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“You’re going?”
His smile was just a quick flick of his lips and didn’t reach his eyes. “I will come back tomorrow night,” he promised, closing the distance between them.
Infuriatingly, tears cloyed in Chloe’s throat and it took all of her self-possession to look as she always did – as emotionally detached as she had mastered a long time ago.
“Fine,” she said with a curt nod.
He pressed a finger beneath her chin, lifting her face towards his. “You’re okay?”
“Fine,” she repeated, wondering at how far she felt from that emotion. She would analyse it later, examine why her chest was burning – and not with passion but with the pain of breathing, suddenly
“Good.” He nodded, and it seemed as though he wanted to say something, but then, he pressed a chaste kiss to her cheek and walked away.
Raffa’s eyes strayed to his watch for the tenth time in as many minutes. The meeting had been intended to last only a short while, but an hour and a half after taking his seat at the table in his conference rooms, the conversation showed little signs of abating.
He listened impassively, allowing his government ministers to talk out the issue of the new highway, how far it would stretch, how they could avoid interfering with the cultural rights of the ancient Bedouin tribes who still inhabited more than forty percent of the country’s deserts.
Deserts. Sand. Tents. Chloe. Naked, beneath the night sky, lying on one of the colourful blankets that surrounded his camps, no servants, nothing but her, him and all the time in the world to explore one another. Beneath the table, his arousal strained hard and he was grateful for the loose-fitting nature of his traditional robes.
She had given herself to him so freely, as abandoned to the wildness of their desire as he. She had been perfect in his arms, perfect as she’d touched him so gently, shyly, her huge eyes hooked to his as her fingertips had traced circles over his skin.
He’d woken that morning in his own bed, alone, and when he’d surveyed himself in the mirror, there’d been tracks down his back, arms and chest. Marks of her passion and proof of the fever that had raged in her blood.
Impatience gnawed through him. He wanted to be with her again already. He needed her. What kind of animal did that make him? She was his wife. There was more to her than her body, her beautiful, willing body. Not only was she his wife, she was a decade his junior, and inexperienced.
He knew he had to give her an opportunity to take stock of what had happened, but Raffa’s own desires were flaring inside of him. He wanted her again, then, that morning, all the time. He wanted to slake his needs with her until he was done, until this burst of sexual obsession had dimmed. And it would dim, because it always did. But for now?
Chloe was a drug and he had no clue how to control his dependence.
He looked at his watch, frowning. Had time stood still?
“Enough.” He stood, scraping back his chair loudly, drawing all eyes to him. “This matter should have been resolved already. Sort it out, bring me a viable, economical solution.”
Kalim rose and fell into step behind Raffa, walking from the room with him.
“You’re distracted.”
“Yes.” He looked towards his friend.
“Anything I can help with?”
Raffa frowned. There was only one thing that would calm the fire in his blood, and he had told her he would go to her that night. Not in the middle of the afternoon. Theirs was an arranged marriage, and now, they were trying to fall pregnant because the country needed an heir.
This was not a love match – far from it.
It wasn’t a passion-filled, tempestuous affair that required indulgence in the middle of the day. He came to a stop near a large bay window that overlooked the desert. It glistened in the heat of the sun, glowing like Chloe’s hair had against the pillows of her bed.
A muscle jerked in his cheek as he forced restraint on his libido. He needed to stick to his routine, to remember that Chloe was simply the bride his father had chosen, with whom he had little in common. Sex was one thing – he would indulge his needs, knowing it was for the greater good – the country needed an heir, they wanted a child. But it was just sex – a simple biological urge; nothing more.
He needed a distraction. “Ride out with me,” he murmured to Kalim, his eyes trained on the far dunes. The further he was from the palace, the easier it would be to resist temptation.
Chloe was reading the newspaper when he strode into her suite, later that evening. She’d been mid-way through a fascinating opinion piece about the rising costs of living in the city when Raffa swept in, straight from the desert, his dark eyes glittering. His hair was in its bun, but messy around the face, and he wore flowing pants and a loose kaftan – both cream in colour, showing off the rich tan of his skin.
Her breath caught in her throat as, without speaking, he crossed the room and pulled her from the chair, lifting her against him and crushing her lips with his. She could feel the power of his arousal through his clothes and hers and a desperate heat exploded in her gut.
He was warm, warmer than usual, as though he’d been running or something, and he tasted of salt and sand and magical desert creatures. He perched her on the edge of the table and without breaking his kiss, pushed at the buttons of her dress until, with a guttural sound of impatience, he pulled hard enough to simply break the fine row of beading down the centre, splitting it open and revealing her breasts to him.
He groaned as he dipped his head forward and kissed her roughly, his beard scratching her flesh. She tilted her head back to give him better access, and her hands, of their own accord, went to his kaftan, lifting it so she could slide her fingertips into the waistband of his pants.
