by Tara Pammi
After everything he had just told her yesterday, after the maelstrom of guilt and pain he had felt just recounting that horrible day to Ayaan again, he should have felt nothing. Being numb would have been a blessing in more ways than one.
But of course not. Apparently, he still hadn’t killed everything inside him that felt, and hurt and was wounded. He wanted to reach inside him and pluck it out with his bare hands, he wanted to stop feeling so much.
And so he went to see her, the woman who, it seemed, would always have something to teach him, who would always guide him.
* * *
Nikhat shivered even though the water that gushed out of the gleaming silver-and-gold faucets was piping hot, and the steam from it curled her hair around her face. The subtle scent from the rose oil that she had poured into the water teased her nostrils, coating her skin with it.
If anyone had asked her what she had done today, she had no answer for them. She had wandered through the palace, wherever she was allowed, until an old guard had stopped her and inquired if she was okay.
Flushing, she had looked around herself, claimed that she was lost and walked back to her own suite.
The grandiose decor of her quarters, the view of the sky glimmering with stars, the sweeping arches and walkways in the courtyard below her balcony, nothing could hold her attention. Feeling as if the walls would close in on her, she had finally fled for some air.
And here she was now, waiting for the minimal staff to retire for the night, waiting for the minute when she could go to him. Maybe if she saw him, if she touched him, this chill she felt inside might abate.
Here in the palace there was still a fragile thread of sanity intact inside her, a small shred of propriety.
She scooped up a handful of water and threw it on her face, to stifle the hysterical little laugh that threatened to escape her.
It was so pathetic—this tiny little nod to decorum, this bone-deep clinging to tradition when her entire world was crumbling under the weight of her very own confusion.
Pulling her wet hair back with one hand, she reached for a towel, when he suddenly appeared at the entrance to the bathroom.
His jet-black hair gleamed with wetness, his unshaved chin adding to the dangerous glint in his dark eyes. His collarbone stuck out from the opening of his white cotton shirt.
The sheer decadence of the marble-and-gold decor, the glitter of the mirror that caught the tiny little lights from the chandelier in the dome-shaped ceiling, the extravagantly soft cotton in her fingers—everything she had marveled over on her first night here in the palace—vanished in his presence.
Nothing could match the stark power of the man looking at her as though he owned her. Nothing could add or take away from the raw sensuality that was a very part of his nature.
He didn’t say a word, his gaze traveling over her nakedness thoroughly, the fire in it burning higher and hotter. And she didn’t shy from it, though her fingers tightened over the towel.
“Get out of the tub.”
His words, spoken in low, raw tones did what the savage gleam in his eyes hadn’t. It sent a prickle of apprehension across her skin, drawing goose bumps. Something felt wrong, something more than the fact that she had pushed him into reliving his worst nightmare because she had wanted to be sure she had made the right decision.
“I’m sorry about last night, Azeez. I never meant to push you—”
He leveled another look at her, and more words wouldn’t come. A chill that had nothing to do with her nudity clamped her spine. Shivering, she took the chance to dry her skin.
The sound of the water whooshing out of the tub was gone, leaving them in heavy, sweltering silence. She dragged the towel against herself over one arm, then the other. His looming presence called to her like nothing she had ever known, and she looked up.
Molten fire blazed in his eyes. The fire of the desire between them, she understood. But this thing that was swelling and arcing between them, it was tempered with something else, something that she didn’t understand.
She was already as fragile as a house of cards. One harsh breath of air and she felt as if she would come undone.
He had never refrained from telling her what he thought, never held back the force of his passion, or fury or anything.
Holding one edge of the towel over her breasts, she pressed it to her midriff, and suddenly realized he was within touching distance. A soft gasp fell from her mouth as he plucked the towel from her hand, threw it behind him. His long fingers clasped tight around her wrist, he pulled her forward until she landed against his chest, splashing his unbuttoned cotton shirt with drops of water.
Her fingers latched on to the soft fabric, her nipples tightening into needy little points. And then and only then did she realize the storm of fierce emotion that he was holding at bay with sheer will. It was in the way his fingers held her hips—pressing, possessing, branding instead of caressing, in the way he pushed the rigid length of his arousal into her belly, in the way he shivered, as if it cost him every ounce of control not to snap.
Her legs trembling under her, she gazed up at his face and an answering shudder went through her. He looked gloriously angry, every inch of his angular face taking on a forbidden cast.
And still, she was not afraid; still, she did not ask him to release her as every rational instinct in her was urging her to; still she did not try to pull herself from his grasp. Instead, she listened to the primitive one, the one that had roared with anger and ache that long-ago day when she had met the doctor in New York, the one who she had shut away behind a cage of practicality and duty with the chains of her will.
It made her stand her ground, it made her clasp his cheek in a brazen challenge.
He inhaled in a long-drawn breath. His thumb moved over her cheek, her jaw, before settling on her lower lip. If she had felt the anger simmering in his eyes, just before his thumb pressed against her bottom lip, she didn’t know. She could only feel the little shivers spewing into life all over her, could only feel her breasts getting heavier, a rush of wetness gathering at her sex.
She dug her fingers into his shoulders as he continued to trace the shape of her lip, pushed his thumb inside her mouth. Heat bloomed low in her stomach and she sucked his finger into her mouth.
Instinct drove her and she pressed herself into him, the hard, pulsing weight of his erection leaving an imprint on her belly. Shock waves pulsed between her legs and she clutched hard with a moan.
She bent her head and licked the crook of his neck, pulled the scent of him deeper into her lungs until all she could feel was him. She wanted to say something, ask him what was wrong, comfort him if she could, and yet words would not come, as if her body was drowning under the avalanche of sensations, as if she was finally incapable of processing a thought, much less speaking it.
His hand around her waist, he suddenly moved and tugged her along with him. Anticipation and need burst into flames under her skin, heating her up as he positioned them in front of the huge marble vanity, facing the mirror.
The glitter from numerous gilded light fixtures above the mirror bathed them in golden light. She pulled another breath through her parched throat, and he shrugged his shirt off his shoulders.
She feasted her eyes on his chest, on the dark nipples, the hunger in her rising, her skin feverish with need. When he dropped his loose trousers and his erection grazed her buttocks, she gasped, as if she was drowning. Or maybe she was. But she didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything, couldn’t think of anything except the thought of that rigid, velvet weight pushing inside her, filling all the empty places she had covered up.
Her breasts became heavy, her nipples turning into unbearable points of need at the luscious gleam in his eyes.
“Have you ever spoken the truth with me?”
His question shatt
ered the silence and yet she couldn’t digest the weight of it as his finger drew maddening circles around her nipple. The anticipation coiling inside her lower belly was too much to bear, as if the cognitive part of her brain was struggling to react under so much sensory input.
She let out a long, keen moan as his fingers finally pinched her nipple. Tremors arrowed down, drenching her sex in wetness. Her spine arched into him, she grasped his wrists to keep his fingers on the tight buds, needing more, ready to beg for more.
But he didn’t comply and disappointment cut through her. With his hand at the base of her spine, he didn’t let her arch into him. His fingers moved restlessly over her breasts, touching, not touching her nipples, moved over to her stomach, never still, never touching her where she wanted to be touched. An anguished sob rose through her the moment she realized.
He was punishing her. This, tonight, it was not about making love. This was about the fury that was bursting inside him seeking an outlet. And not because he was denying her what she wanted.
It was mastery over her mind that he craved. And he didn’t leave a doubt. He didn’t need to speak to say it. It was in everything he didn’t say, in the way he wouldn’t even meet her eyes.
And yet she couldn’t deny him, yet she couldn’t summon the single word no. Because if she did, he would stop. And she didn’t want him to stop. And therein lay his victory, therein lay the prize he was after.
He pressed his palm at the base of her spine, willing her to yield. And she did.
Supporting herself on her hands, she leaned over until her breasts touched the marble. Her nipples tightened at the cold, but it was one snowflake compared to the burning flames of her desire.
She felt his mouth press into her shoulder blade, trail down, leaving wet heat. Sometimes he licked, sometimes he bit the flesh. And every stroke of his tongue, every drag of his teeth pushed her a little closer to the edge.
“Spread your legs.” His tongue licked the seam of her ear shell, his voice like a silken caress.
Heat streaking her inside out, Nikhat did. His palm cupped her mound, the heel of it rubbing against the sensitive bundle of nerves within her core. She was panting now, moving her body to a rhythm only she knew, climbing higher and higher. Her forehead was clammy with sweat. His arm wrapped around her waist, he stopped her little movements.
Her release was so close, she could taste it on her tongue. Her knuckles showed white where she gripped the marble, her entire body shuddering like a bow, ready to fall apart with one stroke.
But he didn’t give her that.
He pressed his body into hers until his erection rubbed against her, and she turned her head and looked at him.
Desire. Anger. Fury. Everything danced in his ebony gaze.
“Azeez, please don’t shut me out now.” She choked on the words rushing out of her, struggling to say them, fighting to say them right.
But instead of answering her, instead of shouting at her, instead of flaying her with that wicked tongue of his, he gripped her hips and entered her in one long, deep thrust.
She clutched her eyes closed and whimpered as her nerves short-circuited and she orgasmed in a flurry of pleasure. His hoarse cry clashed against hers, drowning them in the sound of their mingled relief.
The waves piled and pooled over her lower belly, and she shivered. One arm over her spine, one around her waist, he held her tight against him until the little tremors subsided, until she could once again feel her body, until the receding waves washed away the profound sense of joy and fulfillment she had found.
Once again, leaving her empty.
* * *
She was laid out in front of him like a feast, and Azeez could see nothing past her trembling flesh, feel nothing past how she felt around him. He ran his hands all over her back, her skin like raw silk under his hands, her body molding to his will and his desire.
And still, he was not satisfied. Still, the hurt inside him would not abate.
“Azeez,” she said, whispering his name like a prayer, turning to look at him, her lithe body angling itself beneath him like a bow. He was entrenched deep inside her, willing himself to pull out, willing himself to stop before he created new hurts, willing himself to close the vein that was still bleeding out.
He looked at her then, and the anger that had pushed him to use her like this, receded. He bent and took her mouth; only desire and his cold will was left now. She returned the kiss with equal fervor, with a desperation that tugged at his heart. But the kiss could not reach it.
He was so hard and deep inside her, her pleasure, her body, her mind, and even her strong will, they were all his in the moment as he wanted, she was his the way he wanted. Absolutely, where they only existed together. He could have happily died in that moment.
Reaching under her sensuous body, he filled his hands with her breasts and tweaked her nipples.
She immediately arched into him, losing all thought of that guttural request she had made. And he pulled out and thrust back.
The sound of that low moan she made in the back of her throat, the drag of his hips against hers, the shuddering in her long legs as he set an unrelenting rhythm, he let himself drown in all the sensations she created for him. She was perfect for him in every way, as he had always assumed, and he took her, slowly, deliciously, until the walls of her sex clamped him tight.
With every slow thrust, he plundered deeper inside her wet heat, for every coil of pleasure he took, he released the anger, the hurt inside him.
He searched inside for the last ounce of his control, kissed her spine and breathed the words into her. “I would have found a way, Nikhat, I would have protected you.”
She gasped, but he didn’t let her recover from his assault.
He found the center of her swollen heat and tweaked it between his fingers. Her climax broke out of her, and he rode on its waves. Her sex clenched him hard, the contractions of her muscles pushing him into his own release.
His orgasm reverberated through him, shattering him and rebuilding him at the same time. Still inside her, he clutched her to him for another weak, wavering moment, breathed in her scent, tasted her skin, reveled in the cocoon of her body.
She cared about him, he knew that. And she was back here; she had helped him see through the darkness into light. But the truth she had hidden, the sacrifice she had made, it unmanned him.
She was everything he had always thought she was, and by the same token, she had set herself out of his reach.
His first instinct was to bind her to him, to shackle her with his power until there was nowhere she could go, to leave her with no avenue except him.
And he fought black the cloud of his selfish desires, the thundering darkness of his heart, welcomed the chill that pervaded him as he finally made his decision.
To shackle her to him again when it was the very thing she had walked away from with complete certainty, it would break her. And he didn’t want her like that.
He would agree to Ayaan’s demands, do everything his brother had asked of him and he would do it the way it needed to be done.
His passionate nature rebelled at the thought of giving her up. His heart had never been denied, he had never learned control.
And to deny his heart what it wanted while doing his duty, that was to be his penance.
He picked up Nikhat and took her to the bathtub again. He turned on the water and washed her with the jasmine soap that she loved. He wiped her, wrapped her in a robe and carried her back to the bed.
And then he saw the tears in her beautiful brown eyes. She clasped his wrist and pressed her warm mouth to it as he pulled the covers over her.
“Sleep, habeebi,” he whispered, and walked out of her suite without looking back.
His heart, finally, felt like a hard rock inside his chest. Something h
e had been struggling to achieve for six long years.
CHAPTER TWELVE
NIKHAT JERKED AWAKE from a fitful sleep and struggled to find her bearings. Her eyes were gritty. Sweat beaded her brow and her sheets were tangled around her hips. Unease weighed in her stomach and she turned to check the time. The little digital alarm clock said 5:00 a.m. Pushing the sheets away, she stepped down from the bed, lethargy making her slow.
Her body ached between her legs. Her abdomen was stiff, as if she had done a hundred push-ups, her arms hurt, too.
But it was more an exquisite soreness than any real pain and worth every bit.
For several seconds, she stood there, her vision dizzying, everything Azeez had said slamming back into her like pieces of a puzzle. The picture that emerged knocked the breath out of her.
I deserved the truth, Nikhat.
How did he know?
Her heart stuttered, struggling to keep up with her emotions. She changed into a caftan and leggings and grabbed a shawl to wrap around her torso.
The palace corridors were empty, eerie, and she couldn’t shake off the impression that she was going to her doom.
No, she wasn’t going to think like that. She shoved aside the anxiety and hugged the relief that danced under that. Somehow, Azeez had learned the truth now. He was entitled to his anger.
But when his initial shock receded, he would surely understand why she had made the decision to leave him all those years ago. He had to. She wouldn’t think about it any other way, she couldn’t bear to.
Halting outside his suite’s door, she sucked in a deep breath and clutched the edges of the shawl tight.
Everything inside her felt as if it hung in the balance, every minute of her life, every decision she had made falling away like sand sinking away under one’s toes.
She pushed the door and struggled against the dazzling glare of light.
Approximately twenty men were inside the room, talking in small groups, some at laptops, some taking notes from Ayaan, she realized.
