The Sheikh's Accidental Heir(9)

By: Leslie North



Coming back to Melanie, he covered her body with his and slipped into her.

She gasped, her eyes going wide, but she wrapped her legs around his hips and pulled him deeper. “More,” she whispered to him, her voice rough and deep.

“My pleasure,” he said.

And it was. He started slow, but she would not let him stay that way. She was more than demanding, so he gave her what she wished. He pounded into her, hard, diving deep with each stroke, holding back on his orgasm until she gave a small scream.

He let go then, pushed into her harder and faster, pounded her into the soft mattress until the world went white and pleasure swept into him.

Sweating, skin slick and hot, he slid off her and pulled her close. She gave a soft hum and asked, “How soon can we do that again?”

He could feel the condom wet and clinging now, and he dragged it off and threw it aside. The maid could deal with that later. He stroked a hand down his sensual American’s back. “Drink your wine—and then we will go again. And tomorrow you may show me New York.”





4





They had sex five times that night, barely getting any sleep, but Melanie felt oddly energized. The next morning, she’d called George to ask him to keep an eye on the business and do the inventory they did after any event. George had given a low laugh and said she sounded like she was ‘getting some’ and he’d handle everything. He sounded pleased she was trusting him enough to give him more responsibility. Ahmed had done a few texts, and then they’d showered, had breakfast, more sex in the living room, this time doggy-style that had her coming with gasps. She’d never had a lover like Ahmed—and the things that beard of his did to her skin were probably illegal in five states.

Then they’d set off to see sights.

They’d done more than that.

Ahmed insisted she buy a few dresses—and then he’d bought her flowers. She’d left them at the 9/11 Memorial, and they’d gone window shopping and she’d bought him a small Statue of Liberty as a souvenir.

The theater last night had been amazing—Ahmed had gotten them front row seats to Hamilton, and she’d never had seats so good. Afterwards, she’d finally had that dinner in his suite—but they’d ended up naked and eating dinner off each other’s bodies before collapsing into bed.

They’d woken late—she’d barely had the energy to crawl into a bath. Ahmed had joined her and scrubbed her back, along with a few other parts that had left her gripping the edge of the tub and gasping as she came.

Right now, the sun was out and the day was just starting to get muggy. They were supposed to hit the museums, but Central Park had been too tempting. A light breeze stirred the air, and they were eating ice cream and walking near Artist’s Gate. The artists were out with their easels and chalk or watercolors to work, or with a display of their work for sale. Ahmed kept one hand on the small of her back, and Melanie wasn’t sure if she liked that almost possessive touch. It was nice—but it was also possessive. And this was a fantasy, and nothing that would last. That was a good thing—a few more days of this and she’d fall apart.

“Why don’t you have a husband?” Ahmed asked.

She gave a shrug. “I did the usual—boyfriends in high school and college. But culinary school didn’t leave me much time and then I got a job as a line cook in the restaurant of one of my teachers. That sucked up so much of my time that the boyfriends would come and go—just about literally.”

Ahmed shook his head. “They were fools.”

She laughed. “I can’t really blame them. If they hadn’t left, I’d probably have dumped them. Relationships can get in the way of what you want.” She glanced sideways at him and tipped her head to one side. He’d bought them cones—hers was strawberry and he’d gone for plain vanilla, which so wasn’t him in bed. No—he was something exotic and exciting. And she almost didn’t want this to end—but it would. Soon. “Which brings us to what is it you really want?” she asked.

She took the last bite of her cone and turned to him, touching one hand to his face, running her fingers over his close-trimmed beard. “This is our last night—tomorrow it’s back to work for me. And you.”

He pulled a face. “Yes. My brothers have been filling my cell phone with texts and calls I have not answered, and now I hear my father wishes me to return home.”

“Really?”

He tossed the rest of his ice cream into a nearby trash can and took her hands. “I will go when I am ready—and I am not certain I am ready to give you up, Melanie.”

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