The Sheik Retold(68)

I squeezed my eyes shut for his desecration of me only to feel leisurely kisses down my spine, kisses that teased and tormented. It was not what I expected. Against my will, I was becoming strangely aroused. I knew what he intended, and it disgusted me, but beneath my thinning layer of genteel disgust was my incessantly aberrant curiosity and an acute awareness of increasing sexual excitement.

I didn't actually want this, did I?

Even as I asked myself, his hot mouth moved over my buttocks with an homage-like concentration—kissing, licking, and scoring with his teeth. I gasped at the sharp piercing sensation of his teeth deep in my flesh. Every kiss and touch ramped my lust and escalated the ferocity of my need to be filled. My breathing became shorter and my arousal almost unbearable as I imagined what he was doing to me—and what he still had planned. These mad thoughts careened beneath the sublime sensation of his mouth.

He stepped away only to reach for the bottle of almond oil still present on the bedside table. I looked over my shoulder and watched him pouring it onto his hands and then his erection. I could not prevent the rush of my pulse or the wave of wet heat between my thighs as I watched him stroke himself to full size. I bit my lip against the flare of desire upon seeing his tumescent verge glistening with oil.

He positioned himself once more, sliding his oil-slickened sheath between my buttocks, slowly and deliberately gliding it up and down, then repositioning himself between my labia, moving inside my slickened folds while his masterful hands joined the fray, his slick thumbs and finessing fingers stroking, circling, and coaxing my exceedingly reluctant orifice.

"Doucement, doucement," he crooned in the low and soothing tone he used to pacify his most refractory horses. "Relax, ma belle."

I sucked in a sharp breath at the sudden invasion of his finger in my virgin entrance. I had steeled myself for pain and humiliation, but experienced only a strange fullness. He continued to stimulate my more familiar places, using his verge to massage and stroke the folds of my chatte, even as he plunged his slick finger in and out of my arse in a rhythm that made my inner flesh contract and convulse in immense and intense pleasure.

"Please, Ahmed." The moan escaped before I could contain it.

He froze. "You have pain? You wish me to desist?"

"God no! Don't stop."

"Do you mean you want more, ma belle?" he asked in a tone of surprise.

"Yes," I hissed. I was nearly writhing beneath him.

"As you wish, my dove." I could detect the smug smile in his voice and almost wished I could slap it off his face, but that would end my pleasure. In the next moment he gripped my hips and withdrew from my chatte to reposition himself again. He circled and teased his penile head against my opening, I arched into him with an eagerness I didn't care to dwell on but sucked in an instant breath of remorse at the sudden and overpowering pressure and the almost-nausea-inducing feeling of fullness.

"Please. No more," I whimpered.

He didn't listen. He didn't stop but continued to surge steadily into me inch by agonizing inch, against my body's most vociferous protest. I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. Panic raced in my veins. Sweat beaded my brow. I was helplessly impaled. My fingers clenched and unclenched the bed covers. I closed my eyes on a muffled sob.

Then he stopped. He was buried to the hilt inside me, hot and hard and pulsing.

"Breathe. Slowly. Deeply," he soothed. "It will soon pass, ma chère."

He did not move again but waited, stroking my back and crooning soft words, until my breathing calmed and I began relaxing by slow degrees—and just like the horse, my panic was supplanted by a tranquil trust and absolute acceptance of his authority. I was utterly under his control.

Once I stilled, he tenderly kissed my neck and then gripped my hips and began to move inside me. Slowly and deliberate in a steady ebb and flow, his movement produced a point counterpoint of pleasure and pain, seconds of agony and intervals of ecstasy, until the difference between them blurred, drowning my senses in pulsating waves of profound pleasure.

I reached desperately for it as my climax coiled tighter and tighter inside me, until my mind was numb to all but my frantic need for release, but this time I could not take it for myself. Ruthlessly, he continued his slow torture of thrust and retreat, pushing me ever closer to the edge of euphoria only to ease back again. My body burned and shone with sweat. My limbs shook like jelly in my all-consuming need, but still he denied me satisfaction— until at last a keening sob erupted from my lungs.

"I shall give you what you want, my dove, but I must ask if it is your release or your freedom that you crave most."

I couldn't answer. I could barely breathe. Coherent speech was lost in my frenzy of frustration and the uncontainable sobs that racked my body. I could barely comprehend his next words for the roaring pulse in my ears. My need for release had become the very sum of my existence.

"Alors. Since I am the very embodiment of compassion, I shall give you what you need."

His grip on my hips tightened, and then his thrusts increased to a fierce and vigorous pumping. I whimpered and strained as my world spun out of control, but within seconds, the cry of someone dying a thousand terrible deaths tore from my throat. A primal roar pierced the air, joining in the chorus, as countless spurts of scalding heat exploded inside me, bursting my every nerve ending into a blinding, mind-melting orgasmic eruption.