by Annie West
‘The bedroom is just there,’ she whispered, shimmying higher in his arms, pushing against his hard shaft, unmistakeable through the fine silk of her dress. Tariq’s unashamed arousal and his urgent passion were a continual revelation.
As was her inevitable response.
It struck her anew how very controlled Jackson’s love-making had been. Surely she shouldn’t feel so driven by the need to have Tariq right here, right now, as if nothing mattered except having him inside her?
When had she become so wanton?
‘You think I can last till the bedroom?’ Tariq groaned and bent his head to bite her neck. Samira shuddered as pleasure ripped through her, turning her body molten.
Everything in her softened. Breasts, belly, womb all hummed with the need for more. Her hands tightened, grabbing handfuls of his thick hair, holding him hard as he kissed the sensitive skin of her throat.
‘Hold on.’ He moved, pressing her up against the wall. She heard the chink of his belt buckle, felt him fumble between them. Then he was fighting his way past her long skirts, shoving the silk up her legs till she felt a waft of air on her bare thighs.
She almost slipped but big hands hoisted her higher, guiding her legs till they encircled his waist. And all the time his eyes held hers. It was as if she hovered on the brink of diving into a fathomless mountain pool.
Except it was heat she felt as he ripped her panties away and she gasped with horrified delight. Pure fire she touched as with one sure thrust Tariq embedded himself deep within her.
She was so incredibly full, as if he stretched her to the limit. As if they’d become one, she thought hazily as he retreated, then thrust hard again, creating ripples of delight that took her straight to the edge. She grabbed tight, needing this oneness with him.
‘Samira.’ He ground the word, his jaw hard, his hands heavy on her body. She revelled in his touch and moved eagerly with him. He paused, then surged again, taking her to new heights. ‘You have no idea how I hunger for you.’
She tried to gulp in enough air to catch her breath. ‘I do.’ It made her desperate, this unquenchable need for her husband. But the more she gave, the more she trusted him, the stronger it grew. ‘I want you all the time,’ she gasped.
He stilled and she almost cried out in frustration. Till she registered his expression. She couldn’t interpret it, but those eyes gleamed more brightly than ever. As if they could burn right through her.
When he stroked again, he took her to heaven’s door. The world burst into fireworks. Through a haze of bliss she just caught his words.
‘I’ve always wanted you, Samira. Always. And now you’re mine.’
* * *
Samira lay sprawled across Tariq on the bed, her limbs dissolved, her head on his heaving chest. His heart hammered beneath her ear, rapid like hers. Her palm rested on his chest, fingers furrowed into the smattering of hair that she still found so intriguing.
‘I don’t think I can walk,’ she whispered.
She felt more than heard his huff of laughter. ‘Good. I don’t want you going anywhere.’ He pulled her closer, as if just the thought of her moving wasn’t to be considered.
Samira smiled sleepily. She’d lost her shoes when he carried her here and her dress was twisted around her hips but she didn’t have the strength to move. His breath was hot on her face and his hand played languidly with her hair, loose to her waist. She felt...replete. As if there was nowhere she’d rather be. Not in her work room. Not even with the twins.
‘I like that you’re so strong.’ She rubbed her face against his skin, inhaling that delicious scent: essence of Tariq. ‘The way you held me back there...’ Just thinking about it made her inner muscles clench in remembered pleasure. Samira adored it when Tariq’s loving was slow and thorough but hard and fast definitely had a lot to recommend it.
‘I like that you’re so eager for me.’ She heard the smile in his voice and imagined his smug grin. No wonder. He’d overturned her ‘no sex’ rule in mere days and now she couldn’t get enough of him.
It was just sex, of course. Sex and liking. A marriage with benefits.
Yet his earlier words lingered in her mind, teasing her.
‘What did you mean—you’ve always wanted me? Since the day I came to you in Paris?’
Tariq said nothing. His fingers dragged through her hair, making her head tilt up. From here she saw his solidly hewn jaw and the strong column of his throat as he swallowed.
‘Tariq?’
‘Since then too. When you came to the hotel in that tight skirt and jacket I wanted to rip them right off you.’ His fingers strayed across to her hip, distracting her as he traced delicate whorls of pleasure on her flesh.
Samira wriggled and clamped her hand on his, making him stop.
‘Since then too? What does that mean?’
He sighed. ‘You always were tenacious, weren’t you?’
She’d had to be. If she’d waited for her parents to give her guidance she’d have waited all her life. She’d had to cling to her dreams, forging her career despite the roadblocks: disbelief that a princess actually wanted to learn to sew; prejudice from peers, teachers and the public who thought she wasn’t serious or that she’d pulled strings to get her sought-after training place.
‘It’s not a trick question, Tariq. What did you mean?’
‘What I said. I’ve always wanted you.’
The words shimmered in the air, simple yet devastating. Samira blinked, trying to get her head around them.
‘Define “always”.’
‘You’re not going to let it go, are you?’ He lifted his head and fixed her with a stern eye. She stared back. He might be the Sheikh of Al Sarath but she was his wife. She had a right to know.
Tariq let his head drop back on the pillow. Beneath her hand his fingers resumed their leisurely exploration of her hip.
‘I’ve wanted you for years. Since you were seventeen, to be precise,’ he said at last, effectively stealing her voice. Samira’s heart fluttered.
‘I remember coming to Jazeer that winter as usual. My uncle encouraged me to learn as much as possible about our neighbouring states.’ Silently Samira nodded. Tariq’s stern uncle had been his guardian till Tariq had come of age. He’d raised his orphaned nephew along with his own much younger sons. She’d often thought that was why Tariq had been so patient with her. How many boys and young men put up with their best friend’s kid sister following wherever they went?
But wanting her since she was seventeen? She felt like someone had upended her world, leaving it altered for ever.
At seventeen Samira had been increasingly aware of Tariq, not just as her brother’s friend but as the sort of man a teenage girl could hang her dreams on: those dreamy eyes; the deep, smooth voice that did strange things to her insides and still did. That tough, lean body.
Her younger self had been embarrassed and excited by the new daydreams she’d begun to have about him. She’d even wondered if she’d given herself away and that was why he’d left so abruptly, never to return.
‘I never suspected,’ she said at last.
‘Of course not. That would have been unforgivable. You were my best friend’s sister. And you were far too young. You weren’t meant to know.’
Samira frowned. ‘Never?’
What if she’d known years ago that Tariq had been attracted to her? She’d spent long enough mulling over her mistakes to know her infatuation with Jackson Brent had stemmed as much from self-doubt and her need for love, as from his attractiveness and his efforts to charm her.
Despite her looks, perhaps because of them, Samira had always harboured a fear she was fatally flawed, all show and no substance. Maybe because her parents had never really cared for her, she’d always secretly believed she was unlovable. Hence her reckless leap
into a relationship with the first man to sweep her off her feet.
Knowing that a man she respected, like Tariq, was attracted to her... Could that have changed her attitude and given her a little more confidence?
Or was that wishful thinking?
‘You were untouchable, Samira. It wouldn’t have been right. That’s why I left.’
Had he really wanted so badly to touch her? There was something in his voice, an echo of regret that resonated deep.
Samira twisted, lifting her head to look at his face. His forehead was corrugated, his mouth set in a firm line.
‘You left because of me?’ A flurry of emotion hit her—regret, dismay and delight.
Tariq raised one arm, slipping his hand beneath his head. His biceps bulged, a reminder of his latent power. Heat streamed through her all over again. She blinked, distracted by the urgent flutter of response in her belly.
‘What else could I do? I felt guilty, lusting after a kid who looked on me as a big brother.’ His tone was hard.
‘But you stayed away. You never came back.’
Tariq shrugged. ‘It was better that way.’
What he left unsaid was that by the time she’d grown he’d lost interest, for he’d never returned. Instead she’d heard the rumours of his many lovers. Then he’d married Jasmin, whom everyone said was the love of his life. Of course he’d never have come back. Samira must have been a passing fancy. Given his distinction between sex and love, she could only guess he’d lost his heart to his first wife and knew no one could replace her.
He’d made no secret that first day in Paris that he hadn’t wanted to marry. Because he still loved Jasmin? Samira had assumed so. But now, in Tariq’s bed, the idea tore at something deep inside. Her chest squeezed as an ache filled her.
Had he married her out of pity?
Samira bit her lower lip and looked away, subsiding against his chest.
No. Not pity. The way Tariq touched her didn’t feel at all like pity.
He wanted her physically. What they shared was simple and mutually satisfying. Now she had a family, a place to belong, real purpose. The boys were bonding with her and hopefully would come to love her. Tariq respected her. Plus there were the benefits of sex.
Why then did dissatisfaction grate at her? Why the bitterness on her tongue, the edge of disquiet?
Samira breathed deep, inhaling the musky man aroma she’d come to adore, and forced herself to relax. Automatically Tariq curled his arm around her, drawing her close, his breathing slowing beneath her ear.
She had everything she wanted, she reminded herself. More, given the glow of wellbeing in her sated body and heavy limbs.
Yet Tariq had unsettled her. His revelation made her realise she didn’t know him as well as she’d thought. All these years she’d been certain of two people in her life: her brother, Asim, and his best friend, Tariq.
Now Tariq made her question what she thought she knew.
First had come the revelation he’d misled her, pretending to accept a paper marriage. Next the revelation she’d never known him as well as she’d thought. All those years ago he’d hidden how he felt from her.
Had she known him at all?
Surely the decent, caring man she’d known hadn’t been a mirage? She saw him in the man Tariq had become.
But there was another side to her husband. He wasn’t just a gentle giant. He was a virile, clever, powerful man who got exactly what he wanted.
What did he want from her?
She’d assumed he’d married her to acquire a mother for his children, a consort.
That and a sexual partner.
It couldn’t be anything else. Despite their sizzling passion, Tariq always left her to sleep alone. He respected her privacy. He gave her the distance she wanted. He didn’t demand an emotional bond.
Because she wasn’t the wife he’d chosen for himself. Samira sighed, realising her thoughts had come full circle, back to Jasmin.
Tariq might share himself now with Samira, but he’d never love her because Jasmin held his heart.
Samira had understood that from the first. Why, then, did the knowledge dim her incandescent glow of pleasure?
Why did she feel so...lost?
CHAPTER NINE
‘ALLOW ME TO congratulate you on your lovely bride. You’ve chosen well, my friend.’
Tariq followed the direction of the old Emir’s gaze, though he knew what he’d see. Despite having been married for months now, his attention kept straying to the far side of the reception room, to his wife. As if he couldn’t get enough of her. Samira glowed, her skin peach-perfect, her delicious body ripe and even more voluptuous than when they’d married. Those luscious breasts seemed fuller, more pert than ever.
He forced his attention elsewhere but his eyes snagged on the alluring curve of her smile, her graceful gestures.
Pride swelled. Samira was a superb hostess.
She chatted easily with guests: diplomats, VIPs and... Tariq noted a familiar handsome face and blond hair, the project manager overseeing the rebuilding project in the mountains. Nicolas Roussel hung on her every word. Samira took such an interest in the project that every time Tariq turned around Roussel was at her side.
Just as well Tariq knew she wasn’t interested in any man but himself.
‘Thank you.’ He nodded, acknowledging the Emir’s compliment. ‘I count myself fortunate.’
For she didn’t just excel at social events. Samira was also a caring queen. Her personal gift of sewing machines and bolts of fabric, sent to women in the flood-ravaged mountain villages, had been just right. It had lifted their spirits, as well as given them a potential source of income. She’d even commissioned fine embroidery from them for use in her designs and had laid the groundwork for a successful local enterprise.
‘I admit I wondered about a queen who runs her own business.’ The old man shook his head, raising his hand when Tariq would have spoken. ‘But I stand corrected. It seems to me that your wife’s experience as an entrepreneur gives her a broader view of the world. My wife and I have enjoyed her company during our visit. And,’ he chuckled, ‘my daughter is smitten with the gown your wife designed for her. She’s a very talented woman.’
Tariq inclined his head. The Emir, ruler of a neighbouring state, was notoriously conservative and his good opinion hard-won. Samira had done well to impress him.
‘I believe so.’
‘It was sensible of you to lose no time providing a mother for those boys of yours. I hear she dotes on them. No doubt she’s getting broody about having some of her own too, eh? It shouldn’t be long.’ He winked.
Tariq stiffened. The old man didn’t say anything others weren’t thinking. Yet Tariq remembered Samira’s pale features as she’d told him she could never have children. Her pain had dragged at him like a plough scraping through rough soil.
‘We’re content as we are,’ he said through tight lips.
‘No need to poker up about it. I’ve seen the way you look at her. The pair of you can barely keep your eyes off each other. You’re obviously both besotted.’ He clapped an arm on Tariq’s shoulder. ‘You’re a red-blooded man with a beautiful wife. Make the most of it.’ He turned his head. ‘Ah, I see I’m wanted. If you’ll excuse me?’
Tariq had to work to keep his face bland as the older man moved away. The Emir had rattled him more than he’d thought possible.
Besotted? Hardly. He was incapable of such unguarded emotion. That was a strength he’d accrued from his strict, unsentimental upbringing. There’d been no room for love in his formative years, no soft, feminine influence. It was only later he’d learned such invulnerability was also a flaw.
When he’d discovered Jasmin, carefully chosen for their arranged, dynastic marriage, loved him.
It had been unexpected, unwanted. Terrible.
For, no matter how much he respected and admired her, Tariq hadn’t been able to return those feelings.
His mouth thinned. Samira had been adamant she didn’t want romantic love. Perhaps he should have come straight out and told her he was incapable of it. If he’d been able to fall in love it would surely have been with Jasmin. She’d been gentle, loyal and hard-working, deserving of love. And he’d seen how she’d suffered when her feelings weren’t returned.
He’d tried so hard and failed abysmally. She’d never won his heart, leaving him to conclude that, like his upright but emotionally isolated uncle, he didn’t have a heart to win.
He’d done his best to make it up to her in attentiveness. But it hadn’t been enough. He’d seen it in her eyes.
Tariq had failed her. The knowledge ate at him like a canker. Despite his wealth and power he hadn’t been able to save Jasmin’s life. Nor had he been able to give her the one thing she’d craved—love.
Abruptly Tariq turned his back on the group surrounding Samira, his heart pounding.
The Emir was mistaken. Samira didn’t want love. She’d married him for his sons.
And he... He wanted her, craved her. He’d craved her even when she’d been with another man. Even when he’d been married to another woman.
So much for being a man of honour!
A chance sighting of a press photo of Jazeer’s scandalous princess had been enough to send him into a lather of activity, extending his already full schedule in an attempt to work off desires he had no right feeling. Guilt had driven him to be the ideal husband to Jasmin in every way left open to him.
Tariq breathed deep. The past was past. He’d done the best he could for Jasmin. And as for wanting Samira—she was his wife now. Why shouldn’t he desire her?
They had the perfect marriage. Respect. Affection. Phenomenal sex. But no illusions of love.
