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 at his, placed her pleading hand on his thigh. 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 Fariq had called 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 whatever they 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.
“I’m shopping. People spend money when they shop. Besides, you’re not the boss of me,” she taunted, wrenching her arm away. Glaring at him with eyes that openly challenged him to stop her, she walked away with her chin held high.
That look was at once both mildly adorable and beyond aggravating, mostly because she was right. He had no business telling her what to do, but oh, did his palm itch to show her exactly what he could be the boss of if he was of the mind to be. The image of her tearful face, pleading with him to stop spanking her, that she’d be good, flashed through his mind, leaving him once more rubbing his mouth in frustration and ignoring his throbbing dick as he followed behind her.
The vast majority of merchants crowded along the catacomb of narrow streets that made up the bazaar held their shops under cloth canopies, their wares laid out on blankets and in baskets on the ground. For them, the line between poverty and feeding their kids at night lay solely in the number of sales they made each day, and they could spot a sympathetic heart every bit as easily as the thieves could. They threw themselves into hawking their wares for her inspection, making his job that much harder. He did his best to keep an eye on everyone around them, behind them, on every stall that Aliya visited, and the incredible swell of the crowd as it pushed like a living thing, constantly trying to get between them. Everywhere he looked, someone was looking at her.