The Sheikh's Reluctant American (The Adjalane Sheikhs #3) (5 page)

His mouth quirked up. “How can you skinny dip if you are not skinny—and a dip is not a swim.”

She stood, and he did as well. He seemed to have cat’s eyes—she stumbled over a rock and he took her hand and led her to the pool of spring water. Sitting down, she pulled off her boots and dipped a toe in the water—it was surprisingly warm, holding the heat of the day still. She glanced at Malid. “Are there fish in there? Snakes?”

“I assure it. It is utterly safe.” He pulled off his vest and tunic—moonlight glinted on his smooth chest and arms. Nigella’s mouth went dry.

Okay, so he was better than any fantasy sheikh. He kept himself in great physical condition, so he must workout. She wanted to put a hand on those lean muscles, to trail her fingers down that smooth skin. It wasn’t just his arrogance that drew her to him—she knew she had Daddy issues, since she was drawn to strong men with way too much cocky confidence. But Malid had another side.

He’d shared a story that he didn’t have to about being left in the desert, and that was just to make her feel better about her having admitted a weakness. He had brains—this was a smooth move; she knew to seduce her into falling in love with Al-Sarid. She could admire that. He had charm and he used it—but he also had the loyalty of his people. She’d caught small glances between those who served him and she’d also was catching on that he was a guy who always remembered to say thank you.

She was drawn to him in ways she hadn’t been to any man—that both worried her a little and sent pleasure shooting down her spine.

Malid was starting to strip off his boots and pants, and Nigella began to feel overdressed. She stood and stripped down to her borrowed underwear. She was tempted to go swimming in just that, but—well, what the hell. How often did a girl get her own sheikh at a desert oasis?

Shucking the last of her clothes, she waded into the springs.

The edge was rocky enough to give her some footing. She dipped down into the water. It wasn’t that deep—maybe four feet, she thought. Not enough to let you swim. The water lapped warm over her skin, contrasting with the cooling night air.

Naked, Malid walked into the springs. He wasn’t something of marble and perfection. She could see a scar on his shoulder and another across his right forearm. Those small marks only seemed to make the rest of him seem better—magnificent was the word that sprang to mind. He didn’t have much hair on his chest—just a little low on his belly. He was half-hard—and she liked the size of him. She also liked the smooth muscles.

Reaching out, she touched her fingers to his shoulders. It seemed to be all the invitation he needed.

He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her toward him. His hands seemed huge and warm. Her breasts pressed against his hard, warm chest. She gasped, smiled and wrapped her arms around his neck. “This going to be a problem?”

He dipped his head and kissed her, ravaging her mouth. This was no gentle first kiss. He stole her breath, seemed bent on claiming her for the night.

Pulling back, he gave her a chance to drag in some air. His hands moved down her back and over curves of her butt. “What problem do you foresee?”

He pulled her against him. Her thigh brushed against his erection. “Malid, you know perfectly well what.”

“You feel so good.”

“That is not an answer to anything.” She shivered, partly in reaction to the lust swimming through her veins, and partly because the air was getting downright cold.
But Malid was warm—no, he was outright hot as a desert sun.

He pulled her closer, kissed the side of her neck and then trailed his mouth down to her breast. She arched, and he reached between them. His fingers brushed over her thigh and settled between her legs.

“This is going to make negotiations complicated.” She got the words out with a rushed breath. Pleasure rushed over her skin and sank deeper. She was floating on the water and a haze of Malid’s magic.

He gave a hum and helped her to stretch out on the water. “I think negotiations are proceeding quite well—we are…finding a rapport from which we can better reach agreement.”

She gave a laugh, and then his mouth settled between her legs. That ended any more discussion. She couldn’t talk, couldn’t do anything but offer up sighs and try to hang onto his shoulders. She wrapped her fingers in his hair. Overhead, the stars twinkled at her and the black night held them close. She lost herself in the moment—in Malid’s clever touch and even more clever tongue. He was doing things to her, making her lose her mind, her sense, her soul.

She came with a gasp and a shiver. Touching his arm, she tried to still his touch. She was shivering now but not from the cold.

“Come,” he said. He rose up from the water and held out a hand. She put her fingers into his, and he pulled her from the water. She shivered again—this time in earnest. He grinned. “That is the desert—too hot during the day and too cold at night.”

She stepped from the water and grabbed her clothes. Malid already had swept his up. Grinning like a kid, she followed him back to one of the smaller tents. Lanterns had been lit inside, and a small fire burned in what looked like an iron stove or heater. Instant warm spread over her skin. The tent had been hung with carpets and drapery, and more carpets and pillows were piled thick to make a couch or a bed.

Before she could do more than glance around, Malid had her in his arms again. She dropped her clothing and wrapped herself around him, lifting one leg to put it around his calf. “This is not going to change my mind about wanting to buy the land for a pipeline.”

One dark eyebrow lifted. “Do you really want to talk business right now?”

She shook her head. He kissed her again. The stubble on his chin brushed her cheek. And then it was all tongue and teeth and passion. He pulled her with him down onto the pillows. She parted her legs, making room for him between them.

Pulling back, he stared at her, his eyes dark and heated. Putting a hand on her breast, he murmured, “Nigella, you are an amazing woman.” Bending down, he took one nipple into his mouth and sucked on it.

Letting out a soft moan, she put her hand on his back to urge him to do more. She dug her nails in, then moved her hands to that firm ass of his. She pulled him closer and dug in her fingernails again.

He chuckled and rose up on one elbow. “Someone is in a hurry.”

“I’m never in a hurry,” she muttered, and kissed and bit his neck.

Malid growled, reached down and pulled her hands away. “Before you completely unman him, enough.” He lifted her wrists above her head and pushed them into the pillows.” I plan to take my time. You should appreciate that.”

“Next time maybe.” She tried to pull free, but he held her fast.

“Many more times,” he told her and kissed her until she gave up and gave into him.

“Malid, stop teasing,” she begged. “It’s been so long.”

“How long?” he asked, rubbing his erection against her now.

Sweat slicked her skin and she could smell the salty tang of her arousal. “Two years too long.”

He brushed a kiss over her breast. “The men in your country are either stupid or blind. Lucky for you, I am neither.” Keeping her gaze locked on his own, he reached down and positioned himself at her entrance. “Do we need to think of a condom?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Not unless you’ve been sleeping with the wrong people or using needles. I protect myself, Malid.” She wiggled her hips. “Don’t go away on my account. Things were just starting to get interesting.”

He slid into her agonizingly slow. “Interesting? Is that the best adjective you can come up with?”

Smiling, she told him, “Why don’t you help me come up with some more.”

Malid pushed deeper into her—Nigella, his Nigella. He shouldn’t think of her as such, but he did. She was his now. He wanted to pump his seed into her—to leave a mark on her that would claim her as his. He sank into her, buried himself to the hilt, and held still, savoring the moment.

Her eyes had drifted closed and her skin—that lovely, pale skin—glowed with arousal. Pulling out, he pushed in again—slowly. He wanted to feel every precious inch. She gave a whimper and tugged again on her wrists. Ah, so he had not yet reduced her to being utterly his.

He picked up the pace, pushing in harder now—faster. She gave a moan, and he had to catch a breath and hold still a moment. Her hips bucked up under his and her eyes opened. He could still feel her nails digging into him and he knew how she would like her sex.

Pulling out, he pushed in hard. She gave another moan and buck. He smiled. This was how he liked his sex, too—hard and a little rough. Leaning down, he bit just above her nipple. Bit hard. She wiggled under him and arched. He smiled even more, pulled out and pumped in hard, thrusting so that she would feel his weight and the length of his cock. He wanted to impale her on it—wanted her moaning and trashing beneath him.

He started to pump harder—to take her, to make her his utterly. She wiggled and arched, almost fighting him, but really he knew she was fighting for her own release. Her eyes closed again and he shifted his hips so he could screw her deeper. Setting a faster pace, sweat slicking his skin and hers, he thrust deeper until he could feel himself pushing up against her uterus. She was beautiful like this—hair spilling around her, mouth slack, eyes abandoned to anything but pleasure.

He wanted to see her with her hands tied. He wanted to have her at his mercy. He wanted to blindfold her and drip hot wax on her nipples and watch her writhe as she balanced on that edge between pleasure and pain. He wanted…

Pulling out, he thrust in harder and harder—faster now, gripping her wrists, making her ride the waves of her orgasm. She gave a cry but that wasn’t enough for him—he wanted to hear that soft almost-sob again. He thrust harder into her, glad for the firm pillows under her hips, glad she was a woman built to take a hard ride like this. He pushed in faster and faster, and now her wrists went limp under his hold, her body softened. She spread her legs wider for him, inviting a more punishing ride, and that inflamed him.

Hips bucking, he rode her, faster and harder—wanting, always wanting. She gave another cry, softened even more to him—gave utterly to him—and his own orgasm swept over him, blurring the world, leaving only the feeling of being joined utterly to her.

He came back to himself to become aware of the sweat drying on his skin, his breath slowing, and Nigella under him. He had loosened her wrists, and now she dragged two fingers up and down over his arm.

“Spectacular. Blissful. Orgasmic,” she muttered, her voice still drenched with sex. “All of those and more come to mind.”

Rolling off her, he gathered her in his arms. “You still have a mind? I have not done my job.”

She gave a low laugh. “Oh, honey, if that’s not the heights of passion, then Texas ain’t a real state. Mind if I just keep floating?”

Her fingers stilled, and Malid heard a call from outside. He stiffened, listened a moment, and then extracted himself from her arms. “Wait.”

Grabbing his trousers, he pulled them on and headed outside. There was no need of more words. He could smell the change in the wind, and sand brushed his cheek. He gave a nod to the man who had called for him, gave orders for the care of the camels, and headed back into the tent to Nigella.

He tossed her the clothes she had discarded earlier. “Get dressed. Quickly.” Pulling on his tunic, he reached for his boots.

Nigella slid off the pillows. She looked ravished—her hair rumpled and her face still flushed. But her eyes were alert. “What’s wrong?”

“Sandstorm. We need to take shelter.”

She glanced around them. “Don’t we have shelter here?”

“Quickly, the storm is almost upon us. I will explain, but later.”

Thank the heavens, she didn’t take time to put everything back on—just the long shift and loose pants. Malid tossed her headdress to her, and she settled it over her tangled hair.

He wrapped his
keffiyeh
around his own head. The flaps of the tent flew open and wind pushed sand inside.

Leaning close to Nigella, he put an arm around her waist and said, “Keep your nose and mouth closed and covered.” Pulling her with him, they left the smaller tent. Nigella staggered next to him.

Half blind from the sand, he found his way to the largest tent—the one meant for meals and safely. Inside, he had to push past three layers of carpet and coverings to reach the interior. He glanced around, doing a quick head count. The camels were here, sheltered in a corner, munching grass as if wind was not buffeting the tent like a living thing trying to claw its way inside.

Nigella pressed closed to his side—she wasn’t shaking, however. He was proud of her for that. The howls of the wind increased. Malid noticed his people had things well in hand. A fire had been started, mint tea had been set to brew, and the supplies had been brought inside.

Leading Nigella to a pile of pillows, he sat and pulled her down next to him. “We must wait until the wind passes. Close your eyes and try to rest.”

She gave him a look as if he was asking the impossible, but she curled up on the pillows. A short time later, he glanced down and saw she had fallen into a light sleep. He brushed the scarf back from her face, and accepted a cup of mint tea. No one spoke much—they were all listening to see if the wind would tear apart the smaller tents, or if it would grow into a monster that might even bring down this tent.

Gradually, the howl softened and lessened. Everyone waited. Malid dozed a little. Daylight began to slip through the tent opening, and everyone began to stir. Leaning over Nigella, Malid touched her shoulder.

Her eyes opened, she sat up and took a shallow breath. “It is safe. I thought the winds would tear everything apart.”

“The small tents will have to be checked for damage, but the support beams for this one are sunk deep. It would take a much stronger storm to uproot this tent. That is why everyone took refuge here.” Malid tipped her chin up so she had to meet his eyes. “Never go outside during a sandstorm. Ever. The sand can choke you. If you are caught outside, bury yourself against a dune under a rug or next to your camel.”