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“So let us make the most of this, then,” he muttered softly, bringing his lips to the soft flesh at the base of her throat. His breath fanned her pulse point there and she whimpered beneath him. It was a sound of pleasure, and ever so slightly of heartbreak.
Despite her request, he did just as he’d said, tormenting her until she was almost at breaking point. Bringing her to the brink of pure white-hot pleasure before allowing sanity to seep back in, then stirring her back up anew. She was desperate for him, desperate to feel him within her, so that when he finally entered her with one hard, single thrust, she cried out and then fell apart, her body wracked with pleasure, her breasts thrust upwards as she arched her back, her fingers digging into his back, her legs wrapped around his waist.
He held her as she climaxed, he whispered ancient words in her ear, as he had the first time they made love. The same words, she recognized, but still had no idea what they meant. And once her convulsions had subsided, he drove himself into her again and again, hard, then slowly, his eyes watching her face, his body answering every silent need of hers, and hers of his. It was an ancient dance that seemed to change every time they came together and yet they both knew the steps, they both enacted it perfectly.
He drove her body back to fever pitch and then, as she tumbled off the edge of the cliff he’d brought her to, he chased after, releasing himself with a hoarse cry into the cool desert air.
Passion was heavy around them, and Chloe was inexplicably exhausted, her eyes heavy, her body languid. He was inside of her and yet she felt the weight of exhaustion pressing down on her chest. He reached for her hand, holding it to his, palm to palm, so that his long, tanned fingers eclipsed hers by at least a knuckle.
“You are so small,” he said, with almost a hint of wonderment in the words.
She pulled a face. “No. You’re just big.”
A sardonic smile curved his lips, and his eyes skimmed her face, from her hair, to her eyes, to her lips, and then back to her eyes, where they dwelled for several, silent moments. “I remember the first time I saw you,” he said, so quietly she almost didn’t hear.
“At my father’s funeral,” she agreed. She remembered too; how could she forget? They’d agreed to marry, and he arrived, bigger and more everything than anyone she’d ever met. Their eyes had met and her whole body had zinged with a current of recognition.
“That was the second time.”
A frown formed on Chloe’s brow. “What do you mean? I think I’d remember if I’d met you before.”
“You were only a child. Nine or ten. I’d come to the palace to meet with the ministry and you were in the pomegranate courtyard.”
“I loved it there,” she said with a nod. “I still do. But I don’t remember meeting you.”
“We didn’t speak. I simply watched you play from a distance. You were in your own world, and your hair was out, long and blonde. You looked like a fairy.”
Chloe’s heart thumped hard in her chest. “I probably looked a mess.”
“I don’t remember the mess,” he said with a shake of his head. “I remember the hair.” And he reached out, catching a lock of blonde between his fingertips, staring at it, transfixed, before he found her hand again, measuring their palms once more. “You were beautiful and tiny – and now you’re still both of those things.” When he swallowed, his Adam’s apple moved visibly in his throat. “How do I make sure I don’t break you?”
She blinked her eyes, and tried to find words that would serve as a response – and she couldn’t.
He cupped her cheek and then pulled away from her.
“You’re tired. Sleep,” he said, lifting her and rearranging her in the bed, so that her head was on the pillows. He covered her with the blankets and the last thing she was conscious of was him standing over her, watching her. Arms crossed over his chest, his face wearing an expression she couldn’t comprehend.
Until he spoke and finally she understood that triumph was the emotion blazing in his dark eyes. “This month we will succeed, habibte.”
Chapter Eight
AS THE MONTH WORE on, Chloe couldn’t ignore her growing sense of excitement. She often found herself staring into space, imagining their baby, counting down the days until she would know if this would be the month that would mark the beginning of their parenthood journey.
It was strange to think of how she’d resisted the idea, at first. How she’d wanted to maintain the status quo, to keep a distance from Raffa in every way: emotionally, mentally, sexually and physically. How she’d thought she could ignore her husband and be happy – how she’d ever thought she was happy without him – and this – in her life.
She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, her breathing still rushed, sweat beading on her brow. Beside her, Raffa was in the same pose; but not for long. Chloe knew he would stand soon. That he would leave her again.
She was used to it, and yet it was becoming harder and harder for her to maintain an air of nonchalance in the face of his speedy departure. Sure enough, as she tilted her head to face him, he pushed up from the bed, spectacular for his nakedness, broad and big and built like a god of strength. Her mouth went dry as he strolled across the room, every muscle beneath his dark skin rippling in a way that made her insides quiver.
How could she want him again already?
His arousal showed that she wasn’t alone. Would this desire between them ever abate?
She thought of calling to him, of asking him to stay, but hard-fought pride, and a fear of rejection, kept her silent. They were this. Intimate in bed, for a few hours a night – not beyond.
And it was always on his terms.
That realization brought a frown to her face, because it was true. Without Chloe’s comprehension nor approval, at some point, she’d simply started to wait for him. Each evening, she’d shower and dress in something simple, and easy to remove, and she would read, but always her eyes were trained on the door, her ears listening for the hint of footsteps beyond.
