Free Heart Craving by Sandra Hill Page B

probably belonged to one of the strippers at Skip’s nightclub.
    “No.”
    “No?
    “You can’t make me.”
    “Think again, slave. ”
    “Hah!” I’d like to know how —
    “I could tie you to a tent pole and caress you till your tongue curls.”
    “Hah!” He wouldn’t dare. Would he?
    “I could lay you on those pillows and slather you with honey and lick you from your toenails to your eyebrows.”
    “Hah!” Oh, he is good.
    “I could give you a new lesson in aural sex, talking—just talking—for hours about the things I fantasize about doing to you, until you come, and come, and come.”
    “Hah!” Stop panting, Paula, or he’ll know you’re interested.
    “I could touch myself the way I would like you to touch me and force you to watch.”
    Oh, my God!
    “I could stick dates in—”
    “Stop!” she choked out. “Give me the damn bimbo clothes.”
    He laughed smoothly and untied the scarf binding her wrists behind her back, then handed her the sheer garment. Turning away, he poured two glasses of wine while she dressed, which didn’t take long, considering the small amount of fabric.
    The top portion was a red chiffon, bolero-style vest, with no buttons or clasps, ending just under her breasts. The loose pantaloons, also of red chiffon, hung low on her hips, exposing her navel. Tiny bells lined all the gold twining edges of both the top and bottom garments.
    Paula felt more exposed than if she were naked.
    And she felt incredibly sexy. Especially with Nick still being fully clothed.
    She got grim satisfaction when he turned, and his jaw dropped with surprise. He almost spilled the glass of wine he was about to hand her.
    “Hot damn!” he murmured under his breath.
    She walked closer to him, jingling like a Christmas sleigh— just call me Tinkerbell— and reached for the glass of wine.
    “Well?” she asked, wanting to reverse the tables on him, to take over the reins in this power play. She experienced an odd thrill in knowing she could turn him on so easily. She felt an even greater thrill wondering how it would feel to play out this tantalizing drama. “Does this fulfill your fantasy?”
    A grin teased at his lips. “Allah be praised. You are every man’s dream. But this is to be your fantasy, Zara. For your pleasure, if Allah wills.”
    Suddenly, Paula was frightened of this game and how easily she had fallen, once again, under Nick’s spell. They shouldn’t be talking, let alone having sex, with their divorce a few days off. Not only was Nick going off the deep end, but now she was about to take the leap, too. “All right, Nick. You’ve had your big joke. Now, tell me what this is all about.”
    “Not Nick. Raschid,” he corrected. “And you need not understand the fantasy. Do not fight the fates Allah has foretold.”
    She put both hands on her hips, stamping her foot.
    His eyes flashed blue fire, darkening with passion, as they riveted on her chest.
    She looked down and groaned. Her posture had caused the vest to part, exposing a good portion of her breasts. She jerked the sides together and scowled at him.
    He smiled, a dazzling display of white teeth and pure Nick charm. She melted. She couldn’t stay mad at him when he smiled at her like that. She never could.
    That is, until he spoke his next words.
    “You will feed me now, slave. ”
    “I beg your pardon,” she said with disbelief.
    He dropped down languidly to a nest of cushions, sipping at his wine, and pointed to the brazier. “A good slave feeds her master . . . with her fingers.”
    Paula took a long drink of her wine to cool her consternation—and ardor—but it had the opposite effect. The potent beverage rushed to all the nerve centers in her body, heightening their sensitivity. Even the air teased her skin, which had become one large canvas of unending erogenous zones.
    “This is the twenty-first century, babe—I mean, Raschid,” she snapped, fighting the whirl of her dizzying emotions, “and women