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‘Oh, yes. So tiny you can barely see them. Honestly, it’s almost a waste of time me wearing them—they’re so flimsy.’
‘I see.’ Another pause—much longer this time. ‘And you have on a matching bra, I hope?’
‘Oh, yes.’ She paused—trying to rid herself of the sudden feeling of guilt which settled on her skin like a cold mist. Telling herself that she had nothing to be guilty about. That Murat liked these games. And so did she.
And that her mother’s words meant nothing.
Nothing.
‘The bra is a bit on the small side,’ she continued, allowing her voice to dip into a provocative note as her imagination took wings. ‘But it’s edged with lace, so at least my nipples aren’t completely on show.’
He didn’t answer. At least, not straight away.
‘And stockings?’ His eventual response was unsteady; his tone gratifyingly deep. She heard him swallow and that was gratifying too. ‘Are you wearing stockings?’
‘Mmm,’ she agreed, closing her eyes to blot out the sight of her jeans. ‘Of course I am. Black silk stockings all the way from France. Though they cling to my thighs terribly in this heat.’
‘I’d like to see them do that,’ came his husky response. ‘And then I’d like to peel them off, very slowly.’
‘Would you?’
‘Mmm. And then I’d like to slide my tongue up between your thighs and lick you until you come. Would you like that, my beauty?’
But for some stupid reason the fantasy suddenly evaporated, like champagne which had been left in a glass too long. Catrin’s eyes snapped open and in one instant, she felt completely flat. ‘Of course I would. I’d like it very much. What time...what time will you be getting here?’
‘Soon,’ he repeated. ‘Very soon.’
Catrin was just about to say goodbye and hang up, when she heard the sound of a key being inserted into a lock and her head jerked up in surprise. She turned towards the sound and nearly dropped the phone when she saw who was standing there. Her first thought was that it couldn’t possibly be Murat because his timetable was always planned to the nearest second—and her next thought was that it couldn’t be anyone else. Because there was no one in the world who could be mistaken for him. No man matched him, nor ever could.
Murat the Mighty, they called him in his country of Qurhah, but he was also known as Murat the Magnificent—and he looked nothing less than magnificent now.
His hair fell in rich, dark waves around the hard outlines of his face and the soft sensuality of his lips contrasted with the distinctive hawk-like nose and ebony glitter of his eyes. He had the body of a desert warrior—a fact which could never quite be disguised by the Italian suits he favoured when in the west. Catrin knew that back home in Qurhah he wore flowing robes and headdresses but she’d only ever seen him in this kind of clothes, except in photos. And sometimes when she looked at those photos, didn’t it make her wistful that she only ever got a tiny part of him? That so much of his life was forbidden to her.
‘Murat?’ she said, her voice rising in surprise. ‘I wasn’t expecting you yet.’
‘So I see,’ he replied, shutting the door softly behind him. He began to walk towards her, a complicit smile lifting the corners of his lips as he cut the connection on his phone and slid it into the pocket of his trousers. But his gaze was thoughtful as he looked at her, as if her response wasn’t what he had been expecting. ‘Aren’t you going to say hello to me...properly, my beauty?’
‘Hello,’ she said, putting down her own phone with fingers which had started to tremble.
There was a pause as Murat let his gaze travel over her body, his eyes narrowing. Something about her was different and at first he couldn’t work out what it was. Something which made his heart twist in a way which was unfamiliar. And then he realised what it was. She looked like the Cat he’d first met. The beautiful, country girl who had captivated him from the moment she’d turned those extraordinary green eyes in his direction and blinked at him, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she had seen.
Dressed down and casual, her hair was dishevelled—almost wild. The dark cascade of waves tumbled down around her shoulders as if she’d been frantically running her fingers through it. And her clothes...
Her glorious legs were covered with jeans—a garment he despised on women and which she had tacitly agreed never to wear in his presence. And although her thin T-shirt outlined her breasts in a way which couldn’t fail to please him—this wasn’t what he had been anticipating.
He thought how much she had changed. How his rough diamond had become a smooth and polished gem. And if sometimes he missed the rather outspoken minx he had first seduced, he could not deny that she had grown into her role well. Almost too well...
‘You promised me stockings,’ he said slowly.
Her fingers flew to her hair, as if she had suddenly become aware of its unruliness, and she stared down at her jeans before looking up at him, a faint look of guilt staining her face.
‘I didn’t realise you were so close,’ she protested.
‘I thought I’d surprise you.’
‘You’ve certainly done that.’
Their eyes clashed. ‘So. No welcoming kiss for your sultan?’ He shrugged off his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. ‘Not even a hug?’
She chewed on her lip as if she wanted to say something but didn’t dare and for a moment Murat felt an unexpected twinge of conscience. Maybe it had been unfair of him not to warn her that he was on his way from the airport and that he had brought his schedule forward by several hours. But he had wanted to see her and he knew that there wouldn’t be many more opportunities like this.
Because lately he had become increasingly aware that the clock was ticking on this relationship of theirs, and that some time soon he must sit down and talk to her seriously about the future. There were things he needed to tell about his life. Things she ought to know.
But not today.
His mouth flattened.
It was never today.
Today he just intended to make the most of these moments, which had never been intended to last.
His mouth softened into a smile and that was when a breath seemed to catch in her throat before she flashed him an answering smile. Running across the room, she hurled herself into his arms with all the eagerness of a puppy, coiling her hands around his neck as she clung to him. He could feel the softness of her breasts as she pressed herself closer. And he could feel the sweet warmth of her breath as she showered tiny kisses all over his face.
‘Oh, Murat,’ she said, shakily. ‘I’m sorry. Hello again. Hello properly this time.’
Her mouth moved towards his and Murat groaned as their lips met. She kissed more sweetly than any other woman he’d ever known. But then, she made love more sweetly than any other woman he’d ever known. Was that because he had moulded her to become his perfect lover? Because he had coached this naïve little beauty to become as skilful as any practised courtesan, or woman of the harem?
Her lips were opening wider and she was darting the tip of her tongue against his as if she wanted nothing more than to taste him. The tips of her nipples felt hard against his chest and suddenly Murat forgot that he’d been promised stockings. Forgot that he liked his mistresses to be permanently pampered and prepared for him. Because this was Cat. Captivating Cat who made him feel weak with desire. Who exerted over him a power which no other woman had come even close to.
‘Cat.’ The word came out like a husky plea. ‘I have missed you. By all the flowers that bloom on the Mekathasinian Sands, I have missed you.’
She pulled away from him then, her eyes searching his face with a curious kind of intensity. ‘Have you?’
‘You really need to ask a question like that?’
She nodded in response, but not before he had seen a sudden cloud pass over her features.
‘Yes, Murat. I do. Sometimes...’ Her voice faltered. ‘Sometimes a woman needs to hear these things.’
‘Then let me tell you all the things you need to hear, and more. I have missed you very much.’ He buried his lips in the thick lustre of her hair. ‘I have ached for you. Each time I galloped across the desert sands, I thought of nothing but you. During those long and sometimes tedious meetings of state affairs, I longed for one glance from those green eyes and to feel the silk of your skin, gliding beneath mine. I wanted to lie on top of you. I wanted to be inside you. To plunge into your molten heat and lose myself deep in your body. So come with me, my dark-haired beauty. Let me take you to bed, before I go out of my mind with frustration.’
Catrin stared into black eyes which had grown smoky with desire, but the same doubts which had been niggling away at her all week were refusing to go away. He was turning her on the way he always did, but a small voice in her head was asking whether he might not want to talk to her first. It had been weeks since they’d seen one another and something about his attitude was making her feel like an object on which he clearly wanted to slake his lust. Surely for once he could go through the motions of actually wanting to do something other than instantly have sex with her.
You’re nothing but a rich man’s whore.
She swallowed as her mother’s drunken words came echoing back. What would Murat say if she offered him coffee first—or coolly told him she needed to take a shower after rushing back from Wales this morning?
But somehow her body wasn’t listening to these silent objections—it was listening instead to the fierce sexual hunger which Murat had liberated. So she hesitated for no more than a second before letting him lead her towards the master bedroom, as helplessly as a moth to the flame.
Her doubts began to dissolve as he peeled the T-shirt over her head and dropped it to the ground. And soon all her uncertainties were vanquished by the simple action of the mighty Sultan tugging at her jeans and saying something in his native tongue before pushing her down onto the bed.
She was wearing the more practical underwear she tended to opt for when Murat wasn’t in town, because the thongs he favoured tended to ride up between the crack in her bottom and weren’t terribly practical when she was running around. Today she had on plain white panties without a frivolous element in sight.
He stared down at the sensible piece of lingerie for a long moment before reaching down to touch it, his hand brushing over her searing heat before moving aside the moist white panel to gain more intimate entry. He prised apart her molten flesh and she writhed a little as he pleasured her, before he withdrew one glossy finger and started licking it—with a slow eroticism which set her senses sizzling.
‘Oh,’ she said, her disappointment evident as he moved away from the bed.
‘Be patient, my little pussy Cat. And let me lose this damned suit.’
Catrin squirmed with anticipation as she watched him undressing, revealing the magnificent body beneath. The olive-skinned perfection of his torso was marred only by a scar which arrowed across one side of his abdomen. When she had first seen it, she had run wondering fingers along the raised ridge and asked him whether he had sustained a wound in battle. And he had responded rather drily that it was the legacy of a childhood appendectomy, performed at the children’s hospital in Qurhah’s capital city of Simdahab.
The rest of his clothes were quickly discarded and she saw just how aroused he was—his erection completely dominating her line of vision as he joined her on the bed. She could feel its hardness pushing against her belly as he leaned over her and ripped open her brassiere with a hunger he didn’t bother to hide.
She told herself she should be despairing that yet another costly piece of lingerie would now be unwearable—but right then she didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything except feeling him inside her again.
What did he do that made her feel like this?
What did he do that made her love him so?
‘Murat,’ she moaned, brushing her mouth over his jaw and feeling its rough graze beneath her lips. ‘Oh. Murat.’
‘What is it, my sweet?’ His deep voice shuddered with undisguised pleasure. ‘Tell me.’
She wondered what he would say if she told him the truth. If she told him she wished he would confound the gloomy expectations of her mother and make a decent woman of her. She wondered how he’d react if he knew that night after lonely night, when he was back in Qurhah and she was lying alone in this great big bed—sometimes she allowed herself to fantasise about marrying him. About him taking her back to his desert country as his bride...his Sultana—where she would learn to speak his language and bear him fine, strong sons and live with him to the end of her days.
She guessed that he would probably recoil with horror—and then she wouldn’t see him for dust. Because after more than a year of her being Murat’s mistress, any sign of commitment was just as distant as it had been when he’d plucked her from the valleys and brought her to London, quivering with passion and innocence and a fierce sexual hunger.
He’d said from the start that there was no future in this relationship and that marriage was never going to happen. She’d known that when he took a bride, it would be one as unlike her as it was possible to be. And even though she’d told herself she was fine with that, sometimes she wondered if she was just kidding herself. Lately, she had found herself longing for some kind of commitment. For the comfort and security she’d never really had.
But that was a waste of time and energy.
‘Would you like me to tell you how much I missed you?’ she said eagerly.
‘You may tell me whatever you please, my beauty—just as long as you let me reacquaint myself with these magnificent breasts of yours,’ he said, disposing of the now tattered brassiere with a careless flick of his fingers. ‘For I have been dreaming about licking them like this.’
Catrin stifled a moan. ‘So have I.’
‘Shall I play with your pretty nipples?’ he continued. ‘Shall I lick them and suck them and make you wet in lots of different places?’
‘Oh, yes, please,’ she breathed.
‘And is there anything else I should do?’ His hand began to move down over the concave dip of her torso. She felt the exploratory caress of his palm as it skated over her belly, a forefinger briefly circling the faint dip of her navel before it continued its journey. ‘Anything else I can tempt you with?’
‘Can’t you...guess?’ she whispered.
‘I can try. I think you might want me to slide down these rather schoolmistressy panties you’re wearing...’
‘You don’t like them?’
‘They are a fantasy I didn’t realise I had until now. I just want to get the damned things off.’
His finger hooked inside the garment to give action to his words, but then it stilled. Lifting her head to see why, Catrin looked into his face and she saw something in his eyes she didn’t recognise. Something which made her screw her face up in confusion because...was it sadness she read there?
‘What is it?’ she whispered. ‘Murat—is something wrong?’
But the sadness—if that was what it had been—had now been replaced by the much more familiar smoulder of lust.
‘No, nothing is wrong,’ he growled as he slid the panties down over her knees and started to kiss her.
Catrin shuddered out a sigh as he brought her closer to him, because this was a dance she knew so well that it had become almost second nature to her. Her sexual experience before she’d met Murat had been zero, but the Sultan had changed all that. He had taught her so much. To trust her body and to love it. And that sex was the most sublime of all pleasures and she should never feel guilty about enjoying it.
A whole month of being without him had left her feeling desperate to touch him like this. She marvelled at the seamless slotting of their bodies. She cried out with joy as he entered her.
‘Oh, Cat,’ he murmured as he paused to allow her body to accommodate him.
‘You feel so...good.’
‘And so do you,’ came his unsteady response. ‘Sweet storm of the desert—so do you!’
Murat felt his mouth grow dry as he concentrated on each exquisite thrust. His hands cupped the silken globes of her buttocks as he moved deeper inside her. He thought that she felt like velvet. Hot, smooth velvet. He wanted this feeling to last. He wanted to stay trapped inside her and to spend the rest of the night kissing her soft, sweet lips. But nothing lasted. He knew that. And the sudden bitterness of what lay ahead made him drive into her more deeply still.
Her body began to arch and to quiver as the first spasm of orgasm claimed her and he took just long enough to watch the flush which bloomed over her breasts, before he too went under. Crying out in his native tongue, his seed seeming to burst from him in a fierce explosion of pleasure.
Time slowed and a torpor began to steal over him. He lifted a lazy hand to tangle his fingers in her hair but he could see a sudden wariness on her face as she gazed at him. He wanted to sleep but it seemed she was not keen to let him.
‘So what brought you back so early?’ she questioned, leaning over him so that her long hair tickled his chest.
‘I juggled my schedule a little.’ He yawned. ‘There’s someone I need to see. In fact, we’re having dinner with him tonight.’
‘But—’ she frowned ‘—I’ve made gazpacho—and some lemon soufflé.’
He laughed. ‘Now you sound like a housewife.’
There was a pause. ‘I thought you liked me to play housewife.’
‘Well, sometimes I do.’ And sometimes I don’t.
‘And you always reserve your first evening back for just the two of us.’
‘I know I do.’ He failed to stifle a second yawn. ‘And I’m sorry, Cat—but this meeting can’t be postponed.’
‘Right.’
Murat registered the disappointment in her voice even though she was doing her best to disguise it. Yet surely she must realise that she had been given more access to him than any other woman he’d ever known. Maybe now might be a good time to remind her. But the sudden darkness which was clouding her eyes made him want to placate her instead, so he stroked his hand down over her hip. ‘But you will enjoy meeting Niccolo. He’s flying to New York in the morning and so it made sense to meet him here in London.’
Her face relaxed a little. ‘Not the infamous Niccolo Da Conti who I’ve never been allowed to meet before? One of your Three Musketeer friends?’
‘Yes, that’s him,’ said Murat. ‘And it’s not a case of you not being allowed to meet him—it’s just that our paths don’t often cross in London, which is why I usually meet up with him in Qurhah.’
