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KARIM DRAGGED OFF the heavy keffiyeh he’d been wearing all day and ran his fingers through his sweaty hair. He dumped the headgear onto the lounging sofa in his suite’s bathing chamber, then sat down to yank off his boots, aware of the lingering scent of summer flowers.
Damn it, even her scent is haunting me now.
He threw one boot, then the other across the room, in a vain attempt to use up some of the energy that had been pounding through his veins for four hours now, ever since he had turned to see Orla in the traditional Zafari wedding gown, her curves clearly visible through the gossamer material, her wild hair tamed by sparkling jewelled pins, and her eyes—brimming with awareness and need and understanding—crucifying him.
He tore off his tunic—the vicious arousal still pulsing through him.
By rights he should be exhausted. He’d barely slept since arriving in Zafar, the nightmares he’d thought he’d conquered so many years ago returning to disturb his sleep each night. But as well as the nightmares there had been dreams of her—his so-called wife—not just her live-wire response, her lush curves, the taste of innocence and arousal that had tricked him in the limo so many days ago, but also her smile and those emerald eyes, the same honest green of her homeland.
He shouldn’t have kissed her tonight, shouldn’t have given in to the urge to mark her as his in front of their guests, because she wasn’t his. But something had happened when he’d lifted her veil and she’d stared back at him with a desperate yearning that matched his own—that damn compassion shining in her eyes, which had tormented him and made him weak. And suddenly his lips had been on hers, and her instinctive shudder of surrender had reverberated through his body as he devoured her.
He’d been hard, or semi hard, ever since. Even after she’d left the ceremony—through about thirty courses of rich food, which he hadn’t been able to swallow, and almost as many toasts, which he hadn’t been able to drink because he knew if he started he would never be able to stop.
He kicked off his trousers and stood naked in the large tiled room, aware of the bathing pool that had been prepared for him—and the blood coursing through his rampant erection.
What he needed was a cold shower, and to forget her. She would be gone in a few days. He’d already made the arrangements, knew he couldn’t see her again or he would break.
He headed into the tiled shower area. Thank God one of his father’s many luxury expenditures had included adding state-of-the-art plumbing to the traditional network of pools in the King’s bathing suite. He switched the dial down to frigid and stepped in. The needle-sharp spray pummelled his tired muscles and refreshed his sweaty skin.
He wrapped a sheet of linen around his midriff and headed out onto the balcony that overlooked his private gardens. The scent of water tinkling below in the fountains, and the mix of rose and jasmine and white musk from the garden’s exotic foliage, permeated the night, but still all he could smell was Orla.
Was he actually going mad? From sexual frustration and the battle to keep the endless thoughts, the desperate need to give her more, to take more, under control until he had finally sent her away? And this painful longing—the terrifying vulnerability that haunted his dreams?
He entered the bed chamber, ripped off the towel, then slammed the door shut to close out the scents of the night garden.
But then he
stopped dead, as a figure rose on the bed.
‘Karim?’ The soft, seductive Irish accent—lilting and confused—was thick with sleep.
His eyes adjusted to the moonlight streaming through the open windows, the light breeze from the desert stirring the still air in the stuffy room. And his flesh stiffened so fast, the vicious pulse of need pushed him towards madness.
She was like a vision kneeling on the bed, her naked body draped in a gossamer veil that caressed her slender curves, framing the flare of her hips, the turgid jut of her nipples, the curls between her legs where he could remember her slick and swollen, and the mass of red hair falling over her shoulders like fire.
His erection turned to iron.
Why is she here? Who brought her to my rooms when I told them not to?
The puzzling questions drifted in and then out of his brain, but he couldn’t grab hold of them, didn’t care any more about the answers, the wave of need and desire and longing so swift and unforgiving it propelled him across the room towards her.
She was his. And he wanted her. And he didn’t care any more about the consequences. He’d done his best, but he would go mad now if he didn’t have her.
He touched her hair as he climbed onto the bed, felt the soft silky strands curl around his questing fingers, then tugged her closer. He cradled her face, tilted her head so he could drown in those fathomless eyes—now dazed with need. He pressed the painful erection into the soft swell of her belly and brought her mouth to his.
‘Orla,’ he whispered across her lips. ‘I need you so damn much. Tell me you need me too.’
It was more demand than question, but he waited—the anticipation building like a volcano—as her wide eyes filled with desire.
‘Yes,’ she whispered.
It was all the answer he needed as his mouth swooped down to claim hers, and his hands fisted in the misty garment.
He ripped it off her body, the sound of rending fabric joined by the shattered pants of their breathing.
He cradled her breasts, rejoiced in the heavy weight. He rubbed his thumbs across the rigid nipples, the hunger pounding through his veins as he felt them pebble and swell under his touch. He shook violently, determined to savour rather than devour the fragrant flesh he had waited so long to own. He thrust his tongue into her mouth—in deep, demanding strokes—as he cupped her sex at last, trailed his finger through the wet curls and found the proud nub of her clitoris.
She jolted, panting in broken sobs, as her body danced to his touch. Her back bowed, instinctively offering him her breasts.
