Royal Weddings

by Clare Connelly

  Lower and lower, and so slowly that the removal of her bathers was its own sensual foreplay. By the time he’d reached her ankles, she was almost panting with unfulfilled desire.

  She kicked it off the rest of the way, almost landing a foot against Ashad’s face in her impatience to finally be naked and free to move.

  He laughed softly, his hands on her calves stilling her.

  Then, he pushed her legs apart, lifting her feet onto the edge of the bed so that she was bent at the knees. He moved her legs wider still then, sliding her feet outwards, and finally, self-consciousness waved over her as he moved higher, kissing the calf of one leg, the knee, and then, the inner thigh.

  She moved to bring her legs closer together but his hands were vice-like. He flicked his gaze to hers and it held a challenge. Before she could understand his intention, his tongue was tracing the fold of her womanhood. She cried out, arching her back off the bed at the wholly unexpected touch.

  “Ashad!” She cried, but white heat spread like lava through her, erupting over her senses, drowning everything but need. He was exceptional. His tongue, his mouth, tormented her. It was a sweet, unfamiliar touch and she could not have prepared for what it would do to her. She was shaking all over, as pleasure began to mount inside of her. And when she thought she was losing her mind, he brought a finger towards her heart and slid it deep inside.

  She sobbed; the pleasure was soaking her. “Ash,” she moaned, writhing against the bed, her hair wet, her everything wet. His finger probed her and his thumb sought the tangle of nerves at her entrance, swirling over them, until she was incandescent with fire and flame.

  His body moved higher while his fingers tormented her, dragging her over hot coals with the promise of the greatest release she’d ever known. His mouth came back to her breasts, flicking her nipple with his tongue while his hand stirred her with a beat that she had never heard before.

  Pleasure was a torrent of raging water and self-control was the wall of the dam. But nothing could hold against the feelings he was evoking; her dam burst and she was shivering in his arms, arching her back and crying out as release finally broke through her. She said his name, over and over again as sensations tumbled through her like the water rolling away. She would never be able to build those dam walls again. They were burst for good. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight to his naked chest, kissing her hair gently and whispering words in Kalastani. Words she understood, yet didn’t. She stayed close to him, expecting the sensual cloud to dissipate. But it didn’t.

  Having tasted what Ashad had to offer, she simply wanted more.

  There was no sanity; just salvation.

  Her hands reached for him. She wanted to touch, feel, to know every inch of him. She was tentative at first, marvelling at her daring in touching him with a sense of possession that surely she didn’t warrant. His body on top of hers was heavy and perfect. She moved beneath him, revelling in the contact. His arousal was close to her heart; she straddled him and moaned, low in her throat, when he pressed hard, so that she could just imagine the relief that was to come. The perfection.

  “This is crazy,” she groaned, and his hands came to tangle in her hair, pulling her face higher so that he could kiss her, laying sweet caresses along her jaw and neck, then to her lips.

  She kissed him back, and the taste of herself on his tongue was as erotic as it was foreign. Everything about them was erotic. Sex had cast a spell over them; it was a song they both heard, a dance they somehow knew, and yet it was just them. Only them. She lifted her hands to her hair and found his fingers, knotting hers through them and pulling his arms outward. She almost purred into his mouth.

  He smiled into the kiss then murmured, “I have dreamed about this.”

  So had Charlotte.

  Ever since meeting him, she’d been in a fever pitch of need that not even sleep could obliterate.

  “It is the definition of insanity,” she responded softly, her hands moving to his shoulders, rolling over his firm, smooth flesh. “How can we do this?”

  “How can we not?” And now he moved, surprising her with his strength as he trapped her wrists in his and held them above her head. He kissed her hungrily, passionately, with an intensity that filled her with longing.

  But the fear was back.

  The fear and vulnerability of what was about to happen.

  It wormed its way through her, cutting through the need, devastating her with its precision, stilling her.

  “Wait.” She stared at him, seeing him anew. Understanding how close they were to becoming lovers. “Wait,” she repeated unnecessarily, because he had frozen at the first instance that something was wrong.

  “I’m waiting,” he said, his tone light despite the fact there was a doubt in his mind. “But for what?”

  His weight on her was not lovely now. It was reminding her of before. The last time. She shook her head. “I can’t do this.” She shoved at his chest with a strength she hadn’t known she possessed, and he didn’t fight the insistence of her gesture. He rolled off her, his eyes holding hers as he lay beside her. He reached out and stroked her hair; though she had no doubt he was attempting to placate her; she was no longer on the boat with him.

  She was in the bedroom of his house. Marook’s. Her mind trying to ignore the fact that her body was being used for the gratification of a man who had become dangerously obsessed with her.

  “I can’t do this,” she said again, and it was a rich truth. She stood, her body jerked from the bed as though pulled by string. She searched for something to put on and found a robe on the back of the door. She slid into it, belting it tightly around her slender waist.

  Ashad, wet and toned, stayed on the bed, but he’d pushed up so that his elbows were propping him higher. And his eyes were studying her.

  “You must be very angry,” she said, darting her glance away, focusing on one of the portal windows that showed the glistening ocean beyond. It reminded her of the fact she’d been swimming earlier. She groaned and shook her head. This whole day had been unpredictable and strange.

  “Angry?” He frowned, genuinely confused by her assertion. “I am not angry, azeezi.”

  “Don’t call me that,” she said stiffly. “Can you make this boat move again?”

  He nodded. “Of course I can. But I won’t. Not until you tell me what the hell is going on.”

  Charlotte froze. Holding her hostage was hardly the thing to calm her. “I swear, Ashad, if you don’t turn this boat around I’ll … I’ll scream.”

  He stood up now, crossing to her. His touch was gentle; so gentle, and it did something to push her memories deep down inside of her. “We’ll go back,” he promised, soothing. His own flash of emotion had been subdued; he could see that her need was greater. She was pale, shaking. Something had happened. “I just want to understand,” he said slowly, stroking her hair.

  She nodded, using the gesture to pull away from him. “I know,” she squeezed her eyes shut. “But I can’t … explain it.”

  “Try,” he said quietly.

  She met his gaze; dark and inquisitive, and her heart turned over.

  She did love him. There was no running from the fact. She swallowed and shook her head. That feeling didn’t belong. She couldn’t break her engagement to Syed, even for his cousin. The embarrassment it would cause her parents would be just like before, when they’d had to come to terms with the fact that their daughter was no longer innocent and untouched. They had tried to pretend their emotions were outrage and grief for her, rather than disappointment, but she’d understood their feelings: they so perfectly matched her own.

  “Take me home, Ashad.” She blinked, and stepped away from him, her chin jutted at a defiant angle.

  He swore softly under his breath and strode towards the door, jerking it inwards. “Wait here,” he tossed over his shoulder, before disappearing.

  She nodded, even though he’d left. Her clothes were folded neatly beside the bed, from where s
he’d changed into the bathers. She redressed in her bra and underpants and the pants she’d worn, before remembering that her tunic was above deck.

  She rolled her eyes at the unluckiness of that situation.

  A moment later, Ashad knocked on the door before pushing it inwards. He held the garment in his hands. Charlotte’s heart kicked at the realisation that it was just what she’d needed.

  He was just what she’d needed.

  And in another universe, an alternate reality where her past hadn’t been muddied by Marook and her future wasn’t owned by Syed, she would fight for him. No, she wouldn’t need to fight for Ashad in that reality; she would simply run into his arms and stay there. Because it was where she was meant to be.

  She felt the boat purr to life and she closed her eyes. Tears stung the eyelids but she wouldn’t let them fall.

  “I’m sorry,” she said stiffly, with a formality that was at odds with their intimacy.

  “Don’t.” His voice was so full of gentleness and kindness that she opened her eyes.

  She shivered at the way he stared at her. “You look at me as though you understand everything about me.”

  His smile was a twist of his lips. Lips that had driven her crazy a moment earlier. “I don’t, believe me.” He walked towards her with a slow, calm pace. “But I want to.” He handed the tunic over to her. She took it, not realising until then that her hands were shaking. She gripped the fabric more tightly, hoping to still the tell-tale tremble.

  She bit down on her lip but stopped when his eyes dropped lower, to take in the action. She stopped because she wanted him to kiss her. She was aching – unfulfilled, torn between needing him to make love to her and erase Marook from her memories, and knowing that only her husband should have that place in her mind. Or would she then have Ashad to be erased too?

  She expelled a sigh, a soft sound of complaint. “I wanted to make love to you,” she said honestly.

  “I know that.”

  “It’s not who I am. I cannot do casual sex.”

  “Casual sex? Oh, azeezi, that’s not what this is.”

  “I’m marrying your cousin,” she said with urgency. “What else can it be?”

  How could she be so insistent? How could she intend to go through with the wedding? Anger was a brush stroke in him. It fired him, burned him, and yet he looked, to all the world, completely impassive. He compressed his lips and turned away from her.

  “Get dressed, Charlotte. I will come to you when we dock.”

  Shock filled her. She watched him move towards the door and the words she wanted to call after him were locked in her mouth. Don’t go. Wait. Let me explain. I’m sorry. I want you. I need you.

  But she was silent;

  And Ashad left.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Charlotte slammed the ball hard.

  It sailed over the net and punched the grass at the other end of the court, landing with enough force to displace a wave of sand.

  She grunted and reached for another ball, relishing the sensation of heat and fire that spread over her skin. The sun was at its zenith and she didn’t care.

  She tossed the ball over her head, bringing her racket onto it with precision and power. The ball followed the trajectory laid out by its mate, flying the distance and thudding to the ground.

  Her fingers curved around the felted sphere of yet another ball. She squeezed it and bounced it a few times, before wiping her eyes and forehead with the cream sweat band she wore on her wrists.

  Her eyes blinked afterwards, refocussing on her goal. And then careened off the court, into the shadows that lined it. It was surrounded by thick, ancient palm trees. The fronds gave shade to the periphery, and there were white bench seats spread haphazardly around the court, allowing spectators to watch.

  And something dark had moved in the field of her vision.

  She bounced the ball again, out of habit, her eyes continuing to scan the circumference until she saw the source of movement. Her mother, and Ashad.

  Her heart began to pound, and not because she’d spent the better part of the last hour slamming balls from one end of the court to the other.

  No, her heart was slamming against her ribs because of him.

  She hadn’t seen him since the day before.

  The boat.

  The kiss.

  The almost-sex.

  Her cheeks flushed and she wished she had thought to wear her sunglasses.

  With a small flash of annoyance, she saw her mother beckoning her off the court. Charlotte replaced the ball in the basket and walked deliberately slowly towards them. As she got closer, she banged her palm against the strings of the racket.

  She hadn’t been sure she wanted to see Ashad again at all, let alone in the presence of her mother.

  “Hello,” she said with cool dignity, before smiling at Eloise.

  “Darling,” Eloise grimaced, her eyes skimming her daughter from head to toe. Charlotte was wearing designer sports gear, skin tight pants that were a black and grey snakeskin pattern with a black shirt. She had no make up on and her hair was pulling into a plait that fell over one shoulder. “I hadn’t realised you’d be …”

  “Playing?” Charlotte couldn’t resist teasing. “Despite the fact you knew I was on the tennis courts?”

  Eloise compressed her lips with muted disapproval.

  Ashad’s eyes sparked between the two women. “Exercise is an excellent way of releasing pressure,” he murmured, and Charlotte shot him a warning look.

  “Yes, and I’d like to get back to it. Was there something in particular you needed, mother?” She asked, blanking Ashad with enormous difficulty.

  Charlotte glared at her daughter and then shook her head.

  “Forgive the princess,” Eloise offered an apology to Ashad. “She is so impatient for the wedding she forgets her manners sometimes.”

  Charlotte resisted the urge to point out that her mother’s assertion made no sense whatsoever. There was no correlation between one event and the other. Nor had she forgotten to use her manners; she’d elected not to use them.

  Her smile was tart.

  “You are playing tennis alone?” Ashad asked, and just his voice sent a frisson of awareness along her spine.

  “No. I have John McEnroe hiding down the other end,” she responded.

  “Charlotte!” Eloise gasped.

  “It’s fine,” Ashad promised. “Well, so long as John McEnroe doesn’t mind, I’ll volley with you a while.”

  “I was just about to stop,” Charlotte lied.

  “No, you weren’t.” Eloise’s expression was a warning that Charlotte knew she ought to heed. “You will be delighted to entertain His Royal Highness, I’m sure.”

  Charlotte felt colour warming her cheeks as she thought of how she’d entertained him the morning before.

  “Fine,” she shrugged, the word obviously dragged out against her will.

  “Good,” Eloise nodded. Safe in the knowledge that her daughter was going to behave, she smiled at them both. “I’ll return to the palace then. Thank you for calling, Ashad.”

  He bowed his head forward slightly. They watched her go, and once Charlotte was certain her mother was out of earshot, she hissed, “What are you doing here?”

  He eyed her thoughtfully, and she noted, for the first time, that he had that same turquoise shopping bag with him. The Tiffany & Co. bag. He placed it on one of the white benches.

  “We have unfinished business.”

  “We are finished business,” she corrected, slamming her palm emphatically against her racquet.

  “Charlotte?” He spoke softly yet she felt the strength of the word; enough to look at him sharply. “Play with me.”

  She didn’t understand, for a moment, what he meant. But he nodded at her racquet and she nodded. “Fine.” She stalked back onto the court and retrieved a spare racquet from her bag. She handed it to him, careful to avoid allowing their fingers to connect.

  He held it for
a moment. “Why don’t we make this interesting?”

  She arched a brow. “What do you suggest?”

  “I lost you yesterday.”

  She swallowed and looked away from him. “I wasn’t yours to lose.”

  “Yes, you were. One minute you were there, with me, needing me, falling apart with me. And the next you were shaking like a leaf. I want to know what happened.”

  Her eyes showed bleakness. “I came to my senses.”

  “No. Something frightened you. You’re afraid. And I want to know what of.”

  Her breathing was laboured. “So you can fix it?”

  “Perhaps,” he said quietly. “I want to know your secrets.”

  “Well, that’s tough. Because I don’t want to… I mean, I can’t… it’s …”

  He lifted an imperious hand to silence her. “Play tennis with me. If I win the first game, you’ll tell me.”

  Charlotte shook her head. “I’m very good. You won’t win.”

  His laugh was liquid oil on her skin. “So make the bet.”

  “Fine,” she shrugged. She had been trained by two former world number ones. Her game was professional level. “I’ll even let you serve.”

  He bowed low. “How good of you.” He grinned as he sauntered to the opposite end of the court and picked up a single ball.

  It passed her almost at the speed of the light; it was a blur of fluorescent colour in the periphery of her vision. She lifted her racquet to return it but the ball had already thudded to the ground behind her well before she could connect with it.

  She sent him a look of exasperation. “Beginner’s luck,” she muttered, though she was a lot less confident about that now. Still, anyone could strike an ace from time to time.

  She’d underestimated him; a mistake she wouldn’t make again. She moved to the other side of the court and this time she braced for speed. She moved her weight from one foot to the other, her eyes trained on the ball.

  He tossed it hard and slammed it over the net. She startled at his precision but not his power – she knew his power intimately. Her racquet connected with it this time, sending it back with a spin that made it bounce awkwardly for him. He was there, though, and he volleyed it back, almost managing to send it over her shoulder. But she reached up and slammed it, landing it with satisfaction in the corner of the court. It was on the line and he tapped his hand against his racquet in a silent clap – acknowledgement of the finesse of her shot.