15 Nasrin

15

Nasrin

My core burned hearing him, my body heating underneath his gleaming obsidian eyes. I couldn’t believe that man. Sultan Zain Al Latif, my soon-to-be-husband, wanted to make me come again. It had only been a minute.

“I am too sensitive,” I breathed, my palm brushing over his arm and retrieving it from the bath.

He noticed the lack of my touch on his arm, which he had gladly allowed me to hold when he was fucking me with his fingers. I had to close my hands into a fist and stop myself from grabbing him by his neck and kissing him again. I missed the way his warm skin felt underneath my palm, the way muscles on his arm moved when he pushed his fingers inside me.

I eyed his stiffened dick and said, “What about you? I want to—”

“Maybe some other time,” Zain said, tilting his head as he stood up, looming over the bath. “Come on, the water has turned cold. I don’t want my fiancée to get sick.”

Fiancée.

My mouth parted, and before I could process what he had said, I followed his