Page 55 of Hot Nights in Morocco
“Fuck the thrones. I’d rather you sat on my face.”
Mywhooshof surprise elicits a small smile from his lips but he doesn’t push it any further.
There’s a butler waiting to greet us as the doors spring open. He shows us into the sitting room as the porters shuttle Jake’s case and my laptop bag into the master bedroom.
It’s a paradise that is far more decadent than Ourika, but it’s no less welcoming. The walls are a warm ochre color and numerous gilded candelabra with flickering wicks adorn the mantelpiece above the open fireplace.
“Would madam like to view the outdoor facilities? The hot tub, perhaps?” The butler looks at me expectantly.
Hot tub?This I need to see. “Jake, are you joining us?”
“You go,” he says, kissing the top of my head on his way to the master bedroom. “I need to jump on another call.”
He’s already taken two on the car ride here, which tells me something’s not right in billionaire land. His mood has soured, but I don’t press him about it. I’m determined not to let it ruin our evening.
When I return, he’s sitting by the fire nursing a drink and staring absently into the flames. He glances up and I catch a glimpse of that bleakness again before his features shift back to moody alpha. “Well?”
“I love it.” I flop down next to him as the butler discreetly disappears. “I’m feeling super relaxed already.”
“Good,” he says, sliding his hand up my thigh. “I’ve had an erection for three hours straight, and if I don’t fuck you soon, I won’t be held responsible for my actions.”
I laugh and push him away. “I’m readingGone With The Windat the moment so your libido has some prettystiffcompetition.”
He doesn’t smile. It’s as though he hasn’t heard me.
He takes another swig of his drink, and I watch him swirl the remnants of the amber liquid around the bottom of his glass. I’m dying to ask him what’s wrong, but I know better when he’s in this sort of mood.
“Hot tub,” I announce, jumping up. “Let’s take advantage.”
But he doesn’t budge. “The temperature outside drops sharply at this time of night.”
“How could you possibly know…?” My words trail off as a nasty thought hits me. “You haven’t stayed in this suite with Cassie, have you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snaps, but I can’t tell if he’s lying or not. He stands and heads over to the bar in the corner for a refill. “Drink?”
“Gin and tonic, please,” I say quietly. “What happened to her? Is she still in Marrakech?”
He slams the gin bottle back down on the counter and knocks the ice tray onto the floor. He doesn’t bother to pick it up. “It’s late, but we can still arrange dinner. Are you hungry?”
“I was only asking…”
He throws his head back in exasperation. “Can wepleasechange the fucking subject? I’d rather focus my attention on my present and not my past, if that’s okay with you? Now, are you hungry or not?”
I say nothing as I decide whether or not to make a big deal out of this. Then I spy a blue dish of dates on the coffee table in front of me, and a wicked thought pops into my head. This might be one way to improve his mood…
Sliding off my cherry-red Chucks, I lean forward to select the largest date, and slowly bring it to my mouth, locking eyes with Jake as I do. “I’m starving,” I purr seductively, flicking my tongue around the tip of the fruit.
He freezes, his hand resting on the gin bottle. I watch his eyes narrow and darken, until they’re smoldering and full of improper promise. He walks slowly back to where I’m sitting and places my drink on the coffee table next to the dish. “Do that again, and we might be discovering the first of those bedrooms,” he warns, crouching down in front of me.
I shuffle closer until his face is shadowing mine. Just the smell of him is enough to scatter my thoughts, but now I’m benefiting from a close-up of those knockout features, as well. Without dipping my gaze, I repeat my suggestive action. He watches, transfixed, as I take the full length of the date into my mouth and moan loudly.
“Right, you asked for it,” he snarls, surging forward and scooping me up into his arms.
“Jake, stop!” I cry, my foot catching the coffee table and knocking the plate of dates all over the floor.
“Fuck that!”
He kicks the broken shards of crockery out of the way, carries me into the master bedroom, and then throws me onto the bed. The lights are dim; the smell of incense is sensual and inviting. Our butler has placed hundreds of tea lights on the dark wood surfaces all around the bed. It’s pureArabian Nights, made even more so by the man with burning eyes who wants to screw every exotic fantasy into me.
