The Sheikh's Claim. Оливия Гейтс

      She squeezed her eyes again. “Patrick …”

      He caught her head in both hands, made her open her eyes. “Is dead. And you and I are not. But we’re not alive, either. Tell me you’ve been able to truly live … without this…. ” He took her lips again as he moved his hard length over her until her tension dissolved, into seeking surrender, her body straining against his. He tore away his lips from hers to rise above her on extended arms. “Tell me you have known any real pleasure or satisfaction since me. Say you don’t crave me as much as I crave you and I will go.”

      The truth blared in her eyes, but she still said, “Craving is not everything…. ”

      “It’s enough.” He dug his fingers into her prim chignon, setting her raven silk free, burying his face in its luxury. “It’s what we have, what we need, what we can’t fight.”

      She pulled up his head by his hair. “It won’t change a thing.”

      She held his focus. She was setting terms for this encounter. That it would only be physical? Or that it would be a one-off?

      He refused to concede. “It will. It will stop this need from gnawing us hollow. Now admit it. You’ve been dying to have me again as I’ve been dying to have you. You’ll give me everything as you always did, let me give you everything you’ve always begged for, everything we’ve always had together.”

      After a long moment, she nodded. Then with sooty lashes lowered to hide her expression, she dragged his mouth back to hers.

      He growled his relief inside her as her tongue tangled with his, dueling, demanding, allowing him all the licenses he needed, taking her pleasure from him as she always did, her fervor and boldness intensifying his, her hunger and warmth and taste flowing in his lifeblood.

      One hand harnessed her by her hair’s tether as one of hers did him by his as he undid her blouse and skirt, swept them off her velvet flesh. Her other hand trembled at his zipper as he snapped open her bra, spilling her breasts. He swallowed her cry of relief, of spiking arousal, as he settled his aching flesh on top of hers, rubbing against her until she begged.

      “Do everything to me, Jalal. Fill me, ride me now, now.’’

      He rose to tear her panties off her hips, probe her satiny folds. His fingers slid in her flowing need, until she undulated against him in a frenzy. When he couldn’t stand one more heartbeat outside her heat and yearning, she clamped her thighs around his back, writhing in the grips of the same fever to merge. Then he plunged inside her.

      She screamed with the shock of his invasion. She was as impossibly tight as ever, their fit still almost unmanageable, their pleasure excruciating. She arched, smashing herself against him with the mindless need for his domination. Overwhelmed with feeling, his girth gripped inside the molten pleasure that was her essence, he groaned her name and withdrew, only to plunge again, then again, forging deeper with every penetration. His escalations rocked her beneath him, wringing sharper cries from her depths. She met his thrusts, strengthening them, her demands for him to give it all to her tearing away any restraint he’d still clung to.

      Their coupling was primal, savage. They groped and bit and thrust in ever-roughening abandon, nothing existing but the need to soothe the pangs that had long maddened them, to burn in a conflagration of release.

      The first clench of her orgasm hit him like a sledgehammer. Her core clamped around his shaft with such force, he tore his lips from hers to roar at the unendurable spike in pleasure. Then she heaved beneath him, her intimate flesh tightening around his erection, singeing him with the rush of her satisfaction, wrenching his own from the depth of his loins. His body felt as if it was detonating with the force of his own climax as he released inside her, feeling he was pouring his life force into her.

      Ecstasy finally relinquished its merciless grip and her strangled cries died into whimpers as aftershocks sparked and lurched through both of them.

      He sank on top of her, oblivious to anything but her body cushioning him, her chaotic heartbeats echoing his as their systems struggled to recover from the exertion of their explosive lovemaking.

      He might have slept. Or passed out. For a minute. Or an hour. All he knew was that he was coming back with a start into a body that was leaden with an excess of fulfillment. Then a move beneath him had him jerking up. Lujayn. He must have crushed her.

      He groaned, then louder with the ache of separation, as he uncoupled from her with great regret. He bent to kiss her, but she scooted away from his touch. His heart clenched as she swayed up and sat at the edge of the bed, long hair tumbled, her body still and stiff.

      He was reaching a caressing hand to her again when she turned her face and the look in her eyes halted the gesture of tenderness in midmotion. And that was before she spoke.

      “I hate you, Jalal. When I’ve never hated anyone. So consider this the validation or the goodbye or whatever sex you think I owed you. It’s never happening again.”

      She got up like an automaton. In seconds she disappeared inside the bathroom.

      He stared at the closed door, heart booming, mind churning.

      One thing that had been erased had been resurrected. His confidence in his ownership of her body. If he went after her now, he’d have her begging for him again. But her antipathy seemed to be real. He had no idea what he had done to earn it. But whatever she thought he had done might change everything. It might explain why she’d left him.

      It was almost an hour before she exited the bathroom glowing, remote and dressed. He’d also dressed. He knew their mindless interlude should not be repeated. Not until he knew what was going on.

      He stood there as she stopped before him, eyes devoid of expression. “I’m sorry I said I hate you. It’s not true.”

      His heart unfurled from the tight knot it had become, the broken pieces mending. Something warm fluttered inside it as he moved closer.

      Her next words froze it solid, shot it down like a bullet would a bird in flight.

      “It’s worse than that. I hate myself when I’m with you. I hate what I do, what I think, what I feel. What I am. Patrick taught me that I’m better than that—that I don’t have to ever feel this way again. I was certain I’d never do this. But you’re like an incurable disease. One exposure, and I relapse. There’s only one way I’ll stop being reinfected. I won’t let you come near me again. If you try, I’ll make you regret it.”

      The lash of her antipathy sliced open the dam of his accumulated, if briefly forgotten, bitterness.

      He moved away from her, as if to escape the searing disappointment, heard himself taunting, “You mean more than I already regret coming here and exposing myself to your virulence again? Not possible. So save your threats and theatrics, Lujayn. It will be a snowy day in my ‘backward region’ before I come near you again.”

      He didn’t only regret coming after her—he despised his stupidity for being unable to hate her, even now, for succumbing to his weakness, taking her right in her marital bed, then not being the one who came to his senses first, or at all.

      At the door he turned, and the look on her face had his heartache boiling over. It wasn’t just over, she didn’t only hate him now—she always had.

      It had been an illusion, a sham.

      More harshness spilled from his lips, the only shield he found so the icy shards of her rejection wouldn’t hack his heart to pieces all over again. “Thanks, by the way. You gave me exactly what I came for. The certainty that you’re not worth another thought. Now I can delete you from my memory.”

      He walked away then, the relief that this retaliation had provided already evaporating, despondence seeping in its place, settling into his recesses. For it was another lie. No matter that he now knew nothing they’d shared had been real, he knew the memory of her would never relinquish its hold over him….