She was still wearing the damned dress when he swept into the room, and the startled look on her face showed that she hadn’t been expecting him. Not yet, at least.
He wasn’t angry with her, and yet the possessive heat firing through his body seemed to make little distinction. The thought of Goran touching her, of Goran doing to Chloe what he’d done to Elena – Raffa shuddered from the depths of his soul.
“Come here.” He spoke the words coldly, with all the arrogance many had accused him of. “Now.”
Her eyes flew wide and he felt the hint of defiance in her gaze. Good. He hoped she’d argue with him; he was spoiling for a fight.
“Is there something wrong with your legs?” She asked without moving.
And while he might generally admire her spark, a guttural growl escaped from his chest. A primal sound of possession and impatience. This was not the time for it.
“Here.” He pointed to the floor at his feet, and perhaps there was something in his tone that conveyed his emotionally messed-up state to her, because she did as he said, though her look was one of incredulity.
“Here, sir?” She asked, mocking him, and he both hated and loved that.
“You are my wife,” he said, to himself, more than anything.
“Right now you’re treating me like chattel,” she interrupted. “What’s going on?”
“You’re my wife,” he repeated, louder, more insistently. “And I am the only man you are to talk to.”
“Oh my God. You can’t be serious?”
“You have discarded your servants; I know you have ordered them not to attend events with you, not to attend to you while you explore the palace. Do you have any idea what kind of gossip that opens you up to?”
He hadn’t held any objection to her managing her staff as she saw fit, until that moment. Now, he wanted her to be chaperoned at all times.
“I’m your wife,” she reminded him. “Not your prisoner, no matter what you might think. And I’m also perfectly capable of having a conversation with a man, might I even say ten different men, without doing a single thing to break our wedding vows.”
His eyes were wide and his nostrils flared. The worst thing she could do was provide a perfectly rational argument when he felt so damned irrational.
“Turn around.” A muscle jerked in his jaw as he ground his teeth together.
“No.” Her eyes sparked with his. “You’re being ridiculous.” She turned away and stormed off at the same time, huffing as she crossed the room towards the windows. “You have history with this Goran guy, obviously. And I’m sorry for that. But you asked me to come to the ball. You got talking to ministers and left me on my own. You sent me this dress and you invited all the guests. All I did was turn up, wear this, and be polite to a man who, frankly, gave me the creeps. So? What’s your problem?”
“My problem,” he said with a quietness that was far more dangerous than if he roared the palace down, “Is that I cannot look at you without imagining him touching you and all I can think of is making love to you until you promise me you will never let that happen.”
She gasped, the fierce, desperate plea in his words spearing straight into her heart, making her quiver.
“I didn’t say more than ten words to him,” she whispered.
But Raffa strode across the room, and as he approached, she sucked in a harsh breath yet it still didn’t reach her lungs.
“You are mine,” he said simply, and his lips crushed to hers, his tongue pushing into her mouth, his body hard against hers.
“Say you are mine,” he grunted, his fingers reaching around and finding the zip to her dress.
He needed to hear the words; he needed to hear her say that his possession of her was absolute.
“He is no one to me,” she murmured into his mouth, but that wasn’t enough.
With a growl, he spun her around, impatient, his fingers pulling the zip of her dress all the way down so she wore only a lace thong.
“Tell me you want this,” he said desperately, the words graveled, as his hands ran over her body, finding her naked breasts and palming them, feeling their weight, staring at her beauty as though he’d never before seen a woman’s naked form. “Tell me you want me.”
“You know I do,” she muttered, but there was anger in her eyes, anger at the admission, anger at his dominance over her. She tilted her head back, and he saw the way she was quivering, he knew what he was doing to her, but it still wasn’t enough. He needed her to beg him again and again, he needed to know beyond any doubt that her world began and ended with him.
Why? Why did he care? He had never been so driven by an animalistic urge to make a woman his in every fundamental way, but now, on this night, ancient forces were pushing him to claim her.
He pulled her to him and lifted her in one motion, wrapping her legs around his waist as he carried her to the bed where he dropped her backwards so she sprawled beneath him. She glared at him, her breath ragged, her breasts heaving with each push of her lungs. But he didn’t give her time to recover. He pulled at her underpants, removing them before dispensing swiftly with his own clothing, bringing his naked body over hers.
When he kissed her, it was a mark of possession that was answered by his body’s hard push into her womanhood. There was no preamble, no foreplay, just this. He thrust into her with all that he was, crying out as her sweet warmth enveloped him, as muscles claimed him, reassured him, and then his mouth dragged down her body, finding a nipple and flicking it with his tongue.
She writhed beneath him and when she whimpered he lifted his eyes to her face, watching as pleasure pulled her apart at the seams. Watching as she fell apart in his arms, feeling her muscles squeeze him, her body take him, feeling her react to him in a way that should have been reassurance enough.
But it wasn’t.
He needed more. He needed her to give him something but he didn’t know what.
While waves of pleasure still rocked her to the core, while she trembled beneath him, and her body was ravaged by the waves of her desire, he pulled out of her and dragged his mouth to her sensitive heat, lashing her with his tongue until she was crying out, loud, shrill, desperate. He was driving her to the brink too soon after she’d already orgasmed, while the after effects were still ravaging her system, but he didn’t care.
She was his, and he would make sure she understood that. He slid a single finger inside her tight warmth and she bucked against his mouth. Her fingers came to his hair, tangling in it, pulling it loose, dragging it from his head and then she came again, so that he felt her pulse, tasted her pleasure, and knew her to be carried away by what they had shared.
But still he wanted more.
He brought his weight down on top of her and thrust into her once more, and felt his own seed begin to spill. He held himself back, though, watching her as he shifted his weight, as his coarse chest brushed against her soft, womanly curves, as she pushed up and claimed his lips with hers. And then her hands were on his chest, pushing him, and something like panic filled Raffa – panic that she was going to end this. That she hadn’t wanted what he did, that he’d been wrong.
And maybe he had, because when she straddled him and took him inside, she glared at him with the force of rage he hadn’t known her capable of. “I hate you for doing this to me,” she said thickly, but she moved her hips with frantic need, pumping him, making him almost incoherent with how good she felt, how right this was.
But he wouldn’t let her control this or him. His fingers dug into her hips and he slowed her down with ease. She was tiny and he was strong. He held her low on his shaft and his eyes bore into hers. “Tell me you’re mine.”
“Screw you,” she muttered, trying to move her hips, and he knew she needed to feel more of him, to feel him move. He knew pleasure was once again knocking at her door, and he held the key to opening it.
His smile was tight, his own grip on the situation spiraling way out of control. “I am.”
“Jerk.
” She groaned when he pumped himself inside her, just once, just enough to remind her what this was.
“You are mine. Whenever I want you, however I say. You are mine. Tell me. Say it.”
And when she was quiet, he rolled his hips so she felt the gossamer promise of what he would give her if only she’d agree.
“I hate you,” she groaned, trying to move, trying to take him in deeper.
“So you said,” he drawled through half-shut eyes.
He loosened his grip on her hips so she was free to move again, to roll her hips and bring herself, and him, to the very edge of sanity. But before she could explode, he stilled her once more, so that her body was denied what it needed so desperately.
“I’m yours,” she cried out. “Just please don’t stop.”
Raffa swore to himself as he finally gave into what they both wanted, tipping her over the edge at the same time he exploded, so that their bodies were a mesh of pleasure and satisfaction. And as she rode the wave of release, she mumbled, over and over again like a waterfall that wouldn’t stop bubbling, “I hate you for this.”
Raffa woke with a pounding headache the next morning, and a heavy sense of something dark in his gut.
Fractured memories of the night before assailed him slowly at first, and then all at once, like a tsunami hitting land. The way he’d felt seeing Goran talking to her. The way he’d taken his anger at a decades old crime out on Chloe. The way he’d punished her, the way he’d used her sensuality against her.
The way he’d made her beg.
The way she’d told him she hated him.
The way she’d looked at him as though he were the devil incarnate.
Something like a rock settled inside of him.
Guilt. Yes, guilt. He hadn’t felt it before, and so it took him a while to identify it, but as the day progressed, he recognized the emotion and knew he deserved to feel it. It was eating him up from the inside out.
He would swim – swimming always cleared his mind.
Why had he allowed himself to become so invested in possessing her? His wife was a very beautiful means to an end, that was all. A convenient bride, chosen for her neutrality, chosen because no one faction within his country could object to her usurping all the other contenders. Chosen for her age and the ease with which it was presumed she would fall pregnant with all the heirs his country would require.
Sleeping with her was precisely about that, not about making her body tremble until he was satisfied she needed him.
What was happening to him? Why had Raffa let her get under his skin?
He dove into the water of his private pool, stroking the length as though a shark was at his heels. He would regain control of this – he would remember why he’d married her and what place she played within the kingdom.
Sex was sex, and he’d had enough of it to know that the pleasures of the flesh always faded. What they shared was special because it was new, that was all.
He would restrict their interaction to the bare minimum. Sex, for the sake of begetting an heir. Pleasure be damned.
Or so he hoped.
It was only two months. Eight weeks. That was completely normal. When proof that she hadn’t yet fallen pregnant arrived only hours after Raffa had left her room, Chloe had whispered every sort of promise to herself, to reassure herself that in most cases, it took time to fall pregnant.
Her rational mind knew that, but the part of Chloe that had presumed it would be as easy as looking at Raffa and conceiving, was breaking.
She had breakfast, lost in thought, trying to make sense of the feelings welling inside of her, but they were no clearer by the time her plate was empty.
She knew only that she wanted to go away again, to return to the city, to somewhere she was comfortable, where she could be without risk of seeing her husband. No, without him seeing her.
She couldn’t face him.
“Aysha?” She called, standing and wiping her hands on a napkin simultaneously.
“Good morning, your highness,” Aysha smiled as she entered.
Chloe found it hard to meet even Aysha’s eyes. “Aysha.” She moved towards her desk. “I need a letter delivered to my husband.”
“No need,” Aysha interrupted. “His security detail just informed me that he’s on his way here. Now. He asked for a meeting with you.”
“No!” Chloe’s eyes were huge. “I mean, not now. I can’t see him.” She swallowed, and turned away from Aysha, moving towards the balcony. “Please tell him I’m not well.”
She didn’t turn around to see Aysha’s reaction, but despite that, Chloe thought better of her approach. “No. Give him a letter after all. That’s better.”
She crossed to her desk again, dipping her head down as she wrote.
“I’m sorry.” She squeezed her eyes shut, hating the wave of over-sentimental emotions that were buffering her system. She’d never been like this before. She bent her head forward and continued to write, not seeing the way Aysha watched with obvious sympathy. What else could Chloe say? She was sorry. Sorry, angry, upset. With a noise of frustration she tore up the piece of paper.
She wasn’t a coward.
And it wasn’t her fault.
Pull yourself together, Chloe! She’d tell him herself, and then she’d go far away to lick her wounds.
“Never mind, Aysha. I’ll speak to my husband when he arrives.”
Her servant nodded and left the room, so Chloe was alone once more. She paced to the windows, and stared out at the desert. A warm breeze came in across the space, fragranced with the heavy spices that were available to buy from the markets in the nearby town. It lifted her hair and distractedly she looped it over one shoulder, her mind running over the fact she hadn’t fallen pregnant.
What if something was wrong?
What if this wasn’t going to happen?
It was too early to worry. She knew this to be the case. Every pregnancy magazine would confirm that. But this wasn’t a normal situation! They needed this heir, and they had a ticking time bomb with Malik being so ill. The transition to Raffa being sole ruler of Ras el Kida would run so much more smoothly if he had a child – even the promise of one – to offer his people. To show that the future was every bit as bright as the past had been.
Unless… she closed her eyes and saw another royal heir. Amit.
What if she could convince her husband to recognize him as his heir?
He was Raffa’s son, and he was intelligent, kind, instantly physically recognizable as a descendant of the throne.
It was like a weight being lifted off Chloe’s shoulders. She wanted a child, she wanted to carry the royal heir, but if she couldn’t, if her body wouldn’t comply, there were other options. She could help Raffa see that; she could make her understand that Amit would be an excellent Sheikh one day.
The door to her suite opened and Raffa entered. She turned to face him, slowly, and her heart, her foolish heart, lurched to see him dressed in formal robes. Gold and black, they emphasized the caramel glow of his skin and the darkly handsome planes of his face.
He crossed to her, his eyes scanning her face. “You are unwell?”
“No,” she shook her head. “I’m fine. I’m…”
“Yes?” He waited, but Chloe found she couldn’t answer him. She didn’t know what to say after all. Absurd! She was furious with herself for being so sensitive.
“It doesn’t matter.” She turned away from him, looking towards the window. “Did you need something?”
He was quiet for so long that she shifted her gaze back to his face. “Raffa?”
“I have to go away for a few days. There’s a problem in the south and the local governments seem incapable of coming to an agreement.”
Relief warred with misery at this. Hadn’t she just been thinking she would go away? The timing couldn’t be better – with Raffa leaving, there was no need for her to run to the city.
“Last night was unforgivable,” he surprised her by saying,
and when she looked at him, she saw anguish in his features. “I took my anger out on you. I had no business treating you as I did.”
Chloe’s jaw dropped. His apology was something she’d never expected, partly because he wasn’t a man to apologise, but largely because no apology was necessary.
She’d been furious with how he’d made her desperate for him, how he’d needed her to tell him of his body’s command over hers, and yet the pleasure she’d felt had quickly blotted out her anger, making her feel only pleased that they shared this connection.
“It’s fine,” she said softly.
His smile was dismissive. “It won’t happen again.” He lifted his hand, as though to touch her cheek, and then stepped back, his face assuming a mask of distance. “I’ll be back in a week or so.”
Chapter Eleven
MONTHS PASSED. RED-HOT sex by night, nothing during the day, and every four weeks, more reason for Chloe to worry. More reason for her to fear. More reason for her to be certain that something was wrong with her body or his. And it was easier to suspect her own body to be at fault, because Raffa was everything a man should be. Virile, strong, so masculine. Surely the fault could not be his.
Besides, he’d already borne a son, so there was incontrovertible proof that his body was able to give to a woman’s womb the recipe for life.
On the sixth month of trying and failing to conceive, Chloe knew she needed to find answers. To at least look into the possibility that things might not be going to work for them.
It felt like the only thing she could do.
“Aysha,” she murmured. “There’s a children’s hospital in Switzerland I’d like to inspect – for the charity. Their fundraising model is unique, and they have one of the best children’s pediatric wards in the world. Would you contact the hospital director and arrange it?”
“Of course, your highness. Which hospital?”
Chloe handed the computer print-out to her servant, pleased that not by a single tremble did she betray the importance of what she was doing – nor reveal that she wasn’t being completely honest.
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