Undone by the Sultan's Touch

by Caitlin Crews

  “I prefer your hair down,” he said, his voice a low rumble, and he liked the flush that warmed her skin at the sound. Why was it so hard to maintain his control around this woman? He knew what the boundaries were. He knew he had to tempt her to fall, not push her over the edge. He knew what he was doing. “I like to see the light in it.”

  “Khaled.” She had to struggle to keep her voice even, he could hear. It was more of a struggle every day, and he liked that, too. Her hands moved to her hair, then dropped to her lap. “You can’t.”

  “This is Jhurat, is it not?” He was teasing her, and he liked the way she melted into it, as though she wanted to resist him, yet couldn’t.

  “You know perfectly well it is.”

  “And am I not the Sultan of Jhurat?”

  “That’s the rumor,” she said drily, making him laugh. He hadn’t expected that she’d amuse him—and, he reminded himself, it didn’t matter if she did. It was beside the point.

  Though it makes this that much sweeter, a traitorous little voice whispered, as if he was like other men. As if he had choices.

  As if she did.

  “Then I believe I can do as I like.” He shrugged. “It pleases me to give you things, Cleo.” This time when he reached out to her, he traced a gentle pattern from her temple to her cheek, something hot moving in him when she trembled. “Don’t you want to please me?” He didn’t wait for her answer, even though he knew what she’d say. It was too soon. “Be careful how you answer that. There are laws.”

  She laughed, as he’d intended, and he liked that, too.

  The American was his. As planned.

  * * *

  “You realize you will break her heart,” Nasser said one evening after being forced to interrupt one of the increasingly intimate dinners Khaled had insisted Cleo share with him.

  Khaled shot him a cool look as they walked through the palace’s wide, ornate halls toward an impromptu meeting of his security council to focus on yet another one of Talaat’s attempts to stir up trouble in the provinces.

  “I will note your concern for her,” he said as they went, his voice more clipped than it should have been. As if he cared, when he knew he couldn’t. “In the meantime you can comfort yourself with the knowledge that I know precisely how far I need to push her. And where I must stop.”

  “I only wonder if it is necessary to go quite so far,” Nasser said in that same calm way of his. “Perhaps there is a kinder way to achieve your ends.”

  “There is no power on this earth more motivating than falling in love,” Khaled said grimly, and told himself that he felt nothing. “It can make the most practical among us do precisely what we know we shouldn’t. And then, soon enough, it disappears when reality sets in. That is the time for kindness.”

  You feel nothing, he barked at himself. No twist of regret, no sorrow for what might have been. No yearning for all the ways he could have lost himself in the glory of her instant, artless response to him, were he a different man.

  Because the moment Cleo had let Amira into her car, she’d thrust herself into the middle of a chess game Khaled had no choice but to play—and play to win. And he would.

  “The only greater power is that of love scorned,” was his friend’s reply. “As I think you know all too well.”

  “Cleo is not my mother.” Khaled rubbed his hands over his face, annoyed that this was even a topic of conversation when the country hung in the balance, when he was only doing what he must in the most expedient manner possible. “My little mouse is not going to rise up one day and surprise us with her claws, then expedite her own destruction. That’s not who she is.”

  Nasser inclined his head and moved to open the door to the briefing room.

  “And more importantly, I am not my father,” Khaled found himself saying, dark and furious. Unbearably defensive. “I know what I’m doing.”

  “As you say, Your Excellency,” Nasser murmured deferentially.

  Which was, Khaled knew, no response at all.

  But he had no choice.

  And even if he’d had a choice, he knew he’d do this the exact same way. That was the thing that stuck in him, making Nasser’s words echo too loudly inside him, making him feel hollow. Because he was a selfish man, when all was said and done. Exactly as his father had been. When he was alone, when no one could see him or try to read the expressions on his face, he accepted that.

  But it didn’t change a thing.

  At least his father hadn’t meant to do what he’d done. Khaled would have no such excuse. He would protect Cleo from the worst of it, from his own mother’s fate—but he couldn’t bring himself to save her from himself.

  Khaled knew what that made him. A monster of his own design.

  Some nights later they strolled together through the moonlit courtyard. Cleo looked like quicksilver in the moonlight, very nearly ethereal, and when she smiled at him over her shoulder as she argued with him about some foolish book he’d told her was pointless, it clutched at him.

  He’d made her inarguably beautiful with only a different wardrobe and two weeks. It was high time he made her his, no matter what kind of monster that made him.

  She hadn’t put her hair up since the day he’d told her he liked it down. She’d stopped fighting the clothes he gave her, the trinkets he left for her to wear. And he found that the more he watched her and the more she bloomed from an awkward, androgynous Westerner into a woman possessed of the studied elegance he preferred, this delicate creature who frowned at him and talked back to him, the more he thought she was the perfect choice. The world would consider her a great beauty, he knew, with her natural slenderness and innate grace, and it would make them sigh over this romance he was shaping in precisely the way he wanted.

  And he would always remember this. Here. Now. When she was half in love with him already. When she was lost in him and greedy for his touch. When she didn’t have the slightest idea what their future would look like.

  It surprised him how very deep and powerful that pleasure ran, so atavistic, so rudimentary, it was almost indistinguishable from need. From the kind of hunger that he couldn’t indulge—the kind that would wreck not only the both of them, but all his carefully crafted plans besides.

  He needed her to teeter on the edge, he reminded himself sternly. Not to fall.

  “You aren’t listening to me,” she said then, rolling her eyes in a deeply disrespectful manner that should have offended him, yet didn’t. “That’s considered rude in both our cultures, I think you’ll find.”

  You will break her heart, Nasser had warned him. But then, Khaled had never claimed to be a good man. Only a determined one.

  And, oh, such a selfish one.

  “Have you become so brave, then?” he asked into the silvery moonlight, lazy and flirtatious, ignoring the darkness beneath that he didn’t care to acknowledge. “That you would dare to scold a sultan?”

  He reached over and took her hands in his, and that heat in him deepened, caught fire. He hadn’t expected to want her, particularly not with that jagged edge too much like raw need, but Khaled told himself that he could control it.

  Because he had to control it. Because he was not his father.

  “I dare,” she said, but her voice was little more than a shimmer in the dark, and he smiled.

  “Come here,” he said, and tugged her to him.

  She came easily, as he’d expected. Her breath came short and hard, as though she was running flat-out, and the moon made her eyes gleam, wide and filled with longing—and it wasn’t in him to resist her.

  He didn’t try.

  “Kiss me,” he said, a silken order against the night. “If you are so daring.”

  He could feel her tremble against him, and he liked it. She tilted her head back, and he liked the fire in her golden gaze,
and the hunger that very nearly matched his. He wanted to taste her, suddenly, as if he’d never wanted anything else.

  As if he wasn’t as in control as he wanted to believe he was.

  Cleo shifted up onto her toes, bracing herself against his chest, and he liked that too much to worry about control. She was feminine, elegant and sweet in the dresses she wore for him, her hair a tempting fall all around her simply because he liked it. She smelled like jasmine, sweet and soft and his. His.

  First he would taste her. Then he’d control this—her—the way he knew he should have done all along.

  Cleo shifted closer. He held her there, waiting, drawing it out, until he didn’t know which one of them was more needy. Just one taste, he told himself.

  He let her lean into him, against him, pressing into his chest. And that dark, stalking thing inside him roared, predatory and hungry—

  And then Cleo went up on her toes, put her sweet mouth to his, and everything simply exploded.

  CHAPTER THREE

  DESIRE ROCKETED THROUGH Khaled like a searing comet, sudden and fierce and stunning. It was an ambush. It burned him alive, nearly taking him out at the knees, nearly dropping him to the stones below.

  He’d never felt anything like this. It was a bone-deep, all-encompassing madness. It changed everything. It made his heart slam against his chest, made his blood a sweet, unbearable fire in his veins, made him hard and desperate, greedy for more.

  More of her lips, her scent, her softness. The wonder of her slender body pressed against him like a live wire. More of that humming awareness that tipped over into pounding, dizzying need. More of the shocked, excited noises she made in her throat, the lushness of her lips, the slick drag of her mouth over his.

  Her kiss was a revelation and a curse, and he stopped thinking, stopped plotting. He forgot who he was, why he was doing this. He stopped playing his games, stopped teasing her, stopped worrying about strategy.

  He felt primitive. Alive. Desperate. One hand rose to tangle in her hair, holding her head where he wanted it. The other slid to her hip and pulled her close, tighter.

  And then he simply took her.

  He feasted on her mouth, losing himself in the slide of her tongue against his, the perfection of that mouth of hers he hadn’t understood was so tempting, so blatantly erotic. She tasted like honey and made him long to taste her everywhere.

  Made him long to simply lift her against him, part her delicate thighs and take her where they stood. The need in his blood was like a song, a velvet command.

  The kiss was carnal and hot. Khaled felt like a glutton and a god, and she was his. His. Yielding to him and testing him, tasting him and arousing him in turn, and he couldn’t seem to get enough.

  Never enough, something hissed inside him, dazed and deliriously intrigued. Never enough of this. Of her.

  This was no lazy dance toward sensuality, as he’d intended. This was a great deal more than a taste. This was fire. Need. A dark, disastrous blaze of hunger that Khaled couldn’t control, and while he lost himself in the exquisite feel of her, the addictive taste, he didn’t care the way he knew he should.

  The way some part of him imagined he would—but he shoved that aside.

  He didn’t know when they moved, when he did, but he took her with him as he sat on one of the stone benches. He pulled her across his lap, her knees on either side of him, the soft heat of her pressed tight against the hardest part of him.

  Cleo sighed, and the yearning in the sound only made him hungrier. Moonlight bathed her in silver, making shadows of her lovely eyes, but not hiding that heat. That need. The starkness of the shocking desire that he could no more deny in either of them than he could rise up and fly away.

  He tugged her mouth back to his and it was the same hot punch. The same wildfire, pulling tight inside him, demanding he take her. Right now. Right here. Again and again, until the spell she cast was broken. Or until she cried out his name and her need in that voice of hers gone husky with passion. Or until this madness killed them both, and he didn’t think he’d mind the dying.

  He used his mouth to follow the line of her jaw, then tasted the delicate skin she bared when she tipped her head back, allowing him access. He tasted her collarbone, then moved lower, until he reached the bodice of her dress.

  Khaled didn’t hesitate. He’d always preferred larger breasts on his women and yet when he peeled the fabric away, the sight of hers, small and plump at once, delicate curves and taut nipples, almost undid him.

  “Khaled,” she whispered, a broken sound, honeyed and rough, like gas thrown on open flame.

  He slid his hand over her left breast, abrading the tight peak with his palm, watching her expressive face as her eyes drifted shut and she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth.

  She was a wonder. She was his. He increased the pressure and her hips bucked against him, a rocking, rolling ecstasy that shot fire into every part of him and made her breath catch audibly. A rosy sort of flush stole over her, almost as if...

  He couldn’t resist.

  Khaled bent his head to her other breast and licked over her nipple, then pulled the proud crest into his mouth. Hard.

  And Cleo broke apart in his arms, shuddering and sighing, flushed red and wild, and he understood that he was in deep trouble with this woman, after all.

  * * *

  When Cleo came back to herself, she felt weak and boneless—and ashamed, slumped as she was in Khaled’s arms. He’d shifted her, holding her in his arms rather than astride him, and she could sense the difference and the distance in him at once.

  What must he think of her? That she was a wanton slut, to start. That she was so oversexed she came apart at a lick against the completely wrong part of her body. She shuddered, appalled at herself—and mourning this glorious dream he’d allowed her to live over the past two weeks that she’d no doubt tarnished with her horrendous lack of restraint.

  And then, as swiftly, she was furious. Almost blindingly so.

  “I’m sorry,” she bit out into the night, because she didn’t dare look at his face. “Is there a ‘no touching the sultan’ rule I didn’t know about? You should have said so.”

  “Do not ever apologize for your responsiveness,” he said, his voice cool but dry, too, as if he was amused by her outburst. “Or for falling apart in my arms. These are gifts.”

  Cleo struggled to sit up and he let her, but embarrassment pumped through her as she pulled away from him, making her feel obvious and strange. She could still feel the magic of his touch spinning around inside her, making her skin too tight and her head fuzzy, but she concentrated on straightening her dress as if, once she was appropriately covered, it would erase the whole thing. Make everything right and wonderful again.

  Make her something other than humiliated.

  But her body had other ideas. Her nipples were like white-hot lights, blasting her with leftover sensation, and between her legs, she ached. She ached.

  “I didn’t mean for that to happen,” she said. Stiff and cold.

  He shifted on the stone bench beside her and the moon high above them made him gleam like poured metal, as though he was a statue of himself. All of that power, that corded strength, and she’d finally felt it beneath her hands. Her palms itched with the memory, the imprint. She thought of his demanding mouth on hers and something within her melted and then ran hot.

  “How many lovers have you had?” he asked, and she jolted as if he’d doused her with ice water.

  “What?” But she thought only of Brian, who she’d rather die than claim as a lover. Especially now.

  “How many?”

  “I don’t want to answer that,” she said, slowly but distinctly. “Or think it’s any of your business. Why would you ask?”

  Khaled only looked at her, for such a long
time that she began to feel too aware of the cool air against her still-flushed skin again. So long that she crossed her arms over her chest and told herself the cold she felt came from the temperature of the night air, not from him.

  And then, as her temper ebbed, she found herself answering him anyway.

  “There’s no answer I can give to that question that will make this moment anything but awkward. More awkward, I mean,” she said, and his lips twitched, the way they did when she made him laugh.

  “Luckily, awkwardness has yet to claim a single death, as far as I know.”

  “How many lovers have you had?” she asked instead of answering him.

  “I’ve had my share,” he replied, that strange intensity in his cool gaze. “But I’m afraid I cannot accept that answer from you, Cleo.”

  “That sounds suspiciously like a nasty double standard,” she said, striving for a light tone. And failing.

  He shrugged in that way of his that reminded her how powerful he was. “It is. But I have never claimed to be particularly liberated and I still wish to know.”

  He said it as if knowing such personal details about her life were his right. And there was something about that air of authority, that tone of command in his cool voice, that made her long to do as he asked. Despite the huge part of her that didn’t want to do it.

  “One,” Cleo said, grudgingly. “We met in college. We were supposed to get married.” She scowled at him. “We didn’t.”

  “When?”

  Cleo told herself she only imagined that tightness in his voice, that stillness in the way he sat there, watching her. Waiting for her answer.

  She didn’t want to say another word. But it seemed that her mouth obeyed him all on its own.

  “Six months ago.”

  His dark eyes were hooded then, impossible to read. He reached over and tucked her hair behind her ear, and she had to fight off the urge to lean into his touch.

  “Ah,” he said. “You wanted more than him.”