The Sheik Retold(31)

"Verge," he answered me. "It is so much more…elegant."

I smiled. "And you would have an elegant verge?"

"But of course, ma chère." He brought my hand down between us and wrapped it around him. My fingers could barely touch for the breadth of him. I gasped. The hardness and heat had stolen the air from my lungs. He moved my hand slowly up and down. It was a rod of steel gloved in silk.

"Do you not think it so?" he asked.

"Yes, very elegant," I responded breathlessly.

"And this has an elegant French name as well, ma belle. He stroked his fingers thorough curls that were growing damper with every breathless beat of my heart. "The English names are far too coarse for an object of such delicacy and refinement."

"You think so?" I whispered.

"I know so, my dove." He dipped his mouth to my ear. His breath was hot and moist and sent ripples of pleasure down my neck, ripples that echoed all way to the place he was describing in such minute detail. "I have made a long study of this, finding it an object of unparalleled complexity." He stroked between my legs, exploring my wet folds. He moved his head to my breasts, kissing and biting. He took a nipple into his mouth and suckled hard before releasing it with a pop. "Indeed, my fascination with it knows no bounds."

He continued to stroke, filling me with a coiling tension and a growing impatience with his leisurely conversation and tantalizing exploration. His head moved lower down my body, no hovering over the very thing he still refused to name for me.

I licked my lips and snapped, "Tell me then, what is this name?"

"The chatte. The *." He plied his mouth to me, kissing my wet curls before delving inside. He raised his head to display a blue gaze drugged with lust. "And you, ma belle, have the most delightful one of all." He made a long and leisurely swipe of his tongue that made me arch into him with a cry.

"I thought you weren't going to be gentle." I gasped, almost accusingly.

He cocked a brow. "Perhaps this is not for you, but for me. Enjoy it well, my dove, for I intend to take my pleasure precisely as I choose. Before I am done, I will have you any way and every way that I wish."

Rather than feeling threatened, his words filled me with excited anticipation. Whether he intended it or not, I would find my own pleasure in whatever erotic torture my wicked desert lover chose to mete out—and at the moment it was his wonderful mouth stroking and lapping my contentedly purring chatte.

I was a virgin but not a complete innocent, not a stranger to my own body. I thought I understood it and was simply indifferent to corporeal pleasure, as I had touched myself many times out of idle curiosity. I knew how to incite within myself the tiny breathless ripples that gave way to bigger trembling waves, but this activity had always left me somehow dissatisfied and wanting.

I now understood that what I had believed to be the climactic experience of sexual pleasure was but a preliminary, an hors d'oeuvre, so to speak. I certainly felt like one as he devoured me— licking, tasting, nibbling with lips, teeth, and tongue. His bearded jaw tickled and teased as he feasted on me as if I were an endless banquet of erotic delights. I reveled in it, writhing beneath him and clawing his head with my raw and aching want—until I became frenzied with the need to be filled.

"It is not enough!" I cried and yanked his hair. "Take me," I demanded.

His face came up. "Are you quite certain, ma chère?" He wiped his mouth and chin with a feral smile. "I am far from satisfied, and there are many things I have yet to do that would make it easier on you." All sign of playfulness vanished. "You should enjoy your chance for pleasure now, for there is pain soon to follow."

"I don't care! Take me now."

He came over me again with hot breath that was scented of me. "I warned you about tempting the beast, Diane." He spread my legs wide and positioned the smooth, broad head of his verge deep into the folds of my chatte, moving up and down in my wetness. I knew what he did and why and that it was too late to turn back. But I did not recoil. I was the brazen huntress.

I moaned for more.

His gaze widened in surprise when I rocked my pelvis to increase the sweet, slick friction that was burgeoning between us and mushrooming in intensity. We were already damp and panting when I coiled one leg around his flank, followed by the other. He ground another warning through his teeth, "I will not be gentle."

"What makes you think I want gentle?" I arched a brow in challenge. "Perhaps I will not be gentle either."

He froze for just an instant, as if I had shocked him, and then made a savage show of sharp white teeth. "If the beast is what you wish, the beast is what you will get." He reared back and plunged into me hard and deep, tearing what remained of my despised maidenhood. It stung and burned. I was stretched and filled to bursting. I cried out, but he didn't stop.

Ruthlessly, he thrust again, harder, impaling himself deeper. I thought he desired to relieve me when he slid himself slowly out of my sensitive sheath, but it was only to slam himself back into me again, this time so hard my teeth jarred. He took no heed of me at all. His eyes were closed, his head thrown back. His mouth stretched in a rictus of intense concentration. A sheen of perspiration beaded his forehead and coated his beautiful body.

His lips pulled back in a snarl as he drove into me again, and again, his eyes snapping open as I arched my back and bucked my hips up to meet him. There was pain, but there was also pleasure in his brutality. Pleasure that excited, thrilled, and exhilarated me. It was like nothing I had ever known. Wrapping my thighs tightly about his waist, I ground my pelvis into his. His gaze narrowed, he gripped my hair and sucked fiercely on my neck. I reciprocated by scoring my nails into his back while he mercilessly pounded his massive verge into me.