closed door. Calm and decisive and totally shattering to the heated mood that gripped the pair of them.
‘We’ll sort it out later.’
A male voice.
James Cavanaugh’s voice.
His host’s voice.
The voice of the man he had come here to negotiate with.
What the hell was he doing?
Dazed, shaken, blinking like a man dealing with the aftermath of a blow to his head, Malik lifted his eyes to lock with Abbie’s silver gaze. He found that she too had frozen into immobility, her eyes wide and staring straight at him. She looked glazed, unfocused, not seeing anything, and her head was tilted slightly to one side as if she was straining to hear.
‘Cavanaugh…’ he managed, his voice croaking roughly.
‘My—’
She swallowed hard, unable to continue to form the words.
‘Your boss.’
Malik nodded, understanding the embarrassment she would feel at being caught like this—especially with the important visitor that the family must want to impress and please as much as possible.
Your boss?
It took the space of a couple of uneven breaths for the words to penetrate the buzzing haze of shock that filled Abbie’s mind, and even when they did finally hit home they made no sense at all.
Your boss!
He thought that she worked for…
But then the sound of movement from behind the door, the sound of footsteps in the hallway, froze the thought in her mind, leaving instead room for her to grasp at a realisation that was far more stunning, more shocking.
Her father was outside in the hall.
And he was coming back.
Her father was crossing the hall, coming back, heading for the library, coming back to his guest…
He would open the door, would look across the room and he would find…
He would find her here, like…
With the instinct of panic her hand went to the gaping front of her blouse, fingers spread wide to cover the exposed white skin, the delicate flesh still slightly reddened by the touch of Malik’s hard fingers.
‘Here…’
Already Malik was moving, acting—taking charge. Already his behaviour was totally back under control—the control she had completely, abjectly lost without a hope of finding again.
He was tugging down her skirt, smoothing it over her hips, along her thighs, his movements brusque and—that damn word again!—controlled. He didn’t seem aware of the way that his touch, so cool and calm, distant as a doctor’s, made her want to cry out in shock and loss as it came so close to the spot where the throbbing tension of need even now held her in its grip. The sting of arousal still pricked at her breasts, demanding appeasement. The whole of her body felt like a long moan of protest at the way that the pleasure it had been seeking had been so brutally snatched away, leaving her lost
