Sophia woke with a start, a heavy sense of disorientation in her gut, followed by that same feeling of blinding grief and realization that had almost strangled her every morning for the last year.
It was the last letter Addan had sent her – signed ‘Rex’, her pet name for him. She’d read all his letters so many times they were burned into her brain now – which was quite the accomplishment, given there were hundreds of the things.
But how else could she keep Addan alive, than to invoke his words at every opportunity she got?
While he lived, she’d stored them carelessly, tossed into a drawer in her room. Now, with the knowledge that the collection was complete, that no more would be added to its number, she’d had a box made. Gold and pearl, for grief and royalty, it was lined in purple velvet, and had a padlock at its centre. She wore the key on a small chain around her wrist – it was dainty and delicate and to the untrained eye would pass simply as a charm bracelet of sorts.
Wearing it made her feel close to Addan – wearing it was a way back to him.
She sat up straighter, her heart racing, her body feeling oddly alive, strangely heavy and light, and she blinked her eyes into the unfamiliar room. She reached for the key automatically, her fingertips stroking it lightly.
A noise beside her had her gaze shifting and then, it all came flooding back. Memories assaulted her from every direction and a small moan flew from her lips before she could stop it, a sound of remembered pleasure, and of disbelief at how completely entranced she’d been to this sensation, this need.
She couldn’t tell if Malik was naked or not, but his chest was exposed, a pale sheet wrapped over his waist. While he slept, she stared, unashamedly devouring his naked body with her eyes, hungrily chasing his flesh, drinking the sight of him up and committing it to her mind.
But looking was dangerous, because it flushed memories through her blood, reminding her of how his chest had felt pressed to her naked breasts, reminding her how his body had felt – heavy and strong above hers.
Looking was problematic because every second she allowed herself to stare was a second that heated her body and filled her with temptation. Looking was making her want to touch, to reach out and run a finger over his chest, to drop her mouth to his chest and kiss a trail from one of his nipples to the other, then all the way down to his navel and further down… her eyes moved in that direction and her breath hissed out of her.
The sheet was tented, pushed up as proof of his arousal, even in sleep, impossible to ignore. She clasped her fingers into her palms in an effort not to touch him.
In vain. And unnecessarily.
Because he moved – and quickly – pushing the sheet aside in the same movement that had him kneeling and then straddling her, his kiss pushing her back to the bed, pinning her to the mattress. His hand spread her thighs and then he pushed inside of her, wordlessly, fast, hungrily. She made not a noise, but the storm raged through her, a storm that was alive with a thousand lightning bolts, a storm that transformed her bloodstream and made heat and desire incinerate her cells.
Every possession was purposeful and intense, every beat of his body a mark against her soul, a mark of his possession of her.
Just like he’d coloured the skin of her shoulder, he was marking her invisibly now, inside, leaving little scars of him deep in her being.
But she couldn’t care. She couldn’t feel anything except abject relief as pleasure spun like a whirlpool and sucked her through its centre. She bit his shoulder as she came, and he drove into her harder, his body so incredibly powerful, her desire like another person in the room.
Even as she came, she felt her needs rising again, she felt an insatiable desire for this and him.
She also felt shock at how unexpected this was, at how little she’d anticipated she might want this.
But, that was a lie, wasn’t it?
Her heart twisted as she remembered the second time she’d met Malik. The first had been when she was still a child, too young to be anything but intimidated by the older, powerful prince, the young man, as he’d been then, who’d already been so obviously scathing of the rules, of authority, and of the trappings of royalty.
Then, she’d been in awe of him.
But when, years ago, he’d returned to Abu Faya unexpectedly, and arrived unannounced while Addan was instructing her in the ancient form of Abu Fayan martial arts – Al antaya – he’d looked at her in a way that had burned the soles of her feet. He’d looked at her and she’d had the strangest sense that he was undressing her with his eyes, but not just physically. She’d felt like he was stripping away her skin, her muscles and her blood and bones until only the essence of who she was remained. She’d felt more naked in that moment than she ever had before.
He’d been dismissive – no, he’d been downright rude. He’d spoken to Addan in Abu Fayan, perhaps not realizing she could speak it fluently.
“So this is your foreign bride, brother?”
“Her name is Sophia,” Addan had responded calmly, in that way he had – with strength and softness all at once. “And you will treat her with respect.”
“She is pretty, I suppose, but no more so than any number of princesses you could have wed. Why this woman?”
Sophia had felt her insides fill with ice and she’d sworn to dislike this man from that moment onwards.
“Because I love her,” Addan had answered in English, turning to face Sophia with a slow wink. “And because there is no one on earth, princess or otherwise, who will make a better queen for our people.”
Malik had left, and while Addan’s words had buoyed her, Malik’s judgment had sat within her like a stone. Each time she’d seen him after that, she’d remembered his disappointment and derision. While he’d paid lip service to respecting her, his manner had always reeked of disapproval, leaving her in little doubt that his first assessment hadn’t altered with time.
He couldn’t understand why Addan was marrying her – and now it was even worse, for he’d had to endure that fate personally.
He thrust into her again and she crashed back to the present, to the windswept coastline of their desire, her eyes wide when they met his. Sleepiness surrounded them, still whispering in the night air, and the ancient tower was filled with the tang of salt and heat, the humidity and spices for which this country was famed.
He rolled his hips and she bit down on her lips, his name heavy in her mouth. It pushed against her tongue, rolled over her teeth, saturated her lips, but she would not speak it. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of hearing her beg for him over and over, even when his name was thundering through her blood stream.
Her eyes showed defiance even as waves of pleasure broke upon her soul, even as she welcome the collapse of resistance, as she welcomed all of this.
She arched her back, drowning in her body’s needs and he grabbed her, lifting her up, holding her tight to his chest as he came inside of her, his own body wracked with the strength of his release, his voice deep and guttural.
Her breathing was as forced as if she’d run a mile at speed, her lungs burning from the intensity. She clung to him – spent and exhausted – her body satisfied while her mind was spinning, trying to make sense of this feeling, this pleasure, this strange, pervasive hunger.
He pulled out of her, and moved to his side of the bed, lying on his back.
Sophia looked at him, her eyes running over his profile.
“Go to sleep, Sharafaha. It’s the middle of the night.”
The middle of her wedding night. She swallowed, the lump in her throat heavy and constricting. She searched for something to say – anything – but he rolled over, turning his back to her, and silence descended once more.
If she’d known what point she wanted to make, she would have woken him up, but she was a tangle of confusion. She lay down, rolling to her side of the bed, staring at the ancient stonewalls of this room, cast in a milky, silver moonlight, and tried not to think.
Not to
think of Addan and the way they’d laughed about this tradition. She tried not to think about whether she could have walked away from this marriage, this obligation, and gone back to her real life.
But what was her real life?
Since childhood, she’d been groomed for this role, she’d believed it to be her fate. She spoke Abu Fayan and two dialects of the Bedouin tribes, she knew everything there was to know about the history and culture of this proud and prosperous nation. And what was there for her at home? A mother who’d hastily married a man much younger than herself? A sister who was busy raising her own family?
Or marriage to Malik, a man she knew little about save for one vital, salient fact: Addan had adored him. Addan had believed him to be the best of men, and she trusted Addan unstintingly. She therefore trusted that this marriage would, in time, make some kind of sense.
A pit opened up in her heart, though, and she suspected it would never be full.
When he woke, the sun had crested over the dunes in the distance, bathing the white stone walls of this turret in pale peaches and gold. He’d always loved this time of day, for the magic that draped itself around the world, whispering secrets of decades long since past.
He loved this time of day for its faithfulness, its service, for the fact the palette hadn’t changed at all since his childhood.
He woke up feeling like he could do anything, as though he were all powerful. The feelings were familiar to Malik – sex always left him with this sense of utter satiation and egotism. Good sex was even better.
And last night had been some of the best sex of his life.
A rock seemed to drop through him, thudding in his chest. Because he hadn’t just slept with a beautiful woman, a random woman, a royal groupie, a willing lover keen for a night in the bed of the Sheikh.
He’d slept with Addan’s fiancé. He’d taken the virginity of the woman his brother had loved.
And he would do it again and again and again, given the chance.
His insides churned as he turned to look at her and disgust –self-disgust – rolled through him. Fast asleep, she looked so much younger than she was. Her blonde hair was loose, tumbling about her shoulders in glorious waves, her cheeks were pink, even in her sleep, and her little cupid’s bow lips were parted slightly.
“You don’t know her like I do,” Addan had said, his smile enigmatic as he’d surveyed the view of the desert’s primary oasis. Palm trees curved around one edge, and wild camels drank greedily at its edge.
Malik had picked up a stone and cast it over the water’s surface, his expression grim. “I beg your pardon, I have known plenty of women like Sophia Howard.”
Addan’s laugh had filled the space, causing one of their Arabian stallions to beat its hooves in disapproval. “You think so?”
“She is just a silly American girl.”
Addan had shaken his head. “You are determined not to like her, and that saddens me, brother. But I know you well enough to know I cannot change your mind once you have made it.” His eyes had narrowed with that quiet determination of his. “Only promise me, as my brother and my subject, that you will keep your feelings to yourself. She is valuable to me, valuable to this country, and she is more sensitive than she seems. I will not have her upset because you think she is just like one of your cheap lovers…”
Malik’s gut tightened now. He’d promised Addan he would never let Sophia know how he felt. He’d promised his brother, his best friend, a man he adored and admired, that he would keep his feelings to himself.
And he had.
Every last one of them. He’d travelled more and more, stayed away from his home increasingly often, and he’d put Sophia and her mysterious silver blue eyes from his mind.
And now, his body was hard for her, despite the fact he’d taken her in the middle of the night, driving into her and burning them both with the intensity of his need.
Hell.
This was a problem. He jack-knifed out of bed, moving to the small kitchen area and quietly fixing himself a coffee. While it brewed, the smell of spicy caffeine filling the small room, he pulled on a pair of pants and tied his hair up in a knot on the top of his head. As soon as the cup had filled, he grabbed it and strode towards the parapet balcony, stepping out and breathing in the desert air with relief.
He would need to sleep with her often, until she had conceived. Then, he could leave her to the care of his servants, blowing into the desert just as he always had, taking himself out amongst his people, seeing her as infrequently as ever. He’d made an art form of ignoring her – how long had it been since he’d decided that was the safest course of action?
When their child was born, he would need to come back, of course.
For a time.
But he would control his desire for her. He would maintain a respectful distance.
She had been Addan’s fiancé, his chosen bride.
This was just sex – for the sake of the royal line.
And what of his libido, which he’d delighted in indulging often?
His expression tightened, his eyes skimming the dunes in the distance. He wouldn’t go without sex. He was a man, and a man who had become used to indulging his body’s needs. His great grandfather had dispensed with the harem, something Malik had often joked to Addan about with mock regret. He didn’t want a harem.
But he would need a mistress.
Someone discreet. Someone who…
His stomach rolled at the idea of sleeping with anyone else, a visceral rejection to the notion ricocheting through him.
He didn’t want anyone else. In that moment, despite the fact he’d filled his bed with supermodels, actresses, heiresses, princesses and renowned beauties in the past, despite the fact he knew he could snap his fingers and have any one of them back in his life, he knew he wouldn’t.
He stared out at the desert and the true consequences of his situation exploded through him for the first time.
He was not a man who would cheat.
Having pledged himself to this woman, he knew he would stay faithful to her.
Which meant celibacy.
He couldn’t sleep with her for any reason other than procreation.
And he wouldn’t cheat on her.
So he would have to learn to curb his libido.
The idea was as unpalatable as any he’d known. He ground his teeth together, drinking his coffee, knowing that unpleasant as the notion was, he would do it. For what other choice did he have?
She slept late and woke ravenous. Sitting up in bed, her blonde hair unknowingly wild about her petite face, the sheet clasped under her arms, firm across her breast, she scanned the room looking for any sign of Malik.
There was none.
Breathing a small sigh of relief, she wrapped the sheet more firmly around herself, wedging her way out of bed and walking as best she could in such a tight makeshift dress towards the coffee machine. It was lukewarm, but not hot. So he was awake – and fueled with caffeine. She pressed the button to reheat it and moved towards the balcony, drawn by the brightness and warmth of the day.
The sight of her husband arrested her completely.
He was naked from the waist up, his body so firmly muscled, so toned and strong, that she could only stare. The sun danced across his honeyed flesh, showing the angles and planes of his sculpted chest. Her heart raced when his eyes moved to hers, and she was powerless to look away, even when her pulse was hammering and her heart slamming into her ribs.
“You slept late,” he murmured, his gaze trailing down her body as though she were naked.
“Not if you subtract how much of last night I spent awake.”
For the briefest moment, she thought she saw amusement flicker across his face, a hint of laughter in his eyes, but it was extinguished almost instantly.
“There is food inside,” he murmured. “If you are hungry.”
She was. Ravenous.
But her stomach’s needs were taking a backseat to other more pr
essing imperatives. She looked at her husband and felt a tightening in the ball of her stomach, a burst of need that was so powerful she knew she wouldn’t be able to ignore it – so powerful she wasn’t sure she wanted to ignore it.
Her eyes lifted to his, helplessly, her tongue darting out to the corner of her mouth as she swallowed.
They were here for one reason, and one reason only: to beget an heir.
Shifting a little, her eyes sparking now with a silent challenge, she loosened the sheet from beneath her arms, dropping it to the floor. “Food can wait.”
He stormed across the small balcony, scooping her up and carrying her inside, his eyes burning into hers, raking over her expression, his own need as insatiable as her own. He lay her down on the mattress and stood for a moment, staring at her nakedness, her beautiful body bearing the marks of his intimacy, her pale flesh marked red in parts from his stubble, his touch, his kiss, her lips swollen from his kisses, her nipples engorged, begging him to take them in his mouth and hands once more.
He parted her legs wordlessly, his eyes boring into hers, as he straddled her, his cock at the apex of her thighs. She held her breath, her body stilled. He watched her for a moment and then drove himself into her feminine depths, his body tightening at the sweet little moaning sounds she made.
And it occurred to him that in this one way, they were almost designed for each other. He’d had a lot of sex with a lot of women, and he could honestly say not one of them had driven him quite as wild as his innocent wife: his brother’s bride.
Her heart would always belong to another man, but Sophia’s delectable body was all his – and, despite the circumstances, Malik was glad for that. He hated that he was, he hated that he felt anything other than duty as he drove into his wife, as he thrust himself deep into her body and held her tight, her pleasure driving her wild. He hated that he felt anything for her, but he couldn’t deny it: on some level, he was actually glad to be married to her, glad he could do this whenever passion overtook them, glad it was his body doing this to hers.
Which, Malik accepted, made him just about the worst bastard known to man.
The Evermore Series II: Books 4, 5 and 6 Page 18