by Jane Porter
A wave of heat hit her. She suddenly felt scorching hot. “You wouldn’t.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
She sucked the tiny bit of fresh pineapple from the tip of the spoon, assessing. “Where would you pour it?”
“You play with fire, laeela.”
She squinted up at the sun. “It is hot out.”
“Very hot,” he agreed, his deep voice now a rumble.
Her tongue flicked at her upper lip, sweeping the sticky juice off. “Maybe you should get into the pool and cool off.”
“Maybe you should stop eating your ice as if you were desperate to have sex.” He saw her expression and shrugged. “Just a bit of friendly advice.”
“You’re trying to help me, are you?”
“Protect you.”
She sucked hard on the little spoon before looking at him, winged eyebrow arching. “From whom?”
“Maybe from what,” he replied, his dark gaze now sweeping her as if he could eat all of her from head to toe.
It was thrilling. Her pulse quickened and Jemma felt a little frisson of excitement race through her. “Which is...?”
“Ravishment.”
“Ah.” She swallowed hard, and pressed her thighs and knees together, suddenly finding it very hard to breathe normally.
She couldn’t remember the last time being ravished sounded appealing. In fact, being ravished had never sounded appealing until now.
It was time something exciting happened. She’d sat here all morning in her tiny blood-orange bikini and wanted his attention. Now that she had it, she wasn’t ready to lose it.
“Would it hurt?” she asked. “Being ravished?”
He considered her, his dark gaze raking her. “No,” he said at length. “It’d feel very, very good.”
Jemma squeezed her knees tighter. “How do I know? You’ve never even kissed me.”
His eyes lit. His hard features shifted, his jaw growing harder even as his mouth curved. He looked dangerous and gorgeous.
She wanted him to pounce on her, devour her.
“Do you want me to kiss you?” he asked, his eyes so dark and hot and intense that she felt like the sorbet, melting into a puddle of sweet sticky juice.
She was almost twitching in her lounge chair. She felt so turned on and strung out at the same time. “Yes. But only if you kiss really, really well.”
* * *
Mikeal hadn’t planned on liking his new bride. He hadn’t even wanted to like her. But she was growing on him. She was by turns smart, funny and fierce, and stunning whether in a formal gown, or a swimsuit by the pool.
She looked incredible right now, as a matter of fact, with her hair still damp from her last swim, her skin flushed and golden from the sun, her amazing body barely covered in that swimsuit which was the color of his desert at sunset.
He’d wanted her all morning but her provocative words threatened to push him over the edge.
She was such a tease. He liked it, though. He liked her fire, wanted to taste her fire. Flame it. Make her burn.
“If you’re such a great kisser, why haven’t you kissed me?” she asked, tossing her head, sending damp strands of hair over her shoulder to cling to the swell of her breast.
Desire and hunger shot through him. He ached. He hurt. But he would take this so slow that she would be the one begging for him.
His gaze swept over her, admiring the fullness of her breasts, her flat belly, and the bright silky fabric just barely covering her there, between her thighs.
His body tightened with arousal.
“If I start kissing you,” he answered, his voice so deep it was almost a growl, “you wouldn’t want me to stop.”
“You’re so conceited,” she said, nose in the air, but squirming at the same time.
“I’m honest.”
Her cheeks darkened to a dusty pink. “To me, it sounds like a boast. You talk a lot but do very little.”
He loved that he could arouse her so easily. He could feel her humming now, wanting, needing. “You love to challenge me,” he drawled.
“I was just saying—”
He snapped his fingers, interrupting her, and then pointed to his chair. “Come here.”
Her green eyes darkened, widened. She swallowed hard.
“Come, big talker,” he said. “Let’s see how brave you really are.”
And just like that, her courage failed. She ducked her head, bit her lip, uncertain and shy.
He hid his smile. He’d expected as much.
She was a tease. One of those good girls who wanted to be bad.
He stood up, crossed to her chair, and tugged her to her feet. Her green eyes flashed again, worry, excitement, uncertainty.
He held her by the wrist, led her into the red and ivory pavilion behind them, and drew the silk curtains closed, hiding them.
“Sit,” he ordered.
She sat down on one of the low couches that wrapped the wall.
He sat down next to her.
“What are we doing?” she whispered.
“Whatever we feel like doing,” he answered, his head dipping, dropping low, his mouth so close she could feel the warmth of his breath against her skin.
Jemma held her breath, waiting for the kiss. She felt as if she’d been waiting forever for this moment. But he was taking his time, his lips lightly brushing across her cheek toward her ear.
She turned her head toward him, wanting his mouth on her mouth but his lips were exploring the high curve of her cheekbone, his lips a caress across her sensitive skin. Hot darts of pleasure shot through her. His mouth felt good on her. He smelled good, too. She wanted more of him, not less.
Jemma turned her mouth to his again, inhaling his scent, relishing the rich spicy fragrance of his skin. He’d shaved earlier, this morning, and his jaw was smooth and firm, his mouth full and so very sensual.
Promising pleasure.
Unable to resist, Jemma put her lips to his, and waited. Waited to see what he would do. Waited to see what would happen next.
If he intended to seduce her, she would let him do the work. She was in the mood to be seduced, too. Ready for pleasure, sensation, satisfaction. Exquisite satisfaction.
His hand moved to her chin, fingers trailing across her jaw in a leisurely exploration, and yet every little brush of his fingers made her insides tighten and squirm and her breasts, already aching, feel excruciatingly sensitive.
She wanted him to touch her there, on her nipples, and touch lower, between her thighs. She sighed, growing impatient.
“You’re not happy?” he asked, against her mouth.
She squirmed as his fingers played with her earlobe, lightly circling the soft tender skin again and again, making her senses swim and her head spin. “This is a bit frustrating,” she answered. “I think it’s time you just kissed me.”
His lips brushed hers again. “But I am kissing you.”
“No,” she said, arching as he found the hollow beneath her ear and did something delicious to it, so delicious that she clenched inwardly, craving his hard body filling her, warming her, satisfying her. “A proper kiss,” she insisted, no longer caring that she was supposed to resist him. Somehow reality no longer mattered, not when need licked at her veins and Jemma felt starved for sensation.
She reached up to clasp his face, her hands learning the shape of his jaw, the hard angles and planes as she pressed her lips to his, deepening the kiss, focused only on the heat between them.
He drew back after a moment, his eyes almost black in the dark pavilion interior. “Maybe we should stop. I don’t want to force you.”
“I don’t think you’re forcing me,” she said, giving her head a slight shake, as if to clear her head of the heat and need and
intense physical craving to be touched. Taken.
She throbbed and pulsed in places that shouldn’t throb and pulse. “If anything, I feel as if I’m forcing you.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “I’m not being forced. Trust me.”
She stroked her hand over the warm hard plane of his face. Such a beautiful face. He was using his good looks against her. His charm, too. “You’re too good at this.”
His laughter was a deep rumble in his chest. “That’s better than being bad at this.”
“You’re making it impossible for me to resist you.”
“But you can. All you have to do is say stop, and we are done. I will never force you to do anything.”
Then his mouth traveled down her neck, over her collarbone, down her chest, to the swell of her breasts. He lips teased the underside of the breast through the fabric of her bikini, finding nerves in every place he touched. She shivered, gasping as his mouth settled over her taut nibble, sucking the tip through the fabric.
She arched as he sucked harder, the pressure of his mouth making her inner thighs clench together with need.
She was the one to tug the fabric away from her breasts, exposing her nipple, and she was the one to draw his head back down, so his lips covered her bare breast.
She sighed at the feel of his mouth on her hot skin. His lips were warm, the tip of his tongue cool, but once he took the tight bud of her nipple in his mouth, it was his mouth that felt hot, wet, and she gasped, arching into him, her hips lifting, grinding, her body on fire.
She wanted him to take her now. She wanted his hands between her thighs, peeling her bikini bottoms off, wanted him to part her knees and thrust deep into her body, filling her, making the maddening ache inside of her go away.
But he didn’t go lower, his hands stayed at her breasts, his mouth fastened to her nipple, sucking and licking, drawing hard on her, whipping her to a frenzy. Throbbing, she rolled away from him, and sat up, stunned that he’d brought her to the verge of an orgasm. She would have climaxed, too, if she hadn’t stopped him.
She could barely look at him, excruciatingly shy. The sensations inside her were still so intense. How could she climax without him even touching her between her legs?
Mikael turned her face to him. “Did I scare you?” he asked quietly, his dark eyes searching hers.
She shook her head, but there were tears in her eyes. Her emotions felt wild.
“What then?”
“You’re just very good at all...that.”
He stroked her cheek with his thumb. “It was too much.”
Her eyes burned. Her throat squeezed. “I don’t know you.” His touch was soothing. It eased some of the tension within her, but not enough. “I don’t know you,” she repeated. “And for me to feel this way, physically, I think I should.”
* * *
Jemma always found a way to surprise him.
But it wasn’t her words that surprised him now, as much as her emotion. He felt her confusion. She didn’t understand what she was feeling.
She wasn’t who he thought she was. She was nothing like her father. And her softness and sweetness reminded him of his mother.
Suddenly, he wondered what his mother had been like, as a girl, before she’d married his father. She must have been daring and adventuresome. She was American, after all, and she’d married his father, a sheikh, and although she’d loved the exoticism of her husband’s culture, she’d apparently never assimilated into the culture, and Mikael’s father hadn’t helped her adapt, either. He’d left her to fit in. Left her to sort it out for herself.
A mistake.
But then, their entire marriage had been a mistake. Even he had been a mistake.
His mother had said as much, too.
His chest grew tight, the air bottled inside his lungs.
He did not want his future to be like his past. He did not want his children to grow up with such terrible unhappiness.
He lifted Jemma’s hand, kissed her palm, her wrist, feeling the flutter of her pulse against his lips. Her skin felt soft and warm. She was soft and warm and he felt the strongest urge to protect her.
“I have a gift for you,” he said, leaning back on the cushions.
“I don’t need gifts,” she answered, still unsettled, still reserved. “In fact, material things just leave me cold.”
“So how can I spoil you?”
“I don’t want to be spoiled.”
“What can I give you then?”
She studied him for a long moment. “I want to know about you. Tell me something about you.”
“Me?”
“Rather than presents, every day tell me something new about you.”
“Showering you in jewels would be easier.”
“Exactly.” She looked at him, her expression almost fierce. “So if you want to give me something meaningful, give me part of you. Let me know you. That would be a true gift...one this bride would treasure.”
He smiled faintly. “What shall I tell you? What would you like to know?”
“Tell me more about your mom,” she said promptly. “And your dad.”
“That’s not a very pleasant subject.”
“Parents and divorces never are.”
“So why would you want to know about them?”
“Because they’re important people in our lives. Our parents shape us. For good, and for bad.” Her gaze met his. “Were you closer to one than the other?”
He sighed. He didn’t want to talk about this, he didn’t, but he liked her lying here next to him. She felt good here, and he wanted her to stay. “I don’t remember being close to my father,” he said after a moment. “But I’m sure he doted on me. Saidia parents tend to spoil their children, especially their sons.”
“And your mother?”
“Adored me.” It was uncomfortable talking about his mother. “She was a good mother. But then they divorced.”
“Do you know why they divorced?”
He looked at her. “Do you know why your parents divorced?”
“My dad was having an affair.”
Mikael hated the heaviness in his chest. He reached out and touched a strand of her hair, tugging on it lightly. “My father wanted to take a second wife,” he confessed.
“So they divorced?”
“Eventually.”
“What does that mean?” Jemma asked, turning onto her side.
“It means it took her nearly five years to successfully divorce him. My father didn’t want the divorce, so he contested it.”
“He loved her,” Jemma said.
“I don’t think he loved her. But he didn’t want her to shame him. He was the king. How could his wife leave him?”
Jemma was silent a long moment. “Your mother loved him. She didn’t want to share him?”
“I don’t remember love. I remember fighting. Years of fighting.” And crying. Years of crying. But not the tears of Saidia women. His mother only cried quietly, late at night, when she thought no one was listening.
But he had listened. He had heard her weeping. And he had never done anything about it.
Jemma put her hand on his chest, her palm warm against his skin. “She had to know when she married your father that he might take another wife.”
“She said he promised her that he would never take another wife. She said he had it added to their wedding contract. But it wasn’t there. My father said my mother never added a clause, and that she knew all along there would be other wives. That she was only the first.” He hesitated, trying not to remember too much of those years, and how awful it’d been with the endless fighting, and then his mother crying late at night when the servants were asleep. “By the time the divorce was final, he’d taken three more wives.”
Mikael looked away from the sympathy in Jemma’s eyes, uncomfortable with it. He focused on the ceiling of the pavilion, and the whirring of the fan blades. “I was eleven when the divorce was finalized.”
Her fingers curled against his chest. “Did you go live with her?”
“No. I stayed with my father.”
“You wanted to?”
“I didn’t have a choice. I had to stay with my father.” He glanced at her. “In Saidia, like many Arab countries, mothers do not retain custody of the children in a divorce. The children usually go to the father, or the closest male relative, and the sons always remain with the father.”
She rolled closer to him, both hands against his chest now. “But you saw your mom sometimes?”
“No.”
“Never?”
“She was expelled from Saidia.” He reached out and caught her hair again, playing with the strand. “I wouldn’t see her again for almost twenty years. In fact not until just a few months before your sister Morgan’s wedding.”
“What?”
He let go of the strand. “I couldn’t see her after she left, and then, I wouldn’t see her.”
Jemma just stared at him, eyes wide, her expression shocked. “You punished her for the divorce.”
He shrugged. “I had a hard time forgiving her for divorcing my father. Because yes, she knew that by divorcing my father, she’d lose me. He made it clear he wouldn’t let me leave with her. But she divorced him anyway. She chose to leave Saidia and leave me behind.” Mikael abruptly pulled away, rolling from the low cushions to stand up, and offered her his hand. “It’s hot. We talked. I think it’s time to cool off with a swim.”
* * *
They swam and splashed for a half hour until their lunch was brought to them. They sat in their wet swimsuits beneath the shade of a palm tree eating lunch.
As Jemma nibbled on her salad she watched Mikael from beneath her lashes.
She was still processing everything he’d told her in the pavilion about his parents’ marriage and divorce. Knowing that his mother was an American made it worse as Jemma found it so easy to identify with the woman, and how she must have felt in this Arab country with her powerful royal husband. And yet, even though his mother was an American and unhappy here, how could she leave her child behind?