For my own eyes only, he thought—with a fierce stab of possession.
‘Walk towards me,’ he said throatily.
She obeyed him, finding that it was impossible to do anything other than sway provocatively on a pair of red killer-heels so high that she felt as if she was on stilts. This is crazy, she told herself—but a wild and delicious excitement whirled her up as she saw the look of sheer admiration in his eyes. So what if it’s crazy? Why don’t you just do the sensible thing and enjoy it?
‘Like this?’ She sashayed towards him.
‘Yes,’ he breathed. ‘Exactly like that.’
But he had seen the play of emotions which crossed her face—the uncertainty and apprehension—and Malik was suddenly assailed by a terrible sensation of doubt. Was he wrong to be doing this? Taking the sweetly innocent and unspoilt Sorrel and playing these slow, sensual games with her? Was he corrupting her rather than broadening her education by teaching her how to delight a man and to delight herself at the same time? Knowing all the while that it could lead nowhere?
She reached him and gave a tentative smile as she flicked flaxen hair back over the gleaming silk of her shoulder. ‘Here I am, then,’ she whispered.
In that second she sounded so trusting—and so sweet—that the self-doubt threatened to overwhelm him. Until he reminded himself that if he were not doing this then someone else would be…The sharp spear of jealousy ruthlessly lanced the voice of his conscience.
Because if he didn’t have her—then someone else would!
He picked her up into his arms in a display of strength and domination as he began to carry her towards the bed, and Sorrel closed her eyes. This bit really was close to fantasy—the stuff of a thousand girlish dreams—but most of the dreams had stopped at the bedroom door, and now panic had entered the equation.
She was about to lose her virginity in the most matter-of-fact way possible—to a man she had always loved, but who could never return that love.
Suddenly she felt the soft mattress beneath her back as he put her down on it, and her eyes fluttered open as she stared up at him, reaching her fingertips up before she could stop herself, touching the hard contours of his face and the grazing rasp of his jaw. Was tenderness forbidden, along with coyness? she wondered as she saw him flinch.
‘Will it…hurt?’ she asked tentatively.
And Malik gave a small groan—recognising the trust implicit in her question. The same trust with which she had once let him put her on the back of the palace’s most feisty stallion, telling her that the only way to rid herself of fright was first to conquer it.
But this was a different Sorrel who lay on his bed—not the cute little girl who had been his ward for all those years. This was a grown-up Sorrel who was hell-bent on losing her virginity. Fiercely, he dispelled the memories of the past and concentrated on the glorious present—all soft, pale curves accentuated by sexy scarlet silk and lace—and he bent his mouth to kiss the tip of her nipple through her bra. ‘No,’ he said, his teeth teasing and grazing at the sensitised flesh. ‘It will not hurt.’
Sorrel shivered with a wave of ecstasy so acute that it almost hurt. ‘But I thought…’
He felt the rising tension in his own hard body. ‘Then don’t think,’ he urged, his voice harsh from the recognition of just how difficult this was going to be. ‘Thinking destroys pleasure, Sorrel—just feel.’
Her head fell back against the pillow as she did her best to concentrate on the waves of pleasure rather than the clear note of warning in his voice, which echoed round and round inside Sorrel’s head like a tune she’d heard on the radio and found impossible to forget. Was that because thinking made you want to ask questions which would drive you mad if they were ever answered honestly?
But nothing ever turned out the way you thought it would. In her innocence, Sorrel had thought she’d lose her virginity to Malik that warm, orange-scented evening in Madrid—but the reality of the night was quite different. He didn’t even undress her—well, not fully. Just reached round and unclipped the scarlet bra and then slowly removed it, flinging it carelessly to the floor as if it had been a rag.
He breathed out a long, pent-up sigh as her breasts were revealed, saying something soft in a word that Sorrel assumed was Kharastani, though she had never heard it used before.
‘What does that mean?’ she whispered, trying to forget that she was lying there in a nothing but a wispy little pair of scarlet panties.
But Malik shook his black head, his tongue snaking out over bone-dry lips as he drank in the creamy beauty of her skin and the rosy blush of each nipples. ‘It is not a word that a woman should ever use,’ he grated, and he touched one tip with his finger, circling it with a light touch and meeting the question in her eyes. ‘It means that you are ready to be shown the many paths which lead to pleasure,’ he relented, and his mouth softened with promise. ‘Ready to be loved.’
Sorrel closed her eyes to hide the sudden fear she felt. He meant make love, she told herself fiercely.
‘Why do you frown, Sorrel?’ he questioned softly.
She let her eyelids flutter open. How much should she tell him? How much of herself was it suitable for a woman to expose? Because suddenly the idea that she might lay her raw emotions open for him to see seemed far more revealing than the fact that her breasts were bare.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said truthfully.
He gave a nod of satisfaction. ‘But that is exactly as it should be. I do not expect you to. It is nature’s way for the man to have superior skills and to teach the woman everything he knows.’ A slow smile curved his hard lips. ‘And, to be honest, it is a relief to have a woman who does not start performing her entire sexual repertoire in an attempt to impress me.’
She thought that it wasn’t the most diplomatic thing in the world to tell her that at that particular moment, but the woman in her was curious. ‘Is that what they do, then?’
‘It has happened even more since I became Sheikh,’ he admitted softly. ‘For they believe that men can be ensnared by sexual expertise alone.’
‘And can’t they?’
He stroked a wisp of hair away from the pink and white of her cheek. How innocent she was. ‘Of course not. Sexual trickery is like food that has been messed around with—sometimes it ruins it—while simplicity has a charm all of its own.’ Now it was his turn to frown—because what the hell was he doing, talking about such things with her? Was that not an intimacy too far—especially at a time like this? Because it was Sorrel—and she knew him better than anyone else? And did that mean she had some sort of power over him?
Never!
He renewed the stroking of her breast—only this time he ruthlessly decided to show her just what a master of expertise she was dealing with.
His fingertips teased, cajoled, excited, and his lips did the same. They traced feather-light patterns on her mouth, her eyelids, the tip of her nose and the gentle curve of her jaw, so that Sorrel relaxed into a hazy world where everything was about sensation. And through the haze she sensed that something wonderful awaited her.
Warmth began to flood through her as her heart picked up speed, and her arms reached up of their own accord to wrap themselves around his neck as Malik sweetly plundered her mouth with his.
‘Malik!’ she gasped.
He could feel the building of tension in her body, and he smiled as he slipped his hand between her thighs and began to stroke her through her panties, feeling her start. ‘What is it?’
She wanted to ask him if it was possible to be feeling like…like…‘Something is…’ Her eyes widened as the dark waves circled. ‘Something is…’
He watched her as he might have watched a fledgling falcon taking its very first flight—then, as now, instinct was all. ‘Don’t think,’ he said again, feeling the honeyed slick of her desire against his fingers. ‘Just feel.’
Sorrel did as he urged, although there seemed no alternative, for by now the seemingly impossible wav
es of sensation dominated everything—taking her sweeping upwards towards a place of almost unimaginable pleasure.
‘Oh, Malik!’ she sobbed, as she reached it. ‘Malik, Malik, Malik!’
‘What is it?’ he teased, instinctively laughing at her obvious delight.
For a moment all inhibition left her, and she stared up into the face of the man who had dominated her life since the first time she’d set eyes on him and her heart turned over. ‘I love…’ She saw the black eyes narrow and all the laughter leave them. Just in time she sensed his frozen withdrawal, and just in time she turned her sentence into a glowing sexual testimony. ‘I love it,’ she purred triumphantly, realising that at that moment she didn’t sound like Sorrel at all.
CHAPTER EIGHT
YET just who was the real Sorrel?
Was she the woman who was being given a unique sensual education—who every night was brought to gasping orgasm by the silent and black-eyed Sheikh? The woman who bit back the words she knew he never wanted to hear—well, certainly not from her—and turned them into sighs of satisfaction instead?
Or was that just a temporary Sorrel, who was discovering sexual pleasure for the first time—rather as someone who had lived on another planet might greedily alight on their first taste of chocolate?
But the present didn’t bother her nearly so much as what lay ahead. Because when it was over—as one day it must inevitably be—would she be able to walk away without a single pang and with a casual little wave of her fingers?
She couldn’t bear to think about it.
‘Sorrel!’
Just the sound of Malik’s voice made her heart miss a beat—just as it always did—but she composed her face into one of calm attentiveness.
They were now in Paris—the last stop of the tour—and she had been reading through a clutch of newspaper cuttings, some from the French dailies and some from the international press. The Sheikh had been well received, she thought approvingly, putting aside her own feelings as she heard the sound of his distinctive footsteps.
‘I’m in here!’
He appeared before she had time to adjust her hair, and stood framed in the doorway of their suite with his black hair gleaming and his ebony eyes glittering in the hard, autocratic face. It was a bright Parisian day and outside the weather was just glorious—though Sorrel thought that they might as well have been anywhere for all that they saw of the cities they took in.
They had been whisked from airstrip to hotel to Embassy by air-conditioned limousines whose windows tinted out most of the natural light—so that even if, as they had yesterday, they happened to see the Champs-Elysées passing them by, it was like looking at a sepia photo of it. A postcard image.
They were cut off from the rest of the world and cut off from reality in more ways than one. Sometimes the whole experience felt as if Sorrel had wandered into a dream by mistake—and never more so than now, with the fine golden silk of his gown shimmering around the hard sinews of a body she had yet to discover.
Sorrel shivered at the expression in his dark eyes. ‘Did you…did you want something?’
‘I want you,’ said Malik softly.
And, oh, how she wanted him, too—but no doubt he knew that. Just as he obviously expected her to drop everything and rush to him. Straight into his arms. To hold her face eagerly up to his for a kiss and to tremble with anticipation at the guaranteed pleasure. Part of her wanted to do just that, but pride made her stay her ground to confront the issue which burned at the corners of her mind whenever Malik wasn’t there to obliterate everything with his kisses.
How much longer before she completely lost her identity as a person—becoming solely Malik’s plaything that he could pick up and put down at will? At least when she was busying herself by helping with practical arrangements for the trip it made her feel like the old Sorrel. The one who had existed before she had put her life on hold and her emotions into the deep-freeze while the black-eyed Sheikh took delight in showing her just how many ways there were to pleasure a woman…
‘Well, here I am,’ she said briskly. Because the role of aide fitted her far more comfortably than the role of would-be lover. ‘I was busy with this itinerary.’ She stabbed at the papers on the writing bureau at which she sat.
‘Get Fariq to deal with it,’ he said carelessly.
Her voice was stubborn. ‘I’d rather deal with it myself.’
He walked over to where she sat and put his hands on her shoulders, bending down to brush his lips against her bare neck. ‘But I don’t want you to deal with it. Your place is with me. To do as I will you. To experience pleasure in my arms. You know that, don’t you, Sorrel?’
Oh, yes—she knew that. She had learnt it at his lips and in his arms. Briefly she shut her eyes, allowing the warm whisper of his lips to lull her into the heady promise of what lay ahead. What would it be today? she wondered. Which erogenous zone would he be concentrating on—demonstrating his power and his skill in bringing her silently to gasping orgasm while somehow managing to remain both physically and emotionally removed from her?
The emotional distance didn’t surprise her—she would have expected nothing else of Malik and she had known him all her life. But the other distance did—it surprised and shocked the hell out of her, and made her wonder if there was something the matter with her. Something about her which didn’t please him, since—despite her growing sensual education and his masterly tuition—Sorrel remained a virgin.
At first she had thought that he was acting out of consideration for her feelings—imagining that she’d be scared because at the age of twenty-five she was a relatively late virgin. But she wasn’t scared—she was longing for Malik to make love to her in the fullest sense of all. Yet he did not.
He would give her pleasure with his hands, or his mouth, or his tongue—and afterwards he would kiss her hair and let her shuddering body still within the safe and powerful circle of his arms. And then, when she was all rosy and contented, he would glitter her a hard smile and leave the room abruptly, leaving her satisfied and yet aching. Longing for more and not knowing why he would not give her more. Or ask for more. Was it about control? she wondered. Just as everything else in his life was about control?
Well, she certainly wasn’t going to beg him.
She opened her eyes and slowly rose from the desk to face him. ‘Your brother rang,’ she said.
‘My brother?’ There was a pause. ‘You mean my half-brother,’ he corrected coolly. ‘Which one?’
Which one did he think? ‘The one who lives in Paris, Malik,’ she said sweetly. ‘Xavier.’
Malik didn’t react, but went over to the window to stare out at the city’s rooftops, narrowing his eyes against the glare of the day and keeping his body language neutral.
He had two younger half-brothers—Xavier, who was half-French, and Giovanni who was half-Italian. One father united the three of them—but their mothers had all been different. It was a complicated history, and one which Malik sometimes wished he could forget.
Up until two years ago he had thought that he was an orphan who had been lucky enough to have been given employment and protection by the royal palace of Kharastan. But the late Sheikh had made dynamite disclosures before his death: not only was Malik his son, and thus to inherit the Kharastani throne, but he was also going to gain two half-brothers.
On balance, Malik thought that taking on a kingdom was easier than taking on an instant family. He had been the Sheikh’s right-hand man for so many years that he probably knew more about Kharastan than any other living person—and he had seen first-hand how best to rule.
The half-brother issue was different. Both Xavier and Giovanni were younger, and so there had been no question of them inheriting the Kharastan throne. Even if they had been older it was written into the constitution that only a man of pure Kharastani blood could inherit the kingdom.
The potential for discord between the three men had been there, but to his relief none had been expressed
. Nonetheless, Malik had resisted the overtures of both Xavier and Giovanni for him to visit them and ‘get to know them’. He did not need a family and neither did he want one.
In his unique and often lonely role at the court, Malik had seen for himself that lives only became complicated when other people were involved. It was relationships which gave rise to unrest and to dispute. Relationships made you vulnerable—and exposed you to pain.
If Malik had not been King then he might have contented himself with a solitary life—like the one he had always led, the one he knew how to deal with. But such was not his destiny. He could not take comfort in the luxury of choice. One day he must marry and produce an heir, but until that onerous burden should fall upon his shoulders he would give it no more thought.
He turned back from the window, thinking how magnificent Sorrel looked today—with her pale blonde hair tumbling down over her shoulders just the way he liked it, and in a long, white silk dress which fell in folds from the curve of her hips, so that she resembled a Grecian goddess. He felt his throat thicken with desire, but saw she was looking at him with a question in her eyes. He sighed. ‘And what did Xavier want?’
Was he being deliberately imperceptive? Sorrel wondered. She put her head to one side and flicked a finger against her cheek as she pretended to consider the options. ‘Let’s think,’ she mused. ‘Xavier lives in Paris, and you happen to be visiting Paris. Any ideas what he might want—or shall we call in the palace logistician?’
His black eyes narrowed. ‘Are you trying to be funny?’
‘I thought you were.’ She thought how forbidding his eyes looked—and how his lips were set into a hard line. But she refused to be intimidated by a man she had known all her life, no matter how much it suited him. She knew very well that he preferred to try to avoid issues such as these, and because she cared for him she wasn’t going to let him. ‘Malik—it’s pretty obvious that Xavier and Laura want to meet up with you while you’re in Paris! You haven’t seen each other since Giovanni’s party.’
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