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He opened his eyes and watched her, curious. “I did some research into this myself and most recommend the woman take the lead here. It is more comfortable for you that way.” He shrugged and winked, glancing down his body toward his straining cock, a bead of wetness glistening at its tip. “I will love being with you any way you choose, rohi.”
She bit her lip, and reached a shaky hand out to trace her fingers down his chest and abs. His muscles tensed beneath her touch, but he didn’t move, didn’t say a word, just let her do as she pleased. Emboldened, she moved closer to kneel between his spread legs, and took his cock in hand. It felt like warm velvet over steel against her palm and she stroked him slowly from base to tip, swiping her thumb across the broad pink head to gather that pearl of moisture there then brought it to her lips. Yep, he definitely tasted as good as he looked.
Groaning low, Feraz watched her through half-lidded eyes, his full lips parted slightly, his breath quickening. Color flushed his tanned cheeks and his dark gaze glittered with need. He wanted her as much as she wanted him. Isabella would have loved to take him into her mouth and pleasure him as he’d pleasured her, but there would be time for that later. Right now, she needed him inside her, more than she needed anything else in the world. Slowly, she straddled his hips and positioned the head of his cock at her wet entrance, gradually lowering herself down onto him until he was hilt-deep within her slick channel.
They both moaned then, staying still, Feraz’s hands holding her hips as if he feared she might leave him again. Then, tentatively at first, she began to ride him, raising off him until just his tip remained inside her then lowering down again, over and over until they were both on the brink of coming hard. Feraz guided her, but never took control, letting her dictate how much of him she took and the angle of penetration. He was right, this was super comfortable. And super considerate. The few men she’d been with in the past had been selfish and always took the lead. Feraz was confident enough to put her in charge of his ecstasy.
Soon, though, he couldn’t help thrusting gently inside her, matching her stroke for stroke, one hand still on her hips while his other tenderly fondled her sensitive breasts. At last, Isabella could take no more and gasped softly as a second climax took her. She stilled atop him, letting her body clench around his hard cock while he continued to thrust inside her—once, twice—before his whole body tightened and he squeezed his eyes shut as he came hard inside her, murmuring words in Arabic she didn’t understand, his voice low and rough with desire.
Afterward, she collapsed onto the bed and he pulled the covers up over them, spooning her back against him, one arm around her waist holding her tight as he dusted kisses along the back of her neck and shoulders.
“That was magnificent, rohi. You are magnificent.”
She smiled and snuggled back closer against him, unable to keep her eyes open. She’d not felt this relaxed and content in forever. Isabella was nearly asleep when she felt Feraz tense behind her and pull away slightly, his fingers tracing the area between her shoulder blades on her back. Isabella frowned and looked back at him over her shoulder. “Something wrong?”
He blinked at her back then looked at her, his expression blank. “Rest now, rohi. We will talk again tomorrow.”
Somewhere in the back of her mind, a warning bell clanged, but Isabella felt too exhausted and blissed out to heed its call. Tonight was just for them. Tomorrow would bring enough troubles of its own, she was sure.
11
Feraz rose before dawn the next morning and showered and dressed without disturbing his wife. The words snagged in his brain, making him reel. He’d seen the proof last night and verified it again this morning. Proof that the woman in his bed was not his wife Roxanne, but was instead her twin sister Isabella. Had to be. They were identical, after all, except for a tiny constellation of freckles that had been on Roxanne’s back, right between her shoulder blades, shaped like a heart. It had been one of the first things he’d noticed about her that very first day on the beach. It had been the distinguishing feature he’d used to tell the girls apart before he’d gotten to know them, before he’d gotten involved with Roxanne.
Those freckles were gone from the woman’s back who was in his bed.
He took a deep breath and leaned his hands against the edge of his desk in his office. But by all accounts, Isabella Germain had died in a car accident in France. Had there been a mistake? Had the authorities been wrong?
The answers were obvious. Of course, they had been. Roxanne had once told him how the sisters would fool people when they were younger, pretending to be the other. Given their unorthodox and unscrupulous mother, he wasn’t surprised. What did surprise him though was how long it had taken him to realize the charade. A man should know his own wife, be able to recognize her and her alone, right?
Exhaling slowly, he slumped back in his chair and stared out the window across from him at the rising sun. Guilt warred inside him with an odd sense of relief. Guilt because last night had been incredible. He felt connected to the woman in his bed, to Isabella, in a way he never had with Roxanne. On paper, he and Isabella had always been a better match anyway—education-wise, interest-wise. And he’d always found Isabella so much easier to talk to and more relatable. But he’d never imagined acting on any of that. Plus, there was the fact that he’d slept with another woman, committed adultery. Except he hadn’t, had he? Because if Isabella was alive and well, then that meant it must have been Roxanne who’d died in that car crash.
Which made more sense. He’d known for some time that she’d been having a fling with some titled playboy in Cannes. Perhaps it was divine justice that she died as s
he’d chosen to live, reckless and wild. What really made him feel guilty, though, was that he didn’t feel any sorrow over Roxanne’s passing. They’d grown apart long ago, and she’d made her wishes to have no part in his life clear. That’s why her message telling him she’d decided to go through with the IVF had been so shocking.
They’d originally donated both eggs and sperm to the highly exclusive clinic shortly after their marriage, wanting to ensure that Djeva would have an heir and his father’s sheihkdom would continue even if something happened to him. At the time, Feraz had considered it unnecessary, but had gone through with it just in case due to pressure from his mother.
Now though, that IVF procedure had given him his twins.
It had given him Isabella.
He wondered why she would go through with the procedure, though, given the risks and the lies and the deception. He wondered what Roxanne had offered her sister to entice her to make the deal and keep the secret. Most of all, he wondered why Isabella had not told him the truth that first day and ended it all right there. She could have asked him for a divorce, refused to stay with him after the babies were born and battled to raise the children on her own in America. He would have fought just as hard to keep them here, and things would have turned ugly.
Perhaps that’s why she went along with his plans.
Questions still lingered. While her reticence around the press and with her royal duties was now understandable, Isabella had gotten along so well with his family—much better than Roxanne ever had. And last night. Why would she make love to him so sweetly if this was only pretend?
His instincts told him what had happened between them last night had been real and true and deeply profound. They’d connected, both physically and emotionally. She’d allowed him inside her body and her heart.
Somehow, in the midst of all this illusion, he’d fallen in love with Isabella. Loved her smile and her kindness and her intelligence. Loved her laugh and the sparkle of joy in her green eyes. Loved her. Period.
Before he could sit down and talk with her though, he needed to sort things out, talk with the clinic in New York and piece together how this whole charade had been accomplished. Then he would sit Isabella down and discuss it all with her, give her a chance to explain, give her a choice—to stay with him, or walk away.
The thought of letting her go now, when he’d just had her, nearly brought him to his knees, but he would do it. If that’s what she wanted. Because he loved her enough to let her go.
He checked his watch then picked up the phone to dial Manhattan.
Time for the truth.
