The Inherited Bride

by Maisey Yates

  She sat on the divan, her legs tucked under her, eyes bright with happiness, her dark hair tumbled over her shoulders. The sight made him ache. Blood pulsed, hot and hard, down to his groin. He wanted her. Her. Not a nameless, faceless woman to take the edge off his desire.

  He wanted Isabella Rossi—his brother’s fiancée. But that was a line he refused to cross. He would not abandon everything of importance in his life to find physical satisfaction in the arms of a woman. Even if it was a woman who called to him, body and soul, more than anyone ever had.

  Isabella couldn’t sleep. It was comfortable in the tent; the night air of the desert was cool. She could hear thick drops of rain hitting the canvas roof, beating on it mercilessly. She knew that sudden downpours, along with flash flooding, were common in this region. But it wasn’t fear that kept her awake.

  No. She was so hot inside. Burning. Emotions were at war with desire—a desire that was growing quickly into a need as powerful as her need for food. Water. Breath.

  She didn’t know what it was she felt for Adham. She wasn’t certain she wanted to know. It was nothing she had planned. She’d wanted to get to know herself better. To find out if she liked blue because she liked it, or because her mother had told her it flattered her coloring. She’d found a lot more than that, and with it she’d started a battle inside herself.

  She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, padding out into the living area. Adham was there, reclining on a divan, his eyes closed, his muscles tensed, sleep obviously eluding him.

  “You can’t sleep either?” She pulled her robe tightly around herself. Beneath the robe she was wearing the peach negligee, but she felt reasonably secure with thick terrycloth covering her curves.

  “I don’t sleep very often.” He opened his eyes and straightened.

  She noticed his jaw tighten, noticed the muscles in his forearms tensing as he looked at her. A rush of feminine satisfaction rocked her. Never had she felt more beautiful than in that moment—barefoot, in a robe, and making Adham very uncomfortable.

  “It’s hard for you to rest and it’s hard for you to smile,” she said, feeling sad for him. He really was an example of life experience being a bad thing. She wished she could shield him from it. Offer him some comfort. She wished it with everything she had.

  The ring on her left hand suddenly felt very heavy. Because it was holding her back, keeping her from what she desired most. She had thought it was freedom that she wanted, but freedom seemed like an empty, elusive thing now. Something that didn’t matter—not if she had it alone, not if she didn’t have Adham.

  “But everything else is so easy for me,” he said, dark humor lacing his voice.

  “That is true. I won’t challenge you there.” She pulled a downy blanket from one of the sofas and sat on the soft floor, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders. “Duty and honor—that seems to come easily to you. You want to do it. I … I’m just sort of going along with it. It seems meaningless. But you … it means something to you.”

  “Because I have seen what happens when men turn from it. If I do not protect the High Sheikh, who will? If I do not put my all into protecting my people, where does that leave them? I cannot turn away from it. I cannot resent it.”

  “I resent my lot in life plenty.” She dipped her head forward and her hair slid over her face, making a shield between Adham and herself.

  Suddenly she felt warmth. Adham’s warmth. He was kneeling on the floor, his knee nearly touching hers. He brushed her hair back over her shoulder. “Your duty costs you. I understand why you felt the need to escape it. Even for a while.”

  “You didn’t think that at first. What changed your mind?”

  “Knowing you. Knowing that you are not a spoiled child, but a woman who simply wishes to make her own decisions.”

  Tears formed in her eyes, thick and hot, and as she blinked they fell, sliding down her cheeks. Adham brushed them away, his thumbs rough, comforting against her skin.

  “Your duty has cost you too,” she said, looking at the scars that marred his perfect skin, at the slashing line that started at his collar and disappeared beneath his shirt.

  “These scars are nothing,” he said, shrugging. “I live. My family does not.”

  “Your family?” Horror stole through her, chilling her, making her shiver.

  “My mother, my father … they were killed in front of me. I could not stop it from happening.”

  “Adham….” His name escaped her lips on a sigh of anguish. She ached to hold him, but she was certain he wouldn’t allow it, so she kept still, kept her hands in her lap.

  “That was when I got this.” He pulled the collar of his shirt to the side, exposed a light-colored patch of skin that was raised up from his undamaged skin. “I was shot as well. They thought I was dead. That is the only reason I’m alive today. That is why I welcome my duty. I will protect my people, my High Sheikh, from men like that. Men who would kill for money, power, land. Men who would take life for things that mean nothing.”

  She let her fingertips brush the scar, whispered a prayer of thanks that he was still here, still living, even when his parents were not. Unbidden, her fingers moved to the first button of his shirt, and she pushed the button through the hole, revealing a wider wedge of bronzed skin, revealing more livid scars that marred the landscape of his perfect body.

  Without pausing to think she reached out and touched the raised skin. She felt him tense beneath her fingertips, felt his body go rigid with tension. She began to release each button, all the way down, exposing a slim strip of flesh from his chest all the way down to his washboard-flat belly, bared for her inspection. She swallowed, her mouth dry, her heart hammering in her chest, another tear sliding down her cheek.

  She moved the edges of his shirt aside, baring a ridge of scars that ran along his ribcage. With the tip of her finger she traced a slashing line that rose up from the waistband of his trousers and extended up through the indentation of his navel. The scars were lighter, ridges of flesh that were hard and smooth.

  The body surrounding the damaged skin was perfect. Deep bronze and well muscled, without an ounce of spare flesh to hide his superb definition from her hungry gaze. His chest was sprinkled with just the right amount of dark hair. She let her fingers drift over his muscles, let them slide over the hard-cut edges, the rough hair tickling her fingertips, teasing her senses.

  He inhaled deeply, his chest expanding under her hands as she continued to touch him, explore him.

  Adham stiffened, pulling away from her hot touch. His heart was hammering in his chest, his muscles so tight they ached. His whole body ached for her—for her to flatten her palm against his skin, to continue her exploration into more intimate territory. He should stop her. Should have stopped her the moment she placed her hand on him. Yet he had been held—a captive of what she was doing to him, of what she made him feel.

  It had started out as an innocent, comforting gesture. Because Isabella was an innocent. A virgin. A woman he had no business touching.

  Some of the fractured light from the overhead lanterns danced over her hand, made the ring on her finger glitter brightly. He gripped her wrist and pushed her away.

  “Bella,” he said roughly, “do you know what you’re doing to me? “

  She moved closer to him, her eyes glistening with hurt and a heartbreaking undertone of confusion. “I hope it’s close to what you’re doing to me. I hope I’m not the only one that feels this.”

  She licked her lips and leaned in, pressing a kiss to the first scar. His muscle, his body, jumped beneath her lips. She slid her hand up to his pectoral.

  “I’ve never touched a man like this before,” she said softly.

  Arousal pounded through him. Unneeded. Unwanted. And hotter than anything he’d ever experienced before in all his thirty-one years. That an innocent could appeal to him like this—could tempt him to betray the man he protected above all others, the brother he had always loved more than h
is own life, made him feel as though he were bewitched. He wanted to break the spell, and yet he was caught in its thrall. And part of him was so unbelievably tempted to see what would happen if he gave in.

  If a simple touch could arouse him so easily, so intensely, what would happen when he eased inside her slick, tight body? If he made her his.

  His.

  His heart pounded heavily, his blood flowing hot, thick.

  “That night in the alley … I’d never been kissed before that.”

  She began to move her hand over his chest again, heading to his stomach, and a shock of desire so strong, so overpowering that it nearly undid him, shot through him. He captured her wrist again and pushed her away with more force than he’d intended. She wobbled in her spot on the floor, but caught herself with her hand, her eyes huge, the pain in them clear.

  “Bella.” Remorse filled him. “Are you hurt?”

  “I … no.” She shook her head.

  He inhaled deeply, trying to clear his head. But he only succeeded in filling himself with her essence. “You must not touch me like that,” he said roughly. “Ever.”

  “Adham, I … I want you so much,” she choked. “I want you so much I hurt with it.”

  He closed his eyes, tried to block out the vision of perfect temptation that she created, with her black hair loose and wild, her full lips reddened with arousal, her cheeks flushed.

  A tear slipped down her cheek and he was powerless to stay where he was—powerless to deny the need to comfort her. He drew her to him, wrapped his arms around her, inhaling her scent—uniquely Isabella, and more affecting than any form of torture he’d yet been subjected to.

  He slid his hand over the silky black curls, giving himself permission to touch her, if only for a moment. For just one moment he would forget. Forget that this burning ache was forbidden, that she was meant for someone else.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck, her moist lips brushing his neck. He closed his eyes, tried to fight against the rising tide of desire that was threatening to overtake him.

  “Adham.” She lifted her head, her blue eyes intent on his. She leaned in and pressed her lips lightly to his—only for a moment, her movements shy, her inexperience evident.

  He held himself still, kept his fists clenched. Because if he allowed himself any sort of free rein he would tunnel his fingers through her hair and devour her mouth, as he had longed to do since the first moment he’d seen her.

  She pulled back, the hurt in her eyes almost too much for him to bear. “Don’t you want me? I thought. I thought you did.”

  He ground his teeth tightly together, trying to fight the urge to pull her to him, to take what she was offering. Everything she was offering and more. His heart was pounding, sweat beading on his forehead. He swallowed thickly, the motion almost painful to his hypersensitive body. Everything in him ached for her. And he couldn’t take her. He couldn’t.

  She was looking at him, those expressive blue eyes trained on him, wanting answers he shouldn’t give.

  “I do want you,” he bit out, the words torn from him. “But wanting is not the same as taking.”

  His pulse pounded. His muscles ached. It was taking every ounce of his strength, every bit of his physical and mental willpower, to keep himself from leaning in and tasting her lips. But his control was slipping, the pain of resistance so acute he wasn’t certain if he could hold on any longer.

  She looked down. “You said … you said I’m an independent woman who makes her own decisions. I’ve decided that I want you.”

  Sweet, innocent Isabella, with the words of a temptress rolling off her lips, but without any of the practiced ease he was used to hearing from a woman, undid him completely. The fire that had been burning hot in his stomach exploded into an inferno, igniting his veins, taking over everything.

  Life asked too much of him. He had never resented it before. Had never longed to escape his duty until this very moment. But faced with Isabella—beautiful, hungry for him, and with a need that also burned in him like a flame—he wished that he could be a different man.

  Then she moved her hands. Her soft palms slid up his chest, over the place where his heart raged inside him. She kissed his jaw. He closed his eyes, everything, every thought, deserting him. There was nothing but this. Nothing but her. Nothing but the need to make her his, wholly and completely, in the most primitive way possible. His body shook with the force of his need, his mind blank of everything. Everything except for her.

  Isabella gasped as Adham tightened his hold on her, pulling her onto his lap, bringing her into contact with the hardened length of his erection—the evidence she needed to know that he desired her as she desired him.

  Excitement, fear and need slammed into her. Her entire body was shaking with it. Then he leaned in, taking her mouth with a ferocity she hadn’t expected, his lips firm, insistent, his tongue hot as it slid between her lips. She moaned, all the fear deserting her. This was Adham. The man she desired above all else.

  She could have lived her entire life without having her picture taken in front of the Eiffel Tower. She would have been fine if she’d never been to a cinema. But this … she could not have lived never knowing what it was to make love with Adham.

  She pushed his shirt from his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. The sight of him in the flickering lantern light was enough to push her arousal to unbearable heights. She moved her hands over his shoulders, across his back, loving the play of muscles beneath her fingertips, the smoothness of his skin, the heat that radiated from him.

  And then she was on her back, his movement so quick and practiced that she hardly realized what was happening until she was flat out, looking at the swags of canvas and the spangled light from the punched-tin lanterns that were lit overhead.

  He kissed her jaw, her neck, her collarbone, and she arched into him, running her fingers through his thick dark hair, holding him to her so that he would never stop giving her body attention with that amazing mouth.

  His hands were quick at the belt of her robe, loosening the knot and parting the edges slowly, revealing most of her body, barely concealed in the filmy peach negligee. She wasn’t embarrassed for him to see her, for her body to be bare to him. She was thrilled beyond words. So excited to have him touching her, to be touching him. She wanted him so much. Beyond reason, beyond anything rational or sane or right. If she could just have him—just once. If he could be the man to show her what it really meant for a man and a woman to be joined. It wouldn’t be a lifetime, but maybe … maybe it could be enough.

  “I thought of you in this,” he said, his voice rough, strained. “And I thought of you out of it.” The way he looked at her, the tone of his voice, spoke of how much he desired her. The fact that his need seemed to match hers awed her completely.

  He pushed the robe from her shoulders, then slid one of the tiny straps down. His eyes, so dark they were coal-black in the dim light, roamed over her, his breath harsh, fast and shallow.

  He put his hand on her breast and moved his thumb over her nipple. It tightened for him, caused exquisite pleasure to shoot through her veins, made the dull ache at the apex of her thighs increase until it was a hollow pain.

  She hooked her leg over his calf, pulled him against her, rubbed herself against the thick ridge of his arousal, evident through his jeans, in an attempt to assuage her need.

  He tugged the top of the negligee down all the way, revealing her breasts, revealing her nipples, tight with need for him. He groaned and lowered his head, pressed his face to the valley between her breasts, inhaled deeply, slowly. Something about it seemed reverent, as though he were memorizing the moment, her scent, her. It made fresh tears spring to her eyes.

  Then he rasped his tongue over one tightened bud before sucking it gently into his mouth. His body shuddered and hers matched him, shaking beneath the sensual assault. She dug her fingernails into his back, almost unable to handle the intensity of the pleasure that was rioting through
her system.

  He turned his attention to her other breast, nipping, licking, sucking until she was trembling beneath him, her body poised on the brink of something monumental, the tension in her belly so tight it had to unravel or she feared she might break.

  “Adham,” she said, her voice shaky. “Please.”

  It was all he needed. He stripped his jeans off, kicking them to the side, then pushed her negligee up and pulled the sheer matching panties down in one swift motion.

  He touched her, sliding his finger through her slick folds, slipping it inside her. She let her legs fall apart, opened to him, trying to ease some of the tightness she felt. He added a second finger, slowly, gently stretching her, preparing her for him.

  Then he moved, replacing his fingers with the blunt head of his erection, pressing his mouth against hers as he eased into her tight body. She gripped his shoulders, digging her nails into his back as she held back a cry of pain. He was big—bigger than she’d expected—and she hadn’t realized that it would hurt.

  It made her even gladder that it was Adham. How could she trust this moment to anyone else?

  She wrapped her legs around his, making more room between her thighs, helping some of the discomfort abate. And then the pain was gone, and waves of pleasure were slowly returning as her body adjusted to his, expanded to accommodate him. It seemed as though she were made for him, and he for her—as though he fit her perfectly, as though they would never be separate again.

  And when he began to move inside her the star shapes cast by the lantern light seemed to rain down on her, brilliant flashes of light swirling around her. She felt that tension rising in her again—so tight she could barely move, think or breathe. Then she shattered, as Adham did, her muscles contracting around him as he spilled himself inside her, his muscles quivering, a harsh groan escaping his lips, mingling with her cry of completion.

  They lay together, joined still, their breath, harsh and uneven, the only sound other than the rain that was still pounding against the canvas.