by Annie West
She gasped, twisting closer, her breasts thrusting, her buttocks sliding across his legs. The friction of her hip against his shaft was excruciating pleasure. So was the knowledge that Samira was as aroused as he. She trembled all over as if sensitised to the very weight of the air against her body.
Tariq smiled and sucked gently at the spot he’d nipped. She grabbed his shoulders, fingers digging hard, her breath a low moan that was music in his ears.
‘I told you I could make it good for you, Samira.’
But she was past answering. He wasn’t even sure she’d heard. Her eyes were slits and her breath came in little pants as she shifted restlessly against him.
To hell with it. Foreplay could wait till the next time. This thing between them was too urgent, too elemental, for games.
He grabbed her waist, the silky material on her delicious body too flagrantly appealing. With a surge of energy he lifted her up to face him, the muscles in his arms locking hard to support her.
‘Move your leg over mine,’ he growled.
Her eyes opened, looking directly into his, and Tariq felt the impact of her stare thwack him in the chest. He read dazed confusion and a desperation that matched his own.
His arms shook as he lowered her gently onto his lap, pulling her close so her thighs wrapped around his hips. He struggled to breathe in, but the sensation of her heated core hard up against him was almost too much. He gritted his teeth, praying he had the stamina to last.
His hands slipped up her thighs and he found the lace-edged slit on one. Instantly his fingers were under the material, questing over skin every bit as enticing as the delicate, slippery fabric.
She shifted, rising clumsily on her knees, and somehow the silk ripped as his hand plunged higher.
‘Sorry.’
For answer she shifted her weight onto one knee, then the other, dragging the material out from under her legs, clearing the way for him. By the time she’d done that he’d yanked open his trousers, freeing himself from the folds of fine cotton.
As she sat back down, Samira gasped and shuddered, her silk-clad breasts exquisitely arousing against his bare torso. Flesh on flesh, heat on heat...the sensations were exquisite torture. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her still against his recklessly pulsing heart.
Did he imagine a flicker of something like anxiety cross her taut features? It couldn’t be. It was too late for second thoughts. Yet some part of his almost numbed brain still worked. To his amazement he found himself asking, ‘You’re sure?’
‘Absolutely.’ Her voice was that of a temptress, throaty and low. She speared her hands through his hair, clamping his head as she brought her lips to his. Sweet as wild honey, delicious as ambrosia. That was Samira. He plunged into her mouth, demanding complete submission. Elation filled him at her unstinting response. Yet even that wasn’t enough.
He let one hand trawl high to the soft hair at the apex of her thighs. It was damp and she jerked at the fleeting brush of his hand. He circled back and she tilted her pelvis greedily, inviting.
An instant later, hands bracing her hips, he lifted her bodily, not breaking their kiss, and positioned her over his erection. She sighed against his lips as he drew her slowly down.
Tariq felt his brain fog, every part of him focused on the sensation of slick pressure as Samira bore slowly down on him. Had there ever been a moment like this? So tight, so perfect, so right?
The taste of her in his mouth, her scent filling his nostrils, the feel of her surrounding him... He shuddered, already too close to the brink.
He devoured her with a marauder’s kiss, angling his body higher against hers till she took him all, and ecstasy hovered on the edge of his consciousness.
Samira moaned into his mouth and he swallowed her pleasure, the sound of it rushing through him in fiery trails.
Not yet. Not yet. He wasn’t ready to relinquish this.
But there was no holding back. Already he was lifting her high, supporting her as she finally found the rhythm they both needed. Tariq tilted his hips and stroked deep as she returned to him then rose, riding him harder, drawing him in as far as she could.
Fire flashed and her hands grabbed tighter, her movements growing jerky. His blood sizzled, his skin tingling, every sinew and tendon straining as he felt the first ripple of her pleasure drawing him closer to the edge. The ripples became shudders; the synchronicity of their bodies grew staccato, almost out of rhythm. Samira tugged her mouth away, gasping his name as she shattered around him. He’d never heard anything so beautiful.
With a last, desperate surge Tariq powered up hard, touching heaven and spilling himself in spasms of bliss.
A lifetime later he came back to himself. He held Samira tight in his arms: warm and sumptuous. Her thighs locked around him, her body trembling, each movement teasing him with agonised delight.
Tariq breathed slowly, filling burning lungs. His brain still swam. He felt dazed, as if he’d passed through some mysterious rite of passage.
He frowned, unsettled at the way something at once familiar could feel so extraordinary.
Samira snuggled closer, her breathing muffled in his collarbone, wetness smearing his shoulder.
‘Samira?’ He wouldn’t have known his own voice. It was a hoarse, unfamiliar rasp. ‘Are you crying?’ Dismay rose at the suspicion that glorious, white-hot sex had turned to something else. Something fraught with female emotion.
She shook her head. The movement brushed her breasts against his chest and Tariq sucked in his breath as pleasure stirred anew.
‘It’s just a little overwhelming.’
‘Good overwhelming?’ He found himself soothing her back with gentle, circular strokes.
‘Fantastic overwhelming.’ She sniffed and blinked, her wet eyelashes spiky against him. ‘I’ve never done it like that before.’ Her head tipped up and huge, soft eyes met his. He knew an insane urge to fall into those glowing depths and lose himself for ever. ‘Is that why it was so amazing?’
Tariq felt his eyes widen. She’d never had sex astride a man? It was hardly adventurous sex. Hastily he began revising his assumptions about her level of experience. It seemed that her famous ex-lover, despite his notoriety, had left Samira remarkably inexperienced.
Tariq couldn’t stop his hands from skimming up her sides to brush the edges of her breasts. Her jump of pleasure and her startled stare, as if surprised at her body’s response, told its own story.
‘No, that’s not why it was amazing. It’s just us, Samira. The chemistry between us.’
And the fact that she’d been in his blood for over a decade. No wonder his orgasm had been so explosive.
He felt the sudden tension in her and knew at once she was second-guessing the implications.
‘Good sex is like that, Samira. It’s nothing to fret over.’
Finally Samira dropped her head onto his shoulder, slumping sated against him. He rested his chin on her head, feeling the tickle of her hair, the softness of her body against him, her tight, enticing heat.
And as easily as that he was ready again, heavy with arousal, deep inside her.
Samira’s indrawn breath said it all.
Shock hammered him even as he moved tentatively, wresting a sigh and a little shiver of pleasure from her. Her lips pressed to his shoulder, her tongue swiping his damp flesh.
In all these years he’d never wanted any woman as much as he wanted Samira.
Nothing in his past compared with his passion for her.
Tariq swallowed an iron-hard knot of guilt but couldn’t dispel the shame in his belly or the burn of desire.
He’d never wanted Jasmin like this.
That was significant enough.
But it was more than that. The truth stripped him of honour, eating into his corroded soul.
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He felt more for Samira after a week than he’d felt for his first wife after four years of marriage.
What kind of man was he?
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE REMAINS OF the village were a pathetic mess, even after a team of engineers and builders had been hard at work. Samira struggled to keep her eyes on the faces before her, rather than stray past them to the pitiful rubble, the ruins of what had once been homes clinging to the edge of the narrow valley.
She swallowed hard. She’d never seen such devastation.
Yet the women around her in the new community centre were beaming, excited to welcome their queen. They’d turned the building, currently used for emergency accommodation, into an inviting space, like the interior of the vast nomad tents their forebears had used. Rugs lined the floor and walls and sweet treats were proffered on platters.
Tariq had been right. Her presence today, wearing sumptuous traditional dress rather than the more sombre outfit she’d planned, had been the distraction these women needed. And his insistence that they bring the boys had been a masterstroke.
Samira smiled and thanked the young girl with huge eyes who offered her tea in a tiny, filigree-edged glass. The girl ate up everything about her from her scarlet silk skirts to her old gold jewellery and henna-stained hands.
With their backs to the open doors, older women sat beaming, clucking over Adil and Risay as they played with a couple of local toddlers in the safety of the circle of adults. Some women wore traditional finery, silver coins sewn into their scarves, their dresses trimmed with exquisite embroidery, bangles clinking on their arms. Others, whom Samira guessed had been lucky to survive the flash flood that had swept away half the village, wore plainer garments. But even they were smiling.
Samira sipped the tea, declared it delicious and turned to her nearest neighbour. Conversation was tentative at first, but grew animated as the women lost some of their shyness. Their talk centred on the recent devastation and plans to rebuild.
Opinion was unanimous that the recovery effort had been wonderful. Why, the royal Sheikh himself had been here the day after it had happened! He’d taken a personal interest in the rebuilding, insisting the plans be developed in consultation with the community.
The Sheikh was so capable. So wise. So willing to listen.
So handsome.
A titter of laughter circled the room and all eyes focused on Samira.
To her amazement she felt heat wash her cheeks, just as if she were a real bride besotted with her husband.
She wasn’t besotted. But she was a bride. Ever since the night she’d found the courage to face her fear and her desire for Tariq and gone to him, she’d been swept up in a world of sensual pleasure and breathless anticipation. Life had never felt so...real, so vibrant and exciting.
Her gaze shifted outside to where Tariq, wearing jeans, boots and a hard hat, clambered with a group of men over rubble beside the scaffolding for a new building.
Predictably her mouth dried as she took in his towering form. Broad-shouldered, slim-hipped, long-legged, he was so masculine just the sight of him did funny things to her.
And the memory of the things he did with her in the privacy of their rooms... Her blush intensified, to the delight of the women around her.
She smiled and shrugged, accepting their gentle ribbing with good grace. Why shouldn’t she? She had it all. The children she’d craved, the husband who respected but didn’t try to dominate her. And sex that could melt her bones, nights of glorious pleasure that left her feeling better than she ever had in her life.
What more could she want?
* * *
Tariq turned, following the gestures of the village elder and project manager as they discussed how the new site for the village was so much safer than the old one. They’d been over this before and his attention strayed to Samira sitting surrounded by women in the newly constructed community centre. Even from this distance he saw the stiff formality of the group had disappeared, replaced by what looked and sounded like a party.
A grin tugged his mouth as he heard laughter and saw an old woman pick up Adil and croon to him. It would do his sons no harm to get out of the palace and be with his people. Their people. Learning to mix with strangers would stand them in good stead for the future.
But it was his bride who drew his eyes.
From the moment she’d emerged in her finery this morning he’d wanted to bundle her back into her bedroom and strip away the gossamer silk that made her shimmer like some enticing gift waiting to be unwrapped. Or maybe it was the knowing glint in those warm, sherry eyes, reminding him of how they’d spent the better part of the night, naked and desperate for each other.
Even now, with the whole population of the village between them, he felt his blood rush south, his groin tighten as need stirred.
He found himself striding towards the village centre, the men following.
There was a stir among the women as they made ready to serve refreshments to the men. He was given the place of honour, the headsman to his right, Samira to his left. He breathed in her sweetness and looked down, registering the slow-fading henna on her hands that marked her as his. Once more Tariq felt a surge of triumphant possessiveness.
As ever, it sideswiped him. Such intensity, such need, was unprecedented.
Black guilt hovered as it had after they’d had sex the first time. With it came a frisson of warning, as if someone stroked an icicle down his spine. A sense that with Samira he’d strayed into unknown, dangerous territory.
Tariq wrenched his mind free before the thought could take hold.
He had exactly what he wanted. Life was good. So good that for the first time since boyhood he toyed with the idea of cutting short his official duties to escape and enjoy himself.
Tariq exhaled slowly and forced himself to focus. He had responsibilities, duties. He was totally in control of the situation no matter how wayward his thoughts. He would keep everything in perspective, including his desire for his wife.
* * *
Tariq snared her wrist as they entered the royal apartments. ‘Let Sofia put the boys down for their nap.’
‘But it’s no trouble. I like doing it.’ Samira’s confidence with them grew each day, and they had accepted her into their lives.
She’d done the right thing, proposing this marriage. The niggle of doubt that she’d tied herself to a man who’d tricked her, pretending to accept her terms, then breaking down her resistance to sex—well, it was only a niggle. After all, she enjoyed this marriage with benefits as much as he.
She’d been naive believing they could live together celibately. But in everything else, he’d been honest with her. Of course he had. This was Tariq. The man she’d known all her life.
‘Leave them.’ His voice was a low burr that burrowed to the core of her. ‘You can do it tomorrow.’
She met his hooded stare and nodded, trying to dispel the heated blanket of awareness that engulfed her whenever he was near.
Sitting beside him at the village reception had been torture. The whole time she’d smiled and made polite conversation her skin had been drawn too tight, her blood pulsing too fast, her body crying out for his touch.
It had taken him no time at all to persuade her into intimacy. Persuade! She’d all but jumped him, once she’d accepted his assurance that intimacy and love could be separate.
And now... She gulped, watching his eyes darken. Now she struggled to pretend she didn’t spend all her time thinking about him. She’d opened the Pandora’s box of sexual closeness and was more in thrall to Tariq than she could ever have expected. Her breathing sharpened. With fear or excitement?
‘We need to talk about today.’ He turned abruptly towards their private corridor.
Talk? She stifled disappointment. ‘Of cours
e. I thought it went well. Did you?’
‘Better than expected. Everyone sounded positive despite what they’ve been through.’ Yet Tariq’s words didn’t ring with satisfaction. She caught an undercurrent of urgency in them and wondered what was wrong.
Samira hurried to keep up with his lengthening stride.
‘They appreciate all you’re doing. The women kept singing your praises.’ A blush rose at the memory of their enthusiasm, the compliments for her fine husband who was not only strong but handsome and no doubt virile. ‘You won their trust early, going there in person at the time of the emergency and helping with the rescue mission.’
Her pride in him swelled. Tariq was an outstanding leader, hands-on as well as strategic, not one who only sat back and supervised at a distance. His presence had brought real hope to the villagers.
‘They’re my people. Where else would I have been?’
He led the way into the first of their private sitting rooms but, instead of halting by the cluster of comfortable chairs, Tariq closed the door behind them, then strode on.
‘Didn’t you want to talk?’ There was a breathless catch in her voice as she scurried to match his pace.
‘Is that what I said?’ The look he slanted her sizzled all the way to her toes.
Swiftly he turned. In her traditional flat slippers she felt tiny against his towering bulk. His shoulders blocked out the room and she had to tilt her neck to hold his gaze as a thrill of anticipation shot through her. She’d never felt so overwhelmingly feminine as with Tariq.
‘What I want...’ the rough texture of his voice weakened her knees ‘...is to be alone with you as soon as possible.’
His hands were on her, lifting her against a pillared archway. Shocked, she opened her mouth to speak but instead her breath came out in a gasp of satisfaction as he pressed close, his torso to her breasts, his powerful thighs hard and insistent, pushing hers apart.
Samira roped her arms around his neck, holding tight, reeling as a wave of desire crashed over her, threatening to drag her under. His solid heat inflamed her. An urgent throb of need pulsed at the spot where he wedged himself close, taking her from zero to boiling point in mere seconds. Even the tang of desert heat and male spice tickling her nose was arousing.