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She wanted him too.
It made no sense. She was leaving soon. Returning to
her fashion-industry life in Milan and leaving the desert far behind her. She was getting what she really wanted, wasn’t she? Escape and freedom. Whereas Khaled meant the exact opposite. Khaled would keep her here forever. Even though his crazy marriage plans had been aborted, she knew he would possess her if she let him. How then could she even imagine that she wanted any part of him?
But imagination didn’t come into it. What she wanted was real.
They reached her tent, and he followed her through the opening, the heaviness of her need threatening to swamp her, to drown all rational thought. Suddenly she didn’t want to say goodnight. Suddenly she wanted to prolong this moment, this time out here, in the soft lamplight of a lush Bedouin tent.
He placed one hand on her shoulder, angling her towards him. ‘You have the most expressive eyes, did you know?’ He lifted the other hand to her mask, tracing her cheek through the fabric. ‘You didn’t mind wearing this? It must seem strange to you.’
‘It’s all right,’ she said. Her voice sounded clouded and thick. ‘It’s the custom here. I don’t mind.’
‘Well, you have no need of it now,’ he said, his hand reaching behind to release the tie that held it in place. It dropped to the floor at the same time he removed her scarf. Automatically she reached up a hand to smooth back her hair, suddenly nervous, expectant.
‘Your cloak too,’ he said, his voice heavy with need. ‘If you wish.’
She hesitated fractionally. It was only an outer robe, but by taking it off, what was she saying to him? The silken garments that she wore beneath hardly constituted a barrier between them. But then, the way her body was humming, her need accelerating, maybe it was time the barriers came down.
Her fingers fumbled their way to the closures that ran from her neck to her waist, undoing them in turn. Only when she had finished, her hands unsure of where to go next, did he put his hands to her shoulders, parting the robe and peeling it down her arms, finally letting go and allowing its weight to drag it to the floor, exposing her to his gaze.
She held her breath.
Breath hissed through his teeth. After the severity and relative shapelessness of the abaya, he had expected that her feminine shape in the garments his seamstresses had prepared would please him. But his thoughts and preconceptions had in no way prepared him for this.
She was a goddess.
The blue skirt hugged her low down on her hips, the golden threads of the fabric winking in the lamplight with every tiny movement, the shadow of her long legs an enticing promise beneath. More gold bound her breasts, concealing even as it accentuated her womanly curves, leaving bare the exquisite skin-scape of her midriff.
She might not have been happy about having her clothes swapped but right now she didn’t look as if she held it against him. He’d wanted to strip away all the shackles of her previous life, to let her absorb and enjoy the full experience of the desert without the barrier of western clothes to hide behind.
And, if he was honest, there was more than a modicum of self-interest involved. He’d longed to see her out of her usual attire, her well-designed yet far too tailored attire.
Now he had, he was sure he would never have his fill. She was a feast for the eyes. His body reacted in the only way possible. Inside him the hunger cranked up a notch, the need to possess her all-consuming.
When he didn’t move she lifted her eyes fractionally, afraid of what she might see in his. She wasn’t disappointed. Hot appreciation, vivid and intent, blazed out of their dark depths, his chin set rigid as if he was holding himself tightly under control.
Sparks ignited inside her, sparks that fired messages to nerve endings that tingled and buzzed. Flesh responded, exposed skin goose-pimpled, breasts peaked and firmed.
Then his mouth slanted over hers and the feelings were magnified, intensified, as his need fed into hers. She tasted coffee, the desert and passion, the power that was Khaled alive in his kiss as his lips moved over hers, as his tongue explored her depths.
His arms curled around her, pulling her in close to him, his hands warm on the dip of her spine, the flare of her hips, the curve of her breast.
Pressure mounted inside her, pressure that turned the dull ache between her thighs into more like a pulsing imperative. Her hands tangled through the metres of cloth that made up his robes, wanting to feel not his clothes, but his body, firm and hard, next to hers.
And close up she could feel his strength, feel the power of his need as she pressed herself against the firm ridge of his erection.
His head drew back on a shudder as his arms loosened and she looked up, confused, missing his heat already.
‘Sapphire,’ he said, his voice a bare rasp, his breath fast and choppy.
And instantly she was reminded of the times before, when he’d kissed her and pulled away, leaving her reeling and hungry for more and resentful of his control, and she knew that no way was he doing that to her again. She couldn’t bear it.
This was most likely her last night in Jebbai. Her last night with Khaled. Her last chance to satisfy this reckless desire that flared whenever he was near.
Soon she’d be back in Milan, alone in her apartment, no Paolo to console her, nothing to ease her regret for missing out on what she could have had.
So this time would be different. This time he wasn’t leaving her cold. This time he could damn well finish what he’d started.
