She pushed away from the fountain. Made herself take a few steps toward him. “No,” she said steadily. “If you are going to be my husband, I want to know what kind of man I am to marry.”
He made an impatient gesture. “All of that can be discussed after the wedding.”
“I do not want to discuss it after the wedding. I want to discuss it now.”
“We will not be discussing anything now.” The words were an order, a command straight from a king. “We have a roomful of people only meters away and far more important matters to attend to.”
Safira stared at him, but she still couldn’t see his face. She knew his expression though, knew it exactly. The proud, arrogant lines of his face would be hard, his amber eyes cold as a desert night.
“No,” she repeated, because she always seemed to be saying no to him. “I am not going anywhere.”
He half turned, ignoring her, extending a hand. “Safira.”
She’d never been naked in front of anyone, not since she’d been a child, and for a moment nerves almost got the better for her. If she thought too deeply about it, she’d never go through with it, so she didn’t wait, reaching behind herself to carefully grab the tab of the zipper on her gown. Her palm was damp, her fingers shaking but she pulled down the zipper anyway. The fabric loosened around her breasts before gradually falling in a pool of turquoise at her feet.
The gown was strapless and she wore no bra, merely a pair of lacy gold silk panties that the stylist had insisted on for reasons Safira hadn’t understood.
She was glad of them now as she stepped out of the fabric at her feet, naked but for a pair of high-heeled turquoise sandals and the gold panties.
And Altair’s necklace glittering around her neck.
She kept her chin up, her shoulders square, her head held high. She hadn’t realized this would be harder and far more nerve-wracking than Sayed’s self-defense lessons, but she’d gone too far to stop now.
Her heartbeat was loud in her ears as she began to walk toward him.
He didn’t move, like he’d been turned to stone.
She came closer, her heartbeat getting even faster, unable to stop the wave of nervousness and unexpected vulnerability that went through her. Because what if his control was stronger than his passion? And what if hers wasn’t strong enough?
What if she failed?
A part of her wanted to stop, run back to her gown, put it on and flee back to her apartments. Pretend this never happened. But she’d never been a coward and she wasn’t about to start being one now.
Safira came right up close to him, rising up on her toes and lifting her arms around his neck, pressing herself against the hard length of his body. The wool of his tuxedo trousers was scratchy against her skin, the cotton of his shirt cool.
He didn’t move, but, now she was against him, she could hear the sound of his breathing and see the glitter of his eyes.
“Decide, Altair,” she said softly, “Either give me answers right now or there will be no wedding night at all.”
* * *
Safira shedding her dress in the middle of a courtyard with a party going on in the room behind him was the very last thing Altair expected.
The very last thing he wanted. And what he should be doing was putting her from him, getting her back into her dress, then marching her straight back in to rejoin the party.
But he didn’t, couldn’t seem to make himself do it.
She’d paralyzed him with the heat of her almost-naked body, with that dry, floral scent of hers, the one that even the heavy scents of the courtyard didn’t overwhelm. It clouded his senses, drew everything in him tight.
You cannot do this. You cannot give her the answers she wants.
And that, more than anything, should have made him wrench her away from him. Peel her from him as easily as a clinging vine. Yet as her arms wound around his neck, he knew it wasn’t a matter of merely stepping away. He would have to use force and he couldn’t do that. Not now and not with her bare skin pressing against him.
Not while she was trembling as she looked up at him. While her eyes were dark in the night and yet there was enough light to see that they were a deep, glittering green. Full of desire and fear, desperation and hunger. And a hope he almost couldn’t bear.
How could he turn her away? How could he let her go?
Decide, she’d told him. Well, perhaps his decision should be to give her answers. Tell her that he was the one who’d caused the death of her parents. He was the one who’d shattered her entire life and nearly destroyed her country along with it. That would certainly make her keep her distance.
Her head bent and the breath left his body as her mouth pressed against his neck, leaving trails of sparks and embers on his skin. Light, tentative kisses. As if she didn’t know quite what she was doing.
Pain twisted hard in his chest.
He wanted nothing more than to put his hands on her, touch her. Let the flames burn like they had in his office when he’d lifted her up on his desk.
You cannot.
A sudden wave of intense anger swept through him, an anger he thought he’d long since excised. Because he was so tired of cannot. He was the sheikh. And for fifteen years he had put his country and his throne before everything else. Surely, this once, he could take something for himself? Just this one thing?
But there was no answer in his head, the voice of his father silent.
So he lifted his hands to her hips, let the heat of her bare skin burn away the last of his defenses. And when he kissed her he let the passion ignite.
Her mouth was open under his almost instantly and, letting go of the leash he had on himself, he devoured her as if she was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. And she was. So sweet, the lingering taste of champagne in her mouth, and so much heat, like melted honey. She kissed him back, her own hunger and inexperience somehow making it even more erotic than it already was.
He lifted her in his arms, carrying her easily over to where there was a stone seat deep in the shadows near the courtyard wall, where they wouldn’t be seen. Sitting down on the seat, he kept her in his lap, facing him, moving his hands over the softness of her bare skin to cup her breasts, kissing her deeply as he stroked her, brushing his thumbs over her tight little nipples.
She shuddered, her kiss becoming more desperate, her fingers sliding into his hair and holding on. He pinched her nipples gently, feeling her jerk in his arms, a soft sound escaping her. Her hips moved as she squirmed in his lap, rocking so she pressed down hard on the growing length of his erection.
Ah … God. She would be the death of him.
He wound his arm around her waist, holding her still while he slid his other hand into her panties, finding hot, slick flesh. She was wet and when he gently slid a finger inside her, she grew wetter still, her body arching and trembling in his arms.
Now. He would have her now. He would give them both this one moment of complete passion and then he would rebuild his walls, tighten the leash so it would never happen again.
“Shall I take you, kitten?” he murmured against her hungry mouth. “Right here in the courtyard?”
“Yes.” Her voice was ragged, hoarse. “Please … oh please, Altair.”
He moved his finger deeper inside her slick sex, his arm around her tightening so she couldn’t move, could only take what he gave her. “I have no protection with me. Does that concern you?”
“No. I don’t care.” She’d begun to claw desperately at his tie, pulling it away and fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. Managing to get it open, she spread back the cotton to expose his throat. Then she began to press kisses over his skin, his throat, his neck and collarbones. “I want you … please …”
She held nothing back, his sand cat. Unlike himself, who held back everything …
But perhaps not tonight. Perhaps tonight he could give her a little something of himself.
He undid the buttons of his trousers, freeing himself, and instantl
y her hands were there too, touching him, her fingers cool against his hot, aching flesh. But it was too much, her gentle exploration far too erotic.
“Stop.” He pulled her hands away, drawing them behind her and holding them there in the small of her back, his fingers gripping her wrists tight.
She pulled against the restraint, panting. “I want to touch you. Let me, please.”
“No. Touch me again and you won’t get what you want.” He adjusted his hold on her so he had a free hand. Then he took her proud little chin in his fingers, keeping her still, and kissed her again. A hard, deep kiss that had her quivering in his grip.
Releasing her he reached down between them, pulling aside the lacy little bit of nothing that was supposed to be a pair of panties, baring her.
“Lift up, kitten,” he murmured against her mouth and she did without hesitation, even though he could feel her trembling. “Don’t be scared.”
“I’m not. I just … w-want you … Oh, God, Altair … please …” The naked desperation in her voice shook him in a way he wasn’t expecting and he drew his mouth away, looking into her eyes as he positioned himself at the entrance to her body.
The brilliant turquoise color of her irises had been swallowed by the night and the darkness of her dilated pupils. By the passion that flamed in her face as she stared back at him, by the desire she made no effort to hide.
No other man had ever put that look on her face. He was the first one.
The only one.
A strange, savage sense of possession gripped him then and he kept looking at her as he pushed into her, a deep, hard thrust. Watching as her eyes went wide and she gasped aloud, her body shaking. She didn’t look away from him either, both of them caught, both of them lost.
And there was a moment of silence, of stillness. Where he was deep inside her, feeling the slick heat of her close around him like a glove, looking into her face, and it felt like her soul had recognized his, welcomed it with warm arms and was holding him tight.
Everything you ever yearned for …
“Altair,” she whispered, so many undercurrents and textures to his name he couldn’t understand them all.
Then he was moving, slowly at first then faster, deeper. Her hips rocked, her body arching, a little sob escaping her. She didn’t look away and neither did he.
The pleasure tightened its grip, uncurling up his spine and sweeping through him like the lazy swipe of a lion’s paw, sending him reeling.
Safira’s body was pale in the moonlight, the jeweled pins containing her hair still there, but one lock escaping to land over her shoulder, curling around one perfect breast.
He’d never been so hungry, so desperate in all his life.
Keeping a tight hold on her hands behind her back, he let his free hand roam over her, stroking her neck, her breasts, the flat plane of her stomach, down to where they were joined, stroking the softness of the curls between her legs.
She moaned and shivered at his touch, arching into his hand, naked need stark in her face. “I want … oh, God, I want …”
He knew. He’d give it to her. Suddenly nothing was more important than that.
Altair used his thumb to press down on her clitoris then circle it, thrusting harder, faster. And she moved, trying to match him, and as she fell out of rhythm he could feel her muscles beginning to tighten, straining as the climax approached.
He watched her face, completely unable to look away as her head tipped back, her eyes glittering, her gaze pinned to his. And she came like the sun rising over the desert, a slow, gradual dawning of pleasure on her face, her eyes widening, her mouth opening, her back arching. She cried his name on a sob, and the sound of it cut him right the way through to his soul.
It hurt for reasons he couldn’t have named and he released her wrists, gathering her tight against him, letting her bury her head in his neck, her whole body shaking, little, muffled sobs escaping her.
Then he closed his eyes and, keeping one hand on her hip, held her there as he thrust, chasing his own release, letting it smash his consciousness apart and grind it into dust.
Afterwards he didn’t know how long he sat there with Safira in his lap, her breathing whispered heat against his neck. She had snuggled closer to him, her arms wrapped around him as if she didn’t want to let him go and as he stirred, she nuzzled his throat, pressing more kisses against his skin.
Fool. You’ve taken what you wanted. Now, you must get rid of her. Now you must put her at a distance.
But a long-forgotten part of him, that part of him that’d always been at odds with strictures and rules, didn’t want to. That part of him wanted to stay right here in the peaceful silence of the courtyard, holding her, letting her kiss him. Because it had been so long since he’d let anyone get close to him like this and he felt as if he was starving for it.
Yet the faint sound of music and the buzz of conversation drifted in the night air brought him back to the present. To what he had to do.
He’d taken his moment of passion and now it was over. He had to get back to his party, get back to his throne.
He had to be the sheikh. The man his father had brought him up to be.
The effort it took to shift Safira off his lap was immense, like trying to move a skyscraper with one hand. And it didn’t help that she only burrowed closer to him as he tried to move, her tongue licking at his throat, fingers winding in his hair.
“Safira,” he said hoarsely. “Stop.”
“Why?” She nuzzled under his ear, her fingers at the buttons of his shirt, pulling them open. “Do we have to go back? I want to stay here with you.”
“Yes, we have to go back. I will have been missed.”
“And if you go, I will miss you.” She had his shirt halfway open, her hands slipping inside to stroke him. “Can’t we stay here a little longer?”
He tried to be gentle, gathering her hands in his and kissing them. One last bit of tenderness before he had to shut that side of himself away forever, because she deserved that much at least after what she’d given him. “No, kitten, we can’t. Duty calls.”
“I do not care about duty.” She tugged her hands away. “You made me feel good, Altair. I want more.”
She wasn’t going to listen, was she? He was going to have to be colder, harder.
Putting his hands on her hips, he pulled her off him, shifting her firmly to the side. Then he got off the seat and turned his back to her, adjusting his clothing.
“Altair?” There was bewilderment in her voice.
Ah, but it was better this way, wasn’t it? He needed to put distance between them and if she was bewildered that was good. If she was hurt, even better.
“We have a party to attend.” He made sure none of the previous warmth was in his tone. Kept it cold, hard. “Get dressed.”
There was a silence behind him and then suddenly her arms were winding around his waist, the heat of her body pressing itself against his back. “Altair, don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t do this. Don’t try to distance me again. I’ve had … too many years of distance already.”
The ache in his chest grew at the lost note in her voice, but he wasn’t going to ask her what she meant. She’d gotten too far under his skin already and he wasn’t going to let her get any further.
So he stayed very still, trying to breathe through it. He didn’t know why she was starting to matter, why the idea of hurting her should hurt him too, but regardless of the whys, he was going to have to do it.
It was the only way.
“I made the decision,” he said harshly. “I gave you what you wanted. Now it’s your turn to give me what I want. Your presence at that party like a good, obedient princess.”
Her arms fell away, the warmth at his back vanishing, and he felt the absence like grief.
Then suddenly she was in front of him, seemingly unconcerned by the fact she was bare except for those panties and the jeweled necklace, her chin lifted, her gaze fierce on his. “Why are you doing
this?” she demanded. “I want answers, Altair. And don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing with all this talk of obedience and obligation. You’re distracting me.”
She wasn’t going to let this go, was she? She was a warrior, a fighter. She was headstrong and stubborn and one thing Safira bin Yvette al-Kashgari would never do is let him go without a fight.
Anger burst inside him. At her for being who she was. At himself for what he was about to do. At the whole wretched situation that had brought him to this point in the first place.
Because there was only one way to make sure she kept away from him. Only one way to safeguard the cold reserve of the sheikh that had to go bone deep, so the country he’d almost shattered never shattered again.
He had to tell her the truth.
“Yes,” he said flatly. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps it is time you had the answers you want. Except you had better make sure that you are asking the right questions.”
She blinked at him, frowning. “What are you talking about?”
“Your parents were betrayed that night, Safira.” The words, when it came down to it, were surprisingly easy to say. “And the question you should be asking is who was it? Who told the rebels about them? Who was it who let slip the layout of the palace and your parents’ movements that night?”
Something changed in her face, a lightning flash of understanding. She took a step toward him, her hands raised as if to cover his mouth, stop the words from coming out. “No, Altair, you don’t—”
But he had to say it. “You wanted an answer, so here it is. That someone was me.”
Chapter Eight
Safira felt like she’d had a bucket of ice water dumped on her head. She stood there staring at Altair’s face, his expression no longer hungry and passionate, but hard and cold.
But then that’s what the truth so often was, wasn’t it? Hard, cold, rigid. It cut and it hurt, and no amount of screaming or fighting could get it to change.
She swallowed, her throat thick, her eyes gritty all of a sudden. She shivered, the warmth of the night no longer so warm, struggling to understand what he’d told her.
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