She wished for a moment that she was his lover, not his wife.
The oil was making her nightgown cling to her body as she climbed in bed beside him.
‘Don’t be nervous.’
‘I’m not,’ Layla said, except she was shivering.
He kissed her. She felt his lips press on hers and his tongue slide in, and she tried to kiss him back, her mouth moving, copying his.
As a princess there had been no kisses, no anything, and she ached for more experience, felt embarrassed by her innocence. She couldn’t enjoy his kiss, could only feel the long, solid length of his manhood pressing into her thigh, and the size of him made her dizzy. She prayed that he would oil her.
She lifted her nightdress.
‘There is no rush…’ He pulled his head back; he wanted to keep kissing her, for her to relax, for her to at least try and enjoy this royal duty.
‘I would prefer it to be over,’ came her stilted voice.
So would he, then, Xavian thought—while wondering if it would be poor form to summon a mistress on his honeymoon.
He loved sex. Too much was never enough for Xavian, and he was always ready. But this hard-nosed businesswoman, who had come to his bed for such a clinical mating, was nothing like the lush female he had fed and prepared. Frankly, if that was her wish, he wanted it over too!
He was considerate. He dipped his fingers in the gold dish by the bed and smeared her tender pink flesh. Feeling the sweet warmth, he hardened further, his finger gliding past her pearl, his duty done,
Layla saw what had already appeared ominously large grow some more, and her throat was tight. She could feel his hand down there, and she saw him, so hard and erect she almost felt sick. He saw her looking, saw that mix of terror and fascination, and his finger lingered, pressed her pretty place and stroked it for a moment, felt the hard nub of her clitoris and stroked it some more.
She wanted to close her legs, didn’t want him touching her. It felt wrong and it just heightened her nervousness—this sex, this touching, this sharing that he would later do with someone else!
‘Now you will oil me.’ He liked stroking her, liked the feel of her moisture meeting his fingers, and she could feel the small, insistent pads of pressure that made her stomach flurry as she dipped her shaking fingers in the bowl.
Baja hadn’t warned her of this, hadn’t warned her that her fingers should be silky and oily too. She didn’t want to touch him there, but perhaps it would help her later. She made herself do it, her fingers tentative, a quick sheen of oil on his long length, and averted her eyes from his gargoylic impressive proportions. But involuntarily her gaze returned. It felt so different from how it looked—which was hard and angry. But the skin beneath her fingers was soft, like rich velvet.
‘More…’
Still he was stroking her. Her stomach felt heavy, her thighs did too, and she didn’t like it—didn’t like these strange feelings. She wanted her more familiar control, so she ended this pointless diversion—she was at her most fertile; the wedding had been arranged around her cycle. The way she responded to him unnerved her—the unfamiliar reaction of her senses, the strange weakening that he wrought in her mind. It was time to be brave, time for it to be over, time to reclaim her head.
‘Now.’ She moved his hand from her private place and lay down. ‘Do it now.’
Xavian was tired of her games. He had felt her unfurl for a second, yet she refused to relent, to enjoy his caress.
He had hoped for more from a wife, but had expected less.
Shame, though, because she was beautiful—her body full and ripe, her hair dark. And those lips could kiss if they would just learn; that body could know pleasure if she would only allow it.
‘Take off your nightgown…’ Xavian said, because he needed something to help him along. She did as she was told and it certainly helped that she was so good-looking, Xavian thought, as he lowered himself on to her and she duly parted her legs—and all help was gratefully received as he did his duty with this beautiful plank of wood.
Xavian was nervous.
For the first time ever with a woman there was just a beat of trepidation as he nudged her entrance without the familiar barrier. He pictured her body to keep himself hard, and lowered his head for a moment to suck on her breast, to taste her ripe flesh for his own benefit. Yet still as he tried to coax a response from her, there was none.
Layla, now the moment had come, was terrified. She could not show him that, of course—could never show anyone her private fears. She was Queen: always in control, always assured.
He could feel the tears on her face as his cheek pressed next to hers. He was nudging at her entrance, and really he knew she wanted it over, that despite her silent tears this had to be done, and he was angry.
Angry at her refusal to even try and enjoy it, angry at her martyred ways, at her urging him to just do it when he had wanted to kiss, had wanted pleasure not just for himself but for her.
A rare tenderness crept in at the last moment—it wasn’t just the salt of her tears that moved him, nor her beauty that made him question his duty, it was her.
That glimpse of her he had seen at his table, and just for a moment in his bed.
But, more than that, it was the woman who had marched into his room and told him to do better that intrigued him. She had insisted on better from him, and he wanted better for her.
That bristling, angry woman, he realised, was nervous, and for Xavian there was rare guilt too.
She had kept herself for him.
Of course she had. There could be no other way. Without question he must take a virgin as his bride.
But by his refusal to commit for years he had denied her this pleasure. Denied her comfort, denied her solace up until this point. For Xavian, that was all that sex was. A place where he climbed out of his mind, where he escaped, where he lived for a moment, an hour, a night.
He could give that to her too—if she would just relent.
He had a brief glimpse of a different future—a future that could be hers if she would just take it. A place that was for them. He wanted her to see it too, wanted duty and conformity to vanish, wanted the solace he was finding tonight to spread to her.
‘It doesn’t have to be like this.’ At the last minute he faltered, tasted her tears with his lips and tried to breathe life into a pointless death. ‘It does not have to be duty.’ And then his mouth pressed her salty cheek and tried to offer comfort—except she turned her face away.
She could not explain her tears, except to tell him that Baja’s words had stung.
What was the point of intimacy, of giving herself to him, when there would be others?
‘Your lovers can writhe for you,’ Layla choked. ‘Let them be the ones to tell you how wonderful you are—I just want it over.’
‘Why would I take a lover?’ Xavian said into her ear. He was in just a little way, could feel the resistance of her innocence despite her bold and snarling demeanour.
‘Because that is what you will do…I will be in Haydar; you will be here…’
Ah, so she was jealous already. Xavian smiled in triumph, yet something inside him that sought comfort in her assumption that he would take a lover was shifting as he held her in his arms.
She was a queen.
He held a woman who was on his level.
And not just in title. She challenged him, and curiously Xavian wanted more of her.
All of her, perhaps?
Which meant she needed more of him.
‘Why would we need lovers…’ his mouth was on the shell of her ear ‘…if we satisfy each other…?’ He had taken himself from her centre now, and his one hand was playing with her bottom, the other working at her breast. Then he moved his head to her nipple, sucked it again, and she stared down at it, watched as his tongue flicked and his lips blew. ‘We have a fleet of planes at our disposal, and there is always…’ he looked up, black eyes glinting ‘…the phone.’
She ga
ve a shocked giggle at the thought of whispering on the phone to him whilst in her bed at night, startled by her excitement at the games they could play, at the fact that they could make their own lives, that Baja’s ways and the ways of old didn’t have to be so.
‘It is my duty to satisfy you, Layla.’ He took her breast deep in his mouth and suckled hard, till she squirmed in heady pleasure. ‘And, despite my earlier display, I do take my duties seriously—you will not want to stray…’
‘Stray?’
‘If I am less than a husband should be…’ Xavian said, smug in the knowledge of his prowess, dragging his tongue lower as she shivered beneath him, licking the little butterfly that had been painted for his pleasure and feeling the soft curve of her stomach on his cheek.
Layla realised that he was giving the same rules to her! She knew that it happened—her sister Noor was married to a prince who was impotent for women and Noor was allowed to take a discreet lover…It was different being married, but her sister was a princess; Layla was Queen—why would she need a lover?
He was back now, his fingers stroking her more firmly as still he kissed her stomach, telling her with his hands and mouth that it was her right to be fulfilled—taking her to a new world, sharing with her the secret that this, this was her right. And then his head moved down and he kissed a different butterfly, and he knew that she was his.
How he loved women.
How he loved feeling them unfurl in his hands. But his pleasure had never been greater as Layla’s cynicism melted beneath his lips. His tongue flicked her clitoris and he could feel the tremor in her thighs, hear the little sighs that told him she was ready. But he wanted his kiss—wanted that mouth that had teased him with fruit, that had spoken such brittle words, to be soft under his. So he kissed her again, and this time she kissed him back.
He chased her tongue with his, caught it and sucked on it, then took her lips and sucked them too. And then he kissed her so hard and so deep, her breasts flattened by his chest, her legs coiling around his, his fingers lost in knots of her hair. He almost forgot her innocence as his body led him into her, to her unique gift, because Layla was desperate for him, willing him on. He pressed into her guarded place and she was ready for him—urgently, desperately ready…She sobbed as he seared into her, and aghast at his own ferocity, at the fear that he had been too urgent, he lifted his head, saw her tears and berated himself—except she was unleashed beneath him and it was as if she were free, as if somehow he had set her free, because her lips were on his cheek now, her fingers pressing him in, slowly at first, but with every tentative thrust she begged him in deeper, with every move of his body she rose for more.
‘It is over…’ Baja had been pacing, but hearing her mistress’s cry she sat down with the handmaidens, proud of her Queen and glad for her that this long night was over. Except the cries continued, and the handmaidens were sitting with their head lowered, the youngest’s face a burning blush, as Baja attempted to reassure her. ‘It will be over soon…’
Layla wanted it never to be over.
While having been told what to expect, still she had privately dreamt how this night might be—but neither Baja’s dour predictions, nor the flightiest of her own dreams came close to the bliss of reality! Awkward kisses, clumsy motions had been replaced by this rush—a rush of sensations, feelings, of Xavian sweeping her into this unfamiliar place where all she was was herself, a better self, an unguarded self, a woman in his arms. And he held her as he filled her, brought from her involuntary noises, and the bliss of him inside her was unsurpassed—until the next moment. For just as she accepted the new sensation of Xavian inside her things changed again. As he moved within her she felt swathed, wrapped, cosseted, and even at her most vulnerable, with him inside her, his skin sliding over hers, his breath harsh and ragged in her ear, even as he took her to a new, dangerous and unfamiliar place, she felt absolutely secure. Her thighs ached, her stomach pulled tight, and his cheek was next to hers. All she could hear was his breath as he moved slowly, and though there was no yardstick for her to measure by, there was a need now in Layla for Xavian to move faster, for him to match the sudden urgency of her body. She felt her hips rising in demand, yet he refused to relent—if anything he moved slower, deeper, as her body pleaded for him to join her.
His entrance had hurt, a brief, searing hurt, yet now, as he moved slowly, it was a different hurt, almost an ache. Like a kiss to thin air she said his name, pleading when she had never had to beg before. Layla hardly recognised her own voice, this sob, this whimper from usually assured lips, but she cried out as a rush of heat flared through her body. Her hands dug into his back as she demanded that he join her, and yet he did not, even as she gave in and shuddered beneath him. Her cries went unmatched; he was seemingly impervious to the writhing of her body, and still he moved within…
Triumph coursed through him as he rocked deep within her, as he felt her dissolve beneath him, heard the cries of her assent. And he wanted to join her, to tip into oblivion, but the climb to the summit was wondrous. Here the air was clearer, the sounds more vivid, the colours brighter, and he wanted to linger, to find the answer to what would happen if he stayed, if he lingered, if he ventured on to an uncharted place…
He kissed her for sustenance, took her weary, shocked lips in his and confirmed his intent. And then he told her, stared into the lusty black of her pupils and showed her a different way.
‘This is how it could be.’
She had thought her body spent, yet it was nowhere near. The languorous, slow lovemaking he had teased her with before was replaced, and the urgent, demanding pressure she had sought earlier was given to her now. He was relentless, his arms wrapped around her, his face smothering hers, kissing her eyes, her mouth, her face, her ears, driving deep into her as her hips rose to a rhythm that matched his. And she was crying and pleading, because it was as close to the edge as she ever wanted to venture, yet she wanted to be there all the same. Scared to jump, to fall, she wanted to roll back at the last minute, to save herself—except Xavian had just gone, his body moving fast and then stilling as he released, and it ripped through her like lightning. She had an image then, as if he were offering her his hand, and instead of rolling away she took it, jumped with him to a place of freedom where she could scream out his name as her body spasmed while he emptied into her, her feminine muscles pulsing in perfect time with his. And then he caught her, with soft, deep strokes that brought her slowly back to her senses, that soothed her twitching body to a new state of calm.
A peaceful calm like one she had never witnessed.
All the heat was fading, their glistening bodies cooling as he kissed her back to the world, and then he said it again.
‘This is how it could be.’
CHAPTER THREE
XAVIAN rarely slept.
Of course he slept—it would be impossible not to and live—but even in sleep part of him remained alert, watching out for the dreams that plagued him and staving them off. He was too proud to let his lovers see his distress, but lovers were easily disposed of. Not so easily his wife on their wedding night.
He had been determined to remain vigilant even in sleep, deciding he would rest properly during his days in the desert. He would sleep deeply for a while in the shelter of a canyon he knew well so that he could stay on guard by night—yet for the first time in many nights, and certainly for the first time with a woman in his bed, sleep—real sleep—overcame him.
He could smell her scent, feel her soft body beside him, but it was more than that. Their lovemaking had been like a balm—never before had he felt so replete—and though he had held her in the crook of his arm, though his intention had been just to doze, his subconscious dictated otherwise…
It beckoned him onwards, and foolishly he followed, but then sense took over and he resisted for a moment, fought to open his eyes. It beckoned again. It was actually a compliment that he turned his back to her—that for the first time with a woman Xavian tr
uly rested.
There was the soft sound of bells, the comfort of her presence, and this strange beckoning for him to follow, which he did…
He found himself in a palace.
Not his palace. Perhaps, Xavian thought, it was Haydar? But no, as he stared at the pictures on the walls somehow he knew this was not a dream, but a memory.
He could hear the unfamiliar sound of true uninhibited laughter, and it came from a child that looked like him.
There was a bird!
A tiny silver bird had swooped into the palace and all was in chaos.
He was running, laughing, cheering in delight as he chased it through the corridors.
Glee was filling him as the maids ran with brooms and tried to corner it, but the bird just soared, flapping its wings and swooping, taunting them almost, and how it made him laugh—a laugh that came from within, a surge of joy filling him with pure joy, an innocent pleasure that warmed and flooded his usually cold veins.
An unadulterated joy such as he had never known.
But he felt it now.
Even as he was scolded.
He could feel the gap his baby teeth had left while he grinned at a face that should not be familiar, though his soul recognised her as his mother as she told him to go outside.
He loved this dream—he loved this place, this palace, where children were still laughing.
He loved the feel of Layla’s fingers on his shoulders and moving down his arms, the whisper of her breath on his back as she stayed with him while he dreamed on.
There was a beach, with water and fun and the sheer freedom of the ocean, and still the feel of Layla’s gentle fingers on his wrist—and then innocence ended. That safe, childish world was terminated as he met for the first time with fear. Real fear that ripped through his body and stole his youth in a matter of seconds.
There was blood in the water and hell in his soul, and his heart raced and his mind willed him back to the real world. He was stuck in a dream and he insisted he awoke—because the sheets would soon be drenched with his sweat, and he knew in a moment he would scream.
Wedlocked: Banished Sheikh, Untouched Queen Page 4
