A Bed of Sand

by Laura Wright

  “The lion,” she prompted.

  An arrogant grin broke on his face. “Lion. I like that.”

  “I thought you might,” she said drily.

  “Lions love the desert as fish love the sea.”

  She nodded. “Although lakes are my favorite. They’re so calm, so peaceful.” She took another sip of wine. “Do you know if this one is spring-fed?”

  “I think it is. And reported to be rather cool in temperature.” He cocked his head, grinned. “But welcome on such a hot day, yes?”

  His black hair was damp with sweat at the temples and nape. He looked sexy and full of sin, and, God help her, she was ready to ask him to kiss her.

  How could one man make her so weak? She had her principles, she had a code of honor among women—the code that clearly stated, “I will not beg for sex.” But around Sakir, when he looked at her with those dark eyes and come-hither mouth, she was lost.

  “We could take a swim if you wish,” he said.

  A flush of excitement warmed her cheeks. “You’re not restricted to waiting one hour?”

  “What?”

  “In America, there is sort of a waiting period after eating.”

  “Interesting.” He grinned. “I suppose I like to live dangerously.”

  “Do you really?” she asked, unspoken questions threading her tone.

  Sakir stood, seeming as tall and imposing as the palms around him. “I suppose I would not be a proper tour guide if I did not accompany you into the water.”

  Rita swallowed thickly, the heat in her belly pulsating, then dipping low. “I think it’s only right.”

  Before Rita had time to think, Sakir was unbuttoning his shirt. With greedy eyes, she watched him as he so casually removed the pressed linen. Her hands itched to touch him, run her fingers down his chest, her nails over his washboard stomach. His bronzed chest was smooth and thick with muscle and she thought she’d never want to look at anything else ever again.

  Until her gaze slipped a few inches.

  Her breath caught in her throat, and the muscles in her womb contracted.

  His pants lay a foot away, and he wore no underwear.

  He was glorious. Long, lean and hard from head to foot.

  “So, you’re going skinny-dipping, huh?” she asked weakly, lust running rampant through her body.

  “Did you have another suggestion?”

  She shook her head. “No, you look amaz—” She shut her mouth, took a breath and began again. “What I mean to say is, I was going to wear my bra and panties. It’s sort of bathing suit-like and—”

  “What happened to living dangerously?” he asked.

  “That was you.”

  A grin flickered at the corner of his mouth. “No, Rita. That is you as well. For as long as I’ve known you.”

  She didn’t know how to respond to such a statement. If she looked back at her life since knowing Sakir, she wouldn’t call herself bold or dangerous. Well, not in romance anyway. In business, perhaps. And then there was her fantasy life…

  Okay, there she was bold. There she lived dangerously.

  “You disappoint me,” Sakir said, a thread of boyish discontent in his tone.

  Rita rolled her eyes. “Well, I would hate to do that.”

  “You have a beautiful body, Rita. There should be no shame in revealing it.”

  Her cheeks burned and she tried not to stare at his burgeoning arousal. “There is definitely shame when you have big thighs and a bigger butt.” She shrugged. “I keep meaning to join a gym, but—”

  “Take off your clothes.”

  She looked up at him through her lashes. “Are you commanding me again?”

  “Yes. Do as I say.”

  Rita inhaled deeply. She knew Sakir was only half-serious in his order, that he was being playful in such a sensual setting. And God help her, she wanted to play along with him. After all, she’d decided only an hour ago to leave the decisions and the come-ons to Sakir.

  She’d decided this and yet she felt so odd, so vulnerable suddenly. He stood before her, totally at ease—barring nine and half inches of arousal.

  If only she could be so calm.

  Slowly, and very unsurely, she stood up and began to peel off her clothes from her hot, sticky skin one piece at a time.

  She felt Sakir’s gaze on her and wanted to run behind a palm, but she held her ground. Finally, she stood before him in her bra and panties.

  Sakir shook his head, grinned with sinful intent. “You are not finished.”

  Rita’s breasts tightened, tingled, begged for release, perhaps for this man’s hands. She made a futile groaning noise, then said, “Fine.”

  First, she removed her bra and sighed as warm air moved over her jutting nipples. Then she slipped her fingers under the band of her panties and eased them down.

  She stood before him nude, feeling his stare, feeling embarrassed and totally vulnerable.

  Sakir walked to her, his hand slipping around her waist. “You make me weak with need, Rita. Feel how weak.” He eased her close, and she felt him hard against her belly. “You are so beautiful, perfect, with a woman’s curves.”

  Rita shut her eyes, her legs weak as water, her mind filled with chaotic thoughts and visions of making love to this man in the lake beyond, under the waterfall.

  Sakir touched her chin, lifted her eyes to his. “Let us enjoy the water.”

  She smiled, wondering idiotically if he’d heard her thoughts as the heat rose and suffused them, and as Sakir led her into the cool water.

  The sand yielded to her steps as they waded deeper and deeper, until the water was up to their shoulders.

  “This feels too good,” she said.

  “I know,” he said, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close.

  This time there was no discussion of what was right or wrong. His mouth collided with hers, his tongue dipping into her mouth, searching for her. Rita sucked in a breath, wrapped her arms about his neck and deepened her kiss.

  “I am a weak man,” Sakir uttered.

  “And I am glad for it,” she whispered.

  His hands raked down her back, squeezing her buttocks, the pads of his fingers digging into her flesh. Rita trembled furiously, but thanks to the buoyancy of the water, she managed to wrap her legs around his waist.

  His mouth slipped from hers and went to her ear. “I will bring you such pleasure, Rita.”

  “But will you ever take pleasure?” she asked, her voice hoarse.

  He thrust two fingers inside her, silenced her. “Watching you is my pleasure.”

  Rita gasped for breath, the sensation of liquid fire hugging stiff fingers that bucked up against her womb so wonderful she thought she’d collapse or slip beneath the water and drown.

  But she was meant to live, meant to ride his fingers, cry out as he used his thumb, rough and experienced on the bundle of nerves at her core.

  His mouth moved to her neck, his teeth grazing her flesh as her heart pounded a rhythm of sex. Water splashed around them, and despite its coolness, sweat broke out on Rita’s forehead. Climax was imminent. Her legs shook, her breath was coming in short, raspy waves.

  Sakir pulled out his two fingers, then plunged three deeply inside her. Rita opened her mouth in a silent scream of pleasure. Her release was so close, as Sakir flicked her between his thumb and forefinger.

  Suddenly she tensed, her body shaking, her mind blank, and let the rush of orgasm pound her senses.

  Then all she felt was water and air. She sagged against Sakir, her breath coming in gasps. He rubbed her back and whispered soothing words in Arabic in her ear. She wished with all her heart that she could have this moment forever.

  But then the fantasy turned to reality again, just as the fine weather turned to gray.

  Sakir kissed her mouth, both with gentleness and with desire. “The clouds move in. Rain is coming.”

  “We haven’t finished this.”

  “No, we have not.”

&nbs
p; Hope surged into her heart. “Really?”

  “Back at the palace, in our bedroom, we will start this and we will finish it.” He lifted her in his arms and started back to shore. “But we must go now.”

  “I don’t want to,” she said, turning into his chest, his warmth, knowing she sounded like a child, but not particularly caring.

  When Sakir reached the sand, he set her down with supreme gentleness and said, “Nor I,” then began to help her on with her clothing.

  Midnight.

  Sakir stared at the moon.

  Midnight, and he still hadn’t gone to the rooms he shared with his “wife.”

  When he and Rita had returned to the palace, the sky had been dark and she had just been waking from a nap in the Jeep. Sakir’s immediate thought had been to take her upstairs and make love to her in their bed. He was ready, in mind and most assuredly in body. But something had kept him from that wondrous task.

  Perhaps it was his spirit.

  With a tone of regret, he’d told Rita that he had several phone calls to return and he would see her later. She gave him no fight, as no doubt she was growing used to his change in mood and in mind. A fact that shamed Sakir to his very bones. Though he gave himself to no one and gave pleasure whenever he was given pleasure, he had always remained a forthright and honorable man when it came to women.

  The problem was Rita.

  She was not just any woman.

  She was fire and life, and he was growing too close to her. Wanting her too much. And, most troublesome of all, needing her too much.

  Sakir walked further into the garden and let the scents of jasmine assault his muddled senses. He passed the sculpture of his grandfather, bronzed and ominous. He passed the walled rock garden and mint bushes. He passed the koi pond, knowing exactly where he was going and refusing to stop.

  Finally he did.

  The stone erupted from the ground before him.

  Exotic plants Sakir himself had chosen surrounded his brother’s grave. In the daytime, the plants attracted a variety of butterflies, for Hassan had loved butterflies as a child. At night, there was only a lush stillness to the spot.

  Sakir stood there for a long time, meditating on all the years lost to his brother. Anger pulsed in his blood.

  What a waste.

  “Sakir?”

  He didn’t turn around. The voice acted like a balm to his anger. Rita. He felt her come up beside him, then watched from the corner of his eye as she knelt down and brushed her fingers over the words he’d had carved into the stone.

  “What does this mean?” she asked.

  His throat tight, Sakir uttered, “‘Your brother misses you, little one.’”

  Rita stood, then did the strangest thing. She took his hand and held it in her own. She felt warm and real and he wanted to pull her close and gather her up in his arms.

  But he did not.

  “How did you find me?” he asked.

  “You like this garden.”

  “It is late.”

  “I know.”

  “You should be in bed.”

  She squeezed his hand. “So should you.”

  He sniffed. “Sleep has eluded me for ten years.”

  “Who said anything about sleep?”

  Sakir turned. She stared up at him, her gaze soft and tender. On any other night, any other day, Sakir would have worried at such a look. But not tonight, not with her. He needed her warmth and care, and was ready to take it.

  His gaze flickered down her body. She wore a pale blue silk nightgown that molded to her curves and she carried the matching robe in her hand.

  “I chose that gown for you,” he said, desire cleaving to every muscle, every bone.

  She smiled. “I know.”

  “You are breathtaking, Rita.”

  Her smile widened. “Let’s go to bed, Sakir.”

  He nodded, then slipped his hands underneath her and lifted her into his arms. When she raised a brow at him, he said, “It is tradition.”

  “What is, exactly?” she asked as he walked through the garden.

  Sakir said nothing until they were up the palace stairs and standing before their bedroom door. Once there, he leaned in and kissed her softly. “It is tradition for the prince to carry his princess over the threshold on their wedding night.”

  Rita laughed softly. “A little past that, aren’t we?”

  Sakir opened the door and headed for the bedroom. “We have never made love, Rita.” With great care, he placed her down on the bed. “We had no wedding night.” With slow, tender fingers he eased her nightgown up, up over her knees, up past her thighs. “I think this will be our wedding night, yes?”

  Rita felt as though she were dreaming. Sakir talking of wedding nights as he removed her nightgown, her lace panties and his own white caftan. Sakir standing above her, totally nude, his body tight, his erection thick and ready.

  Yes, this had to be a dream.

  Sakir gazed down at her. “I wish to give you pleasure first, but I do not think I can—”

  “Sakir I want you inside me,” Rita said, her arms reaching for him. “You have no idea how much pleasure that will give me.”

  He released a weighty breath. “I want to tease you, taste you, feast between your—”

  “I have been teased long enough.”

  A slow grin moved over Sakir’s face. “Yes. We both have.”

  Rita watched as he quickly sheathed himself. Her breath held tight with anticipation, she waited. What would he feel like? Would she stretch enough to accommodate him? Would she please him? Would she make his climax as intense as he’d made hers?

  Sakir moved above her. His gaze fixed on hers, he spread her thighs apart with gentle insistence. Then he lowered his hips.

  Rita felt him, up against the entrance to her body. Just from the anticipation alone, she was very wet. Sakir moved up and down, teasing her as he watched her. But that’s as far as he went. Never in her life had Rita been so excited, so curious.

  His face so near hers, his breath so close, she asked, “What’s wrong?”

  He shook his head. “I do not know. This seems sacred somehow. I have never known such intensity of feeling.”

  Rita’s heart thundered in her chest. She had known nothing like this, either. But she did know how to name it. She was in love with her husband and no words, no reason, could keep her from it.

  She wrapped her legs around his waist, urging him down, inside, deep into the wet heat of her body.

  On an oath, Sakir slipped his hand underneath her hips, lifted her up and pushed into her.

  “Yes,” Rita uttered, tilting her hips up further as she reveled in every slow inch he gave her.

  He was hers.

  For now.

  For this wonderfully delicious moment.

  “Move with me,” he said, as his slow strokes quickened.

  “Yes.” She slammed her hips to meet him, following him to that fast and frantic pace that knew no end but orgasm.

  She just wanted to release, wanted to remove all thoughts of the past and how she and Sakir had gotten to this point. She just wanted now. Over and over again, if he’d oblige her.

  Her muscles tightened around his shaft as Sakir drove into her. Sweat trickled down her back. Her breasts rose and fell. Time evaporated.

  “When you climax,” Sakir said through fraught breaths. “I want to hear you. Scream, cry, call out to the gods. Whatever is in you. But I must hear it. Do you understand?”

  She nodded violently. Yes. She understood him. She would not hold back. Lord, anything he asked of her she would do. And his request was timely. The love in her heart was ready to explode; the volcano bubbling inside her was ready to flow, rip a hole in her heart, make her see stars.

  And when Sakir lowered his head and took her nipple between his teeth as he drove into her hard and fast, she did just that.

  Explode. Come.

  Die. Live.

  “Come with me now,” she cried out, g
ripping his back with her fingers, her nails, she wasn’t sure.

  Sakir pounded into her. Over and over. His breathing rapid, his body wet with sweat.

  Rita let her head fall back. Deep in her throat a cry erupted as torrents of fire, rain and electric shock rippled through her.

  And Sakir went with her, uttering her name a thousand times as he spilled hot seed deep into her core.

  Twelve

  Sakir watched the pale pink light of sunrise play over Rita’s nude body, just barely covered by the blue silk sheet from their bed. Up he roamed, his gaze moving from ankle to knee, to hip, to belly, to full breast and supple nipple.

  Glorious.

  He shuddered and rolled to his back.

  What had he done? What had he allowed to happen in this bed? Had his lack of control and propriety disintegrated under the burning light of desire?

  And did he care?

  The answer to the final question was spirited away as Rita shifted beside him. The tangled silk sheet covered only her woman’s curls, leaving the full view of her chest and belly to his roguish eyes. No, he did not care for control or propriety. He wanted to wake this sleeping beauty with a kiss on first one set of lips, then the other.

  He felt himself grow hard at the thought. He turned to his side, faced her.

  Again, she shifted. This time she rolled to him, snuggled into his chest. Her mouth moved over his skin, and her throaty whisper clawed at his groin. “You’re up early?”

  “You are very observant.”

  She laughed, her warm breath fanning against his chest. “You know what I mean.”

  “I sleep little.”

  “You told me.” She nuzzled her nose against his nipple. “A lot on your mind?”

  She would never know how much… “Yes.”

  Rita glanced up. “But I must be patient and not ask, right?”

  Her wide blue eyes fairly drew him in, deep into pools of an understanding heart. He wanted to jump most sincerely. Get lost—or found.

  He fairly sighed. Never had he expressed what lay weighty on his heart. Never had he wanted to. But the burden was growing heavier as of late. Rita had offered him her ears too many times to name; as he looked into her blue eyes, he saw empathy.