TO DEFY A SHEIKH

by Maisey Yates

  “It is also wet. Therefore not the most flattering representation.”

  “I disagree,” he said, leaning in closer. “Do you know how much of your body I can see through that nightshirt?”

  She looked down at the fabric, which had shaped itself to her figure. She could clearly see her nipples, hardened from the cold. The nightgown provided no coverage there.

  “I have an idea,” she said, looking back up.

  “And do you know what it does to me?”

  She started to speak, then closed her mouth. Then she blinked and shook her head. “No.”

  “I have not touched a woman in sixteen years. I… Right now I feel like the ground here. Like I’ve been too long without water, and it’s finally here in front of me.”

  “Oh…Ferran…I don’t…I…” She didn’t know what to do. She wasn’t sure what he wanted. She wasn’t sure she could give it.

  He hadn’t touched a woman in sixteen years, and now he was here, his hands on her hair. Touching her. So much pressure on her, when she had no idea what might happen next.

  “I’m going to ask you again, Samarah.” His dark eyes were level with hers. “Have you ever been kissed?”

  She felt as if the breath had been pulled from her lungs. “Not exactly,” she said.

  “And by that you mean?”

  Samarah hesitated, her heart fluttering in her chest. She knew this admission would change things. That in a few moments, the answer to the question have you ever been kissed, would not be the same. Even with no experience, she knew it. In her bones. In her blood. And she wanted it. “Not by anyone other than my family. Never by a man. Never in the way you mean.”

  He put his hands on her cheeks and brushed the water drops away. Was she really going to let him kiss her?

  He’s going to be your husband.

  He was your enemy.

  He’ll be your lover.

  Her brain was fighting with itself. And she had no idea which voice to listen to. But she felt her lips parting, her eyes slipping closed as she tilted her face upward.

  To know what was right, so deeply, that it would be an instinct to act upon what’s right when the time comes…

  “I have waited for this,” he said, his voice a growl, “for longer than you can imagine.”

  And then his lips met with hers. They were hot beneath the sheen of rain that covered them. Slick from the water. And firm. But more so than she’d imagined they might be. He held her face steady, then tilted his head, opening his mouth and touching the center of her upper lip with the tip of his tongue.

  A simple, delicate touch that sent a flash of heat, like lightning, through her body.

  He pulled back slightly, his hands still on her face, holding her. “Kiss me back, Samarah.”

  “I don’t know…how. I don’t know…” Desperation grew wings and fluttered in her chest, fear and need gripping her tight.

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I…” She looked at his chest, at his stomach, and she put her hands on him, one palm resting against the hard ridge of his abs, the other just above his heart. She wanted to touch him. To feel those muscles with no clothing between them. She’d known that for a while now, even though she hadn’t quite understood it.

  Or, more to the point, she hadn’t wanted to understand it.

  Now she did. Now she wanted to understand it all. All this depth and nuance of being human, of being alive. This rich tapestry that existed beyond mere survival.

  There was so much more than just drawing breath. There was the feel of Ferran’s skin beneath hers. The rough hair, the heat of his body, the hard definition of his muscles. And there was the need it created in her. Reckless and heady. A high like nothing else she’d ever experienced. The adrenaline rush that accompanied fear coupled with a much more pleasant emotion.

  So this was lust. Real, raw lust, so much more potent than she’d ever imagined it could be. Even though she’d known it must be something so very strong, there was a difference from knowing that and having lived it. She was living it now.

  She leaned in and kissed him, freezing when her mouth touched his, a raindrop rolling between their lips and sliding onto her tongue. She laughed, then pulled back. “Sorry, I don’t think you’re supposed to laugh when you kiss.”

  He moved his hands from her face and wrapped them around her waist, pulling her against his body. “Why not?” he asked. “I like that you’re finally smiling.”

  He closed the distance between them, his kiss harder this time. His lips moved over hers, his tongue sliding against the seam of her mouth before she opened and gave him entry. Then he took her deep, long. The sensual friction sending a deep, sharp pang of longing through her. An arrow of pleasure that shot straight to her core and left a hollow pain in its wake.

  She fought to free her hands from where they were trapped between their bodies and wrapped her arms around his neck, holding him to her. She tried to match his movements, to make her lips fit against his. He adjusted some of what he was doing, and she adjusted, too. And then they found a way to make their lips fit together just right.

  He moved his hands down over her back, her butt, and down to her thighs. Then he gripped her tight, tugging her up into his arms, the blunt tips of his fingers digging into her flesh, the points of pressure adding pain into the mix with the pleasure.

  She clung to him, wrapped her legs around his waist so that she didn’t fall back down to the ground, and the motion brought the heart of her into contact with his hard stomach. A short, shocked moan climbed her throat and escaped.

  He growled and angled his head, biting the side of her neck, harder even than he’d done back in the gym.

  She whimpered, and he slid his tongue over the spot, soothing the sting, ramping up her arousal. She kissed him back, feeling confident now. Maybe because he seemed as if he was on the edge of control, too. She certainly was. Because this wasn’t necessary, or useful. And yet it felt essential. And she wanted it. More than she could ever remember wanting anything.

  He cupped her bottom and pulled her hard against him. At the same time he bit her lip, then soothed it away. Pleasure rocketed through her. She curled her fingers tightly into his shoulders, understanding perfectly now why some people actually enjoyed biting.

  There was so much more to this than she’d ever thought possible. To wanting a man. To sexual desire. It wasn’t just nice feelings, or pleasure, or whatever it was she’d imagined it might be.

  It was need, so deep and intense it made you burn. It was pain. Pain because there was too much pleasure, pain because you wanted more.

  Kissing Ferran was both the best and the worst kind of torture.

  It was everything. It filled up the moment. It filled her up. And yet, it wasn’t enough. It hinted at things she didn’t know about, made her desire things she didn’t understand. Made her body crave something she wasn’t certain existed. Tipped her beliefs on right and wrong onto their heads and twisted her into a stranger she didn’t know, and wasn’t certain she liked.

  But she didn’t care.

  She rocked her hips against him and a low, feral growl rumbled in his chest. He moved quickly, decisively, lowering them both down to the ground. To the sand. And she didn’t care that she was going to get dirty. That she would get wetter. It didn’t matter as long as he kept kissing her.

  He adjusted their positions, forking his hands through her hair, tilting her head back, tugging slightly. He slid one hand down her back, cupping her rear and lifting her up against him. And she wasn’t pressed against his stomach anymore, but the hard line of his shaft. She’d seen him naked yesterday, but it hadn’t prepared her for this. He hadn’t been aroused yesterday in the lake.

  Instinct, and need, had her flexing her hips against him, each movement making the ache inside h
er build, grow, until she thought she was going to die.

  She was sure no one could withstand this kind of sensual assault. The rough sand beneath her; Ferran, hot and hard above her; the rain, cold against her skin.

  He moved his hand to cup her breast, drawing his thumb slowly across her nipple, before pinching her lightly. She was still covered by the damp fabric of her gown. He lowered his head and sucked her deep into his mouth.

  He pushed against her, the hard ridge of his arousal hitting her just where she needed it.

  And the dam burst inside of her. A hoarse cry escaped her lips, much like the sound she made when she fought. Raw, passionate, bold.

  Pleasure poured through every part of her. She arched against him, holding tight to his shoulders as the waves crashed over her, her eyes squeezed shut, her fingernails digging into his shoulders.

  She just lay there for a moment, feeling spent, the fog slowly clearing. And then she started to feel other things. Shame. Embarrassment.

  He moved against her again, kissing her neck, his hands firm on her breasts.

  She shoved at his chest.

  “What?” he asked. “Samarah, did I hurt you?”

  “No…I…no…”

  She couldn’t tell him. She couldn’t tell him that she’d had what she suspected was an orgasm from kissing him. That was…it was terrifying and way past the point of embarrassing straight into humiliating. Because how could that be? How? With him…with anyone, but especially with him.

  This was not lying back and thinking of Jahar. This was not a truce. It was somewhere far over that line, and it was one she couldn’t believe she had crossed.

  He moved away from her and she scrabbled to her feet, her nightgown sticking to her legs, tugging upward, the sand caked over her skin, in her hair. “I just…I have to go back inside now.”

  “You do?” he asked, still on the ground, breathing hard. He looked nearly as shocked as he had the night she’d tried to kill him.

  “Yes. I do. I…thank you. For the kiss. I have to go. I’m cold.”

  She turned away from him, her arms wrapped around her waist, and she ran back toward the house, then into the bathroom. She locked the door behind her and turned the water on, stepping inside fully clothed and watching the sand wash down the drain.

  Then she started to shiver.

  She’d never felt anything like this before. And it was much too big for her to deal with. Too big for her to process.

  There was a whole new depth to life, and she’d just discovered it. And now she was terrified by what might come next. By what it meant about who she was.

  Because once upon a time, Ferran might have been able to have lovers without feeling connection. But in that moment she knew for certain that she couldn’t.

  She thought of her mother, the author of her own destruction, and everyone else’s, so desperately in love with two men that she couldn’t give either of them up.

  As much as she didn’t want to be her father, she didn’t want to be her mother. And God help her, she would not be a fool over Ferran Bashar.. And until she figured out how to get a handle on her emotions, she couldn’t allow Ferran to touch her again. It was as simple as that.

  * * *

  Ferran called himself every kind of bastard as he kicked over the cooking grate that was still set up over the dead coals from last night’s fire.

  He was an animal. Of the worst kind. He’d known she was a virgin, hell, he knew she’d never been kissed. She’d been badly handled all of her life. Thrown out onto the streets when she was a child so that she could escape a grisly death.

  He was responsible for every bad thing that had happened in her life. And now he’d added another thing to the incredibly long list.

  He’d allowed himself to be ruled by passion. Had let the floodgates open after keeping them firmly closed for so many years.

  No.

  He was not that man. Not anymore. He would not allow it. Not again.

  He had been rough with her. He’d been ready to take her, take her virginity, in the sand, in the rain. Without talking to her. Without making sure she was ready.

  You’re using your need for control to hold her captive.

  He shrugged the thought off, turning his self-disgust to the more specific events at hand.

  He’d led with his own desire, and had given no thought to anything else. He’d thought he was better than that now. He had to be. The alternative was unthinkable.

  He stalked into the water, in spite of the fact that he was already wet, and submerged himself. It was much colder today, with the sun behind the clouds and the rain pouring down.

  It didn’t do anything to assuage his arousal. He was still so hard it hurt, need coursing through him like a current. He ground his teeth together and walked back out of the water, his jeans heavy and tugging downward, chafing against his erection.

  That had been a stupid, damn idea. And it hadn’t even worked.

  He walked back toward the house and shrugged his jeans off at the door. Hopefully Samarah wasn’t around because he didn’t really want to ambush her with his body like this.

  He could hear the shower running and he said a prayer of thanks for small mercies.

  He went into his bedroom and started digging for dry clothes. They needed to get back to the palace. Back to civilization and back to sanity.

  There, he would be reminded to keep his distance. He would be reminded of all the indignity she’d already suffered without him adding to it.

  His weakness had caused her suffering.

  He paused at that thought. She deserved to know. Because if there was one thing Samarah truly cared about it was honor. It was doing right.

  Though, there was a limit to what he could say without adding to her pain. Without uncovering himself completely.

  One thing was certain. Before he tied her to him for the rest of her life, before he jailed her in a whole different way than she’d originally threatened, she had to know at least in part, what sort of man it was she was tying herself to.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THEY ARRIVED AT the palace late that evening. The ride back had been torturous. Samarah had spent so much of her life without human interaction, she’d never fully understood just how awkward it could be to sit in an enclosed space with another person when you had nothing to say.

  And when you had something obvious and tense hanging between you.

  That morning seemed like a lifetime ago, and yet it had only been about fifteen hours since Ferran had held her in his arms. Since he’d pulled her against him and kissed her. Since he’d brought her to the peak of pleasure on the ground outside in the rain.

  She could hardly believe that had been her. And that it had been him.

  In the cold of the night, she could not understand what had possessed her to go outside in a rainstorm. What had possessed her to fall into his arms and kiss him as if he was the only source of water in the desert.

  She moved through her chambers and stopped cold when she saw Ferran in the doorway. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “I came to speak to you about tomorrow. We’re to have lunch with the palace event planner. To speak to her about the upcoming engagement party and the wedding.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I had forgotten about the party.”

  “As had I. Since I’m not particularly interested in parties, it was easy to let it slip my mind.”

  “I can’t say I’m a real party animal, either,” she said, her tone dry.

  “I imagine not. I have brought you something.”

  “Oh?” She really had to try and find something more intelligent to say than that.

  “I feel we got off track today.”

  “Oh.” Well, dammit. That was not more intelligent
.

  “I should not have touched you like that. Not knowing how innocent you are. And I regret that I frightened you.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to say he hadn’t frightened her at all. She’d frightened herself. But honestly, his assumption was so much less revealing that she felt like letting him have it.

  Coward.

  Yes. But so what? He was about to apologize and since he owed her many, in reality, she would take one for this. Even though he didn’t owe her one for that incident in particular. She bore the full weight of the consequences for the foolishness of her body.

  “I lost sight of what it is we are doing. This marriage is to benefit our nations. And to heal the past. What I did accomplished neither of those things.”

  “Well…no I suppose not.”

  “This is to remind you, to remind me, of what this is about.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black box. “I spoke to the palace jeweler, and he managed to come up with something very quickly. It is not my mother’s ring. All things considered I felt no monuments needed to be built to that marriage.” He opened the lid of the box and revealed an ornate, sparkling piece of art. Gold with diamonds set into an intricately carved band. “But this is from the crown jewels, as it were. And it has been in my family for many generations. It’s lasted longer than a marriage. Than the rule of any one sheikh or sheikha. And I hope what we build forges a bond between our countries that is the same. I hope that what we build transcends a simple marriage, and becomes something lasting that benefits both of our people.”

  “Oh that’s…that’s perfect,” she said, banishing images of them kissing, of the heat she’d felt in his arms, and bringing to the front pictures of their country. Of their people. Of all that could be built between the nations if they followed through with this union.

  “I am prepared to ask you to wear it.”

  “Of course,” she said.

  She waited for him to do something. To get on one knee or put the ring on her finger. She wasn’t sure if she wanted him to do that.