One Night in the Orient by Robyn Donald Page A

blue frock whispered from her shoulders and landed on the chair.
    Nick’s eyes kindled as they took in her lacy bra and narrow thong. Harshly he asked, “Cold?”
    She shook her head so vigorously her black curls flew around her face. “Don’t be silly.”
    His brows lifted and he made no attempt to touch her. “Shy?”
    “A bit,” she said unevenly, unable to hold his gaze.
    “Why? You must know you’re beautifully made.”
    Colour bloomed through her, and she muttered, “Thank you. I know it’s stupid, but I just feel very bare right now.”
    He wound a curl around his finger, brushing the silken skin beneath her ear. More voluptuous little shivers rippled across her skin and right through to her heart’s core.
    “It’s not stupid. I find it rather endearing.” Smiling, he bent to kiss the thudding hollow in her throat.
    Her heart leapt like a kite tossed in the wind.
    Straightening, he said, “You might feel less self-conscious if I even things up.”
    He undid his shirt, tossing it casually on a chair across the room.
    Siena’s breath tore roughly from her lungs. He was outrageously magnificent, dark hair forming an antique pattern across his chest before arrowing towards the waistband of his trousers.
    Her mouth dried, and she could say nothing until the lengthening silence became filled with too much meaning to be endured.
    Then she swallowed and breathed, “You are—overwhelming.”
    Nick’s chest rose and fell, and his lashes drooped. “I won’t hurt you,” he said abruptly.
    Shocked, she said the first thing that came into her head. “I know that.”
    His face relaxed a little, but the look he gave her was disconcertingly keen. “Sure?”
    “Absolutely.”
    After another assessing scrutiny he shucked his shoes, stripped off his trousers and came down beside her. In the warm golden light from the lamp his boldly chiselled face was set in uniquely male lines, dynamic and compelling.
    With a shaking forefinger Siena stroked along the swell of one shoulder, then slid her palm down to that intriguing line of hair. His skin was as hot as hers, and matte, like the very finest suede.
    Torn by conflicting emotions—that disconcerting shyness and a fierce relief—Siena tried to persuade her taut body to relax. Heat and the faint tang of his skin mingled to set her senses on fire. “You smell
so
good,” she murmured.
    Potent male.
    “I was about to say the same thing.” He dropped another kiss on her throat. “Do you wear perfume, or is that your natural scent?”
    “It’s freesia perfume,” she croaked.
    That was all she could manage. Nick’s smoky gaze was doing distracting things to her, summoning that fever in her blood again, stirring her emotions to a desperately reckless wildness that had her quivering inside.
    His tormenting, carnal mouth moved the length of her throat, pausing when the last kiss reached the slight swell of her breast. Against the bare skin he said, “No freesia I’ve ever smelt has perfume like that—pure Siena, warm and delicious, and sexy as hell …”
    He had to be able to hear the thunder of her heart. It was deafening her, and his words—each one an openlysensuous kiss so light she could barely feel it—robbed her limbs of their little remaining strength. When he ran a finger beneath the strap of her bra she stopped fighting and surrendered to the need that clamoured inside her.
    Against her skin he murmured, “I’d like this to go too.”
    She nodded, holding her breath until it was efficiently removed.
    Nick looked down at the gentle curves he’d revealed. His eyes darkened and he said in a voice as rough as sandpaper, “You are exquisite.”
    Lost in a haze of desire, Siena went under. She arched into his kiss, her body urgent and pleading, and Nick’s arms tightened around her, bringing her against his lean hips so that she felt the full, vehement thrust of his male energy against her most sensitive part.
    Siena gasped for breath, then released a