“Have them bring it here,” he says, after a moment.
“Fine. I’ll go and arrange that now.”
I leave the terrace before he can say anything else, the door closing behind me. I take the stairs to my floor, finding my room easily, locking the door behind me as though to keep the world at bay.
My room is lovely. Not as sumptuous as the suite, but there’s another huge bed covered with rose petals, then a little sitting area with a TV and sofa, a soft rug underfoot. Sliding doors lead out to a small, enclosed balcony bordered with bougainvillea, gold and pink. I also have a huge bathroom and dressing area; once again I think of my small room at home, how grey and sad it will seem after the colour and light of Morocco.
I’ll have my rug, I suppose, as a memory. And hopefully those other memories, of a dusk-swept beach, will fade. I don’t think I can bear the heartbreak if they don’t. I unroll the rug, carefully drape it over the back of a chair, stroke the soft wool.
Then I remember what the hell I’m supposed to be doing. Working. Not dreaming of my impossibly handsome boss who also happens to be an amazing kisser with wicked fingers and I suppose I’ll never know what else. I call the restaurant, arranging for Myles’s dinner to be served in his suite. I plug in my laptop and check messages and emails, sending a final confirmation for another meeting for tomorrow. Then I wander out to the balcony, peering out through the stone archway to the pool. It beckons, blue and shimmering, a few of the loungers along the edge occupied.
On impulse, I decide to go down and have a swim. I won’t brave the medina alone– I’ve heard it’s far better to go with a guide– plus I should be here if Myles needs me. But a swim might take the edge off.
* * *
Myles runs his hand across my stomach, then lower. My legs open like a book, my clit a page he reads with his fingers, which slide down then enter me. I arch my back, offering my breasts to his hungry mouth as he braces himself above me. He takes his cock in his hand, running the tip along my folds. I gasp, moaning his name.
He smiles, bending his head to kiss me. At the same time, he thrusts into me, hard and fast, filling me completely. As he starts to move, it’s as though fireworks explode around us, bursts of colour and light pulsing in time with his thrusts.
I cling to him, ecstasy rippling through me as he slides in and out of me, my orgasm building slowly like a volcano getting ready to erupt. When it finally explodes I almost black out, holding onto him as though I’m being swept away.
Then he’s gone and I’m alone in the bed, panting, calling for him.
I wake to find myself tangled in unfamiliar sheets, still breathing hard. The remnants of my orgasm ripple through me. I’m still alone. Myles is two floors above me, but might as well be as far from me as the moon.
I roll over and bury my face in my pillow, bursting into tears.
ChapterTwenty-Eight
Myles
The private terrace is quiet, lit by early morning sun glinting from the metal lanterns. A faint hum of noise comes from the nearby square, and I remember Zara’s face, how excited she’d looked when she was asking about it yesterday.
She’s all I can think about.
I sat here alone last night, eating my excellent meal, thinking about how, just two nights ago, she’d been sitting across from me. She might have been here again if I hadn’t ruined everything. I miss her smile, the way she laughs, the way she challenges me and keeps me guessing. She’d surprised me again, yesterday, speaking Arabic to the man who’d approached her outside the hotel. I shake my head, thinking of how quickly I’d come running, like a knight protecting his lady. She doesn’t need my protection. But it’s hers, whenever she wants.
Even getting into bed had led to thoughts of her, how she’d blushed when asked about it. And how I wanted her to be next to me, under me, on top of me, how I wanted to kiss her in the darkness along the length of her throat, wanted to fuck her, over and over, her body open to mine.
There’s a knock at the terrace gate and I look up, my heart leaping. I open the gate, hoping against hope. But it’s a young woman with a trolley, a selection of trays on it.
“Good morning, Mr Brandon.” She smiles at me. She’s very pretty. In the past I might have accepted the invitation I can see in her eyes. But I don’t want her. I don’t want anyone, except Zara.
“Morning.” I step back to let her pass.
She starts laying the trays out on the table, with a place setting. For one. Fuck it. I’m tired of eating alone.
“Is breakfast being served downstairs?” It’s early, but hopefully not too early.
“It is,” she replies, her eyes wide. “But, I have it here for you. Anything you want.” She lifts one silk-clad shoulder. Again, an invitation, subtle but definitely there.
“Thank you. But I think I might go downstairs. Is there a table?”
“It’s already quite full.” She looks worried. “But I can ring down and get you one.”
“That’s fine.” I’m all at once eager to be down there, as though I’m being pulled by an invisible string. “I’ll figure it out.”
I let the gate swing shut behind me, heading along the narrow walkway and taking the stairs two at a time, my anticipation building. When I reach ground level I slow down, taking my time.
