“Not if you really want me to stay.” Her lashes swept down and back up, almost demurely. A look of innocence clashed with her sensual body movements and the sound of her voice.
“I want you to stay and dance for me. I want you to talk to me. You’re the best surprise I’ve had in years.” That was the absolute truth, and he hoped she believed him.
Her smile came again, and more hot blood raged through his veins and pounded through his cock. All on its own. His body actually worked. It was a fucking miracle. She was the fucking miracle. He had no idea where his brothers had found her, but whatever they’d paid her to be here in his room waiting for him, it wasn’t nearly enough. They couldn’t have known she held some kind of elemental magic in her that worked itself into his body, into his brain, repairing all the damage and making him whole again.
She held out her hand to him, and when she did, her arm movements were graceful and flowing, as if she were dancing already for him. He wrapped his fingers around her hand, touching her for the first time. Skin to skin. His cock nearly exploded right along with his heart. She led him to the bed, her hips dipping with every heel-to-toe movement. The gold coins on her hips shimmied and shook, causing the bells to jingle on the belt as well as the bracelet around her ankle. He’d had no idea he could find ankle jewelry so sexy, but he did.
He settled on the bed, pulling off his shirt, barefoot, with only his jeans on, the room lit only with those scented candles. The music started again. He felt the difference in the music this time. It was highly sensuous. He was a musician and very familiar with instruments. His ear was finely tuned to pitches. He recognized the distinctive percussion of the goblet-shaped drum, the dumbek. The kanun was a stringed instrument that produced beautiful sounds much like a harp. There was a ney, a flute that had an amazing tone to it.
Zyah seemed to become one with the harmonious rhythms of the music, her arms gracefully flowing, almost mesmerizing. She moved in a circle, hips swaying, the bells calling to him. When she faced him, her abdomen was completely isolated, undulating, while her arms were moving over her head, hands telling a story. Flowing. Spellbinding. A seductress all his. He was utterly captivated by her. Zyah. His private dancer.
TWO
Player woke slowly, shades of Arabic music running through his mind. He kept his eyes closed, savoring the dream. He didn’t have good dreams often and never after a bad experience like he’d had last night. Zyah. He let out a soft sigh, remembering her eyes, the way she’d looked at him while he moved in her. She was scorching hot. So fucking tight he thought she might strangle his cock with her sheath of silk.
He’d never had sex like that in his life. Not in real life and certainly not in his dreams. He had no idea how many times they’d had sex, but he’d taken her over and over, in the bed, on the floor, against the wall, on her hands and knees, any way he could get her. She was the most sensual creature and so damn hot he couldn’t get enough of her. He loved the way she responded to him every single time.
He would never be able to conjure up eyes like hers. Large. That particular shade of dark, melting chocolate no one else had. Those long, dark lashes, thick, framing her eyes, drawing him in so he could drown in her when he took her slow.
Then there was her mouth. That fantasy mouth with her perfect lips. If he were a painter, he would paint those lips. The sight of them stretched around his cock while he disappeared into the hot haven of her mouth was so sexy, he’d barely kept it together long enough to enjoy himself. Especially with her eyes looking up at him.
He should have kept his dancer with him. If he had, even though it was a dream, maybe he would have made something good a reality instead of something bad. Instead, when he’d stretched out on his bed, exhausted, and she’d tried to lie down with him, he’d given her a swat on her very beautiful ass and told her he was done with her, to go home.
In his defense, when she’d looked at him with her big brown eyes, he had explained he didn’t sleep with anyone but that he believed she’d earned every penny the brothers paid her and then some. He’d dug out every hundred-dollar bill he had transferred from his old jeans and shoved it into her hand. He’d been more than generous to his private dancer—he’d given her at least a thousand dollars, and she’d earned every penny.
Why the hell hadn’t he kept her in his dream? That would have been the intelligent thing to do, so he could have her night after night. He groaned, his cock hard as a rock all over again. He went still. That was fucking impossible. His cock didn’t react to anything without his express permission. He controlled his body at all times. He didn’t have dreams, certainly not wet dreams.
Hating to face the day and give up on his private dancer dream, knowing he’d never get that one back, he forced his body to move, to turn over. The first thing that came into his view when he opened his eyes was his nightstand and the wad of money on it. He froze. Staring—just staring. He didn’t leave money around. Not when there was a party. Okay, never. He stashed cash in a drawer for easy access, but he never left it out in the open.
Keeping his eyes on it, afraid it might come alive and bite him, he sat up slowly, the sheet tangling the one leg he still had covered. Kicking, he reached for the cash and peeled back the bills. Yeah. Over a thousand. His mythical tip. His dream had been so real, not only was her fragrance—pink plumeria, Egyptian musk and ginger—lingering in the room, but he had her money right there in the palm of his hand.
Player forced himself to look around. Candles burned all the way to nothing were scattered on every surface. He suddenly had a vision of dancing lights flickering over Zyah’s undulating abdomen, her swaying hips and graceful arms. The flames had projected her figure onto the wall so that her moving hands were mesmerizing. He’d had not only his private dancer, but a shadow dancer as well. The moment had been beautiful, unique and all for him. She had smiled, her face lighting up, and his entire body had come to life all on its own.
He shook his head, not daring to believe she was real, even with the money in his hand. Zyah was a dream. Women like her didn’t exist. An exotic dancer, mysterious and beautiful, giving herself to him so completely, surrendering everything. Her mouth. Pure fire. Her tight pussy, hot as hell, a fucking inferno surrounding his cock and squeezing like a vise, milking him dry. Those eyes of hers staring into his as if he were someone real to her, someone worthwhile.
“No, this can’t be happening. Tell me I didn’t blow it this big.” He whispered his plea to the universe and then forced himself to look down at the floor, because if he actually stuck his dick in a woman, he wouldn’t do it without wearing a glove. Not ever. He would protect her and himself.
He groaned again, and this time not in a good way. The evidence lay everywhere. Filled condoms tied with knots scattered all over the floor as if he’d carelessly dropped them and grabbed the next one. They were everywhere, like the candles, condemning him. One by the wall. He remembered pushing her up against the wall, unable to wait to get into her, although he’d had her so many times. He couldn’t get enough of her—or her him.
The chemistry between them was explosive. Crazy hot. Off the charts. No wonder he’d thought it was a fucking dream. It was too good to be true. He was so stupid, he hadn’t even gotten her number. He pushed his palm against his forehead hard, trying to think what to do. He wasn’t about to give her up, not when his body genuinely reacted to her. Not when she made him laugh the way she did. Not when just her voice and the movements of her body could heal his fragmented brain. He’d been handed a miracle, and he’d carelessly thrown it away. Not thrown it away—driven it away.