Her Seductive Enemy, page 7
Reality blurred as his mouth moved more insistently, and his tongue pushed deeper. All that was left was her ability to feel, and oh, how she felt. Her arms wrapped around his neck as he released her hair. His hands clamped each side of her waist, and then he was pulling her closer, closer and closer until his long, hard, and thick phallus was pulsing mightily against the aching folds of her crotch.
A whimper escaped her at the sheer, wondrous feel of it. Oh heavens, everything was so addictive – the taste of his kiss, the feel of his erection rubbing against her. She wanted more, more, more, and she found herself silently begging for it in the way she could no longer stop herself from kissing him back, her need for him now wild and uncontrollable—-
“Tory, fuck...” Anisah’s innocence shone despite how responsive she was, and he would be surprised if this didn’t turn out to be her first kiss. If he were a gentleman, he would find a way to take things slow, to allow her time to be accustomed to his kisses.
But then she started rubbing herself harder against him, and Tarif forgot all about being gentle with his beautiful puritan. Instead, he found himself grinding himself against her, dry-humping her like some horny bastard who hadn’t ever tasted a real pussy, and when she started to moan, the sound tore at his control, and Tarif groaned against her lips.
“I need to touch you.” The sheikh wrenched his mouth away from her with an effort, and he nearly shuddered at the way Anisah moaned in sweet protest. “Tell me I can touch you, my sweet,” he urged hoarsely.
Lovely violet eyes stared up at him in a haze of desire. “N-Nem.”
A groan of relief escaped him just before he kissed her again, even more hungrily this time while his hands became busy, pulling her robe up to her waist so he could feel the satiny texture of her skin. He had only the briefest feel of it earlier when he had reached for her dagger, but now he had the chance to savor her skin, and luxuriate in it he did, running his hands slowly up her bare legs.
He felt her jerk when his hands brushed against her knees, and the sheikh mentally filed this under her list of sensitive spots. He intended to discover each and every one of them and use it to torment her until she was out of her mind with pleasure.
Finally, his hands reached up to her upper torso, his fingers softly trailing over the sensitive skin of her stomach before cupping her sweet, tender breasts.
The sheikh squeezed her breasts hard, and Anisah gasped against his lips. The feel of it was unbelievable, and when he started kneading her breasts in the most deliciously erotic way, she couldn’t stop herself from gasping again.
His fingers started to move towards her nipples, and she stiffened, a part of her fearing the unknown, another part of her anticipating what she was sure could only be more pleasure.
And it was.
A whimper slipped past her lips at how pain and pleasure blurred inside of her the moment the sheikh pinched her nipples. It was agony at its most beautiful, and she wished it would never end. Her arms tightening around the sheikh’s neck, she found herself instinctively moving, her body rubbing against his, silently demanding more of his ministration.
The sheikh pulled his mouth away from her all of a sudden again, but before she could protest, his head had already bent down, his mouth latching on to one cotton-covered nipple as soon as his hands pushed her robe up to her neck.
Aaaaaaah!
He started to suck – hard and strong enough that he made the fabric of her bra feel nonexistent, and she found herself shuddering in his arms with a cry. Her hands moved up, clutching his head, and with an absolute lack of shame, she found herself pushing his head closer to her breast, wanting him to eat all of her.
She felt like she was about to go crazy. It was just too much, with the sheikh sucking on her nipple while his strong, throbbing phallus kept nudging against her folds as if trying to find her entry so it could drive all the way inside—-
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The two of them froze.
A moment later, both of them realized at the same time that the car had long come to a stop, and that both the sheikh’s chauffeur and private bodyguard were standing outside the 4x4, waiting for their employer’s signal to open the door.
Heaven save her! What had she done?
Anisah scrambled off his lap with a strangled cry, and seeing the panicky expression on her lovely face, Tarif didn’t make a move to stop her, knowing she needed time to adjust to the reality of what had just happened between them.
Knowing that she wouldn’t appreciate him staring at her beautiful body while she put her clothes to rights, he glanced out of the window to distract himself. The narrow strip of parking space outlining the edge of the desert was still quite full, with outgoing tourists stepping out of their cabs while inbound ones climbed out of their rented 4x4s. It was also the same for the sheikh, although awaiting him instead of a cab was one of the royal family’s many limousines.
“I’m done now,” Anisah muttered. The sheikh turned to her, and even though she had given herself five full minutes to prepare for this, she realized right away it was not enough.
One look into his dark, glittering eyes, and she instantly remembered everything—-
The taste of his kiss, the sound of his mouth sucking on her breast, and oh, the feel of his thick, hard erection trying to push itself inside of her womanhood.
“Tory—-”
His desire-thickened voice had her biting back a cry at the way her body swelled in instant, absolute yearning.
Oh heavens, no.
Anisah yanked the door open and jumped out of the car, taking Tarif completely by surprise. What the fuck? Anger and reluctant admiration warred inside of the sheikh as he watched his sweet, defiant puritan hail a cab and slide into its backseat as she successfully made her escape.
Tarif ordered one of his security officers to tail Anisah’s cab and afterwards instructed his limousine driver to step on the gas. He wanted to get to his meeting as quickly as possible; the sooner he was done with it, the sooner he could be with Anisah again – and have the chance of throttling her beautiful neck for impulsively placing her life at risk.
Taking his phone out, the sheikh sent her a text message.
Tarif: Never endanger yourself like that again or you will not like the consequences.
Anisah: I only took a cab, Your Highness.
Tarif: Taking a cab does not protect you from kidnappers or terrorists.
Anisah: I’m not part of the royal family, sheikh.
Tarif: But you will be my woman sooner or later, so get used to acting like one.
Chapter Eight
Hyacinth bit her lip as she watched her older half-sister from the upper half of their bunk bed with increasing worry.
Firstly, Anisah was listening to Madonna.
Her sister was not a fan of the Queen of Pop. As far as Anisah was concerned, ‘express yourself’ should only be done with the right platform (i.e. anything and everything less than proper went to one’s diary and nowhere else).
Also, Anisah was taking loud slurps of her coffee.
Her sister did not believe in making any noise when eating or drinking unless one was in Japan (i.e. words are free so please use ‘thank you, it was delicious’ to show appreciation).
And thirdly, Anisah was hunched over her laptop while working.
Her sister had never been guilty of this (i.e. scoliosis wouldn’t be a disease if God had intended for humans to do away with proper posture – or so her sister liked to say).
When one considered all three – and the fact that they were happening at the same time – didn’t it mean her sister had gone mad?
Hyacinth covered her face with her accounting textbook while madly racking her mind for any possible reason behind her sister’s loss of sanity. Since Anisah had started acting oddly the moment she came back to their apartment, Hyacinth tried to go over what she knew of her sister’s schedule.
Anisah’s classes for the day were only until lunch, but she had come back much, much later.
Mm.
A quick Google search on her cellphone with the sheikh’s name had the latest photos popping up in seconds, and Anisah’s younger sister had an ‘aha’ moment when she found what she was looking for: a photo of the sheikh helping her sister inside a white-and-gold Land Cruiser.
I knew it, Hyacinth thought. In her entire life, there had only been two things that could make Anisah act out of sorts.
One was their father, whom they never spoke about.
Two was Sheikh Tarif Al-Atassi, whom they also never spoke about.
And since the first one was long dead, Hyacinth knew that her sister’s odd behavior most likely had to do with the latter.
For two weeks now, the palace had been quietly agog by the sparks that had been flying nonstop between Anisah and the sheikh. Even when the two were obviously pretending to ignore each other, the sizzling chemistry between them was undeniable. Every time Hyacinth found herself in the same room with the sheikh and her sister, the sexual tension was so blatantly palpable it honestly had her fanning her face.
Could the sheikh be why Anisah was now banging loudly on her keyboard, yet another unforgivable transgression that her sister had once preached against? Deciding it was time for an intervention, Hyacinth hurriedly climbed down the bunk ladder and cleared her throat as soon as her feet touched the floor.
“What is it?” Anisah asked as she reluctantly turned to Hyacinth.
One look at her sister’s strained expression, and Hyacinth knew she was right to interfere. Hopefully, the rest of her plan would also work well.
“I need to take a study break,” Hyacinth lied.
The trick to getting her overly protective and workaholic sister to relax was to pretend that she was the one under stress. This was Step One of the plan, and as Hyacinth predicted, Anisah automatically shut her laptop closed and pushed her chair back, saying, “Let’s go out then. What do you feel like doing?”
“Depends. Will it be your treat?” Hyacinth asked with a grin.
“Only if it’s coffee,” Anisah warned, “but you have to pay for your own shopping—-” She stopped when she realized she was speaking to an empty room, with her younger sister already in front of their joint walk-in closet in search of what to wear.
It took a mere ten minutes to cross the covered bridge connecting the staff’s dormitory to Al Sahna, the palace’s newest indoor extension. The Rami words translated to The Plaza in English, and the entertainment complex’s interior drew much inspiration from the sprawling, colorful antique soukhs of Marrakech, with its maze-like pathways of richly patterned tiles and wooden, intricately carved boats sailing under the stone canals that arched over the shimmering waters of a manmade lake.
A domed blanket of digitally produced northern lights shone in brilliant hues over the palace’s private marketplace, which consisted mostly of tented merchant stalls, shisha cafes, and quaint eateries that specialized in Middle Eastern cuisine: one booth boasted of freshly skewered meat for kebab and shawarma while yet another proudly claimed to offer the most savory and scrumptious slices of baklava.
Although one could never run out of things to do (or eat) in Al Sahna, the marketplace tended to quiet down in the late hours of the evening, and a quick look around showed Anisah that tonight wasn’t any different. The streets were completely empty, with its serenely quiet ambience enhanced by the faint notes of Arabian folk music playing out of the complex’s hidden speakers.
It was exactly the kind of peace she craved, Anisah thought with contented bliss, after her most stressful encounter yet with Tarif Al-Atassi.
Hyacinth stopped short of entering the bookstore when she realized her sister had yet to catch up. “Nis? Are you coming?”
“Will you be a while?” Anisah asked.
“Probably. I have a list of magazines to check out, and – oh.” Hyacinth finally noticed where her sister had stopped, and she pretended to pout. “Hmph. You’re choosing your sweet tooth over me again, aren’t you?”
Anisah pretended not to hear her sister’s words, asking, “Do you want me to order anything for you in advance?”
Hyacinth laughed. It was just so typical of Anisah not to admit to anything that might constitute a weakness, and for her too-responsible older sister, even something as ordinary as an addiction to sugary concoctions was just that.
It was a rather cute trait, but it could also get slightly frustrating whenever Anisah’s stubborn tough-cookie side prevented her from sharing her burdens with anyone. And if her guess was right, Hyacinth thought reflectively, more weight had been added to her sister’s already heavily burdened shoulders.
“Come on, Cin. Make up your mind. Do you want me to order anything for you or not?” Anisah’s impatient tone drew Hyacinth’s attention back to her sister, and she had to swallow back a laugh at the way Anisah was shifting restlessly on her feet. Anisah only tended to be this jittery when she thought she was being denied her daily quota of sugar.
Hyacinth shook her head, saying finally, “I’m not that hungry, but maybe I’ll change my mind later. Anyway, I’ll join you as soon as I’m done, ‘kay?”
“Take your time,” Anisah assured her younger sister.
“I definitely will, knowing how you tend to make love to your ice cream.”
“I do not!”
“Yes, you do.” And then Hyacinth dashed inside the bookstore to ensure she had the last word.
Brat. But even so, an affectionate smile tugged at the corner of Anisah’s lips as she entered the bakdash or ice cream parlor. Her sister had always been a brat, to be honest, but the lovable kind, and she was not being biased about that.
“Marhava, anisdi,” the night-shift waitress greeted her with a smile.
“Marhava, Minnie,” Anisah greeted as she made her way to her favorite booth, which was right next to the windows and just a few steps away from the jukebox.
In keeping with its fifties’ diner theme, the ice cream parlor had all the usual staples: checkered flooring, oldies music, and even staff on skates. But because it also came with a Moroccan twist, polychromatic square tiles made up the bar’s countertop, its stools came with quilted cushions, and the glass cabinet at the corner showcased a wide range of hookahs for rent.
Whipping her pen and pad out of her breast pocket as she reached Anisah’s table, the waitress asked, “The usual for you?”
Anisah’s lips twitched. “You know me so well, Minnie.”
“It’s those bags under your eyes,” the other woman half-joked. “They make a reliable point of reference for how much ice cream you need in your system.”
“Oh, Min.” Anisah shook her head with a sigh. “You don’t know how right you are.”
“Then you’ve come to the right place.” Minnie skated away, saying over her shoulder, “I’ll get your order out as soon as I can.”
The older woman was good as her word, returning just ten minutes later with Anisah’s beloved dessert: a medium-sized wooden goblet filled with mouthwatering rose-flavored booza covered with a gooey, saccharine layer of pistachio.
“Shukrahn.” Anisah bowed her head in thanks, and as Minnie skated back to the counter, Anisah closed her eyes and clasped her hands in prayer.
Heavenly One above, thank you for your grace.
The sheikh’s image flashed in her mind, disturbingly vivid, and she squeezed her eyes shut more tightly in an effort to chase it away.
I pray for the spirit of chastity to remain in me.
I pray for the strength to fight earthly temptations.
I pray for the wisdom to remain on the path of righteousness.
Amen. Anisah absently uncrossed her legs under the table as she ended her prayer, but in the course of doing so, the tip of her foot hit something solid.
Her eyes flew open.
The sheikh stood next to her table, looking handsome as a devil in shirt and jeans, and when he smiled down at her, murmuring politely, “Marhava, Tory,” – it was like being struck by a bolt of lightning.
Must. Escape. Now.
Chapter Nine
Anisah’s violet eyes were wide and panicky as she stared at him, her face flushed and her lips parted. It was quite similar to how she had looked just before bolting out of his limousine earlier, and so the moment she made an attempt to leave, Tarif was ready, sliding next to her inside the booth before she could even fully stand up.
Knowing there was no way for her to get past the sheikh, Anisah forced herself to sit back down and move away until her back hit the window. For one long tense moment, they stared at each other, and in the sheikh’s possessive and forceful ebony gaze, she saw her most wanton memories come alive.
Aaaaaah.
She remembered the sinful beauty of his voice as he urged her to succumb to her baser desires—-
Let me in, Tory...I need to touch you...Tell me I can touch you, my sweet.
And her fingers tightened into fists.
She remembered the masterful strokes of his tongue inside her mouth, and the way he ground himself against her, and a sensual shiver danced down her spine.
She remembered how it felt to have him suck on her nipple—-
Stop it, Anisah!
She drove the memories away with an effort and dragged breath into her suddenly dry throat. Ever since she had returned to the apartment she shared with Hyacinth, she had done her very best to distract herself. She had tried to pretend that everything was okay, and that everything could remain normal.
But instead, she had found herself acting the opposite. She had ended up making her sister think she had lost her marbles – and it was all the sheikh’s fault, curse it.
Everything was his fault!
Tarif had come looking for Anisah prepared for battle, and when she raised her eyes to his, the militant look in her gaze told him it was so.
“What are you doing here, Your Highness? And how did you even know I was here?” Her voice was polite but icy, the closest a loyal citizen like Anisah could afford in discouraging the attention of an Al-Atassi sheikh.
