Forged in the Desert Heat

by Maisey Yates

  She’d known she couldn’t show her face at the party. She wasn’t supposed to be here. No one could ever know she was here.

  But she hadn’t been able to resist. She’d put on the red dress she’d worn to dinner. And eventually she’d gotten up the courage to slip up to the balcony to catch a glimpse of him.

  No one would recognize her, even if they saw her. Not from that distance. At least, that had been her reasoning.

  Now there was no reasoning at all. She hadn’t planned this. She hadn’t expected it. She had no idea what it would mean for her future, or why she was taking such a chance. She only knew that she couldn’t seem to stop herself.

  That she didn’t want to stop.

  That for the first time in longer than she could remember she wasn’t getting tripped up pondering the whys and why nots of every action she performed. That she wasn’t worrying about what other people would think. Or what they might wish she would do differently.

  How could she worry about it when nothing had ever felt so right? When the press of his mouth against hers seemed essential?

  And then she found herself backed against the hard stone wall, the cool rock at her back, the heat and hardness of Zafar in front of her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, clung to him, poured everything she had into the kiss.

  Desperation. Passion. Confusion. Anger.

  She felt all of it, swirling inside of her, creating a perfect storm of emotion that seemed to push her harder, faster.

  She was so consumed with it, with him, that she hardly realized her fingers had gone to the knot of his tie. That she was loosening it, tugging it from around his neck. That she was working the buttons on his shirt as quickly as possible.

  She didn’t realize it until her hand came up against hot, bare skin, rough chest hair that tickled her fingertips as she swept them beneath his collar so that she could get closer to him.

  He kissed her hard, pressing his body to hers. And she could feel the hard ridge of his arousal against her thigh, evidence of how much he wanted her. That she wasn’t feeling this alone.

  And she wanted to weep with the triumph.

  Because someone felt passion for her. Because even if Zafar only wanted sex, and her body, she was certain it was more need than anyone else had truly felt for her in years, if ever.

  Her father wanted her to help him maintain the status quo. To help him shore up his profits. Tariq wanted her for a revenue increase to his country.

  No one wanted her. And no one was honest about it.

  Except that wasn’t true now. Zafar wanted her. And if there was one thing she knew, even with her near nonexistent experience with men, it was that erections didn’t lie. It was blunt, brutal honesty at its most basic and she reveled in it.

  She arched against him, pressing her aching breasts to his chest, her heart thundering so loud and hard she was certain he could hear it, certain he could feel it.

  He abandoned her mouth and kissed the side of her neck, her collarbone. The curve of her breast revealed by her dress.

  “This is a beautiful dress,” he said. “But it doesn’t give me enough of you.”

  He reached behind her and tugged at the zipper tab, pulling it down and loosening the dress so that it hung off her curves. Then he pushed against the single strap that held it up and it fell to the floor, leaving her standing there in a darkened stairwell in nothing but a black strapless bra and matching panties.

  If she’d been thinking clearly, she probably would have protested, or expressed some form of outrage. But she wasn’t. So she didn’t.

  He put his hands on her waist, ran his fingertips over the line of her spine. The action, so simple, so seemingly sedate, sent a riot of need through her that made her breasts ache, made her slick between her thighs.

  She’d never known what it was to want a man. Not like this.

  He pressed a kiss to the valley between her breasts, then traced a line there with the tip of his tongue. And she shivered.

  She laced her fingers in his hair, wanting to hold him there forever, wanting to tighten her hold and tug him back up to her lips so she could kiss him again.

  She just wanted. With everything in her, with her entire being. And damn anyone else’s opinion. Damn the consequences. Damn quietness.

  He raised his head and kissed her again, and she made quick work of the rest of the buttons on his shirt. She pressed her palms flat against his hard, muscular chest, sliding her hands downward, to his stomach.

  She’d never seen a man who looked like him. He’d completely shocked her the first time she’d seen him without a shirt. Bronzed and chiseled and so sexy it nearly hurt.

  She’d never noticed how sexy men were because she’d never let herself see. Because she’d been so committed to an ideal she’d shut that part of herself off and channeled controlled bits of it to the “appropriate” place.

  This was like a dam burst, and there was nothing appropriate about where her desire was being channeled. And she didn’t care. Not in the least.

  All that mattered was how amazing he felt. How right it felt to have his lips against hers. How she felt like she would die if she didn’t have more of him.

  All of him.

  “I want you,” she said, the words torn from deep inside of her, from a place she hadn’t known existed. One filled with passion, with desire that stood apart from expectation and judgment. A place that was all hers.

  And, in this moment, Zafar’s.

  He put his hands on her lower back, pushed his finger down beneath the waistband of her sheer black panties, the reached in farther, cupping her.

  The intimate contact shocked her a little bit, but not enough to make her stop. And then he dipped between her thighs, his fingers skimming her slick folds and she jumped, arching into him.

  “Shh,” he said, kissing her, cutting off the strangled cry she hadn’t realized had been on her lips. “It’s okay. Do you like it?” He stroked her slowly and her whole body shook, internal muscles she’d been unaware of until that moment contracting tight.

  “Yes,” she whispered, letting her head fall back. He kissed her jaw, her neck, and pushed a finger into her, slowly. Her breath caught and she held on to his shoulders.

  “Still good?” he asked, pressing deeper, moving one finger farther forward to her clitoris as he stroked in and out of her gently with another.

  “Yes.” She closed her eyes and leaned into him, widening her stance so he had easier access to her body.

  She shuddered as he continued to subject her to sensual torture with his hands, his lips hot on her neck, his tongue sliding over her tender skin.

  Everything in her went tight, so tight she could scarcely breathe. She thought she would break. And just when she thought she couldn’t endure anymore, his final stroke over the sensitized bundle of nerves made everything in her release.

  It was like chains that had been holding her, for months, years, all of her life, had suddenly let go. And she was falling, weightless, pleasure coursing through her body. And there was nothing, no thought, no worry, no fear of judgment, or anything else.

  Nothing but the white-hot pleasure that burned on and on, leaving her scorched, but unharmed. Leaving her new.

  Like a phoenix from the ashes.

  And for one whole minute, as she rested against his chest, her breathing returning to normal, she felt stronger, more sure, than she ever had before.

  But the minute passed too soon.

  And then she realized she was in a stairwell in nothing but her underwear, and she’d just let the man who was holding her captive, the man who was not her fiancé, bring her to orgasm with his hands.

  There weren’t enough swearwords. There really weren’t. So she went through them all in her head. Twice.

  And then she said on
e of them, the worst one she could think of, out loud because why not? Only Zafar was here. And he had just seen the most shameful, embarrassing moment of her life. She didn’t have to worry too much about manners in this case. Especially not when he was holding her half-naked body against his.

  But he was the one who drew away suddenly, his dark eyes haunted, his hands shaking as he pushed them through his hair. He was pale, a sheen of sweat on his gray-tinged forehead.

  “I...I am sorry. Forgive me.” And she was pretty sure he wasn’t talking to her. “Forgive me,” he said again, buttoning up his shirt as he walked down the stairs, away from her, leaving her standing there staring after him, her body buzzing, her head pounding. Her heart aching.

  What had she done?

  She dropped down to her knees, her legs too weak to hold her up.

  “What did you do?” she said out loud.

  She shifted so that she was sitting, her back to the wall, and she picked up her dress from the ground, sliding it onto her lap, holding it up over her breasts. A tear slid down her cheek. She hadn’t even felt tears building, but they were here, and they were falling, faster than she could wipe them away.

  If her father knew, if Tariq knew, they would hate her.

  And everything would be for nothing. Her whole life, all that quiet, would be for nothing.

  She scrunched her face up, lights filtering in from the ballroom below splintering and turning into glittering stars, fractured by her tears.

  What had just happened with Zafar had been the single most beautiful moment in her life. In his arms she’d felt alive. She’d felt more like Ana. The Ana who was waking up from hibernation. The Ana she might have been if life really did come with a guarantee.

  If she’d been free to grow up without all the baggage. Without all the fear and anxiety that one wrong move would see her abandoned by both parents.

  But the beauty of the moment withered and died quickly. And it left behind the reality. She had betrayed the man she’d promised to marry. She’d done what she wanted to do, instead of doing what was right.

  And she feared that, just like her mother’s priceless porcelain doll, everything was too broken to be put back together.

  That she had, once again, cut the tether that held the people she loved in her life.

  It couldn’t happen again. She could never speak of it. She couldn’t even remember it. She would weather the rest of her captivity, and then she would go back to Shakar. Back to Tariq and her father.

  They would never see how badly broken she was inside. And everything could go on as it was supposed to.

  There was no other option.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “WE HAVE TO LEAVE.”

  Zafar’s voice pierced her sleep-fogged brain. She looked out the window and saw that it was still gray out. Ana rolled over in bed, put her hands over her face. “Right now?”

  “Yes,” he bit out. “Now.”

  “What about liaising and being diplomatic?” Cold dread washed over her and she sat upright. “Unless you talked to Tariq.”

  “No,” he bit out, “I didn’t. But I have been awake all night and I have decided that you failed in your task.”

  “I...failed.” The words sent a cold stone of dread sinking down into the bottom of her stomach. So strange, because it shouldn’t matter if Zafar thought she’d failed at something. But failing, being wrong, being worthless, was such an ingrained fear that no matter who spoke, the words had the power to wound her. “Why? What did they say about you? What did they say about the ball?”

  “Oh,” he bit out, “they loved me. They’ve called Rycroft a flaming idiot and said that he was slandering me in his article. Suave, they said, and handsome. But, Ana, I am not civilized, no matter what they say. And that was your job. To civilize me. And you did not. Why else would I be keeping a woman locked in my palace, keeping her from her father, her fiancé, giving no notice that she wasn’t dead, rather than sending her straight back to her home, regardless of the fallout? There is no honor in that. No civility.”

  “Zafar...you did what you had to do.”

  “Stop it,” he growled. “Stop trying to placate me. Stop trying to smooth things over. Some things cannot be fixed. Some things are not in your power to repair.” He paced at the foot of her bed, frightening and mystifying in his anger. “Do not absolve me. It is a heresy. You don’t know the sins you’re trying to forgive.”

  “Fine. Stay in your self-imposed hell then, Zafar Nejem. I don’t care. But make good on your word and take me back home. You can castigate yourself for all your wrongdoing on the way.”

  She flung off the covers and got out of bed, realizing she had nothing to pack. That nothing here was hers. That she would leave everything, including Zafar, behind and there would be no evidence that she was ever here. No evidence he had ever been part of her life.

  That he’d been the first man to kiss her passionately. The first man to touch her intimately. The first man to give her an orgasm.

  The first man to make her wonder if there was more to life than she was allowing herself to live. The first man to make her want to stand out in the open and scream at the sky so people would know she was there. So she would stop just blending in.

  And she would just leave it. Leave him. It would be nothing more than a blip on the radar of her life. A couple weeks out of time, with nothing more than the life she’d led at home with her father coming before, and nothing but her marriage to Tariq after.

  All the anger drained out of her, leaving her lips feeling cold. Leaving her feeling dizzy.

  “That is the question. Commercial flights to Shakar were barred during my uncle’s rule. If I fly you there, we may create more of a spectacle than we would like.”

  “Take me back the way we came in,” she said. She pictured it then, the journey to the palace on the back of his horse, the wind, harsh and arid and clean in her face.

  “On a horse?”

  She nodded. “Yes. No one will have to know. Leave me where I was taken. I’ll lie about what happened.”

  “It’s not so simple, and you know that. Were it that simple we could have done that from the beginning.”

  “I know. But...I’ll lie to buy you time. Or I’ll tell Tariq how you saved my life, but I’ll make sure that I express nothing but deep gratitude to you and to the people of Al Sabah. I won’t let there be a war.”

  She didn’t know where the strength was coming from. She’d always liked to fix things. Had always tried to take a chance at reclaiming her life. At fixing what she’d broken.

  So odd how, in all ways, she saw Zafar in herself. Guilt, blame and shame, a constant companion, and the need to try and remake everything, make it new again, fix the damage caused by their actions, an ever-present drive and burden.

  But this was different. This was true conviction. A vow she was making to him that she would keep no matter what.

  “Trust me,” she said. “I’ll fix it.”

  “Why do you want to do it this way?”

  “Because...because I need to finish my adventure before I stop having them. Especially sad since this was my first one.”

  “Is that what this has been for you, habibti?” he asked. “An adventure?”

  She shook her head, her throat tightening. “No. It’s been more than that, but I’m not sure what to say. I don’t even know what I feel.”

  He let out a heavy breath, then straightened, every inch the commanding king. “Dress yourself. Pack adequate clothing for three to five days of travel. The desert is unpredictable and often there are obstacles that prevent things from going as quickly as we might like.”

  “Sandstorms.”

  “Yes. But you will be with me. I will not let any harm come to you.” She felt like he was talking about more than just t
he desert. Like more than just physical harm. “I promise you that.”

  “I believe you.”

  “I will gather tents and food. It will not be as rough of a journey as it was coming here.”

  “And will you bring servants?”

  Their eyes locked, tension crackling between them, and the despair she’d felt last night in the stairwell was burned away by the heat that ignited in her veins. “No,” he said. “It is best not to involve any more people than necessary.”

  She nodded, feeling like a hand was tightening around her throat. “No, that wouldn’t do.”

  “Not at all.”

  “I’ll get ready, then.”

  “I will wait out in the courtyard. No one can see us leave. There is still extra staff here. People who are not mine.”

  “I understand.”

  He nodded once and turned and walked out of the room, leaving her standing there, feeling like, yet again, her life had been turned completely upside down.

  Strange how she was coming to expect it. How it seemed to jar something loose in her. How she sort of enjoyed it.

  Well, it was coming to an end now. Because she was going back to Shakar. Back to Tariq.

  She sucked in a shaking breath and started looking for a bag to pack her clothes in.

  * * *

  “Ready?” Zafar looked down from his position on his horse, his face mostly covered by his headdress.

  She nodded her pale head. She looked...different. There was a quiet strength to her posture, her hair drawn back into a tight bun. He had always seen her as extremely self-possessed, the exception being the brief emotional meltdown she’d had when he’d first rescued her from her kidnappers.

  But now she was somewhere beyond self-possessed. She had a core of steel, and he could see it. Could see that she wouldn’t be bending. But he didn’t know what she’d set her will to. And that was the part that concerned him most.

  Aside from what being alone with her might do. Aside from what his own intentions might actually be. God have mercy on his tattered soul.