Their Impossible Desert Match (Mills & Boon Modern)

by Clare Connelly

  She crumpled against him; his arms, his mouth, were holding her body in place. He felt her stiffen then, and begin to shake; she was exploding, gripping him hard as her body was racked with an intense, blinding release. He didn’t relinquish his touch; he held her close, the squeezing of her muscles against his fingers eliciting an answering response from him.

  He needed her; there was nothing else for it. Before her breath could calm he let her go, moving his hands to her hips instead, holding her steady as he knelt in front of her. His teeth caught the elastic of her underpants, pulling them loose and lower, low enough for her to step out of, and then he kissed her feminine core, his tongue flicking her until she was crying again, moaning, and, for lack of a name, she could only say ‘please’, again, and again, and again.

  He smiled against her. Yes, he’d give her what she wanted—and what he wanted—and he’d do it soon. He stood, scooping her up and kissing her lips, unspeakably aroused by the idea that she might taste herself in his kiss, carrying her to a soft patch of grass to the right of the fountain. He laid her down, then took a moment to simply marvel at the view she made. Her body was curvy and slim all at once, her hair dark and tumbled around her shoulders, her mask adding an element of mystery and allure—not that she needed it.

  This woman was the definition of alluring—distracting and perfect. What other explanation could there be for the instant attraction he’d felt for her? It was as though the very heavens had demanded this of him—of them. This was so out of character and yet it didn’t feel wrong.

  He brought his body over hers, feeling her softness beneath the hard planes of his frame, his mouth seeking to reassure her with kisses as his knee parted her legs, making way for him. He hovered at her entrance, the moment one he wanted to frame in time, caught like one of the butterflies he’d chased as a child and occasionally held in the palms of his hand for a precious instant before releasing it back into the forest. He caught her wrists in his, pinning them above her head, holding her still, and as he pushed up to watch her face as he entered her, he committed every instant of their coming together to his memory. Her eyes widened before sweeping shut as her lips parted on a husky moan, her hips lifting instinctively to welcome him to her body.

  She was so tight, her muscles squeezing him almost painfully, so he moved more slowly than his instincts wanted, taking her bit by bit until he was buried inside then pausing, allowing her to grow used to this feeling before he moved, pulling back a little then driving forward, his hips moving slowly and then, as her cries grew more fervent, taking her harder, faster. His grip on her wrists loosened, his fingers moving instead to entwine with hers, squeezing her hands before releasing her so she wrapped her arms around his back, her nails scoring his flesh with each thrust. Her cries grew louder and her muscles tightened then fell into spasm and he felt the moment she lost her grip on reality and tumbled off the side of the world in an intense orgasm. She writhed beneath him and a moment later he joined her in that ecstasy, allowing his body the total surrender to hers and this moment, releasing himself to her with a hoarse cry that filled the heart of this maze with their pleasure.

  She should have felt regret but she couldn’t. She watched as he dressed, covering his body with the black robes—a body that she had somehow committed to memory. It was a honed frame, all muscle and strength, and on his left pectoral muscle, he had words tattooed in Latin in a cursive font: amor fati. His back bore signs of her passion all over it. Her fingernails had marked his smooth, bronzed skin, leaving a maze of their own in bright red lines, frantic and energised. A smile played about her lips, her body still naked beneath the glorious night sky, the sound of the water fountain adding an air of magic to what they’d just done. Or perhaps it wasn’t the fountain, it was just the act.

  Pleasure exploded through her. Relief. As though what she’d done was a connection to her true self, a timely reminder that she was an autonomous being, not controlled by this kingdom and her brother, by the expectations upon her. And it was more than that—it was as though the heavens themselves had conspired to bring them together. It had all happened so quickly, so completely, his possession of her so absolute. She’d only been with one other man before, Matthew, and she’d thought herself to be in love with him. She’d presumed that was a prerequisite to enjoying sex.

  Enjoying sex!

  What a bland way to express what she’d just felt! Her soul had changed orientation. North was now south, the world had altered shape, everything was different. She hadn’t known what her body was capable of until a master such as this man had taught her how to truly feel. Wonderment filled her.

  She knew only one regret then—that this wasn’t the beginning of something more. It was impossible to hope for that. She wasn’t utterly deluded as to her position in the royal family to think she could shun her obligations so completely and pursue a sexual fling with some random man—even one of obvious wealth and importance.

  A sigh left her lips; she reached for a blade of grass, the dew on its tip delicate and glistening in the moonlight. The man turned to face her, and she smiled at him as though it were the most natural thing in the world. He smiled back; there were no barriers between them.

  ‘Let me help you.’ His voice was deep and husky, tinged with a slight accent. She couldn’t quite pick it. She’d presumed he was from Taquul but perhaps he was from a neighbouring state, here to mark the new peace in the region.

  Her brain was beginning to work again, after the fog of desire had made thinking impossible. He reached for her underwear, holding it out to her, the smile still on his face so something shifted in the pit of her stomach. He was so handsome, but it was more than that. She’d met plenty of handsome men before, and never felt like this. Powerful men, too. Handsome, strong, wealthy, sophisticated. After Matthew, she’d been difficult to impress. Once bitten, twice shy had become somewhat of a mantra for Johara without her realising it.

  Perhaps it came down to the fact she knew nothing about him—he hadn’t lied to her, he couldn’t have, because they hadn’t spoken. They’d let their bodies and mutual desire do all the communicating. Pleasure had been paramount.

  Her nipples tingled as she slipped the bra into place, and he expelled a harsh breath as her underpants covered her femininity, so she knew he too regretted the necessity of ending this. Beyond the walls of this maze a party raged, a party at which she was expected to stand at her brother’s side. Soon, the masks would come off, for the members of royal family at least, so that they could stand before the Sheikh of Ishkana as their true selves, and see his true self, pledging a better future for their two countries. And just for a moment, a blade of something like worry punctured the perfection of this moment. She pushed it away; she couldn’t let it ruin this wonderful thing she’d just done.

  Yet she had always hated everything the Haddad family was—that hate had been taught to her from a young age and even now, as a twenty-five-year-old woman, when she could acknowledge it was an ancient prejudice she’d been brought up to bear, she couldn’t free herself from those feelings.

  The idea of standing beside Malik and pretending she welcomed the Sheikh of Ishkana filled her with abhorrence. But she must do it. This encounter had been her act of rebellion, a last, secret giving-in to her own needs. Now she must be what her country needed.

  ‘This dress is unlike anything I’ve ever seen.’ He ran his fingers over it then held it open for her to step into. She moved closer, lifting one foot and placing it in the middle of the dress, putting a hand on his shoulder to steady herself. She’d marked him there too; little fingernail crescents were woven over his skin like a pattern that told of her impatience and need. She stroked the marks absent-mindedly as she moved her other foot into the dress.

  ‘It’s made of spider silk.’

  The jerk of his head towards hers showed surprise.

  ‘It was my mother’s,’ she added. ‘Made a long tim
e ago, and over the course of many years. A tribe to the west spent a long time harvesting the silk of spiders and spinning it using a special loom.’ She ran her hands over it then turned, so he could fasten the buttons at the back. ‘It’s virtually unbreakable. It’s supposed to signify strength and courage.’

  His hands stilled a little at the small of her back before continuing with her buttons. ‘Do you need these things?’

  She thought of what was ahead and nodded. ‘We all do, don’t we?’

  He reached the top button and pressed it into place, then let his hands move over her shoulders without answering. She turned to face him, looked up into his face and smiled.

  ‘Thank you.’ It was a strange thing to say but she felt gratitude. They’d never see each other again but what they’d just done had been incredibly important to her.

  He dipped his head in silent concession. ‘I have to go back.’

  Her brow furrowed behind her mask as she looked to the entrance of the heart of the maze. ‘Me too.’

  He took her hand in his. ‘Lead the way, inti qamar.’

  My moon. She smiled at the casual term of endearment, pushing through the maze effortlessly.

  ‘You know the way well.’

  ‘Yes.’ She could have elaborated on that. She could have said that she used to come here to hide as a child, that the maze was hers alone. The gardeners who tended it had brought her treats for the days when she would come with a book and lie on the grass for hours on end. Not the kind of food that was served in the palace, all perfect and delicate and with the expectation that she sit with her back ramrod straight and make polite conversation with the children her parents had deemed suitable companions. No, here in the maze she’d feasted on food from beyond the palace walls, street food and market delicacies that the gardeners had brought in for her. Sticky pastries, figs that were sun-dried and exploding with flavour, spiced meatballs, marinated cheese, rice stuffed into vegetables and packed with spices. It was messy and organic, each mouthful a tribute to life and goodness. She could have told him that in this maze she’d spent some of her happiest times—and that tonight had simply added to that.

  But instead, she simply nodded, already feeling as though the woman who’d just done such a daring and spontaneous thing was disappearing, being pushed deep inside Johara. The closer they moved to the start of the maze, the more she was reminded of the life that was ahead of her.

  Rebellion aside, she couldn’t keep hiding in mazes for ever. She was a princess of Taquul and that brought with it obligations and expectations. She would do as her brother said. She would stand at his side tonight and welcome the peace accord and then, if he insisted on it, she would consider the marriage to Paris, even though the idea turned her blood to ice.

  At the entrance to the maze, she paused, pulling her hand from his and rubbing her fingers together.

  ‘You go ahead of me,’ she said, simply. ‘It’s not worth the trouble of being seen coming out of the maze together.’

  He seemed to consider that a moment and then nodded. She had no idea what else she could say.

  ‘If things were different,’ he murmured, lifting a hand to her chin, holding her steady beneath him, ‘I would have liked to see you again.’

  Her answering smile was lopsided with wistfulness. ‘If things were different,’ she agreed, ‘I would have liked that too.’

  Neither said what their commitments were and why it wasn’t possible. They didn’t need to.

  ‘Goodnight.’ He bowed his head low in a mark of deference and respect, something she was used to, so for a moment she wondered if perhaps he’d guessed at her identity. But, no. He was simply showing her what their assignation had meant to him; how he viewed her. Her heart felt as though it had exploded to three times its size. She kept a polite smile in place, used to maintaining an expression of polite calm when she felt anything but.

  ‘Goodnight...sir.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘GOODNIGHT, SIR.’

  Her words hummed through his brain, flooding him with memories. His body felt as though it was infused with a special kind of energy. He emerged from the maze, stalking past the pool, deliberately evading anyone who might try to catch his eye. At the entrance to the ballroom though, he could no longer ignore his reason for coming to this place he’d always despised.

  Ahmed, his long-time servant, stepped from the shadows. ‘Your Highness.’ He bowed low, and Amir stilled, pushing aside thoughts of the beautiful woman and what they’d just shared. The entire encounter had been like a dream and already the threads of it were drifting away, impossible to catch.

  ‘It’s time.’

  Amir nodded once, scanning the ballroom. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In the stateroom.’

  Amir’s eyes narrowed with determination. ‘Take me there.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Amir paused as her words filled his brain once more. He walked beside his servant, using every ounce of willpower not to look over his shoulder to see the woman return to the ballroom. He wouldn’t look for her again; he couldn’t.

  At the doors to the stateroom, Ahmed said something low and quiet to one of the guards. Both bowed low then opened the doors inwards.

  There were only three men in the room, though the space was opulent and large enough to house two hundred easily. Marble, like the ballroom, with pillars to the vaulted ceilings, and tapestries on the walls—burgundy and gold with threads of navy blue to add detail.

  Amir strode through the room as though he belonged. These men had removed their masks; he identified Malik Qadir easily enough.

  ‘Your Majesty.’ Malik silenced the other two with the address, extending a hand to Amir’s. Amir hesitated a moment, his veins pounding with hatred and enmity. Only a love for his kingdom had him lifting up to remove his own mask before taking the outstretched hand and meeting Malik’s eyes.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ he returned. But it felt like a betrayal of everything he knew in the world; he felt as though he was defacing the memory of his parents by treating this man—the nephew of his parents’ murderer!—with such civility. He had always sworn to hate this family, and that included the Sheikh and Princess of Taquul.

  ‘My chief aide, Tariq.’ Malik indicated the man to his left. Amir nodded and introduced Ahmed with the same title.

  ‘And Paris—my friend, and the man my sister is to marry.’

  Amir nodded. He didn’t say that it was a pleasure. He was honest to a fault and always had been. But he forced his lips into something approximating a smile. ‘Let’s get this over with, then.’

  Malik’s eyes glittered, showing a matching sense of antipathy. They were both putting aside their personal hatred for the sake of their kingdoms. For peace and prosperity and in the hope that more senseless deaths could be avoided.

  ‘One moment,’ Malik murmured, turning to Tariq and speaking low and soft. They shared the same language but he swapped to an ancient dialect that Amir only passingly understood.

  A moment later, Malik looked at Amir. ‘My sister is expected.’

  Paris’s smile was indulgent. ‘She is often late.’

  It was clear from Malik’s expression that he disapproved of that quality. It was a sentiment Amir shared. Punctuality was not difficult to master and was, at its base, a sign of respect.

  ‘Would you care for some wine?’ Malik gestured to the wall, where a tray had been placed with several drinks.

  Amir shook his head.

  ‘Then we shall simply wait.’

  The silence was tense. It was not natural. To be in the depths of this palace, surrounded by men who a year ago might have wished him dead? Hell, who probably still did. The peace talks had been ongoing, difficult and driven by emotion on both sides. It had taken Amir and Malik’s intervention with their aides to achieve what they had.

 
And now, there was simply this. To stand in front of the assembled guests and speak to the importance of what they hoped to achieve, the ancient bonds that had, at one time, held these countries together. The mountain ranges separated them but that had, generations ago, been a passage alive with trade. The cooler climates there had created villages full of people from both countries. Only in recent times had the mountain range come to serve as a barrier.

  He must focus on their past, on the closeness that had once been natural to their peoples, and on the future they intended to forge.

  ‘I know, I know.’ Johara ran a hand over her hair, meeting her servant’s eyes in the gold-framed mirror. ‘I’m late.’

  ‘Very,’ Athena agreed, pursing her lips into a small smile. ‘Your brother was expecting you in the staterooms fifteen minutes ago.’

  Another flicker of rebellion dashed through her soul. So she was keeping her brother waiting. It was juvenile and silly, particularly given the importance of the evening, and yet there was pleasure in the perversity of running behind schedule.

  ‘Send word that I’m on my way,’ she murmured to another servant, reaching up to remove the thick black ribbons that held the mask in place. Her hair was loose; it tumbled over her shoulders, but for this meeting, she wanted it styled more severely, more formally. That felt like an armour she would need.

  Her hands worked deftly, catching the lustrous brown waves low at her nape and swirling them into a bun. ‘Pins?’

  Athena reached into her pockets—from which she seemed capable of removing all sorts of implements at will—and handed several to Johara. ‘I can call a stylist?’

  ‘Is it necessary?’ Johara returned archly, pressing several pins into place to secure an elegant chignon.

  ‘No. It’s perfect. Neat and ordered.’

  The opposite of how she presently felt. When she lifted her hands to her cheeks to pinch them for a hint of colour, her nipples strained against the lace of her bra and she felt a hum of memory, a reminder of what she’d shared with the stranger. A frisson ran the length of her spine—had it really happened? It was the most uncharacteristic thing she’d ever done in her life and yet she didn’t regret it. Not even a little.