by Sarah Morgan
Behind him, through the crack in the tent, she could see the sun turning dark red as it set and it shocked her because she hadn’t realised it was so late.
‘I’m not tense.’
‘Yes, you are, and that is hardly surprising.’ His fingers lingered in her hair. ‘This is not how you dreamed your wedding night would be, I’m sure.’
‘I never dreamed about it. I’m not a dreamy person, Your Highness.’
‘Raz.’ He let a strand of her hair twist itself around his fingers, frowning as she flinched away from him. ‘You don’t have to be afraid of me.’
It wasn’t fear that made her stomach cramp, but she wasn’t sure what it was because it was a feeling she didn’t recognise.
All she knew was that she’d never felt more uncomfortable in her life. He clearly thought she’d spent her formative years dreaming of weddings and happy endings whereas nothing could have been further from the truth.
‘I am not a romantic person,’ she reminded him. ‘I thought I’d made that clear. I hope that won’t be a problem. I assumed you wouldn’t want that.’
What if he did?
Perhaps he was expecting her to fall instantly in love with him and she knew that was never going to happen.
The heat in the tent was stifling and he was standing close to her. So close she could feel the heat and power of him. The breath was locked in her throat and Layla had no idea what she was supposed to do next. Was he expecting her to kiss him? Was he supposed to go first or was she? Both together?
Layla desperately wished she’d had time to study the various options.
She wished she’d read that book long before now, instead of grabbing it as an afterthought on the run from the palace and her old life.
The gaps in her knowledge were glaringly obvious. For a start, she was confused by how long he’d stood there just looking at her. She’d assumed it would all be over quickly. Instead he seemed to be taking his time. His hand had migrated from her hair to her cheek and the slow, exploratory stroke of his fingers unsettled her.
Her tummy tightened into a knot and her pulse leaped and pounded.
She wanted to look away but his gaze drew her to him, holding her eyes with his. And then his eyes flickered to her mouth and that made her feel strange, too. As did his next words.
‘So what did you dream about when you were growing up in the palace?’
How was she supposed to answer that? Every day had been focused on survival. On protecting her sister. ‘I didn’t really dream. I prefer to focus on things that are real. Tangible.’
‘You had no wish for the future?’
‘If I did then it was a hope that the future would be better than the present.’ She saw him frown slightly and felt his thumb slide slowly over the line of her jaw.
‘The present was hard for you?’
What could she say? However hard it had been for her, she knew it must have been so much harder for him. He’d lost his father and the woman he’d loved. ‘I had my sister.’
A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth. ‘You’re being evasive, but I’ll overlook it for now because the past has no place in our bedroom.’
Our bedroom.
Her heart was pounding furiously and she found herself trapped by his dark gaze as he slid his hands into her hair and tilted her face to his.
‘If I do anything you don’t like you must tell me,’ he breathed.
She’d just had time to think that was a very strange thing to say, because she had no expectation of liking any of it, when he lowered his head.
Anticipation held her rigid.
That sensuously curved mouth hovered close to hers, prolonging the moment of contact. Just as Layla was beginning to wonder whether there was a reason he was taking so long, whether there was something she was supposed to be doing that she wasn’t, he slanted his mouth over hers and kissed her.
The gentleness threw her. Braced for something quite different, she found the slow, deliberate movement of his lips on hers shocking. Equally unexpected was the sudden tightening of her stomach and the warmth that rushed through her body and into her limbs. The feelings intensified but still his mouth moved over hers while his hands, buried in her hair, held her head trapped.
She felt his tongue trace the seam of her mouth, teasing, coaxing, and she parted her lips, shocked to feel his tongue delve into her mouth.
Something—nerves?—made her shaky? and she closed her hands over his arms to steady herself, her fingers moving over the solid muscle of his biceps. His physical power was undeniable, and she remembered the way he’d controlled the stallion and lifted her out of the pool. But he used that strength lightly now, his hands gentle as he smoothed her hair away from her face and kissed her mouth, all the time watching her through slumbrous dark eyes that made her aware of every part of herself.
Layla had never felt anything like this before, and she felt a flash of panic because she was a person who liked to understand things and rationalise them. But there was no understanding the searing heat that shot through her body and pooled low in her belly.
Releasing her head, he curved one arm around her back, slid the other around her waist and pulled her into him. She felt the strength and power of his thighs and the hardness of him. Pressed against the evidence of his masculinity, she discovered that the works of Michaelangelo didn’t tell the whole story.
Layla was confused by the torrent of sensation that flooded her skin and seeped into her nerve-endings.
‘Kiss me back.’
His husky command was spoken against her lips and she stared up at him, unable to see him properly in the darkness but knowing her mouth was just a shadow away from the dangerous curve of his.
Kiss me back.
Wishing she had more knowledge of technique, Layla tentatively touched her lips to his. She wanted to ask, Is this right? But then she felt his arm tighten around her waist, drawing her closer. Pressed this close to him, she felt hot and unbalanced in every way. She knew her cheeks were flushed, knew he could taste her confusion on her lips, but still he kissed her and the slowness of it, together with the long drawn-out ache of anticipation and something else she couldn’t name, was agonising.
He kissed her until their surroundings faded and the only thing in her vision was him, and then he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed. The practical side of her prompted her to tell him she was capable of walking, but she thought it might be a lie so she kept silent and wondered how nerves could weaken limbs.
The light in the tent was dim, but not so dim she couldn’t see his face, and she remembered Yasmin dreamily telling her how handsome he was—how he was ‘hot’. At the time Layla hadn’t understood how a word used to describe temperature could be used as a positive indicator of visual appeal, but now she realised that looking at him made her feel hot. Burning hot. Her skin, her lips and other more sensitive parts of her that she rarely had reason to think about. And while he was kissing her he extracted her from her clothing. The ease with which he accomplished that feat was almost as embarrassing as being naked in front of him.
Grateful for the semi-darkness, she somehow resisted the desperate urge to cover herself. Never in her life had she felt so out of her depth and inadequate, and she lay there, her breathing shallow, staring up at him as he wrenched off his shirt, all the time watching her with eyes almost black in the candlelight.
Layla held her breath because even she, with her limited experience and previously limited interest in the masculine form, could see that his was perfectly proportioned.
Unable to help herself, she let her gaze slide over bronzed, muscular shoulders, down over his chest with its haze of dark hair, and lower still to his board-flat abdomen. She didn’t look lower and he slid his fingers under her chin and lifted her face, forcing her to look at hi
m.
‘You’re scared.’
‘No.’ Her voice was a whisper. ‘But I wish I’d read more.’
‘Not all the answers can be found in books.’ His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth and his fingers slid into her hair, cupping the back of her head. ‘Perhaps you know more than you think you do. Follow your instincts.’
As he drew her head down to his she wanted to tell him that she didn’t have any instincts when it came to men, but her tongue wouldn’t form the words. Instead it tangled with his, and she heard herself moan into the heat of his clever mouth.
And she discovered she did have instincts, because it was instinct that had her sliding her hands into his hair, clutching his head, meeting his hot, seductive kisses with her own. And instinct had her pressing herself closer to him. Later, she’d wonder how a kiss involving her lips could have an effect on her whole body, but right then she wasn’t capable of wondering about anything except what was going to happen next.
‘Next’ was his mouth on her neck—slow, lingering, as everything he did was slow and lingering—and she lay still, hardly breathing as the warmth of his tongue traced the line of her shoulder and moved lower, to her bare breasts.
Her nipples were standing erect and she watched in tense fascination as he paused with his mouth close to that sensitive part of her. She felt the warmth of his breath brush over her skin, followed by the slow, deliberate flick of his tongue as he skilfully teased and toyed with that part of her that had never been touched before. Sensation shot right through her, pooling in her pelvis, until she found it almost impossible to keep still, until the urge to cry out was so powerful she had to bite her lip to stay silent. And what he did to one nipple he did to the other, and when he finally lifted his head and looked at her she found it impossible to look away.
For a moment they stared at each other.
There was a hardness in his eyes, a coldness she wished she hadn’t seen, and then he leaned across the bed and blew out the candle, sending the tent into darkness.
She could no longer see, but she could feel, and the feelings became more acute because everything was focused on that one sense—touch.
The warmth of his palm rested low on her abdomen and she wondered if he knew how much she was aching, just how badly she needed—needed something. But of course he knew. She remembered Yasmin’s breathless statement that he was supposed to be a skilled lover and knew now that it was true.
No wonder he hadn’t bothered returning her book.
I will teach you everything you need to know.
The fact that he knew her body better than she did embarrassed her, but nowhere near as much as when he gently spread her thighs and shifted lower on the bed.
Shocked, and feeling intensely vulnerable, Layla gave a soft gasp as his hand moved with sure, leisurely ease over her abdomen and lower still. He took his time, but whether that was out of respect for her inexperience, patience or just a maddening ability to know how to ramp up the tension until she was at screaming pitch, she didn’t know. All she knew was that she was moving her pelvis against his hand, and then his fingers were there, sliding skilfully over that part of her, exploring her with slow, knowing strokes of strong, clever fingers, until her breathing was shallow and her hands fisted in the sheets.
She hadn’t known it was possible to feel this.
She couldn’t see his face, couldn’t see anything except darkness, and that darkness intensified feeling because she never knew what was coming next. She felt him shift above her, then move lower, and this time he put his mouth on her there. Shock rocketed through her and her hands moved to push him away, but he caught both her wrists in one hand and held her securely, so that all she could do was lie there and let him do exactly what he wanted to do. And what he did was sinfully good, and he did it again and again, until her body quivered and heated, until she was slippery wet and sensitive, embarrassment blown away by sensation. And with each erotic slide of his tongue the feelings intensified, until the heat of it was so maddening she thought she’d explode.
She knew there was something more, that her body was trying to reach something, somewhere, and she squirmed and shifted, trying to relieve the unfamiliar feelings, and then he shifted position in a lithe movement and came over her, his hand under her bottom.
‘I will try not to hurt you...’
His voice was husky and he slid his hand down her thigh, encouraging her to wind her legs across his back. Like this, she was open to him and she was once again grateful for the darkness as she felt the silken power of him against her and the warmth of his breath against her mouth as he lowered his head to kiss her again.
He licked at her lips, kissing her gently as he stayed still, letting her grow used to the feel of him against her. It was shockingly intimate with her legs wrapped around him, and for endless moments he held himself still. Then he eased forward and entered her slowly, gently, holding himself in check with ruthless control, taking it so slowly that the discomfort seemed minimal in comparison to the building frustration. Pain and pleasure mingled. Layla felt herself clench around the hard thickness of him, felt the heat and power of him stretching her, and when his hand tightened on her bottom she lifted herself against him and heard a low sound rumble in his throat as he sheathed himself deep. Her breath caught. The intimacy of it shocked her and she curled her fingers over his biceps and then up to his shoulders, aware that he was holding himself still and knowing that he did it for her.
‘Are you all right?’
His voice was low and very male, and she opened her eyes, even though she couldn’t see him, and said yes, even though she wasn’t sure it was true.
She wasn’t all right. With him so deeply inside her she felt shaken and unbalanced, as out of her depth as she had in the pool. Only this time instead of drowning in water she was drowning in sensation.
She didn’t know what was happening, but she knew she wanted this, needed this, and when he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her she kissed him back, her tongue tangling with his.
He eased back slightly and then moved into her again. She felt her body yield against the male thickness of him, discovered that if she relaxed it was easier, that when he shifted his angle the pleasure intensified and poured through her in long, wicked waves of ecstasy. He was deep, deep inside her, his hand locked in her hair as he controlled the rhythm, all the time kissing her. And she recognised nothing that was happening to her body, knew nothing—but he did, and he used that skill and experience to drive her higher and higher, until something strange happened, something unfamiliar and intensely exciting, until screaming ecstasy exploded into an almost unbearable shower of sensation that made her cry out despite her attempts to stay silent.
He trapped the sound with his mouth, kissing her through it as she felt her body tighten around the smooth, hard length of him. She felt the sudden tension of his shoulders under her fingers and then heard him groan deep in his throat as her body drove his over the edge. It was the most thrilling, explosive, intense experience of her life and afterwards Layla lay still, crushed by the weight of him and the knowledge that she had lived with herself for twenty-three years and yet not known herself at all.
She’d had no idea she was even capable of feeling that way.
Her illusions about herself had disintegrated. She’d never thought of herself as romantic, nor particularly physical. Nothing in her past had prepared her for what she’d just experienced. And she realised that delving into a book for information wouldn’t have made a difference, because there were no words that could adequately describe what she’d just experienced.
Nothing she’d read could have prepared her for pleasure.
Shattered by the experience, her expectations blown apart, Layla lay there, not knowing what words were appropriate. They’d shared the ultimate intimacy and yet outside the silken haven of his b
ed they were strangers.
She lay rigid, feeling as if she should say something, trying out various sentences in her head. But before she could utter any of them she felt him rise from the bed. Her burning skin chilled instantly and that chill spread through her bones as rapidly as the heat had done.
Shattered and confused, Layla lay still in the darkness, listening as he dressed. Was this normal?
Was it usual for a man to stand up and leave the bed afterwards?
Or did his response have something to do with his wife?
Was that why he’d blown out the candle? Had he been imagining that he was with someone else? Or was it that he couldn’t bear to look at her?
It sounded as if he were going to stride out of the tent without looking back, but then he paused, his hand on the heavy fabric that protected them from the heat of the sun and the cold of the night. Moonlight shone through the slit in the tent and in that moment Layla saw him. Saw the hard, savage lines of his handsome face and the emptiness in those cold eyes that were as black as a starless night.
She stared at him in silence, trying to read him, trying to understand what was going on and failing.
She had no idea what that look meant. No idea what was going through his head.
And now she wished she’d kept her eyes closed. Pretended to be asleep. Anything, to avoid a situation in which she was clueless.
Should she speak?
Was he waiting for her to say something?
And then, before she could decide whether to speak or not, he turned and strode out of the tent, leaving her alone.
CHAPTER FIVE
HE RODE RAJA deep into the desert, trying to escape the weight of his feelings but failing, because wherever he went they followed. His mouth was dry with the bitter taste of betrayal, the past a deep ache inside him that wouldn’t heal.