by Maisey Yates
His hands went to the waistband of his pants and he pushed them down his legs. She did gasp, virginal shock coursing through her, when she saw him naked and erect.
This was different than when she’d seen him in the lake, but she hadn’t been prepared for just how different. Just how much larger he would be.
Neither had she been prepared for her body’s response. She might not know exactly what she wanted, but her body did. Her internal muscles pulsed, the ache between her legs intensifying.
“Let me see you,” he said. “I am at a disadvantage, for you have seen me twice, and I have only ever been teased by promises of your body.”
She just sat there, staring at him, feeling too dazed to follow instruction.
He approached the bed, his hands going to the front of her dress, where it was fastened together with hooks and eyes. “Consider this my payment,” he said. “For all that was stolen from me. For I have not touched a woman since that day. And it is fitting that you are the one who has returned desire to me.”
“A fair exchange then,” she said. “And in the end, perhaps neither will owe the other anything?”
“Perhaps,” he said, his tone raw.
He pushed the little metal clasps apart at the front of her dress and started to part the silken fabric, slowly and deliberately. Her breasts were bare beneath the heavy material. She wasn’t generously endowed there, so unless she was engaging in physical combat, there was little need for her to wear undergarments.
She wished for one now. For one additional buffer between her skin, the cool air of the room, and Ferran’s hot gaze.
He pushed the dress from her shoulders, leaving her in the light pants she’d been wearing beneath them, and nothing more. He looked at her breasts, his admiration open. “You are truly beautiful. Let your hair down for me.”
She pulled her braid from behind her and took the band from around the bottom, sifting her fingers through the black silk and letting it loose to fall around her shoulders, all the way down to her waist. She let the loose strands cover her breasts.
“That’s a tease,” he said. “Giving me only one thing that I want at a time. I want it all. I have waited long enough. Stand.”
She obeyed the command, because she was more than willing to follow orders now. She was not the expert here. She had nothing but a deep, primal instinct pushing her forward, and if she stopped to think too hard, nerves were waiting in the background to take hold. They had no place here. They were not allowed to overshadow her desire.
He remained sitting at her feet on the mattress, and he reached up and tugged her pants down, along with her underwear, leaving her completely bare before him, with him on his knees, right at eye level with the most secret part of her.
“Ferran…”
He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her thigh, then to her hip bone, his lips perilously close to…to…her. To places on her she didn’t know men might want to kiss.
“You want my passion used for your pleasure, Samarah? You demand it? Then you must submit to it.”
“I…I will,” she said.
“Do not fight me.”
“I won’t.”
He tightened his hold on her. “Do not fight what we both want. I feel that you’re about to flee from me.”
“I’m not,” she said, her throat tightening, her heart fluttering.
“Liar,” he said, his lips skimming the sensitive skin on her inner thigh. “Spread your legs for me,” he said.
She obeyed. Because he would know the best way to do this. That she did trust. And he was right, if she wanted his passion, demanded it, then she had to accept it. Not try to control it.
He leaned in again, his tongue sliding through her inner folds, across the sensitive bud there before delving in deep.
“Ferran.” She grabbed hold of his shoulders to keep herself from falling, her legs shaking, the mattress wobbling beneath her feet. He anchored her with his hands, holding tightly to her hips as he pressed in deeper, increasing the pressure and speed of his strokes over her wet flesh.
Her stomach tightened, pleasure a deep, unceasing pressure building deep inside of her until she thought she might not be able to catch her breath. Everything in her tightened so much she feared she was turning to glass, so fragile and brittle she would shatter if he pushed against her too hard.
He kept going, adding his hands, pushing a finger deep inside of her, the sensation completely new and entirely different to anything that had come before.
He established a steady rhythm, pushing in and out of her, the friction so beautiful, so perfect, she very nearly did break. She held back, rooted herself to earth by biting her tongue, by gritting her teeth so hard she feared they’d crack.
Because she was afraid to let herself go over the edge again. Afraid of what her release would bring this time.
“Give it to me, Samarah,” he said. “Give me your pleasure.”
“I can’t…I can’t.”
“You can,” he said, adding a second finger as he continue to lick and suck her. He stretched her, a slight pain hitting as he did, and she used that to help pull her back again.
“I’m afraid,” she said.
“Don’t be. I will catch you.”
He leaned in again, the hot swipe of his tongue hitting just the right timing with his fingers, and then, she couldn’t fight it anymore. She let go. Her hands moved away from his shoulders as her orgasm crashed over her. Only Ferran kept her on her feet. Only Ferran kept her there. And she trusted him to do it.
She didn’t try to keep herself standing, because she knew he would. Because he’d promised her.
He laid her down on the mattress afterward, rising up to kiss her lips, deep and long. She could taste her own desire there, mingled with his. His shaft was hard and hot against her hip, evidence of the fact that he’d given, again, while taking nothing for himself.
Evidence also, of the fact that he’d enjoyed what he’d done for her. A sweep of heat, of pride, pure feminine power, rolled through her. He had enjoyed doing that to her. Had relished the taste of her. He wanted her, even as he told her to run.
She didn’t know why it made her feel the way it did. Didn’t know why it made her feel so powerful. Only that it did. Only that it spurred her on. And this time, she didn’t want to run after her climax. She wanted to stay. She wanted more. Because she couldn’t be embarrassed by what he’d made her feel.
Not when he was feeling it, too.
She shifted their position and parted her thighs, the blunt head of his erection coming up against the slick entrance to her body.
“I tried to prepare you,” he said, his voice strangled. ‘But it will still hurt.”
“I am not afraid of pain, Ferran,” she said, sliding her hands down his back, feeling his muscles shift and tense beneath her fingertips. “I am not afraid of you.”
“I do not wish to hurt you.”
“But in order for us to join, you have to. So don’t worry. Please, Ferran, I want you. I want this.”
He started to push inside of her, slowly, gently. He stretched her, filled her. It did hurt, but not as much as she’d expected. It was only foreign, and new. But wonderful. Like every other pain he’d caused her physically, it was good.
He started to pull back and she locked her ankles over his, their eyes meeting. “Ferran, don’t stop.”
“I won’t,” he said, thrusting back inside of her, deep and hard, filling her completely.
She held on to him, getting adjusted to having him inside of her. She tilted her head and looked at him. His eyes were closed, the veins in his neck standing out, his jaw clenched tight. He looked as if he was in terrible pain. She kissed his cheek and a rough sound rumbled in his chest.
“Don’t hold back now,” she said.
“I am trying not to hurt you,” he said, kissing her hard and deep.
When he separated from her lips, she was breathless. “You aren’t.”
He seemed to take that as permission. He started to move inside of her, slowly at first. Achingly so. Building all of that lovely, orgasmic tension in her again. Starting from the beginning, and this time, he brought her even higher. Further. Faster.
His rhythm grew fractured, his breath shortening. She shifted her legs, wrapped them higher around his waist and moved with him. He braced one hand on the mattress, by her head, and wrapped the other around her, pulling her against him, his movements hard and fast.
His eyes met hers, and she slowly watched his control break. She could see it, in the dark depths. Could see as he started to lose his grip. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his teeth ground together.
Watching him, seeing him like this, so handsome, so on edge, pushed her closer, too. Then he thrust inside her, hard, his body hitting against the part of her that cried out for release. As it washed over her in waves, she leaned in and bit him on the neck.
A harsh, feral sound escaped his lips, and he stiffened above her, his shaft pulsing deep inside of her. And she relished it. Reveled in his utter loss of control.
He moved away from her as if he’d been shocked, his chest heaving, his muscles shaking. He got off the bed and started collecting his clothes.
“Ferran…”
“That should not have happened.”
“But it did,” she said, the words sounding thick and stupid. She sat up and pushed her hair out of her face. “It did.” A strange surge of panic took hold as Samarah tried to process what had happened. As she tried to deal with the fact that he was regretting what had passed between them.
She had given him, the man who had been her enemy all her life, her body, and now he was telling her what a mistake it had been. Shame lashed at her as she remembered the first night she’d met him.
I would sooner die.
And I would sooner kill you.
Oh, how she had fallen.
You did not fall. You jumped.
“You don’t know what you want,” he said. “You’re an innocent.” He tugged his pants on and turned away from her.
Even as she battled with the shame inside of her, his words ignited her anger. “Hardly. I was a virgin, but that does not equate to innocence.”
“Well, I am a murderer.” He pulled his shirt over his head, concealing his body from her view. “Compared to me, everyone is an innocent. Good night, Samarah. In the morning, if you are still here, and if I am still here, we will speak.”
“Are you afraid I’ll kill you?”
He lifted a shoulder. “I trust you to act in an honorable manner.”
He walked out of her bedroom and closed the door behind him. Leaving her naked. And very, very confused.
She had slept with her father’s murderer. She had wanted him.
She had laid herself bare to her enemy and joined herself to him. The man she had sworn to kill. The man she had agreed to marry. The man who heated her blood and showed her desire she’d never known possible.
Why could things never be simple? This future he had offered had seemed such a miraculous thing in many ways, but the strings attached were different, unexpected. The war, the one she had sought to wage in a physical manner, had moved inside of her body.
What she wanted, right now, was to forget everything. To process what it meant to be intimate with another person for the first time. But her lover was gone. And even if he were here, it wouldn’t be that simple.
He would still be Ferran. She would still be Samarah.
She had never felt more alone than she did in that moment. She had spent years in near isolation, with no friends and no family, and here, with the imprint of his fingertips still burning on her skin, she felt completely abandoned.
She rolled over onto her stomach and curled up into a ball.
She felt utterly changed. By Ferran. By his confession. By his touch. And she would have to figure out what to do about both.
One thing she knew for certain, she would not allow his touch to transform her into a quivering mass. She had survived all manner of things; she would not allow herself to implode now.
She repeated the words she’d said to Ferran, just before he had touched her. Before he’d altered her entirely.
“I am still a warrior.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
FERRAN SUPPOSED HE shouldn’t be too surprised by Samarah storming into the dining room early the next morning in her workout gear, her long dark hair restrained in a braid.
He also supposed he shouldn’t be too surprised by the feral, tearing lust that gripped him the moment he saw her. Sixteen years of celibacy, burned away by this fearsome, beautiful creature.
“You’re not exactly dressed for our meeting with the event planner,” he said, gritting his teeth, trying to get a handle on himself.
“And you’re not exactly dead, so perhaps you should just be grateful.”
“It’s true,” he said, lifting his mug to his lips, “I suppose after last night, I should be happy that you allowed that.”
“Again, I find myself merciful.”
“I have no doubt. And are you here to tell me you’re leaving, Sheikha? Though, I must warn you, I will not allow it.”
“A change in tune from last night.”
“After what happened, there is no way you can go.”
She held up her hand and showed him the ring on her finger. “As it is, I’ve decided to stay.”
“How is this possible?”
“I have nowhere else to go. I get thrown in your dungeon, I get sent back to the streets of Jahar, and neither option is entirely palatable to me. So I’m staying here. I find sheikhahood much preferred to street urchinhood. Imagine that.”
“I would ensure you were cared for.”
“And I would live on your terms. This way I have my own source of power and visibility in the public eye. I have my rightful position. It is the only way.”
“Why are you not angry with me?”
“Perhaps I am,” she said, her expression cool, impassive. “Perhaps this is simply me lying in wait.”
There was something about the way she said it that sent a slug of heat through him, hitting him hard in the gut. Because it made him think of last night. Of her soft hair sifting through his fingers, of her softer skin beneath his palms.
It made him think of what it had been like to be inside her. A storm of rage and fire, of all the passion she’d asked for.
And in that passion, he had dishonored her. At least, he had not done what his mother would have expected from him with the daughter of their neighboring country. A virgin princess. He would have been expected to honor her. To never touch her until marriage vows had been spoken, until she was protected.
Now, he could not send her away. It was impossible. A bigger sin than the one he’d already committed.
More weakness. How he despised it. How he despised himself. A jailer now, by necessity, because he had ensured now that they must marry.
“If so, then I suppose it’s no less than I deserve,” he said. “Although, marriage is a life sentence, and some might argue a life sentence is more of a punishment.”
“Glad to be your punishment,” she said. “I always knew I would be your reckoning. Why did you leave me alone last night?”
“What?”
“You heard me. Why did you leave me alone last night?”
“Because, it was a shameless loss of control on my part.”
“You made me feel ashamed,” she said.
“That was not my intention.”
“Regardless,” she said, her voice trembling. “You did. We ha
ve a history thick with death and hatred. But in that moment, I was just a woman. And seeing your disgust—”
“At myself. One moment I confessed to stabbing your father in the back, the next you begged me to have sex with you. It was, without a doubt, the strangest encounter I’ve ever had with a woman.”
She frowned, her cheeks turning a dark rose. “I’m not sure how I feel about my only experience with a man being called strange.”
“Do you think it’s common to go from death threats to making love?”
“Does it matter what’s common?”
“I handled you too roughly.”
“You handled me in exactly the right way,” she said. “During sex. Not after. After…I find you in much fault on the way you behaved after.”
“How would you know I treated you in the right way?”
“Because. I know what feels good to me. I know what creates…release.”
“Orgasms,” he said, not feeling in the mood to be considerate of her inexperience. If she thought she could handle it, then she’d have to be able to handle the discussion of it in frank terms.
“Yes,” she said, the color in her cheeks deepening. “Obviously I know what gives me orgasms, and clearly, it is something you know how to accomplish. So you handled me correctly. I think we can both agree on that.”
“Do you know what virgins deserve?”
“Do you even remember being one? How would you know?”
“This isn’t about me,” he said.
“Like hell it’s not,” she grumbled.
“Virgins deserve candles, and lovemaking and marriage vows.”
“Do they? Did your first time come complete with those things? If so, I feel I should tell you, I’ve no interest in sharing you with another wife. And I find candlelight overrated.”
“I’m a man. It’s different.”
“Oh? Really? Because I’m a woman and therefore must be coddled? Because for some reason my body is your responsibility and not mine?” Her face wasn’t smooth now, not unreadable. She was angry. Finally. “If that’s the case, where were you when I shivered in the cold? Where were you when I was alone and starving? Where the hell were you when men approached me and offered me shelter for sex? Or just demanded that I lie down and submit to them? Or perhaps, I should have taken them up on it? Since I clearly don’t know what I need, perhaps they did?”