Nothing Lasts Forever (The Montebellos Book 4)

by Clare Connelly

  He followed her in and she was immediately relieved and thankful that this intimacy wasn’t yet over. The water fell over her head and down her body, and she was so over-sensitive from his love-making that she moaned in response, feeling every droplet as though it were his touch.

  He placed some fragranced oil into the palm of his hand – an oil sourced from a native tree that produced an abundant supply of this antibacterial, exotically fragranced substance that was used all over the country in place of soaps and body washes – and ran his hands over her arms, then to her hips, her flat stomach, her rounded bottom. He touched her everywhere, washing her, worshipping her, paying special attention to the sensitive flesh between her legs and when she was clean he lifted the palm of her hand, placing some of the oil into it.

  “Your turn,” he commanded, the words husky and thickened with desire.

  She swallowed past the anxieties born of her inexperience and focused instead on what he was offering – the freedom to touch him. To explore him, as he had her. Tentatively at first, she lifted her palms to his chest and felt his hair-roughened flesh beneath her fingertips, her eyes showing her uncertainty as she watched him for a reaction and had the satisfaction of seeing his sharp intake of breath. She moved lower, her courage built, teasing her fingers over the coarse hair just below his naval, creeping slowly downwards, until her thumbs brushed the base of his arousal. And he was aroused, big and hard once more, so that she couldn’t help but stare at his masculinity.

  But she wasn’t ready to touch him yet. Not there. With a small, impish smile, she moved behind him so she could run her hands over his back, finding the ridges of his spine, the muscles that ran beneath his shoulders, then all the way down his sides, over firm hips, to the buttocks that were impressive for their obvious strength. She touched him freely, curving her palms around him, smiling when she heard his ragged breathing. And with her body behind his, she snaked her hands to his front, clasping his erection in one hand while her other stroked his side.

  He made a throaty sound of desire, hot and urgent, and with her hand running the length of him, he began to move, until he could take it no longer. He spun around, grabbing her by the hips and lifting her easily, planting her on his length so that she cried out at his total possession of her. It was perfection. Like this, he was so much deeper, and he no longer seemed to care that this was all new to her, and she was infinitely glad for that. She didn’t want to be treated with kid gloves by her husband. She wanted to feel all of this, all of him.

  He thrust inside of her, jerking her body upwards, pulling her down, and he pressed her back under the water until her back connected with the wall and then her feet were digging into his waist so she could move too, taking him as hard as she could. It was an animalistic, savage coming together, their mutual passion making patience impossible. He thrust into her and the feeling of him convulsing in her tipped her over the edge, so she was crying out with him, shouting his name as loudly as she could, water washing away the noises even as she made them, pleasure filling them completely.

  When her breathing was almost normal, he eased her down to her feet and reached behind her to turn off the water. His eyes held hers for several seconds before he turned, exiting the shower and returning a moment later with an enormous white fluffy towel.

  “Here.” He handed it to her, and she wrapped herself in it, unable to look away from a face that she had now seen from every angle, and watched as he drove her to unimaginable heights of pleasure.

  He disappeared again, and when she emerged from the steamy shower, he’d dried himself off and was dressing himself.

  A pang of something like alarm spread through her.

  “You’re going?”

  His smile was just a quick flick of his lips and didn’t reach his eyes. “I will come back tomorrow night,” he promised, closing the distance between them.

  Infuriatingly, tears cloyed in Chloe’s throat and it took all of her self-possession to look as she always did – as emotionally detached as she had mastered a long time ago.

  “Fine,” she said with a curt nod.

  He pressed a finger beneath her chin, lifting her face towards his. “You’re okay?”

  “Fine,” she repeated, wondering at how far she felt from that emotion. She would analyse it later, examine why her chest was burning – and not with passion but with the pain of breathing, suddenly

  “Good.” He nodded, and it seemed as though he wanted to say something, but then, he pressed a chaste kiss to her cheek and walked away.

  Raffa’s eyes strayed to his watch for the tenth time in as many minutes. The meeting had been intended to last only a short while, but an hour and a half after taking his seat at the table in his conference rooms, the conversation showed little signs of abating.

  He listened impassively, allowing his government ministers to talk out the issue of the new highway, how far it would stretch, how they could avoid interfering with the cultural rights of the ancient Bedouin tribes who still inhabited more than forty percent of the country’s deserts.

  Deserts. Sand. Tents. Chloe. Naked, beneath the night sky, lying on one of the colourful blankets that surrounded his camps, no servants, nothing but her, him and all the time in the world to explore one another. Beneath the table, his arousal strained hard and he was grateful for the loose-fitting nature of his traditional robes.

  She had given herself to him so freely, as abandoned to the wildness of their desire as he. She had been perfect in his arms, perfect as she’d touched him so gently, shyly, her huge eyes hooked to his as her fingertips had traced circles over his skin.

  He’d woken that morning in his own bed, alone, and when he’d surveyed himself in the mirror, there’d been tracks down his back, arms and chest. Marks of her passion and proof of the fever that had raged in her blood.

  Impatience gnawed through him. He wanted to be with her again already. He needed her. What kind of animal did that make him? She was his wife. There was more to her than her body, her beautiful, willing body. Not only was she his wife, she was a decade his junior, and inexperienced.

  He knew he had to give her an opportunity to take stock of what had happened, but Raffa’s own desires were flaring inside of him. He wanted her again, then, that morning, all the time. He wanted to slake his needs with her until he was done, until this burst of sexual obsession had dimmed. And it would dim, because it always did. But for now?

  Chloe was a drug and he had no clue how to control his dependence.

  He looked at his watch, frowning. Had time stood still?

  “Enough.” He stood, scraping back his chair loudly, drawing all eyes to him. “This matter should have been resolved already. Sort it out, bring me a viable, economical solution.”

  Kalim rose and fell into step behind Raffa, walking from the room with him.

  “You’re distracted.”

  “Yes.” He looked towards his friend.

  “Anything I can help with?”

  Raffa frowned. There was only one thing that would calm the fire in his blood, and he had told her he would go to her that night. Not in the middle of the afternoon. Theirs was an arranged marriage, and now, they were trying to fall pregnant because the country needed an heir.

  This was not a love match – far from it.

  It wasn’t a passion-filled, tempestuous affair that required indulgence in the middle of the day. He came to a stop near a large bay window that overlooked the desert. It glistened in the heat of the sun, glowing like Chloe’s hair had against the pillows of her bed.

  A muscle jerked in his cheek as he forced restraint on his libido. He needed to stick to his routine, to remember that Chloe was simply the bride his father had chosen, with whom he had little in common. Sex was one thing – he would indulge his needs, knowing it was for the greater good – the country needed an heir, they wanted a child. But it was just sex – a simple biological urge; nothing more.

  He needed a distraction. “Ride out with me,” he
murmured to Kalim, his eyes trained on the far dunes. The further he was from the palace, the easier it would be to resist temptation.

  Chloe was reading the newspaper when he strode into her suite, later that evening. She’d been mid-way through a fascinating opinion piece about the rising costs of living in the city when Raffa swept in, straight from the desert, his dark eyes glittering. His hair was in its bun, but messy around the face, and he wore flowing pants and a loose kaftan – both cream in colour, showing off the rich tan of his skin.

  Her breath caught in her throat as, without speaking, he crossed the room and pulled her from the chair, lifting her against him and crushing her lips with his. She could feel the power of his arousal through his clothes and hers and a desperate heat exploded in her gut.

  He was warm, warmer than usual, as though he’d been running or something, and he tasted of salt and sand and magical desert creatures. He perched her on the edge of the table and without breaking his kiss, pushed at the buttons of her dress until, with a guttural sound of impatience, he pulled hard enough to simply break the fine row of beading down the centre, splitting it open and revealing her breasts to him.

  He groaned as he dipped his head forward and kissed her roughly, his beard scratching her flesh. She tilted her head back to give him better access, and her hands, of their own accord, went to his kaftan, lifting it so she could slide her fingertips into the waistband of his pants.

  He grunted as he stepped out of them, then kissed her hard enough that her body lay back against the cold marble table, the newspaper squashed beneath her. He separated her legs and entered her swiftly. Not a word passed between them.

  He held her breasts in his palms as he moved in her feminine core and Chloe exploded instantly. The taste of him, the feel of him, his warmth, his strength, all of it, tilted the world off its axis. She was sliding and she didn’t care.

  She cried out in the cold night air and he crushed his mouth to hers, catching her hoarse exclamation, tasting her desire. She dug her nails into his back, needing to anchor herself to something tangible and real, and he moved faster and harder, until they were both spiraling out of control together. Two writhing, hot bodies, full of passion, full of need.

  She lay against the table, grateful for the cool of the marble, for the hardness of the surface that stopped her from sinking into the earth’s molten core.

  Slowly, she blinked her heavy eyes open, staring at her husband as though she’d never seen him before. And she hadn’t; not like this. Though hadn’t she always felt there was an almost feral energy emanating from him? A wildness deep in his soul that could be concealed, some of the time, but never fully masked.

  She shivered, but it was a movement of desire and cravings. He was still inside her, her breath was still frantic after her explosive orgasm, but still she wanted more. She needed more.

  Her eyes dragged over his face and then his body, but she gasped suddenly, and had she been prone to blushing, pink heat would have spread over her cheeks.

  “You’re bleeding,” she muttered, turning her face away, so he couldn’t see the shame in her eyes. She’d thought he was wild and animalistic? She’d scratched his chest and drawn blood with her nails alone. “I’m sorry.”

  His frown was infinitesimal, as he surveyed the proof of her desire. “What for?”

  She swept her eyes shut, and now, impatience to see her properly had him reaching down and turning her face to his. “What for?” He repeated, the words carrying a warning.

  “I … for that.” She mumbled.

  His shrug was pure nonchalance. He reached behind her and pulled her to a sitting position, disentangling their bodies. His eyes locked to hers, and she couldn’t look away. It was as though an invisible string connected them. Dark emotions she couldn’t comprehend swirled in his gaze, so that she held her breath, waiting.

  Finally, he spoke, the words raspy and more heavily accented than usual. “Did I hurt you?”

  She blinked, frowning in confusion. “When?”

  “Now.”

  “Oh! No. Not at all. That was… all good.” She dropped her gaze then, embarrassment making her shy. Or perhaps it was the newness of this, of him, of realizing that she could drive him to depths of wild abandon that surprised even himself.

  “Your skin is warm,” she said softly, lifting a hand to his chest and touching the scratch marks he’d made. And then, courage building inside of her, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to the marks, tasting salt, iron and passion on the tip of her tongue.

  He tensed beneath her, but she ignored it. Ignored whatever was making him still, making him stiffen.

  “You taste like sunshine.” She ran her tongue higher, and then across to his hair-roughened nipple, flicking it with curiosity. When he inhaled a sharp breath, her confidence grew. She traced her tongue to the other, circling it, her eyes lifting to his so that she smiled against his skin when she saw the way tension had permeated his face, the way he was trying so hard to remain strong in the face of her sensual assault.

  Her hands crept to his shoulders, and then higher still. She had to stretch to reach his hair, so her breasts pressed against his chest, and she was so sensitive from his ministrations that the hint of texture on his chest made her moan low and soft in her mouth.

  She tangled her fingertips in his hair, pulling it loose from the bun. She hadn’t actively wondered how he styled it, but she discovered that it was simply coiled together, wrapped in on itself and held in place by its own coarseness and obedience to the sheikh’s will.

  “Enough,” he growled, but there was a plea in the word.

  “Why?” She wriggled closer to the edge of the table and wrapped her legs around his waist. “Are you allowed to come and take what you want and not let me do the same?”

  “You want to play with my hair?”

  She tilted her head to the side, pretending to consider it, then, she sobered. “I want to touch you all over. Starting here.” She tapped a finger to his forehead. “And here,” she ran her finger down his chest in a wiggling line before tapping his impressive manhood so that it jerked beneath her.

  “And here,” she ran her fingers around to his buttocks, her eyes lifting back to his face.

  She could see a war taking place inside of him. He was implacable and arrogant, and yet somehow, Chloe understood him on a cellular level. She could look at him and know what stirred within him, perhaps even when he didn’t know himself.

  “You haven’t eaten,” he said finally, easily pushing her legs from his waist and stepping back. There was a hardness in his expression, a determination to separate from her.

  He was going to go away again. To make love to her on his terms and then push her from him.

  “How do you know?”

  “It’s my business to know.”

  She pulled a face. “So? You’re leaving again?”

  He looked away from her. “No, Sheikha. You’re upholding your end of the bargain. I intend to do the same.”

  Chapter Six

  “WHAT IS THIS PLACE?” she exhaled on a soft sigh of wonderment, her eyes moving quickly to discover the intricacies of the building to which he’d shown her.

  “The Nasin-pithak,” he said the unfamiliar word, and she repeated it, wanting to taste it on her tongue, to feel it in her mouth.

  His eyes remained on her face, watching her perfect the accent.

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “It’s from the ancient dialect,” he confirmed with a nod, moving deeper into the space. It was a shell of a building, but not a ruin. It had been designed with these large openings and the circular hole in the roof giving her, in that moment, a perfect view of the crisp, star-lit sky.

  “It was built in the sixth century, a temple then. Over time, it’s become a place for reflection. My great grandfather sat here before going to war with the Imali province. My father spent most days for a year here, after my mother …” he clamped his lips together, the look
he sent Chloe cold, despite the raging emotions she felt emanating from him.

  Confusion stirred within her. She knew very little of her husband’s mother, except that she’d died in a car accident many years earlier. “After the accident?” She prompted, taking another step into the ancient building. The ground beneath them was mosaics, though she couldn’t make out any discernible image from the tiles. The only light was cast by the moon, and two lamps on opposing sides of the space.

  “Yes.” It was a crisp answer that hid a wealth of information, she knew. There were secrets within him – secrets that she wanted to tease out and know, and she couldn’t have said why.

  “Apollo once told me that he’d never seen a man as devastated as your father at the funeral,” she murmured softly, goading him to share, willing him to open a small part of himself to her.

  A table had been set in the middle of the floor, but it was low to the ground, with bright orange and purple cushions scattered around it, inviting them to lounge comfortably and eat rather than to sit formally at a dining table.

  “Did he?” Raffa waited for Chloe to sit and then took the space opposite her, his long legs stretched out in front of him, one ankle crossed over the other.

  He was stalling her; dissuading her from continuing. Well, that might have worked with someone else, but not Chloe. Not now. He’d stirred something to life inside of her – an intimate knowledge of his body, and the knowledge that he had made love to her, that he wanted her with such primal abandon, gave her a confidence he couldn’t erode, no matter what he tried.

  “They married for love?” She prompted, cutting to the heart of what she wanted to know.

  He expelled an angry breath. “Yes. And it was the undoing of them both.”

  He poured two glasses of wine, a rich mulberry purple in colour, but didn’t touch his.

  “In what way?”

  His eyes lingered on her face for so long that goosebumps danced along her spine. “You want to speak of my parents?” He’d left his hair down, after she’d run her fingers through it, and now he pushed it back from his forehead. A gesture that showed his frustration but didn’t deter her for even a moment.