Pretty Hot (The Pretty Trilogy Book 1) by Donna Alam Page B

something on my feet. Unless you count socks. Don’t judge, winter nights in Brisbane can be pretty brutal.
    ‘I like heels, but no more than the next man, I imagine. Not that I’ve ever asked the . . . next man.’ His brow puckers. ‘The key is whom the shoes adorn.’ He kisses my head lightly, rising and reaching under the tangled sheet for my foot, in doing so, revealing much of my leg. My heart pounds as the lack of covering reveals more than I’d normally be comfortable with, but I refuse to move and keep very still, desperately trying to channel sophisticated nonchalance.
    ‘For me, shoes are a matter of aesthetics,’ he murmurs.
    From my heel in his palm, his eyes follow the line of my exposed leg. I swallow the urge to snatch my foot back instead, rising onto my elbows, chin raised in defiance of myself. Not that he seems to notice as he stares intently at my pink painted toes balanced in his hand.
    ‘I like the way the arch of your foot is stretched and elongated in a heel.’ My body jolts in reflex, his finger stroking my high arch, as I fight the deep-seated instinct to pull away. ‘And I’m fascinated by the pain in wearing heels, for pleasure. It’s almost masochistic, don’t you think? Pain in exchange for beauty.’
    His low-spoken words mirror his touch, blending the sensations as he strokes a fingernail against my sensitive sole. I resist in small, helpless movements, my body arching from the bed.
    ‘There’s something very seducing about the combination; such feminine elegance set against the edge of danger in the weapon-like point of a heel.’ His voice seems to drop in register, his fingers travelling along the inside of my leg. ‘Almost your whole being balanced on that one, thin point. Like it’d take nothing to push you over the edge.’ Blinking heavily, he pulls back, lowering my foot to the bed. ‘And, of course, they just make your arse look great. How was that; answer enough?’
    ‘Y-yes, thanks.’ My words are strangled and higher than I’d like. I feel hot. Turned on. How could I not be?
    ‘Any other burning questions?’
    I blink rapidly. ‘Your name, we could start with that.’
    ‘Kai doesn’t qualify?’ he asks with a quirked brow.
    I don’t need to answer that, right? 
    Sweeping his right hand to his heart, he bows his head. I t’s something I’ve only seen done in old movies. Without the amused air. And of course, usually the hero is clothed.
    ‘Kais bin Faris bin Hamad Al Khalfan.’ He peers solemnly from beneath his lashes.
    ‘Wow, that’s some name. It’s um, a bit of a mouthful,’ I bluster, trying very hard not to look in the general direction of his crotch. ‘So, you’re from here, an Arab, from the Emirates, I mean?’
    I hadn’t even considered the possibility, especially given his accent; elocution so crisp I’m surprised it doesn’t cut his tongue. But I was warned and he does smell great and I have been charmed into parting with my undies. But really, that isn’t fair. I expect the elastic in my good girl knickers snapped the minute he walked into my classroom.
    ‘Yes and no,’ he says, as my attention returns. ‘I suppose it depends on your perspective. The term Arab relates more to culture, rather than nationality. My mother is English and my father is Emirati, and by virtue of that, so am I.’ This makes no sense to me. I must look confused. ‘Culturally speaking,’ he continues, ‘or at least in the Arab culture, you are considered the same nationality as your father, regardless of where you or your mother were born. As I grew up between the UK and here, I’m a little culturally schizophrenic, I suppose.’
    Ah, the accent! The sexy inflection, too.
    ‘So you’ve been about a bit? I mean, you’re a bit of a Bedouin?’ I regret the words as soon as they’re in the air. Talk about foot in mouth. Just how culturally insensitive was that, I wonder?
    ‘I suppose.’ He smiles, as though humouring a small child.
    ‘With