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He was aware of how silly this all was. Falling in love, this hard and this fast, just wasn’t realistic. This couldn’t be real. And yet, her body was warm against his, and the look in her eyes as they walked on the sand together, letting the warm water kiss their feet, was open and calm.
“It could work,” she said, absently, after a while. So she’d been thinking the same things, too.
“Could it?” he asked. “If I lose my trust fund, it’s going to get a whole lot harder to fly back here.”
“Why would you lose your trust fund?” she began, but then she cut herself off and just shook her head. “The king seems like such a nice guy on the news,” she said.
“He’s as nice as any other man with nearly-unlimited wealth could be,” Bashir said. “And he’s not inclined to forgive the fact that I’ve spurned all of the ‘suitable matches’ he’s found for me over the past few years—and if I bring you home—”
“I don’t want to be a source of contention between you and your father,” she said, quickly.
“You would have been a source of contention anyway,” he said. “Because I chose you, not him. You could literally fulfill all of the criteria for the perfect wife and he would still hate you because I picked you, not him.”
“Parents are so weird like that,” she said.
“They are,” he agreed. “It’s like, they raised us, but they don’t know who we are or what makes us happy.”
“So what makes you happy, o Prince?” she asked, teasingly.
He had to stop and think about that—it’d never occurred to him to ask himself that question before. “You know, I don’t know,” he said, stunned. “I like my thesis and I like doing the research and I like living in England, but there’s no burning need to do that, no ‘If I can’t do that then I’ll die’ sensation. Is that what happiness is? Do you know what makes you happy?” he asked.
“I always figured that I’d know it when I find it,” she said, squeezing his hand. “And I’m pretty sure I’m right.”
He turned to face her, fighting down an urge to kiss her out of gratitude-someone who understood him, who knew what it was like to have to face these kinds of pressures. That wouldn’t be proper—it’s just a first date—
She leaned up and kissed him.
Her kiss was soft, sensual, leaving a lingering warmth when she stopped. He didn’t want it to stop—he went after her with his mouth, wanting to taste more of that delicate softness, to feel her warmth against the cool of the night breeze. Her lips tasted of honey and wine, sweet, intoxicating—the skin on her face was soft and dewy, like velvet, and her breath was a sweet warmth against his lips.
“No,” he said, hoarsely. “It’s not proper.”
“Screw proper,” she murmured. “Do you want this or not?”
Her arms wrapped around his chest and she pressed herself against him. Their bodies pressed against each other, hot with desire. “I want you,” he said, hoarsely. “I just don’t think—”
“Then stop,” she whispered. “Stop thinking. We have so little time together. If we start thinking about what we’re doing we’ll never get around to doing it.”
“I don’t know if I even like you—”
“What do you feel?” she asked.
That was when he knew for sure: he felt her passion rise through him, and it felt like he unleashed a flood of need: a need to be free, a need to love her and taste her and kiss her and touch her and know her the way he’d never thought a woman could be known. The desire did not feel like sacrilege—it felt like getting to understand the mind and word of the divine, as if just knowing that he felt this desire brought him one step closer to understanding God.
Her body was soft against his, her skin creamy and smooth under his hands. He felt tendrils of her hair coiling against his cheek—she’d taken off her headscarf, and her hair was floating freely in the sea breeze, tantalizing and seductive. The waves kissed their feet, washing the sand out from under their feet, anchoring them in the desert, under the stars, while his mind floated, reveling in the abandon with which they were touching each other, now—how free, how incredible.
It was a gift. Seeing the smooth skin of her shoulders as she slipped through the jeweled collar of her dress was like unwrapping something that was made of pure goodness and light. In the light of the moon her body was exquisite, not just because she was willing, but because she was beauty—and he understood now, as he watched her delicate fingers tug at the buttons on his shirt, that beauty was not just about the proportion of her breasts to her waist, but about giving him the gift of her body, allowing him to indulge his senses in the smell of her. There was, underneath the scent of her perfume, a sweet clean smell—a delicious smell, one that stoked a fiery warmth in him that he’d never felt before.
This is what it is like to love someone.
The sand was still warm as they lay down on it, their hands exploring each other’s bodies, pressing on the skin, feeling the slight pulse that thumped underneath, feeling the rhythm trip and skip with excitement as they gulped for air and each other. Her legs were as smooth as silk, and the erotic promises they whispered as they coiled around his sent shivers of excitement through his body. Her eyes, deep pools of inky darkness in the moonlight, drew him in—he felt as if he was falling, and his body was acting of its own accord when he took her, and how exquisitely soft and warm she was.
He was falling, he could feel it now. He was falling and she was the promise of safety. In that secret smile of hers, he was lost—adrift in a sensation of wonder and marvel that a woman like her could make him feel this good.
They moved together, their bodies slowly grinding against the sand in time with the waves lapping the beach. He could feel her writhing under his body, wave-like, in time with the pulses of pleasure surging through him. They were one, their bodies in perfect synchrony, each one knowing what the other was doing, and as he looked into her eyes he felt as if he were looking into a mirror of himself—as if she were the reflection of his passions, brought to life.
The sensation that he was falling intensified. He was faintly aware that they were moving faster, now—but mostly he was aware that her breathing had changed, the subtle pulses he could feel through her body had quickened, and her fingers were digging into the flesh on his back and sides. He felt a desperation, a need—the pressure that he hadn’t been aware of was suddenly overwhelming, and he needed to let it go. He had to let it out—he needed a release more than he needed air. She felt it, too. He could see it in her eyes, feel it in the urgency that she was twisting against him with.
He felt her body close against him, suddenly, and in response he went in deeper. He wasn’t finished yet—didn’t she know that? Didn’t she know how much he needed her? Didn’t she know—
