When Sharif put her down gently, Liyah winced at the loss of connection. Her dress was ruched up to her waist and the top had fallen down, baring her breasts. Her underwear was strewn on the ground, as were her bag, Sharif’s jacket and shirt and tie. Her shoes...
She pulled her dress up and bent to pick up her underwear. When she reached for the shoes Sharif took her hand and pulled her up.
‘Leave them.’
He’d pulled his trousers up, but the button was still open. He looked thoroughly disreputable and dangerous, and Liyah’s over-stimulated body pulsed back into life.
He tugged her behind him. She followed on legs like jelly, holding her dress up. ‘Where are we going?’
He looked back at her and smiled wickedly. ‘To continue discussing this renegotiation.’
Sharif stood looking down at the sleeping form of his wife for a long moment. She was sprawled on her front, one arm raised. He could see the plump flesh of one breast. Her lush bottom. Those long legs that had wrapped around him like a vice, holding him, pulling him so deep inside her that he’d seen stars.
His blood ran thickly in his veins in an overload of pleasure. He’d never experienced this after sex.
Liar.
He made a face to acknowledge the fact that he had. Once before. With the same woman.
The confirmation that her effect on him was still as potent was disturbing. Sex for him was usually a momentary thing, a passing release of energy. This was something else. Something he didn’t want to investigate.
Because surely it would burn out.
It was nothing more than extraordinary chemistry.
He assured himself that he was merely taking advantage of an unprecedented situation—the fact that he wanted his convenient wife. If anything, not having to feign intimacy would help his cause. And, more importantly, it would defuse her ability to distract him.
But then Sharif became aware that he was still standing there, captivated by his sleeping wife. So much for not being distracted. He’d been due at a meeting half an hour ago.
With a scowl marring his features, and his body resisting leaving her behind, Sharif left the bedroom.
When Liyah woke she felt as if she was floating in a soft silken ocean. Every limb was heavy and utterly relaxed. There was a hum in her blood. A hum of satisfaction. But also of...hunger.
Her eyes snapped open as a rush of X-rated memories assailed her from last night. Sharif bringing her to his room, stripping her bare before stripping off his remaining clothes. Laying her on the bed and spreading her legs so that he could put his mouth to her...
Liyah put a hand over her face and groaned softly. She’d been so wanton. Begging for more. He’d made love to her over and over again. Until they’d been limp with exhaustion and pink trails had coloured the Paris sky outside.
She opened her eyes again. And now it was bright daylight. She felt disorientated. She was not used to sleeping in.
Not used to being ravished.
She lifted her head and looked around. The room was empty. She spread out an arm. The bed beside her was cold. Sharif had probably left hours ago. She felt at a disadvantage. Her skin prickled and she pulled the cover over her naked body, suddenly feeling a little exposed—as if instinctively aware that he’d observed her while she slept.
Now she was being silly. Sharif Marchetti was not a man who lingered over his lovers. His absence was proof of that.
Hating feeling at such a disadvantage, and feeling like a sloth, Liyah got up and grabbed a robe from the back of Sharif’s bathroom door. It dwarfed her and it smelled of him. She resisted the urge to hold it up to her face and breathe deep, and gathered up her dress and shoes before creeping back to her own room as if she’d been engaged in some illicit activity.
Sharif watched Liyah from the other side of the room. They were in one of Paris’s famous atelier salons, where painstakingly intricate work went into creating the most stunning dresses in the world, primarily for haute couture. Clothes that could literally only be afforded by the very few and very privileged. Clothes that were often likened to pieces of art rather than fashion.
He’d found himself quite unintenionally calling Liyah to see if she wanted to come here with him.
She was wearing a long rust-coloured corduroy dress, with buttons down the front and a brown leather belt. Leather high-heeled boots. Her hair was tied back, showing off that amazing bone structure.
She looked the part of wife of the CEO of the Marchetti Group. Casual, but elegant and stylish. And she was listening intently to an older French woman—one of the typically expert seamstresses who worked behind the scenes to create the astonishing confections that would be worn down a runway at some point in the future.
Growing bored of the conversation he was meant to be listening to, about stats and figures and projections—this kind of very specialised work was at constant risk of being eroded by newer inventions and ways of creating clothes—Sharif gravitated towards Liyah, telling himself that it had nothing to do with the pull he still felt in his blood, that hadn’t cooled since last night.
He couldn’t remember a night of such unbridled passion. He had been insensible to everything but the woman under him. One orgasm had led to another until he’d been too exhausted to move.
Their night at the oasis had been a mere prelude to the most amazing chemistry he’d ever experienced. And the fact that it was happening with a woman who was his wife...was mind-blowing.
Liyah was wearing special gloves to handle a dress, and speaking to the woman in French, exclaiming over the work. The woman was obviously pleased with Liyah’s praise, her cheeks pink with pride.
‘C’est vraiment incroyable...’
Liyah looked up at Sharif as he came to stand beside her. An
