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It was all there—the laughing dare in his raised brows as he surveyed her from his slight height advantage, the stubborn tilt of his mouth, the casual, laid-back attitude in his tall frame. That she could not move him. That she could have no effect on him. Not anymore. That this agreement between them couldn’t be anything but a mutually beneficial drama being played out just to distract an avid audience.
That there wasn’t even a hint of anything real between them. Not anymore.
It was an eminently sensible attitude Zara should be embracing, too, and yet something in her rebelled against it.
In four-inch heels, she found her mouth was perfectly placed just below his. Holding his eyes, she clasped his jaw, tilted her head and pressed her mouth to his. This close, she could see the shadows cast by the sweep of his lashes, the sharp highs and hollows of his cheekbones, the small scar at the edge of his mouth.
He tasted of rum and cigars and something so inherently male and irresistible that her knees wobbled beneath her. With a soft groan that she couldn’t let out or swallow, Zara increased the pressure of her mouth, needing more contact, more friction, more everything.
She’d forgotten how soft his lips were. How his ever-present stubble created a delicious contrast against the sensitive skin of her jaw. How solidly built he was. How good he tasted. How much she’d adored having him to herself like this.
The gorgeous rebel Virat Raawal that every girl in the country was gaga over. The man who refused to follow in his legendary brother and father’s footsteps and take up acting but chose to remain a mystery behind the camera instead.
A sudden furor swelled in her breast, an urgency taking root in her veins as Zara thought of all the ways she had had him and then lost him. This chaste press of her lips she allowed herself wasn’t enough. It brought back all the longing she’d suppressed for this man. All the pain of walking away from him. All the ache of a decade as she’d watched him rise up through the industry and chase woman after woman while he didn’t even acknowledge her existence. While he looked through her, past her at award ceremonies and charity events, as if he hadn’t known her more intimately than any other man in the world.
God, she had wanted this kiss for ten years, she’d wanted it from the moment she had walked away from him, and she was so tired of waiting. Tired of being careful with her feelings. Tired of locking herself up in a cage she had built for herself. She kissed him more urgently then, as if she had to get all of this need and longing out of her. And into him.
But not even his breathing changed.
His nostrils flared but he stood there like a motionless giant, his hands dangling at his sides. Unmoved and mocking. As if she was nothing but one more woman in his impressive lineup. As if she couldn’t make a dent in that damned self-possession of his. And Zara had enough.
Her hands crawled over his shoulders to the nape of his neck and demanded he bend. When he didn’t, she pressed her face to his throat and let her tongue play with his pulse hammering away there.
She dragged her teeth softly against the hollow of his throat. Trailing soft kisses up and down the line of his jaw, she breathed him in. She licked the small scar on the side of his lip. Scraping her nails into his scalp, she pulled him closer until her breasts touched his chest. And then when Zara went for his mouth again, she knew she’d finally smashed through that steely control of his. He wasn’t happy to be a silent spectator anymore. A faint energy vibrated underneath his stillness now, giving her a jolt of her own power.
His fingers sank into her hair, his other hand sweeping around her waist to pull her closer. Zara thrilled at the intimate contact with his hard body. Every muscle in her was singing, every nerve vibrating with need.
“I know what you should call me instead of princess,” she murmured, holding his gaze, knowing she was setting the tone for the rest of their arrangement, however long it played out. Knowing that while it was okay to want Virat again like this, with an all-consuming need, she could never let him see how much it scared her, how much power he could still have over her given half the chance. She could never let him realize how much she still cared about his opinion. About him.
She’d worked hard and made enough sacrifices to be where she was today. If there was one thing she’d learned from surviving this industry for a decade, it was that she had to own her success, her choices. She couldn’t show vulnerability, regrets, doubts to anyone.
Not to this man, of all people, who knew exactly where and how she had gotten started.
“What?” he said, after a slow blink. A soft word. Desire was a glimmering truth in his eyes and she realized he’d needed a moment to understand what she’d said.
She smiled. She didn’t care why she was kissing him now. Or why he was kissing her back. She just wanted. More of him and more of his kisses. “Queen. After all, I built my own kingdom.”
His laughter reverberated through her own body, leaving echoes. “Now that I won’t disagree with, Zara.” He pushed at a strand of her hair, his thumb drawing a barely there line on her jaw. Her skin, her entire being shimmered with anticipation and want. Because through all this, Zara knew he hadn’t fully unleashed his own desire. He’d let her get to him, yes, but not tipped over. Not yet. “So should I test if I can make the Queen quake and tremble in my arms? Should I see if there’s anything left of that sweet woman I knew a long time ago?”
“That woman was so afraid, Virat. Of everyone and her own dreams. This is me now—full of thorns and ice. A woman who sees a problem and wrangles the notorious playboy of Bollywood into behaving.”
His smile wasn’t mocking anymore. Those perceptive eyes studied her with a hunger she wanted to revel in. “And you can take everything I want to give? Because I have the most disreputable urge to mess you up,shahzadi.”
“Do your worst, Virat,” Zara said, her heart thudding so loudly that she couldn’t hear anything else.
And then his mouth came for hers. He stole her breath and the ground under her feet with the soft, almost gentle press of his lips. This was no possession, as she’d expected. No rough passion that she so wanted. This kiss was charged with curiosity, exploration, almost as if he was willing himself to find something had changed. To find her changed. This kiss was nothing but pure tasting.
The rough bristle of his beard scraped sensuously against her lips and Zara gasped into his mouth. With her body pressed against his from chest to thigh, he was a fortress of heat and desire, touching small sparks in every limb and muscle.
Zara would have shouted her victory if he so much as allowed her another breath. Her heart raced deafeningly in her ears as his kiss turned from gentle exploration to pure possession at her unguarded response.
He kissed and nipped and licked her lips in a frenzy of hunger that would have turned her into a molten puddle if he wasn’t holding her up. The table dug into her back but the ache of it contrasted sweetly against the hum of pleasure he evoked. His hands roved restlessly over her body, never landing in one spot, making her mindless with desire.
She pulled at his hair, and he bit her lower lip. When she moaned, he soothed her hurt with a swipe of his tongue. He tasted the warm cavern of her mouth as if he had to quench his thirst again and again.
Restless need slithered under Zara’s skin, the rasp of her bra an imposition against her taut nipples. But his hands on her waist controlled her movement, never letting their lower bodies touch. She didn’t know how long they kissed like that. She didn’t care if it lasted an eternity or just a moment. She lost herself in his hunger. She celebrated herself in his need.
And then, slowly he called a halt to it.
