The Marriage Deal

by Connelly , Clare

  “Me?”

  I swallow, my eyes dropping, the anger that has been incinerating me for days dissipating slowly. I shake my head.

  “Amy?”

  I keep studying the floor between us as though it’s a piece of unique artwork.

  He presses his finger beneath my chin, lifting my face to his. Emotions barrel through me.

  “You’ve been ignoring me.” The words emerge wholly without my permission. I don’t want him to think I care – or that I’ve even noticed his absence!

  “Not ignoring you,” he responds gruffly. “But avoiding you, yes.”

  My stomach twists at that distinction. “Why?”

  “Why do you think?”

  My breath is trapped deep inside of me, unable to escape. I shake my head rather than risk speaking; I don’t know if I could, anyway.

  “You are all I can think of, Amy, and I knew that if I came to you, I would do something I’d regret. Something that stands outside the bounds of what we’ve agreed to.”

  My eyes find his, sensual heat slamming into me like a stack of bricks. I hesitate, torn between my head and my heart, the hatred I tell myself I need to feel for him and a non-stop whirlwind of feelings that are warm and addictive. I swallow hard, aching to press up onto the tips of my toes and kiss him. Only the kiss would be a prelude to sex – there’s no way it wouldn’t – and I know I can’t give myself to him. It would be too much of a betrayal. I need to remember that.

  He drops my chin and steps away and despite what I’ve been feeling, disappointment is at the forefront of my mind. Damn him. Damn me!

  “You should change into something more comfortable – it’s a long walk through the caves.”

  6

  Amy

  THAT WAS AN UNDERSTATEMENT. It is not just a long walk through the caves. We’ve traipsed for miles, each step making it darker, the smell dank, like wet clay and sand, the air thick and hard to breathe without tasting salt.

  At one point, the caves narrow so that we have to walk single file, him in front of me as he knows the way, his hand holding mine as a guide. It’s so dark that were it not for his hand I worry I might stumble and fall, yet with his guidance I’m safe.

  He stops walking abruptly, so I bump into his broad, strong back.

  “What’s the matter?” For some reason, I whisper.

  “Can you see them?”

  I frown, because I see nothing right now.

  “Look.” He moves closer to me, his hand lifting to turn my face, his other hand grabbing my hand and using it to indicate a direction. “Over there.”

  I follow his gaze, squinting into the darkness until tiny little pinpricks of golden light begin to dance in the distance. “What is it? We’re too deep for sunshine?”

  “They are harshiali, a type of firefly native to these mountains.”

  My eyes become accustomed to the site, so their frenetic, somehow happy movements become more familiar, and suddenly I am aware of them everywhere, all over the wall, tiny, buzzing little bodies that glow in the darkness of the cave. “They’re magical.”

  “That is a myth we were taught as children,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “Your father must have told you?”

  I shake my head, a gesture he perceives because his hand is still lightly resting against my cheek.

  “It is said the harshiali come to our homes in the night, and whisper stories into our ears – that’s why children dream what they do.”

  I can’t help but smile at the story. “Only children?”

  “Adults do not believe in the power of the harshiali,” he says. “And so the harshiali do not bother to come to them.”

  “How can anyone who’s seen them not believe?”

  He laughs. “Fairytales, Amy?”

  “Look!” I laugh too though. “They’re incredible.” To my surprise, my voice thickens with emotion, tears clogging my eyes. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

  “This is simply the preamble,” he says quietly, and I know he’s heard my emotion, and that he’s responding to it. His voice has grown deep and dark, masculine and raw, so that it reaches into me and changes the nature of my soul.

  “Preamble to what?”

  “Be patient.”

  He drops his hand, catching mine, and begins to walk once more. It’s not much further, perhaps another ten minutes, and then the narrow corridor we’ve been walking through begins to widen, and we can walk side by side. Despite that, he continues to hold my hand and I’m glad for that. The ground is uneven and the darkness remains, so his strength and guidance are welcome.

  More light filters through and then we turn a corner and there’s an onslaught of it, bright and golden, warmth immediately penetrating the cool of this tangle of caves.

  The light though comes from above – there’s a gap in the mountain, so we must be near the top. I’m looking up so don’t immediately see what’s right in front of me but when I take the time to properly examine our surroundings, I almost sob.

  It is, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

  A rock pool sits directly beneath the opening, dark water rippling in the sun’s rays, so it has the appearance of diamonds floating on the water’s surface. Beyond the water, the cave expands to a view of the desert, all rolling sand dunes. In the distance, I can just make out the ocean, a faraway spectre of water, glistening like diamonds, that floods my soul.

  “The drawings on the wall in here date back to the first century,” he says, pointing to the etchings on the walls.

  I move closer, breath held. “I have heard of these all my life. To see them with my own eyes is…incredible.”

  I trace the pictures with my eyes, simple illustrations that mark the daily minutiae of life at the time. The drawings extend from the ground to the top of the wall, and cover a vast section of it. The sheer scale of pictures is unimaginable. “This must have taken historians decades to decode.”

  “They are still working on it,” he says with a nod. “The area is rich with history. Three universities have staff dedicated to the archaeological work here.”

  “What an incredible insight into Qabidi past.”

  Spontaneously I turn to face him, lifting my palm to his chest. “Thank you for bringing me here.” My eyes are wet.

  He lifts a hand, running his thumb over my cheek, his face a mask of control. “You wanted to see them.”

  “Yes.” A single tear slides from the corner of my eye. Embarrassed, I shake my head. “I’m overwhelmed. This is so much more than I was expecting.”

  “They are incredible,” he agrees. “Take your time. There’s plenty to see.”

  I nod, not needing to be told twice. I start at one edge of the wall and slowly move my way along it. Some of the sections have been photographed in books, but much of it is brand new to me, scenes I haven’t witnessed before.

  Unbeknownst to me, he watches, his eyes following my progress. It’s only when I turn to say something I find Zahir staring at me intently, and whatever statement I’d been poised to make flies from my mind.

  All I can do is smile.

  It’s a smile that’s pulled from my heart, from the very centre of my being, and all the little pieces that make me who I am. I have the strangest sense that something vital has slid into place inside of me, that seeing these cave paintings is important and necessary, and I can’t explain that. It’s simply an instinct, drawn from deep in my soul.

  He stands, but I barely notice. He walks, and the first I realise is when he’s standing toe to toe with me, a frown on his face, a look in his eyes that has me tilting my face to his even before he can speak.

  I feel the battle within him and I understand it, but here in this ancient, important part of Qabid’s history, something propels me forward, so that my breasts crush to his chest, my arms wrap around his back. My heart is in my throat, nerves turning my veins to mush.

  “Amy.” It’s a sigh, a whisper of acceptance. I lift a f
inger to his lips, pressing it there, hunger stirring deep in my gut.

  “Don’t talk.” I shake my head. “There’s no need anymore.”

  His eyes widen and I wonder if he’s going to argue with me, to disagree and inform me this is too complicated again, or remind me that we’re supposed to be enemies.

  I wait, and each second is like the beating of a drum, deep into my chest, doubt hard against my side. But then his head is dropping towards mine, so fast it’s as if momentum has taken over and whatever magnetic force had drawn us together that morning is back in effect, pulling him to me and lifting me to him. Our lips clash and I groan, because it’s what I’ve been on tenterhooks waiting for since he kissed me at our wedding. I am filled with the most inexplicable sense of coming home – how can that be?

  His hands tangle in my hair: long, confident, strong fingers pushing at the blonde ends, loosening it from the tie so it falls down my back. His fingers stay anchored to the back of my scalp, pushing me against his mouth, holding me so his tongue can lash me and command me. I sway forward, my back too weak to support me fully, my hips seeking him, rolling against him in a silent demand that I have no control over. I pull at his shirt, needing to feel his bare chest beneath my fingertips, remembering how I had reached for him the first morning in the desert, wanting to connect with his bare skin, to know what it feels like beneath my fingertips. I feel him shudder as I push at it, my fingers shaking as they undo the buttons, my nails scratching him as I tear it down his body. I rip my mouth from him in an agonising need for control, my eyes skating over his broad chest, the tattoos there, chasing their marking, so reminiscent of the cave drawings I’ve just been analysing. And as with the cave drawings, I want to understand his chest, too, I want to know what drove him to have each and every mark put in place.

  I want him.

  There is an ache low in my abdomen, an ache to feel him thrust deep inside of me, and I know if anything happens to suspend that pleasure I won’t cope. My need is all-consuming. My fingers work at his pants urgently as my mouth seeks his again. His kiss is a relief that tears through my body. As I push down his pants he does the same to me, undoing the drawstring of the simple linen culottes I’d pulled on. Without the drawstring, they fall to the ground and I step out of them as his hands cup my bottom, yanking me hard against him, his erection powerful and unmistakable. I groan again, a guttural noise that rips through us and the cave.

  He pushes at my shirt, his own needs apparent, overpowering, desperate.

  He shoves the shirt up, over my head, tossing it carelessly to the side so it falls into the water. I follow it with my eyes and laugh softly to see it floating there. But a look at Zahir shows he’s not laughing. His face is like thunder, illuminated by desire, the strength of his own visible need for me enough to make any laughter strangle in my throat.

  “I want you now, Amy.”

  I know this is a turning point, a moment in time, a moment that would allow me to pull back, to distance myself from him, to remember all the reasons I shouldn’t want this and him. I remind myself that he’s the enemy, the man who ruined my father’s life, that we married for convenience and nothing more, but his breath fans my temple and my insides quiver in recognition.

  “Amy?” The way he groans my name is all it takes; I nod urgently, forgetting who I am and who he is, submitting to the physical needs running through us both.

  “Please,” I mumble, digging my nails into his side.

  His eyes widen and then sweep shut on a breath of relief. A moment later, he’s dispensed with my bra, dropping it to the ground at our feet in the same motion as his lips draw one of my nipples into his mouth, circling it with his tongue so I cry out, the sharp pleasure driving through me like the blade of a knife. I twist away on instinct, the feelings almost too intense to handle, but he doesn’t let me. His arms hold me tight, his mouth comes back, sucking on my nipples, one then the other, taking turns, until I’m groaning over and over in pleasure, then he’s pressing his teeth into me, so I almost black out from the rush of sensation. Every part of me is at bursting point.

  I need him fiercely.

  He understands, drawing me to the ground while lifting his mouth back to mine, kissing me to press me back against the sand-covered floor. His knee parts my legs and I make a whimpering noise in his mouth, impatience tearing through me even as I brace myself. It’s like an express train is rushing towards me – I know we’re about to change everything and there’ll be no turning back, but I don’t care – I’m incapable of caring or thinking now. I surrender completely to the urgency of this, waiting, bracing, aching.

  His eyes find mine and there’s a silent question in their depths. In response, I reach up and wrap my hands around his neck, pulling him towards me, kissing him as I lift my hips. He swears in his native tongue, words that are guttural and primal and make me ache for him all the more, then he’s thrusting into me, not slowly, not gently; a single, powerful push, his arousal filling me, stretching me, pressing places I didn’t know existed. I arch my back and cry out: his name, then a string of words I can’t control, my fingers scraping down his back, curving around his bottom, digging into his flesh as he moves in and out of me, each thrust like nirvana, a paralysing sense of delight reaching all the way to my toes.

  His tongue finds the indent between my clavicle then the valley between my breasts, tormenting it in the same way he did before so I’m almost incandescent with the building of my pleasure, a wave of desire crashing down on me. I dig my hands in harder, my nails scoring his flesh as I explode on a powerful orgasm, tearing me into pieces and spreading me through this ancient cave. Breath burns in my lungs; stars fill my eyes, but still he moves, giving me no time to recover from this feeling of sexual euphoria. None. I am in an agony of ecstasy, and he is making it so much better – or is that worse?

  I can barely see, my blood is pounding through me so hard and fast, and then his hand is curving behind my back, lifting me off the ground, pulling me to sit on him, and he’s so much deeper like this, his body thrusting into mine as he holds me crushed to his chest, his hands in my hair rough and urgent, his stubble drawing across my chest leaving a burning sensation that only increases this visceral, soul-splitting heat.

  I swallow a curse of my own as another orgasm builds, my teeth sinking into his shoulder as pleasure saturates me and my insides tighten, squeezing, demanding release.

  He makes a gruff noise then finds my mouth with his, kissing me with the same rhythm as his cock possesses. Every single thrust is a mark upon my being. I push down deeper, welcoming him, needing him, something shifting within me so I am utterly, completely his.

  The thought shocks me, and I mentally reject it even as I acknowledge its accuracy.

  My orgasm is swift, driving through me like the same freight train I’d felt earlier. It is too much. I collapse against his shoulder, my breathing the same as if I’d run a marathon, my skin flushed and covered in moist heat.

  He’s still, his arms around me like a vice, his lips gently kissing my shoulder, his tongue flicking my flesh, tasting my perspiration. He’s still so hard inside me, I brace for him to start moving again, already craving that specific kind of fulfilment.

  “That was worth the wait.”

  Surprised, I pull back, heat of a different kind flushing my cheeks now. “You’re not…you didn’t…”

  He grimaces, his cheekbones flushed dark. “No.”

  “Oh.” I blink away, mortified that for whatever reason he didn’t come – or doesn’t want to. It was the most amazing sex of my life but apparently for him, it wasn’t enough to drive him to completion.

  Embarrassment has me pulling away, jack knifing off the ground and moving quickly to the opening of the cave, staring out at the desert, uncaring of my nakedness, welcoming the desert’s sun on my raw, tender body.

  “I did not allow myself, habibti.” He’s right behind me, his hands curving around my body, his still-hard cock nestling between the c
heeks of my ass, his fingers moving to my breasts, cupping them, stroking my nipples so I shiver despite myself. “Not because I didn’t want to. Believe me, I was fighting it with everything I am.”

  Something like relief moves through me, his words easy to believe. Is that just because I want them to be true?

  “Why? Why fight this?”

  My breath is still tortured, the intensity of my orgasm having taken a toll on my body.

  “You do not want to conceive our child yet,” he says quietly, and I gasp, shocked that I could have forgotten something as simple as birth control, shocked that the idea of an unwanted baby hadn’t even entered my head. Shock that when he refers to ‘our child’ I experience a rush of longing, a visceral ache for a baby that terrifies me. And the word ‘yet’, fills me with heat and hope.

  His thoughtfulness, respectfulness and control are all qualities that make me think better of him – something I swore I wouldn’t do, damn it! Hating him is so complicated now, and as the freight train rushes past I’m left with the destruction of its aftermath, the realisation I’ve let desire cloud my thoughts and judgement, pushing me into something that is definitely not the wisest course of action.

  And yet I don’t regret it. Even now as I feel the burn of that, the realisation of what I’ve done, I can’t regret it. One hand on my breast tweaks my nipple while the other traces a swirling line downwards, his fingers brushing my skin so lightly that I whimper, wanting more – needing him to press down on me, to do something. He brushes them over my sex so lightly, then finding my clit begins to move faster, his cock behind me throbbing as he rubs my most sensitive nerves until I’m close to exploding once more.

  “Zahir,” I call out, tilting my head back. His hand moves from my breast to my hair, gripping it tight, holding my head where it is, holding me a prisoner even when that’s not necessary – I’m already enslaved to what he’s doing to me; I have no desire to escape. His fingers work faster and I whimper, a sound lost in my throat, as waves of pleasure douse me. His erection is what tips me over. He moves between my butt cheeks, his tip so close to entering me in a place that’s never been touched, and the very idea of that sends me over the edge, the intimacy of his possession spiralling through me. I explode and he holds me where I am, sliding a finger inside me to feel the pulsing of my muscles in their fervent release, his hand cupping me as he pushes deeper, no boundaries between us now – I am his, just as I thought earlier, and there’s no sense in fighting that.