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“Well?” The word was loud. She startled her eyes open and stepped backwards. He was right beside her, and when she moved, he moved with her. She reared her back against the wall. Which was foolish, in hindsight, because it enabled him to trap his hands on either side of her head, holding her captive with his body.
A body she wanted with all of her being.
“I came here because I’ve missed you.”
“And it took you five years to realise that?” She dropped her jaw in disbelief. “You’re out of your mind. I’m not going to just … to just … to sleep with you!”
Her cheeks flushed with colour and speculation flared in his gut. With colour in her face, there was a hint of his Sarah once more.
“You must be crazy. Or desperate.”
His laugh was a sharp retort. “Neither, believe me.”
It was like being punched in the stomach. Of course he wasn’t desperate. While Sarah had found herself in a life of celibacy, Syed Al’Eba had probably been having his every need and urge seen to by a bevy of beautiful women. A harem, even.
She groaned and squeezed her eyes shut. “You can’t be here.”
“I am here.” He whispered the words at the same time he brought his body closer, so that it pressed hard against her.
Need, so strong, so fierce, that it sucked all the breath out of her body, weakened her at the knees.
“I am here,” he said again, this time whispering the words right into her ear, so that his breath tickled her and warmed her.
Her skin dimpled with goose bumps and her mind fogged.
“And I want you.”
I want you. Words they’d said to one a
nother freely in the past. It was only after he’d left that she realised he’d never said, I love you. Not like she had. She had been liberal in telling him how she felt because she’d known he felt the same. Or she’d believed he had.
“Tough.” It was a word of defiance weakened by dishonesty.
The challenge was like a matador’s red flag to Syed’s bullish desire. He lifted a finger and stroked it down her cheek, watching her intently. He dragged it across her lips. They were the same, too. Full and pouted. Lower, lower, over her jutted chin, to the sensitive flesh that ran the side of her neck, to the pulse that was hammering wildly at its base, and then, he pushed his hips forward, leaving her in little doubt as to his state of arousal.
Her eyes flew open, piercing him with her swirling confusion. A confusion he understood but didn’t care to indulge. Confusion was good. Confusion showed that she was wavering.
He dropped his dark head, his lips seeking the pulse point at her décolletage as his hands slid beneath her sweater, rising over her flat stomach up to her small breasts. He cupped them, surprised that they were heavier than they looked, more pleasingly full. Had she nursed the little child? Had her breasts swelled with milk? His fingers brushed her nipples and she moaned, a sound that was so like he remembered that pleasure tore through him.
Pleasure and need.
“Stop,” she whimpered, and he did, immediately lifting his head and dropping his hands, his eyes seeking hers. He hadn’t expected that.
And nor had she. Despair saturated her features. “Don’t stop.” Shame made her drop her eyes. He laughed then, a soft sound of understanding.
She needed him.
It was still there.
His relief was palpable.
Almost as acute as Sarah’s embarrassment. “I hate you,” she whispered throatily, the words suspiciously tinged by tears.
“Do you?”
She moaned as his fingers found her breasts again, thumbing across her taut, over-sensitised nipples.
“I hate you,” she whispered, tilting her head back so that he could return his lips to her flesh, teasing her as she’d always loved.
