Instead, she was nervous about what he was doing and how it was making her feel. Fatima had never felt loved or cared about like this in her life. She...had been the least favorite of Hassan's wives and a frequent victim of his casual cruelty. He had referred to her as a worthless cow because she didn't give him the son he coveted. She had accepted his condemnation for years until she figured out that his impotence was the problem, not hers. Now here was a man doing things to her that felt. “God, what are you doing?” But something within her knew. “Hell with it. I’ll never see him again.” She tugged her shorts so that they sat below her hips, barely meeting her tank-top, then she spun on three-inch heels, left the bathroom and made straight for the dance floor. She had walked no more than ten feet when he grabbed the same wrist as at the bar. “Thought I might have scared you off.” She glanced at the tattooed arm, the muscled upper body scantly covered by a leather waistcoat.. More

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