Marrying Her Enemy & Stolen by the Desert King

by Clare Connelly

  He had preyed on her.

  It was a fair description of their interaction. From the first moment in Sydney, hadn’t she been a little something for him to play with? She bit down on her lip, the description lodging strangely in her chest.

  “I’m used to the desert.” He stroked her cheek. “And you are not. This heat…”

  “Yes, because Sydney’s never hot,” she responded with droll sarcasm, pulling away from his touch, needing space, even from him. Even as her body burned up with wants and needs.

  “Like this?” He took the cue from her and moved back a little, waving his hand around them.

  “No, not like this.” Her sigh was soft and she looked over her shoulder, towards the fruit. “That orchard…”

  “Yes, I can see you’ve enjoyed it,” he said with a smile.

  She blinked, lifting a hand to her face. “Why?”

  His smile stretched wider. “You have juice here…” He lifted a finger and ran it down her chin. “And here.” He dragged his finger across her lip, then to the opposite corner, down her chin and to the soft skin of her neck.

  She made a small sound of surrender, loathing herself for her weakness.

  “It was the fruit. The red ones.”

  He said something, a word that she couldn’t have repeated with a gun to her head.

  But she nodded. “I had two of them.”

  “They are my favourites as well.”

  Her stomach squeezed at the admission.

  It was hardly ground-breaking, but it was a small point in common.

  “You were so fast out there.” Without thinking, she reached up, patting the horse’s long, dark neck. The action opened her body to Khalifa and he stayed where he was, close enough to feel her movements through the shifting of her breasts.

  “Yes.” A gruff admission as desire roughened his throat, coating it with intention.

  “What’s beyond those mountains?”

  “More desert.” He didn’t look towards the horizon. “And eventually, another town.” He reached for her hand, catching it in his and lifting it from the horse. He carried it to his lips, placing a single kiss against her palm – but it was enough. Need was sharp in her gut.

  Need for him.

  And it was urgent.

  “Would you like to ride with me?”

  A flicker of a smile lifted her lips. Ride with him? Hell, she wanted to ride him.

  “That thing is as big as me,” she said, eyeing the horse with obvious doubts.

  “That ‘thing’ is a purebread Arabian Steed.” He leaned closer, so that his next words were whispered across her cheek. “And he will be gentle.”

  Her eyes flew to his, her heart in her throat, her lips parted. He was going to say something else. She could feel it. She could see it. But then, his hands wrapped around her waist and he lifted her as though she weighed nothing, depositing her on the horse, in the front of the saddle. It was inelegant, and not particularly easy, to arrange herself in the flowing dress, but she did so quickly, just before Khalifa swung himself into the saddle behind her.

  His arms wrapped around her as the took the reins, his body framing hers, his strength literally encasing her. She bit down on her lip, her eyes closed, as he kicked the horse and it began to move, slowly at first, so that she was comfortable and confident before they reached the sand and Khalifa gave an extra kick. The horse responded instantly, breaking into a fast run, so that Kylie made a noise of surprise and Khalifa fisted the reins in the palm of one hand, and curved his other around her, holding her back against him, keeping her tight to his body, reassuring her and ruining her all at once. His fingers splayed wide across her belly, pressing her into place and he expertly guided the steed, across the sands. After several minutes, the unfamiliar speed and uneven course seemed less startling and she relaxed against him.

  Khalifa didn’t move his hand at first, but almost twenty minutes later, as they reached the shadow cast by the mountains, he dropped his hand to her thigh. It was a casual gesture but it spoke of comfort and ease. Of a relationship that allowed them to casually touch and feel.

  The eagle flew overhead, its wings casting shade as it moved.

  Khalifa slowed the horse, but when he spoke, it was with his head pressed over her shoulder. He was so close to her. Despite their clothes, she could feel him.

  His heat, his body, his heart.

  “I climbed these mountains as a boy.”

  Kylie tilted her head, unintentionally bringing herself into closer contact with him. They were steep and tall, and comprised mainly of rocks. Little shapes moved high up and she frowned. “What’s that?”

  “Goats.” He grinned. “Wild, and quite cranky, when you get close.”

  “How old were you?”

  “When I climbed it? Nine.”

  “Nine?” She tilted her face with apparent disbelief. “That’s so young.”

  His eyes ran across her features. “It didn’t feel it at the time.” He lifted his hand back to her belly, holding her steady, as he kicked the horse back into action, moving them nearer to the mountains. “My father had been telling me for years about his own attempts – at twelve. He had never got further than that peak there.” He pointed to a rocky outcrop that seemed to jut out at a ninety degree angle.

  “So you wanted to beat your father?”

  “To make him proud,” Khalifa corrected. “I would have done anything to make him proud.”

  Like stopping a marriage that could have been damaging to the Al Asouri family’s rule?

  “He died a week after my twenty first birthday.”

  Kylie was startled out of her reverie, pulled back into the moment, and more importantly, back into this man’s conversation. “I’m sorry.”

  He tilted his head by way of acknowledgement. “What you said this morning, about being orphaned is like losing one’s bookends, one’s sense of place, is exactly how it felt. Fortunately for me, I had the kingdom to turn to – a kingdom as deeply in mourning as I was.”

  “A kingdom that must have expected a lot of you, when you were going through your own grieving.”

  Her perception lodged in his core. It was true – the pressures of being strong and guiding their people had taken its toll. Behind closed doors, he’d found it almost impossible to recover from the sudden death.

  “Your mother?”

  “I never knew her,” he said the words without emotion yet somehow Kylie sensed the depth of his grief. “I was only one when she died.”

  “So young.”

  He made a grunting noise of agreement. She felt that he was about to say more but the bird swooped low at that moment, making a sound like a squawk that instantly tensed Khalifa.

  He looked towards the sky and swore, turning the horse sharply back towards the palace. “Hold on, azeezi.”

  “What is it?”

  “Look.” He nodded heavenwards. “A storm is coming.”

  She blinked up at the sky, seeing only blue clouds. Oh, there were a few wisps of white. “I don’t…”

  “Trust me.” He pulled her closer to his body and sped them up, making the horse move faster than the wind, whipping them across the dessert. It began to rain when they were still some distance from the grounds of the palace, and the bird flew lower, closer, constantly watchful. The rain fell in thick splats at first, fat and weighty, pressing against her legs, her head, the horse, the ground. She watched as the earth beneath them became pock-marked by the determined force of the weather.

  It was different to in Australia. Not the same smell of electricity and the water was cold, bringing instant relief. It was also fast. By the time Khalifa reached the garden near the palace, the ground had inches of water on it. He brought the horse to a halt near the side of the palace, hopping down easily and then reaching for her. His hands curved around her hips. She was drenched. He placed her on the ground with a gentleness that took her breath away.

  “Go!” There was nothing soft about the command though
. His eyes locked to hers with white-hot intensity. “Go inside.”

  “But you’re…”

  “I’m going to stable him,” he reached for the reins.

  “You’ll get wet.”

  His smile was breathtaking. “It’s too late for that.”

  But Kylie didn’t want to be parted from him. Something wonderful had been wrapping around them and she was reluctant to let it go. To drop the chains that had begun to bind them.

  “Go.” A quieter instruction this time, but no less urgent.

  She nodded, turning, about to run towards the palace door, where the four guards still stood. But he caught her wrist and pulled her back against his chest, the kiss an instant, heady rush of certainty. He kissed her with need, he kissed her with heat. She melted against him, her body weakened by all that he offered.

  “Go.” But he kissed her still, even when he knew he needed to pull back and put space between them. He kissed her, his fingers splayed against her back, holding her to him, so that she could feel all of him, through the wetness of their clothes. Rain pounded them, but they were too wet to notice. Too caught up, as well; so in the moment of passion that the outside world had ceased to matter.

  With a noise of frustration, compelled finally by common sense, he broke the kiss, clasping her chin between his finger and thumb, tilting her head to his. “You must go, before you dissolve into a puddle.”

  Oh, but she already was. Couldn’t he tell?

  The storm raged around him and Khalifa stared out at it, his arms crossed, a frown on his face. She was only a room away. He could be with her in minutes.

  But danger seared his soul.

  Danger in the way she’d laughed with him, smiled at him, seemed to so completely understand him.

  There was danger in the way his body had tightened with a need to protect her. Seeing her on the edge of the garden with his bird overhead, knowing her to be so vulnerable. She had been manipulated by those who should have loved her most. She had become a pawn to them at the moment of conception. He felt an ache of vulnerability for the child who’d buried her parents and shaped her life after their loss. Who’d lived her life as a tribute to their loss!

  Didn’t she realise she was part of a greater plan? She spoke of fate and destiny; but these mattered not when choices were made.

  Imagining her life if she’d married Fayez Haddad – knowing how close she’d come to doing exactly that – showed more danger, for it infuriated Khalifa and burned him with rage.

  There was danger in the way he’d wanted to talk to her, to tell her about his secrets and his needs. Danger in the way he wanted to learn hers.

  His wife was not for that. He didn’t want to get to know her – the woman who would have sold herself to Fayez. He didn’t want to encourage her to care for him. Romance, love, affection, these were all foolish distractions and he had already been distracted by them once in his life. Losing Selena had damned near demented him for a time.

  No, he hadn’t married Kylie for any warm and fuzzy reason.

  She was a means to an end and that end was revenge. Avenging Selena’s pain in the only way left open to him –he wouldn’t let his mind wander. He wouldn’t let this become about Kylie – about Kylie’s needs. Nor his need for Kylie. Sex was one thing. Any other form of intimacy was not on his agenda.

  Chapter 10

  SHE THOUGHT HE WASN’T going to come to her. Somewhere between two and three in the morning, she gave up waiting, and let her eyes drift shut. And it was only an hour or so after that his kiss woke her, his lips gentle on hers, his body a weight she craved like no other. Her arms twisted around his neck and she pulled him down, aching to feel him, needing his weight, his dominance, him. All of him.

  He made love to her as she wanted; as she needed, but then disappeared.

  It was the same the next night, and the next. For a month, every night he visited her room and made her body tremble with desire, and then he would leave with a single kiss, locking the door behind him.

  It took her three weeks to realise that was what he was doing. The small noise hadn’t meant anything to her at first but then, one night, after he’d left, frustrations had nibbled at her mind and she’d given into them, finally deciding to go and speak to him.

  And she’d found the door locked.

  The inequity of his having access to her room without reciprocating was instantly unpalatable to her, but when she brought it up the next night, he simply laughed. “You do not need to come to me, surely? You can’t want more than this?” And he’d thrust into her, driving any thoughts from her mind but pleasure and power. Hers, and his.

  But finally, a month after they’d been in the desert together, Kylie felt something inside of her snap. Her body was covered in perspiration, but her heart was cold.

  “Khalifa?”

  He was already withdrawing from her, pushing away, and she felt the familiar surge of panic at the realization that soon he would be gone.

  “Sleep, azeezi.” And it was kind and it was considerate but it was also like a red rag to a bull. Kylie pushed out of bed so that she was standing, stroking her silk nightgown down over her hips. Modesty was a ridiculous concern in that moment, given the way he’d just possessed her, but she didn’t want that side of them to overtake her. She needed to speak to him, away from the fog of sensual heat and need, the awakening he’d stirred in her that at times made Kylie wonder if she’d lost her senses.

  “No.”

  He paused, in the midst of running a hand through his hair, his body gloriously on display for her. She forced her gaze to stay locked to his face.

  “No?”

  “We need to… talk.” The word was insipid and she spoke it quietly, then cleared her throat, internally shaking herself to be braver than that; to be better than that.

  “About what?”

  “This.” She waved a hand towards the bed, her cheeks flushing when she saw the state of wild abandon in the sheets and pillows. “I’m sick of it.”

  “You are … sick of it?” Disbelief etched in his features and she groaned.

  “Not… it,” she said softly, her cheeks flaming a darker red. “I’m sick of it being so one-sided.”

  “It is hardly that,” he said softly. “You are not the only one enjoying yourself in bed, if that is what worries you?”

  She gasped, her eyes showing her frustration. “No, it’s not. God, you’re arrogant! I don’t mean the sex is one sided, or the pleasure for that matter.” She bit down on her lip and looked away. Though their making love was always dictated by him. He was in charge. In control. Just once she’d have loved to sneak up on his sleeping form and take him in her mouth; to wake him up by kissing his body all over.

  “So what is it, then?”

  His impatience fueled her fire. “This isn’t enough.” She shook her head, frustrated at her own inability to express her thoughts. When she was alone, in the day, she could conjure up a thousand and one things she wanted to shout at him – to throw in his face. But faced with the hulking figure of her husband – the naked figure of her husband – words were deserting her. “I don’t just want you to come into my room and make love to me each night.”

  He didn’t argue the distinction between having sex and making love. There was no point. Neither of them had any experience with the latter – the act of two bodies coming together as a sign of adoration and appreciation. Rather than a lust-fueled, primal possession that they were both seeking, night after night.

  Instead, he took the easy loophole in her argument.

  “You don’t?”

  Her eyes were pleading when they met with his. “Not without … it’s not fair. I can’t ever come to you. I don’t just mean at night for … for … this,” again, she pointed at the traitorous bed with its evidence of passion so clear for them to see. “I mean that I don’t see you except here. This isn’t a marriage.”

  He balled his hand into a fist, disbelief raw in his gut. “And what did you e
xpect? Roses and deep and meaningful conversations?”

  She pulled away from him as though he’d slapped her. It only angered him more.

  “The man you were going to marry would not have given you that.”

  “I’m sure he would have given me more than an hour of his time each day.”

  His laugh was a sound rich with disbelief. “You saw for yourself what he is capable of. Are you actually saying you would prefer to be with him, even knowing his violent temper?”

  “No,” she shook her head, lifting a hand to her temples and massaging them. “I’m not. But I can’t do this, Khalifa. Every time you touch me, it’s so perfect. In that moment, this feels real. And then it’s over and you go and I’m forced to accept that I’m married to a stranger. I don’t want us to just be about sex.”

  He said nothing; his face was unreadable, his eyes closed-books, so dark she felt as though she’d stumbled into the depths of midnight just by looking at him.

  “You have spent your life preparing for this,” he said without sympathy. “You arrived in Argenon prepared to marry a man about which you know nothing.”

  “That’s not true,” the words were croaky. “I’d met you. And I believed you were to be my groom…”

  “But had I not come to Sydney?” He pushed, his eyes narrowing. “Had I not interfered? You would have been brought to this country, dressed like a whore at a pithaki for all to ogle and you would have married that son of a bitch! A man who would have made your every moment a misery. So do not complain to me!”

  She sucked in another breath, seeking air, needing something.

  Her face had drained completely of colour – she was as white as the sheets she’d been laid against minutes earlier.

  His outburst kept firing through her brain – statement after statement exploding like a row of bombs. “What’s a pithaki?” She whispered, the words tortured from her soul.

  “A brothel.”

  She winced, spinning away from him and moving towards the doors to the balcony. It was pitch black outside, but still not as dark as her husband’s eyes; her husband’s soul.