His Forbidden Pregnant Princess

by Maisey Yates

  Tori stilled.

  ‘And I unfortunately didn’t think to bring bolt cutters for the chain.’

  She choked down a laugh. It was only mildly amusing, but in her emotional state any humour was a welcome break from constant fear.

  ‘The windows are too small even for you.’ He paused. ‘The roof?’

  He rose in a single fluid motion that revealed enviable core strength and left Tori gawping. A short time ago he’d been unconscious.

  ‘Come.’ He extended his hand.

  She didn’t know if it was the command in his tone or not, but a second later her hand was in his and he was drawing her up. They stood so close that she identified the tang of cinnamon and male, and the comforting smell of horse, before he stepped away, surveying the roof.

  ‘Here.’ He turned and beckoned.

  ‘What do you have in mind?’

  ‘Hands on my shoulders. I’ll lift you so you can check for a way out.’

  ‘But you can’t get out.’ Her gaze dropped to the manacle on his wrist.

  ‘That’s no reason for you not to try.’

  That voice, as smooth and rich as her favourite coffee, warmed her as his gaze captured hers. Tori’s racing thoughts stilled. She felt a moment of communion, as if this stranger understood the guilt that made her protest even as the idea of escape made her thrill with excitement.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  The question made her pause. What would it be like to hear him ask that in different circumstances? There was something about this man...the resonance of his deep voice, his inner strength in the face of adversity, his sureness...that drew her.

  Her heart beat hard against her ribs.

  ‘Tori. And you?’

  ‘You may call me Ash.’

  Before she could wonder at his phrasing, he continued.

  ‘If you can get onto the roof and away, there’s a chance you can raise the alert before daybreak.’

  He didn’t have to spell out what would happen when day came. That captor’s slicing gesture was vivid in her mind.

  ‘But I don’t know where I am. Or where to go.’

  Long fingers folded around her hand, steadying her. ‘You don’t have to know. Get away from the hut and the campfire. Stay low. When you’re a safe distance out, circle the camp. You’ll eventually come across the trail where you entered. Keep out of sight and follow the trail.’

  ‘And hope to find the road or a village?’

  ‘You have a better idea?’

  Tori shook her head. It was their best chance. Possibly Ash’s only chance.

  ‘Let’s do this.’ She planted her palms on his shoulders, then sucked in a breath as he bent, wrapped his big hands around her and lifted.

  * * *

  It was probably only fifteen minutes before they admitted defeat. To Ashraf it felt like hours.

  Frustrating hours, with that cursed chain curtailing his movements. They had only been able to explore one end of the roof and it was disappointingly sturdy.

  The slashing pain across his ribs had become a sear of agony. His head pounded. Stiff muscles ached from boosting his companion high, then holding her up while she strained and twisted, trying to find a weakness in the roof structure she could exploit.

  Physical exertion compounded with frustration at his helplessness. But it was another sort of torture, holding Tori.

  Trying to ignore her rounded breasts and buttocks. Standing solid, holding her high, his face pressed to her soft belly as she heaved and twisted, trying to force her way through the roof. Feeling the narrowness of her waist, inhaling her female essence, fresh and inviting, despite the overlay of dust and fear.

  Beneath the loose trousers and long-sleeved shirt she was all woman. Firmly toned, supple and fragrantly feminine.

  By the time he lowered her for the last time and sagged against the wall his body shook all over. From reaction to his wounds. From fury at himself for allowing Qadri to get the better of him.

  And from arousal. Flagrant and flaming hot.

  Ashraf told himself it was the adrenaline high—a response to life-or-death danger. Naturally his reactions were heightened. His need to fight his way free. His primal urge was to defy death in the same way generations had done since the dawn of time, by losing himself in the comfort of a warm, willing woman. Spilling his seed in the hope of ensuring survival, if not for himself, then for the next generation.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  She was so close her breath was a puff of warm air against his face.

  ‘I knew it was too much with your wounds. We should have stopped earlier. Are you bleeding again?’

  A gentle hand touched his chest just above his wound.

  ‘Don’t!’ Ashraf grabbed her hand, flattening it against his chest. His eyes snapped wide and he found her staring up at him, clearly concerned. This close, he saw her eyes were pale. Blue? Grey? Maybe amber?

  Realisation slammed into him.

  She feels it too.

  The tug of need. The connection between two people trapped and desperate. The powerful urge to find comfort in the face of impending death. For, even if she wasn’t being executed in the morning, Tori’s fate was dark.

  ‘Don’t fuss. I’m fine.’ He pulled her palm away from his body. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to relinquish her hand.

  Because her touch brought unexpected comfort?

  He was furious with himself for getting captured. Frustrated that, after all that had happened, maybe his life would end tomorrow and his father would have been right. The old man had said he’d never amount to anything. If Ashraf died within the first six months of his reign, with none of his changes cemented in place...

  He released Tori and turned from her searching stare.

  ‘I’m not fussing.’

  She drew herself up so her head topped his chin. Her little sound of frustration reminded him of his favourite falcon, fluffing up her feathers in huffy disapproval when he didn’t immediately release her for flight.

  ‘I apologise.’ He paused, surprised as the unfamiliar words escaped. ‘I’m not bleeding again.’ Hopefully. ‘It was kind of you to be concerned.’

  ‘Kind?’ She choked on the word and it hit Ashraf that she was fighting back tears.

  For him? No, she couldn’t know that he faced death tomorrow. It was a reaction to her kidnap. She’d been courageous—more courageous than most men he knew—projecting a calm façade, persevering in trying to find a way out when many would have given up.

  ‘Thoughtful,’ he amended.

  She shook her head and silvery hair flared out from her ponytail. Ashraf’s hands curled tight. He knew an urgent desire to see that shimmering hair loose, so he could tunnel his fingers through it.

  Temptation was a cruel thing. He couldn’t take what he wanted. Or ask for it. Not from this proud woman who still fought panic.

  ‘You’d better get some rest,’ he murmured, his voice gruff as he ruthlessly harnessed his baser, selfish instincts. ‘That’s what I intend to do.’

  Ashraf lowered himself to the floor. He felt every muscle, every movement. His wrist had rubbed raw against the manacle and there seemed little hope of escape.

  Yet despite the pain he felt a sense of exultation. He was still alive. He had no intention of meekly submitting to execution for Qadri’s pleasure.

  Ashraf had spent his life fighting for his place, proving himself, ignoring the jibes. Showing his father that his disdain meant nothing. Thumbing his nose at him by building a public profile as a pleasure-seeking playboy, delighting in scandals that he knew would rock the old man.

  Now he was back in Za’daq and everything had changed. Especially given his brother’s recent sacrifice. Ashraf’s belly contracted at the thought of Karim.

  ‘I’d feel better if you’d let me
examine your wounds.’

  Tori knelt beside him. So close he barely had to move to touch her face, her rounded breast. Too close for a man so severely tempted.

  ‘There’s nothing you can do in this light. Unless you have a torch and a first aid kit hidden somewhere?’

  She pursed her lips and looked away, that silvery mane sliding over one shoulder.

  Instantly he regretted his harsh response. He felt ashamed. It wasn’t concern for Karim that had made him snap, but his visceral sexual response to her. He wanted things he shouldn’t.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ It was the second time he’d apologised. ‘That was uncalled-for. You’re right, there’s some pain, but it’s not as bad as it looks.’ What were bruises and cuts in comparison to what tomorrow held for him? ‘But there’s something you could do.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Rest. We need to conserve our strength.’ He stretched out, stifling a groan as abused muscles throbbed.

  After a long silence she finally followed his example, lying down nearby.

  Ashraf didn’t sleep. Instead he focused on tomorrow, wondering if his security detail would find him before it was too late. Wondering if Basim was alive.

  Finally a tiny sound caught his attention. Were Tori’s teeth chattering? The desert night had turned chill.

  ‘Come here, Tori. We’ll be warmer together.’

  She lifted her head. ‘But your injuries...’

  He reached out his untethered arm. ‘Snuggle against this side.’

  When she did Ashraf bit his tongue against a sigh of satisfaction.

  ‘Put your head on my shoulder.’ She complied and he felt the gentle whisper of her breath through his torn shirt. Soft curves cushioned his side, silky strands of hair tickled his neck and her hand rested warm at his waist.

  Ashraf lifted his hand to stroke her hair. It was silken. Like the softest cushions in the royal harem, spun in the days when the Sheikhs of Za’daq had had a bevy of concubines devoted to their pleasure.

  Pressed against him from shoulder to knee, she felt...

  His breath clogged in his lungs and a tremor started low in his body, vibrating out.

  ‘Am I too heavy?’

  She shifted as if to move away and Ashraf rolled a little towards her, capturing her knee between his.

  ‘Just relax. You’re not hurting me.’

  It wasn’t strictly true. He was definitely in pain. But the ache of his wounds and the indignity of the chain were eclipsed by another sort of pain. The taut stretch of a body fighting luscious temptation.

  Ashraf’s mouth stretched in a mirthless smile. He’d spent years giving in to temptation. He wished he had more experience at resisting it. Perhaps that was why the tension he felt was so acute, the tug of war between honour and desire so fierce.

  But honour won.

  Finally he felt her breathing slow. She shifted, shimmying her hips as if to get more comfortable, and the friction was exquisite torture. But it was a torture he willingly bore.

  Till she moved her arm and her hand accidentally brushed the evidence of his arousal straining against his trousers.

  She froze.

  Everything inside him stilled.

  Ashraf swore they both stopped breathing.

  Then his blood pumped again—harder, more urgent. His groin tightened. He had to force himself not to tilt his pelvis, seeking the feel of her palm against him.

  ‘It’s okay. You’re safe with me, Tori.’ Could she tell he spoke through gritted teeth? ‘Nothing’s going to happen.’

  Silence. He waited for her to scurry away.

  Then he knew he was hearing things when she said, ‘Maybe I don’t want to be safe with you.’

  Copyright © 2019 by Annie West

  ISBN-13: 9781488044779

  His Forbidden Pregnant Princess

  First North American publication 2019

  Copyright © 2019 by Maisey Yates

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