Bride Behind The Desert Veil (Mills & Boon Modern) (The Marchetti Dynasty, Book 3)

by Abby Green

  ‘I would mind.’

  Had she growled as she’d said that? She couldn’t be sure, but she didn’t care, because Sharif had his hands on her waist again and was tugging her towards him. It was only when their bodies touched that she realised she was shaking from the need overflowing inside her.

  He went still. ‘This doesn’t change anything, Liyah. We’re just letting our mutual chemistry burn out or else it’ll drive us crazy. But that’s all it is. It doesn’t change what this marriage is.’

  Not a marriage. A business arrangement.

  ‘I know,’ Liyah said, hoping she didn’t sound too desperate. ‘That’s fine with me.’

  She didn’t want anything more either. She wanted her freedom. Independence. She certainly didn’t want to risk her heart after a lifetime of learning that those who were meant to love you most either left you or rejected you. Or asked you to sacrifice your freedom for theirs.

  This had nothing to do with emotions. It was desire. Physical. She could handle that.

  To make sure he understood, she said, ‘I want you, Sharif.’

  As if a switch had been flicked, he muttered something guttural and dug his hands into her hair, clasping her head, tipping her face up to his. Liyah gripped his arms and his muscles bunched under her palms. Her legs nearly gave way and she had to lock them to stay standing.

  When his mouth covered hers electricity shot into her veins and straight to every erogenous point. She was suddenly ravenous, reaching up and straining to get closer. There were too many clothes in the way. She scrabbled for Sharif’s waistcoat, pushing it off, dislodging his hands. Then his bow-tie and shirt.

  When his chest was bare she pulled back and put her hands on him. He was warm and vital. The hair tickled her palms. His heart was thudding heavily. She felt drunk. Even though she’d barely touched her champagne earlier.

  ‘You... I want to see you, Liyah.’

  She turned around and pulled her hair over her shoulder, presenting him with her back. He pulled down her zip, his fingers stopping just above her buttocks. The dress loosened around her chest. Sharif came close behind her. She shivered when his bare chest met her back and his arms went around her, his hands cupping and measuring the weight of her breasts. She moaned with need, her head falling back against his shoulder.

  He caught her jaw, tipped her face up so that his mouth could meet hers as he found and caught a nipple between his fingers, lightly pinching and rolling it until Liyah couldn’t breathe with her need. She twisted in his arms, facing him again, her hands scrabbling for his belt, undoing it, opening a button, pushing his trousers and briefs down over his hips.

  They were still standing in the foyer of the apartment. They’d barely moved two feet. But she didn’t even notice. She took his rigid flesh in her hand, feeling the size and weight of him, hearing his sharp sucked-in breath, revelling in a momentary feeling of power.

  He took her hand away. She looked up and quivered inwardly at the expression on his face.

  ‘No time to play. I need you now.’

  He backed her up until her shoulders hit the door with a soft thud. The wood was cool against her heated flesh. He crowded her and she revelled in it, wrapping her arms around his neck, rubbing her breasts against his chest.

  She felt curiously emotional in the midst of this onslaught of sensation. She’d thought she’d never see him again after that night at the oasis. And then there’d been the shock of discovering he was her husband, and the belief that he didn’t want her again.

  But that was all incinerated to dust now, under his mouth. She squeezed her eyes shut to avoid him seeing anything of her feelings.

  After a deep, drugging kiss, he broke away to press his mouth against her skin, her shoulder, her neck, and then down. He lifted her breast and cupped it so that he could zero in on her throbbing nipple, sucking and pulling the taut peak into his mouth, nipping with his teeth until Liyah was squirming, her every nerve-ending on fire.

  Suddenly Sharif reared back and said throatily, ‘Put your legs around me.’

  Liyah kicked off her shoes, and when he lifted her up she locked her legs around his hips. The centre of her body came into contact with his, the flimsy lace of her underwear no barrier. She bit her lip, fighting not to beg because she knew that he was going to ease the burning ache in her core right here, right now.

  He reached between them and she heard a faint rip. Her underwear. She didn’t care. He guided the head of his erection to her centre, to where she was weeping with need. He looked at her as he teased her, lubricating his own body with the slick evidence of her desire.

  And then, just when she thought she could take no more, he thrust deep, stealing her breath and her sanity. She was so primed that it took only a few deep, hard strokes to push her over the edge, and then her body clamped around Sharif’s as he found his own release, his hips jerking in the aftermath of a storm so fast and intense they couldn’t move for long moments.

  Slowly Liyah began to put the shattered pieces of herself back together. She became aware of Sharif’s arm around her waist. His other hand was by her head, against the door. His face was buried in her neck, his breath uneven. Warm. Their hearts were pounding. Skin slick with perspiration.

  Sharif lifted his head slowly. Liyah couldn’t look away. She was aware that she’d never been more exposed, but she couldn’t seem to care.

  To her surprise, Sharif caught a piece of wayward hair and tucked it behind her ear. He said, ‘Okay?’

  She felt emotional again. She nodded quickly in a bid to distract him. To distract herself. ‘Fine.’

  When Sharif put her down gently, Liyah winced at the loss of connection. Her dress was ruched up to her waist and the top had fallen down, baring her breasts. Her underwear was strewn on the ground, as were her bag, Sharif’s jacket and shirt and tie. Her shoes...

  She pulled her dress up and bent to pick up her underwear. When she reached for the shoes Sharif took her hand and pulled her up.

  ‘Leave them.’

  He’d pulled his trousers up, but the button was still open. He looked thoroughly disreputable and dangerous, and Liyah’s over-stimulated body pulsed back into life.

  He tugged her behind him. She followed on legs like jelly, holding her dress up. ‘Where are we going?’

  He looked back at her and smiled wickedly. ‘To continue discussing this renegotiation.’

  Sharif stood looking down at the sleeping form of his wife for a long moment. She was sprawled on her front, one arm raised. He could see the plump flesh of one breast. Her lush bottom. Those long legs that had wrapped around him like a vice, holding him, pulling him so deep inside her that he’d seen stars.

  His blood ran thickly in his veins in an overload of pleasure. He’d never experienced this after sex.

  Liar.

  He made a face to acknowledge the fact that he had. Once before. With the same woman.

  The confirmation that her effect on him was still as potent was disturbing. Sex for him was usually a momentary thing, a passing release of energy. This was something else. Something he didn’t want to investigate.

  Because surely it would burn out.

  It was nothing more than extraordinary chemistry.

  He assured himself that he was merely taking advantage of an unprecedented situation—the fact that he wanted his convenient wife. If anything, not having to feign intimacy would help his cause. And, more importantly, it would defuse her ability to distract him.

  But then Sharif became aware that he was still standing there, captivated by his sleeping wife. So much for not being distracted. He’d been due at a meeting half an hour ago.

  With a scowl marring his features, and his body resisting leaving her behind, Sharif left the bedroom.

  When Liyah woke she felt as if she was floating in a soft silken ocean. Every limb was heavy and
utterly relaxed. There was a hum in her blood. A hum of satisfaction. But also of...hunger.

  Her eyes snapped open as a rush of X-rated memories assailed her from last night. Sharif bringing her to his room, stripping her bare before stripping off his remaining clothes. Laying her on the bed and spreading her legs so that he could put his mouth to her...

  Liyah put a hand over her face and groaned softly. She’d been so wanton. Begging for more. He’d made love to her over and over again. Until they’d been limp with exhaustion and pink trails had coloured the Paris sky outside.

  She opened her eyes again. And now it was bright daylight. She felt disorientated. She was not used to sleeping in.

  Not used to being ravished.

  She lifted her head and looked around. The room was empty. She spread out an arm. The bed beside her was cold. Sharif had probably left hours ago. She felt at a disadvantage. Her skin prickled and she pulled the cover over her naked body, suddenly feeling a little exposed—as if instinctively aware that he’d observed her while she slept.

  Now she was being silly. Sharif Marchetti was not a man who lingered over his lovers. His absence was proof of that.

  Hating feeling at such a disadvantage, and feeling like a sloth, Liyah got up and grabbed a robe from the back of Sharif’s bathroom door. It dwarfed her and it smelled of him. She resisted the urge to hold it up to her face and breathe deep, and gathered up her dress and shoes before creeping back to her own room as if she’d been engaged in some illicit activity.

  Sharif watched Liyah from the other side of the room. They were in one of Paris’s famous atelier salons, where painstakingly intricate work went into creating the most stunning dresses in the world, primarily for haute couture. Clothes that could literally only be afforded by the very few and very privileged. Clothes that were often likened to pieces of art rather than fashion.

  He’d found himself quite unintenionally calling Liyah to see if she wanted to come here with him.

  She was wearing a long rust-coloured corduroy dress, with buttons down the front and a brown leather belt. Leather high-heeled boots. Her hair was tied back, showing off that amazing bone structure.

  She looked the part of wife of the CEO of the Marchetti Group. Casual, but elegant and stylish. And she was listening intently to an older French woman—one of the typically expert seamstresses who worked behind the scenes to create the astonishing confections that would be worn down a runway at some point in the future.

  Growing bored of the conversation he was meant to be listening to, about stats and figures and projections—this kind of very specialised work was at constant risk of being eroded by newer inventions and ways of creating clothes—Sharif gravitated towards Liyah, telling himself that it had nothing to do with the pull he still felt in his blood, that hadn’t cooled since last night.

  He couldn’t remember a night of such unbridled passion. He had been insensible to everything but the woman under him. One orgasm had led to another until he’d been too exhausted to move.

  Their night at the oasis had been a mere prelude to the most amazing chemistry he’d ever experienced. And the fact that it was happening with a woman who was his wife...was mind-blowing.

  Liyah was wearing special gloves to handle a dress, and speaking to the woman in French, exclaiming over the work. The woman was obviously pleased with Liyah’s praise, her cheeks pink with pride.

  ‘C’est vraiment incroyable...’

  Liyah looked up at Sharif as he came to stand beside her. An electric frisson sizzled up his spine. Her eyes widened as if she felt it too. The buttons at the front of her dress were fastened just low enough for him to see the curve of her breasts, the V in her cleavage.

  It was an effort to drag his gaze up and see that Liyah was speaking.

  ‘Martine was telling me that it’s taken six months to make this dress.’

  Sharif tore his gaze off Liyah and smiled at the woman. ‘Your work, as always, is sublime, Martine.’

  The woman went even pinker now.

  He took Liyah’s hand and the hungry beast inside him seemed to calm somewhat. A niggling observation he chose not to investigate.

  Just as he was bringing her back to where he’d been talking with the design team at the house, the head designer appeared in their path.

  He exclaimed dramatically, ‘Who is this creature?’ while looking at Liyah.

  Sharif felt his hackles rise—which seemed to happen a lot lately, whenever someone looked at Liyah. ‘This is my wife, Liyah.’

  ‘You are exquisite.’

  The man walked around her, looking her up and down. She looked slightly bemused. Then he introduced himself to Liyah and took her hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it and bowing theatrically.

  Liyah smiled at the dramatics.

  Sharif’s hackles went even higher.

  The designer looked at Sharif. ‘I have been looking for the right person to try on one of my newest designs and now I’ve met her. Please can I borrow your wife for ten minutes?’

  Sharif wanted to growl at the man. No. But he knew he was being totally irrational. The designer was paying Liyah a huge compliment, and he would look petty if he refused.

  ‘Of course.’ He turned to Liyah. ‘If you don’t mind?’

  She looked a little uncertain, but she shrugged. ‘Not at all—if it’ll fit?’

  The designer looked excited as he grabbed Liyah’s hand and pulled her away from Sharif. He said, ‘Oh, it’ll fit—I know it will. And you will look fabulous. Then all we have to do is convince your husband to let you wear it in public.’

  The first thing that erupted into Sharif’s head when Liyah emerged from behind a curtain some twenty minutes or so later was that there was no way in hell she would ever appear in public wearing the most provocative outfit he’d ever seen.

  It was moulded to every dip, hollow and curve of her body. Being round-necked and long-sleeved didn’t make it any more demure.

  The designer stood beside him and said in an awed voice, ‘Have you ever seen anything more perfect?’

  Sharif got out a strangled, ‘What is it?’

  ‘A sequinned zebra print catsuit.’

  Liyah looked like a feline goddess. Even the fact that she didn’t have the confidence of a model couldn’t detract from the overall look.

  Sharif’s phone rang at that moment and he picked it out of his pocket, actually relieved that he had a moment’s distraction from the vision in front of him. It was his chief strategic advisor, reminding him of an invitation to go to the opening of a new nightclub in Paris that evening.

  Sharif had dismissed the invitation originally, because he loathed nightclubs. But his advisor was saying now, ‘I know you don’t usually go to events like this, but the club is owned by Felipe Sanchez—who we both know is worth keeping an eye on because he’s starting to encroach on our territory...buying up designer labels and luxury brands that are outside our sphere of interest. But, as we know well, today’s undesirable brand could become tomorrow’s behemoth. We need to keep an eye on him. If you went to the opening, perhaps your presence...and your wife’s...would eclipse some of Felipe’s bid to grab publicity. I don’t think I need to tell you that Princess Aaliyah is attracting a lot of press attention. They want more of her...’

  As much as Sharif hated the notion of doing anything in response to someone else’s provocation, he knew his advisor was right. The last thing he needed was a rival upsetting his plans before he was ready to unveil them to the world. And, as much as he didn’t want anyone else to see Liyah as she was right now, he knew that if she appeared in public in this outfit, on his arm, an eclipse would be guaranteed.

  If not a nucelar meltdown...

  That evening, central Paris

  Liyah was naked in public. Well, not literally naked. But she felt naked—because she was so far out of her comfort zo
ne that it was both terrifying and exhilarating at the same time.

  She was wearing the catsuit she’d tried on earlier in the atelier and the material was gossamer-light, heightening her feeling of being exposed. She and Sharif had just stepped out of his car. Before them lay a red carpet, populated by well-known faces from the music world, actors and actresses... And at the other end of the carpet were the glittering lights of the newly opened nightclub. The pounding drum and bass of the music could be felt even from here.

  Up till now, attending an event with Sharif had been a sophisticated and elegant affair. Tonight was something very different. Edgier, younger. Sharif wore a plain black suit and a black shirt, unbuttoned. Liyah saw a girl walk past wearing what looked like two slivers of silver lamé held together by pins.

  Suddenly she didn’t feel so naked, and when Sharif took her hand and said, ‘Okay?’ she looked at him and nodded, aware that for the first time she wanted to please him.

  When he’d asked if she’d mind wearing this outfit to an event this evening, her first instinct had been to say No way. It was the kind of thing she would never wear in a million years. It had been one thing to try it on for the designer—but another entirely to wear it publicly, as if this was the kind of outfit, or event she took in her stride. When underneath it all, in spite of her metamorphosis over the last few whirlwind weeks, she was still just a nerdy academic who loved the outdoors and travelling and learning about the world.

  But that wasn’t entirely true. Because with Sharif she was discovering that she had a whole other side to her that she’d never explored before. A side that had been shut down after the experience with her first lover in England. A side that revelled in wearing something so provocative even as it terrified her.

  Because she knew it had an incendiary effect on Sharif...

  After their visit to the atelier he’d accompanied her back to the apartment, and the evidence of just how provocative he’d found the catsuit had had him growling instructions into his phone to clear his schedule before taking Liyah to his room and making love to her with a hunger that had inflamed her. The after-effects lingered in her blood even now.