by Trish Morey
She might have tried to run, but his expression stilled her feet, his face a tortured mask, as if he’d battled his inner demons and lost. His eyes held her spellbound, dark and fathomless in a shadowed face, while his white shirt clung to him in patches, turning it the colour of the golden skin that lay beneath.
She swallowed, tasting the salt of the sea, or was it of his flesh? For even here she could feel the heat rolling off him as his body called to hers, in all the ways it had done in the past, promising all the pleasures of the past and more.
‘Why?’ she asked softly in a lull in the wind, wanting to be sure, wary of trusting the chemistry between them.
‘You can’t sleep either.’ He answered with a statement, without really answering at all.
‘I was hot.’
His eyes raked over her, slowly, languidly, and the heat she saw there stoked a fire under her skin that even the effect of the night air on her wet gown could not whip away. As she looked at how his white shirt clung to his skin, moulding to one dark nipple, she realised how she must look to him—exposed. As good as naked. She wrapped her arms around her torso in a futile attempt to cover herself.
She had never had reason for modesty with Bahir. There was perhaps no reason for modesty now. He had seen it all before and more. But she was different now. She was a mother, and pregnancy had left its inevitable marks on her body. Would he notice? Would he care? He had no right to care and she had no need to wonder—yet still …
Then his eyes found hers again and he simply said, ‘I feel it too. Hot.’ And she knew he wasn’t talking about the weather.
He took a step closer, and then another, so she had to raise her face to look up at him.
‘You should go,’ he said.
‘I should,’ she agreed, because it was right, and because to stay would be reckless. The last thing she needed was to be trapped outside on a storm-tossed terrace with a man she had never stopped lusting after, even when she had tried to hate him so very much. Even when she knew she should.
But her feet didn’t move, even when the wind pushed at her back, slapping the wet gown against her legs, urging her to get out while she still had time.
‘You should go,’ he repeated, his voice gravel-rough against her skin. ‘Except …’
She tilted her head up at him, her senses buzzing, every nerve in her body buzzing. ‘Except what?’
‘Except, I don’t want you to.’
She swallowed and closed her eyes, one part of her wishing she’d already left so she’d never have heard him utter those words. The other part of her, that wanton part of her that belonged to him for ever, rejoicing that he had.
‘I want you,’ he said, and she started and opened her eyes as she felt his hands lift her jaw and cradle her face.
Suddenly it was much too late to run, even if she could have recalled a fraction of all the good reasons why she should.
When she looked up at him it was to see him gazing down at her with such a look of longing that it charged her soul, for it had been so long since someone had looked at her that way, and that person had been Bahir. Nobody had ever looked at her the way Bahir had.
But that was before …
‘This is a mistake,’ she said, some remaining shred of logic warning her as his hand drifted towards her face.
‘Does this,’ he said as his fingers traced across her skin and she forgot how to breathe, ‘feel like a mistake?’ And she sighed into his touch, for electricity accompanied his fingers, leaving a trail of sparks in its wake, just like his touch had that moment on the plane when he had reached out to her brow and left her sizzling with the contact.
Maybe not right now, she thought, in answer to his question. But tomorrow or next week or even next month she would realise this was all kinds of mistake.
And then his hand curved around her neck, gentling her closer to his waiting mouth. Some mistakes, she rationalised, were meant to be made.
The wind pounded at her back, and she let it push her closer to him, meeting his lips with her own and sighing into his mouth with that first, precious touch.
It was like coming home, only better, because it was to a home she’d never expected to find again. A home she’d thought lost for ever.
‘Bahir,’ she whispered on his lips, recognising the taste and scent and texture of him, welcoming him.
For one hitched, exquisite moment the tenuous meeting of their mouths was enough, but only for a moment. Until he groaned and pulled her against him, his mouth opening to hers, sucking her into his kiss.
She went willingly, just as her hands went to the hard wall of his chest, drinking in his hard-packed body with her fingers, pressing her nails into his flesh as if proving he was real, as if proving this was really happening.
He was real, her fingers told her, joyously, deliciously, delectably real.
And so very hot.
His breath, his mouth, his lips on her throat, the flesh under her hands—all of him so hot. Yet when his hand cupped her breast it was she who felt like she would combust with his fingers kneading her flesh, his thumb stroking her hard, straining nipple.
Then his mouth replaced his hand, drawing her breast into his mouth, laving her nipple through the thin gown, and silk had never felt so good against her skin.
A burst of sea spray shattered over them. The clouds parted to a watery moon and she clung to his head in order to stay upright and not collapse under the impact of his sensual onslaught.
But when his hands slid down her back and cupped her behind, his fingers perilously close to the apex of her thighs and the heated, pulsing core of her existence, she knew her knees would not last much longer. ‘Bahir!’ she cried, but he had already anticipated her need, knowing what she asked and what she needed instinctively, as he always had.
He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her long and hard, until she was dizzy and his own breathing ragged when he pulled himself away enough to speak.
‘One night,’ he said, his voice thick with want. ‘Just this night. That’s all I ask.’
She knew what he was telling her—that he hadn’t changed his mind, that he didn’t want her as a permanent fixture in his life and that he would never want her love—but he was offering her this night. Or, at least, what was left of it.
Would she take it?
If she were stronger—if she was more like her younger sister, Aisha, who had tamed her own potent sheikh—she’d tell him what he could do with his one night. But she wasn’t that strong. And the choice was so unfair.
She could have this one night with him, and sacrifice her principles and her pride, or she could have none. But her pride and her principles would never make her heartbeat trip with just one glance or one gentle touch. They could not take her to paradise and back and all the wondrous places in between. And what were pride and principles when compared to paradise?
One excruciatingly short night of paradise. A few short hours before they had to rise and return to the airport and continue their flight.
Was it worth it?
Oh yes.
And tomorrow she would tell him about their son—and it wouldn’t matter if he never wanted to see her again, because she would have this one stolen night to remember.
She looked up into his eyes and could see the impatience there, the urgency and the crippling, demanding need that so echoed her own.
‘Just one night,’ she agreed, and felt herself swept up into his arms as if she were weightless.
He carried her to his suite at the opposite end of the terrace from hers, and laid her reverentially on a bed that looked just as storm-tossed as the one she had left. The covers were piled in disarray on the floor, the pillows thumped to within an inch of their existence. It thrilled her that she might be responsible for at least some of the heat that had kept him from sleep.
He stood at the side of the bed, his eyes never leaving her as he purposefully unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it to the floor, his damp, golden skin glo
wing in the thin moonlight. She held her breath as his trousers soon joined it, then even the scrap of silk he called underwear was gone, and he was gloriously naked before her, his erection swaying proud and free.
Her mouth went dry as he knelt with one knee alongside her on the bed, every drop and bead of moisture her body contained heading south, where it pooled and pulsed with aching, burning need.
‘You’re beautiful,’ she told him. Not that it was any surprise, she was merely stating a fact. For she had always thought him beautiful, dressed or undressed, but never more so than like this, when his full potent masculinity was proudly on display.
He touched one hand to the hem of her nightgown at her ankle and smiled, his eyes glinting in the pale moonlight. ‘And you,’ he began, ‘are overdressed.’
CHAPTER FOUR
THAT was how it began, with his hands skimming up her calves, peeling the damp silk from her legs as he pressed kisses to her ankles, to the backs of her knees, to the inside of each thigh.
And, just when she was gasping in anticipation and expectation, he lifted himself and eased the bunched fabric over her hips, sliding his hands up either side of her waist and past her sensitive breasts, freeing her of the gown, before raining kisses on her eyes, nose and mouth, her shoulders, breasts and every part of her. With every silken touch of his fingers, every magical glide of his hands on her skin, every hot kiss of his mouth, her fever built, until a tear slipped unbidden from the corner of each eye.
The moment was as poignant as it was bittersweet. For she had dreamed of a night like this so very many times. She had dreamed of him returning to her, of admitting he had made a mistake, of begging her forgiveness, and in a thousand different ways, in a thousand different scenarios, she had welcomed him back.
She had dreamed of a magical night when he would return and say he was sorry, that he had been wrong and that he loved her. And she would take his hand, place it on her ripe belly and tell him that it was his child inside her, created in an act of love.
Until finally she would realise that he was never coming back, that he would never seek her out. That it was finished.
And yet, even though she knew nothing ultimately would change, he was here now—and even if it wasn’t what she had longed for, even if it would never be enough, it was something.
‘You are the beauty,’ she heard him say, and she opened liquid eyes to see him kneeling back and staring down at her, his eyes filled with what looked like worship. Yet still she waited, breathless with wondering if he might still notice the changes to her body since they’d last lain together, the changes that motherhood to his child had wrought. ‘So beautiful,’ he repeated.
She held out a hand to him to pull him down and end this desperate need. ‘Please make love to me, Bahir.’
He surprised her by taking her hand, turning it in his and kissing her palm, saying, ‘I will. But first …’ before he let her hand go to skim his hands up the inside of her legs, parting them, pushing them apart to dip his head lower.
She gasped when she realised his intention, and not only in anticipation of the pleasures to come. But they had so very little time and she had expected him to take his pleasure as many times as he could. She had not expected him to want to spend his time giving it. Besides, as much as she had missed the pleasures his wicked mouth could bring, it was the feel of him inside her that she craved.
‘Bahir,’ she cried as he wrapped his arms around her thighs and opened her to him. ‘Please.’
But her pleas were answered by the heated swipe of his tongue along her cleft, and the arch of her spine in response. ‘Oh God,’ she cried as his tongue made magic with every flick, sending her senses reeling with no time to recover before his lips closed on that tiny nub of nerves, drawing her into his mouth and teasing her senseless with the skill of an artisan—a man who knew exactly what she needed and when.
‘Please!’ she called, knowing she was already lost, not knowing what she called for.
But he knew. At the hitched peak of her pleasure she felt his fingers join his mouth, pleasuring her inside and out and sending her over the brink.
And that was how it ended, in a million shattering ways, in a million different colours. Years of ecstasy foregone forged into one shattering rainbow moment as she climaxed all around him.
He had always been the best, she thought as the tremors rolled away. Nothing had changed, it seemed, she registered in the pleasure-filled recesses of her mind.
He pulled her into his kiss as she returned to earth. She tasted herself on him, tasted hot sex, heated desire and his burning need, and that need fed into hers, needing him inside her now more than ever.
‘God, you look sexy like that,’ she heard him say as he drew back. ‘Do you have any idea how much I want you?’
She smiled up at him and thought through flickering eyelids about protection, was just about to say something, but he was already reaching across her to retrieve his wallet from a side table, extracting a packet that he tore open impatiently with his teeth. ‘Just as well one of us is responsible.’
She blinked, the fog in her blown-apart world clearing. ‘What did you say?’ she asked, not sure she’d heard him right, not sure she’d understood what he’d meant if she had.
He rolled the condom down his length, his erection bucking and protesting its latex confines in his hand. ‘I said …’ he dropped back over her, nuzzling a pebbled nipple with his hot mouth as he moved his legs between hers ‘… it’s lucky one of us can think straight.’
She stilled, the magic his mouth producing negated by the toxic content of his words. ‘You think I’m irresponsible.’
‘I didn’t say that,’ he said, before finding her other breast with his teeth, angling his hips for her centre.
‘You did,’ she said, squirming her hips up the bed and away from his attempts to join her. ‘That’s what you meant—that you were responsible because you thought about protection. You said I was lucky you’d thought of it.’
‘It’s not important!’
‘It is important, if that’s what you think.’
‘Marina, don’t do this. I didn’t mean anything.’
‘But you did! You think I’m irresponsible, don’t you? Just because you mentioned protection before I did. You assume I was never going to ask.’
‘Come on, Marina, you’re hardly the poster girl for safe sex.’
‘And you’re the poster boy, I suppose?’
‘I’m not the one with two illegitimate children. I would have thought you’d be happy not to be lumbered with a third.’
Blood rushed to her head at the sheer injustice in his words, pounding in her temples, a call to war. ‘How dare you?’ she cried, twisting her body underneath him, pushing at him with her hands and pounding him with her fists, desperate to get away. ‘How dare you talk about my children and say that I’m irresponsible? Get off me!’
‘Listen!’ he said, grabbing one wrist before it could find its target on his shoulder. ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’
She glared up at him, her eyes blazing. ‘That’s too easy. You’re what’s wrong with me. I told you this was a mistake. I knew it was. I’m just sorry I didn’t realise how big a mistake until now.’
‘I wouldn’t worry on that score,’ he said through gritted teeth as he rolled away and let her go so that she could clamber from the bed and swipe up her gown from the floor. ‘It won’t happen again.’
She tugged the gown over her head, shrugging, uncaring when she realised that the seams were on the outside, already heading for the door. ‘You better believe it.’
If the flight thus far had been unbearable, the flight to Pisa was torturous, the atmosphere so strained that this time even the cabin attendants sensed the tension in the cabin and left them alone as much as possible. The lack of distractions was no help at all. Marina put her book down again in frustration, wondering if this flight would ever end. She’d tried to read the same passage at least a dozen time
s now and still the words didn’t stick.
But how could anything stick in a mind already overflowing with self-recrimination and loathing? She hated that she had let herself fall under Bahir’s heated spell last night. She hated that he had peeled away every shred of logic, accumulated wisdom and life experience that she possessed, just as easily as he had peeled her nightgown from her body.
She hated herself that she had let him.
And when she remembered the way she had come apart in his bed, she wanted to curl up and die. Oh God, how could she look at herself in the mirror? But one thing she knew. She would not bring herself to look at him.
Oh, she could hear him across the aisle, shifting in his seat, grumbling and muttering from time to time. She could feel the anger rolling off him in waves—even his warm, masculine scent was infused with resentment—but she refused to look his way. She could not face him knowing what she had let him do.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Still her muscles buzzed with the memories, her tender tissues still pulsing, still anticipating the completion that would now never come.
God, she thought, squeezing her thighs together in an effort to quell the endless—the pointless—waiting, but she was every kind of fool. Maybe Bahir was right. Maybe she was irresponsible after all. But not in the way he imagined.
Of course, their arrival into Pisa was delayed, the airport busy trying to catch up after the storm disruption of the previous day, the tarmac crowded with charter planes and passenger buses all jockeying for space.
So, by the time they landed, her nerves were strained to breaking point and she no longer cared that he was the father of her child or that she had agreed to tell him so. She just wanted him to be gone.
‘I’m good from here,’ she said without looking at him, as her luggage was stowed into a waiting car outside the busy airport. ‘I have a driver. You might as well go.’
She was dismissing him? His lip curled, and it was nothing to do with the smell of diesel in the air or someone’s pizza remains lying discarded and sweltering in the gutter. ‘That’s not the way it works, princess.’