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Yanking her skirt back out of her belt, she slapped the fabric until it was back down in its proper place around her legs again. Heat scalded her face. Her breath kept catching, her too-tight throat choking her. She scoured the yacht railing above for any sign of her brother, terrified he might have seen.
Christian was smirking when her gaze returned to his.
“Ibn haram!” she hissed at him.
Snapping around, she tried to storm away, but his hand connected with her bottom in a slap sharp enough to make her whole-body jump. She spun back around, one hand dashing back in belated defense of her tingling backside.
“Watch your mouth, Princess,” Christian said with a smirk. “Little girls shouldn’t swear.”
She threw herself in the passenger seat, knees locked tightly together, hands clasped in her lap, so he wouldn’t see how badly she was shaking. Her heart battered at her ribs, refusing to calm. And that throb—that hot, needy, inappropriate pulse of desire—kept pounding between her legs, impossible to ignore.
Laughing under his breath, Christian pushed the speedboat away from the yacht, started the engine, and away they went.
The cool, salty sea air did little to cool the mortification from her cheeks as her brother’s floating fortress grew smaller in the distance while the mainland of Morocco, and her safety, loomed ahead.
The man was nothing but the world’s biggest, smirking asshole, she told herself. He meant nothing to her. He was as much a criminal as her brother. He was beneath her contempt.
So, why was every fast-firing nerve in her body trying so hard to convince her she could still feel the slow caress of his hand sliding between her legs? Worse still, why was that ache in her heavy breasts begging to feel his touch next?
Chapter
Three
Christian shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the illicit images he had of Aliya and his nose of her aroma, but it was no good. The longer he trailed in her shadow, weaving through the bazaar crowds, the more he became convinced the scent he kept catching was the unmistakable perfume of a woman’s arousal—sweet and spicy.
What the hell was he doing here? Apparently, the duties of being Fariq’s second-in-command were as varied as the day and the man’s mood. He was used to doing everything—overseeing the books, keeping inventory, and making sure the ship was fully stocked with anything that might be needed. He bought guns, negotiated deals with warlords, drug cartels, and the secret agents of one ruling country, only to betray them at Fariq’s whim to another. He hired, fired, and buried the mercenaries they lost when they had a run-in with either their enemies or the Wild Mustang Security Firm. In other words, he managed the minutia. And now he was walking through a third-world bazaar with the pampered baby sister of the world’s most-wanted criminal, wishing she was his woman, and they were on vacation, so he could take her back to their hotel room, strip hernaked, and have at her until she was screaming his name in need and surrender.
She was too beautiful for her own good. Every time she glanced back over her shoulder, as if to check that he was still there, then frown at him, he wanted to draw her into his arms and kiss her pouty mouth until it was bruised and swollen. Then he wanted to go to work on her lower lips, leaving them the same way before parting them and thrusting his way into her. He wanted to bury himself balls deep, then hammer her into submission—right here in the open, back at that non-existent hotel, or tucked into the relative privacy of some doorway out of this blazing hot sun… He honestly didn’t care where he had her, so long as she became his.
She never should have knelt between Fariq’s feet. She should have knelt athis, placed her pleading hand onhisthigh. He wanted her between his legs, on her back beneath him, and on her knees as he pounded her from behind—first her pussy, then her ass. God, he wanted to fuck her ass—preferably after he’d turned it a deep shade of red.
Not that he intended to neglect her pussy or her mouth. He wanted to walk into her room to find her kneeling on the floor, head bowed, legs spread, and hands resting on her thighs with her palms turned up. He wanted her to submit, to present herself to him for his taking and use—any way, any time, and anywhere he wanted.
He had to stop doing this.
Hell, what he had to do was get back to the boat and make use of one of the professionals Fariq kept on the yacht to appease the men, a tall, chubby blonde as far from being Aliya’s type as he could find. Except he already knew, denied the one he wanted, he might as well fist his own cock in the shower as fuck anyone else—both would be equally unsatisfying.
When the hell had this happened? When had he developed feelings… no, not feelings—he couldn’t afford feelings. When had he become infatuated with this woman? She was Fariq’s sister! The man was a villain—every bit as deadly as he was rich.
Like he himself was any better, Christian scoffed. He’d been with Fariq, what… six years now? Already his picture was up on the Hague’s list of most-wanted criminals, right next to Fariq’s. He’d broken noses and fingers and shot people. Violence had become a constant companion. Hell, he couldn’t even fuck a woman anymore without first tying her up or putting his hand on her throat, so he could see that little spark of panic tint her pleasure when he squeezed, edging her, and bringing her right to the brink of coming, over and over again, without once letting her fall.
He liked that. He liked being in control of a woman’s orgasms. He liked giving little nips of his teeth, little pinches, and slaps that grew in frequency and force until the woman beneath him was gasping, writhing, and completely unable to distinguish the difference between the pleasure he gave her and the pain. He honestly couldn’t tell if he’d always had this proclivity or if he’d simply grown into it. Fifty Shades of Fariq, filling up the dark side of his soul.
By rights, Aliya should have been just as black on the inside as he was, as her brother couldn’t help but make the people he came in contact with on a daily basis. Yet as Christian watched her pause over the purses at yet another vendor stall, he couldn’t see a lick of darkness anywhere in her. She seemed so… pure, not a description he was used to applying to anyone these days. No, Aliya was anything but dark, and though his mind kept trying to conjure her as the world’s most alluring temptress—a shockingly innocent one—spoiled and in need of a good spanking, but innocent, nonetheless.
She needed to get away from her brother before he turned her the way Christian had been turned. Or before Fariq found that perfect business deal to use her for. Christian felt his gut clench. Was that what Fariq had planned for her? Had he raised her to use as a prize for some soulless warlord? Or maybe the whispers on the ship were right, and Fariq was grooming her for himself. Sick, but Fariqhadcalled her his most precious possession.
Maybe she was adopted. Christian trailed in her shadow, watching her. Not only would that explain how she could be related to Fariq and still be so naïve, but it would also explain how she could seemingly have no concept of the money she was spending. At every stall they came to, she bought something—hair ribbons, veils, a pair of plain white canvas shoes.
It might even explain her guilelessness. At one point, when she thought he wasn’t watching, she’d slipped an old beggar man some coins. She’d leaned down and whispered to him before pressing something in his hands, glancing back at Christian over her shoulder as she’d done it, as though afraid she might get caught being kind. Considering her brother, he supposed that wasn’t an unreasonable fear. Fariq could be generous, but usually only if there was something to be gained. Under these same circumstances, it was hard to imagine her brother would have approved.
Like so many markets in the poverty-stricken countries where Fariq so liked to hide, the streets here were full of panhandlers. Thieves and conmen ran rife through the compounded earthen alleyways and along the rooftops. They had sharp eyes, capable of spotting a mark from blocks away. Certainly, they saw Aliya. Or maybe it was the sparkle of money being dropped from her hands into that withered, grateful old man’s, but they came from everywhere after that—the poverty-stricken and lazy alike, children forced to scrounge for whateverthey could get to help feed their families… if they still had families. Once upon a time, the sight and plight of them had bothered the hell out of him. He remembered passing out money to as many as he could afford and being swarmed just like she was now.
He felt like an ass, shoving them out of the way and shouting in Darija for them to get back, but this was how kidnappings started. He wouldn’t just be damned if he had to go back to Fariq alone because he’d lost Aliya—he’d be dead.
He managed to make his way through the rabble and dispersed the beggars enough to catch up with Aliya, who’d somehow managed to slip through the thick of the crowd until she was several stalls away.
“Don’t do that again. Keep your money in your damn pocket,” he told her, grasping her by the upper arm.
