Desert Rogues Part 1. Susan Mallery
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a cold bed. Is that what you want?”
What she wanted was a real marriage with a man who cared about her. At this point she would accept respect and liking, with the hope that love would grow. What she had instead was lies.
“I don’t want you.”
One fingertip brushed against her hard nipple. “Your body says otherwise.”
She shivered involuntarily, and her eyes snapped open. “I can’t help my response to you, but it doesn’t mean anything. It’s the same as when the doctor taps on your knee, and your leg jerks. In this case the nerves are not connected to my brain. My weak outer self might react to the sexual act, but my heart and soul are completely detached.”
Dark eyes regarded her thoughtfully. “A very pretty speech. Shall we test your theory?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re saying that we can make love and that you can respond to me sexually, but that the act won’t touch you on the inside.”
“Exactly.” She believed completely in what she told him—she just hoped she wasn’t fooling herself.
He took her hand in his and pushed up the loose, long sleeve to the elbow, exposing the underside of her forearm. “You’re saying that when I touch you like this—” He lightly traced a line from the inside of her wrist to her elbow. “That any reaction you have is the same as automatically pulling back when you touch a hot stove?”
“Yes.” She ignored the trembling that began inside of her and the goose bumps that erupted on her skin. Just standing this close to Khalil made it difficult to think, let alone banter with him.
He turned her hand over and stared at the back, then traced the lacy lines of the henna. “Do you know that somewhere in this decorative pattern I will find my name?”
She blinked. She knew he was talking…she could hear the words…but it was so hard to concentrate when he touched her. There was a traffic jam in her nervous system and only the emergency vehicles, in this case the sensation of his fingers on her skin, were getting through. Everything else, like conversation, had to wait.
“Your name?” she repeated dully as he circled round and round on the back of her hand, then traced the length of each of her fingers.
“Yes. Tradition dictates that the husband’s name be woven into the henna pattern.” He looked at her, his dark eyes smoldering with hot, heavy, ready desire. “Where is my name, Dora?”
“I don’t know,” she said, her voice trembling. “I didn’t watch Rihana when she painted me.”
“So I’ll have to go searching. How sad that they only paint your hands and feet.”
It was sad, she thought vaguely. If only they’d painted her all over. There would be more places for Khalil to search.
The thought of his fingers and perhaps even his tongue on her body made her thighs quiver. She remembered what it had been like before…when he’d touched her and then kissed her between her legs. She remembered the feel of him against her and the passion of her release. She remembered all of it and even though she knew it was wrong and made her weak, she wanted to experience it again.
He led her to the bed. There they paused while he pulled off the lace dress, leaving her in a calf-length chemise and nothing else. Dora shivered again, but it wasn’t from the cold. In his robes, with his eyes blazing passion, Khalil was a dark, mysterious stranger. She was far from anything she’d ever known. She’d married this man standing in front of her. For all she knew he had the power of life and death over her. She wasn’t sure how she felt about him, nor did she know why he’d married her. She was committed to resisting him in all ways, including physically. And she’d never in her life known such incredible physical longing.
She hadn’t known it was possible to stand and breathe and want with such powerful need. She ached, she shook, she melted, she cried out deep inside for him to take her. Even as she knew she should resist. Even as she knew she would hate herself for her weakness…she wanted him.
He urged her to sit on the edge of the bed. The dais was covered with carpets, and her toes curled into the thick weave. Khalil settled next to her and took possession of her left hand. He held it palm up in his, studying the pattern made by the henna. The stain was a dark orange-brown on her skin. Fatima had told her it would turn a little red as it faded over time. The design was exotic on her pale skin, bringing to mind how out of place she was in this foreign land.
He lightly scraped the tip of his fingers over her palm. “I don’t see my name here, do you?”
She thought about telling him that she couldn’t really see her hand, that he held it too far and angled away from her, but the tingles shooting up her arm made it difficult to talk. He turned her hand over and stroked it.
“Nor here,” he murmured before pressing her fingertips to his mouth and rubbing the sensitive pads with his tongue.
Had she not been sitting, she would have fallen in a heap on the floor. Muscles quivered, joints gave way. She wanted to sag against him, to sigh, to moan. Instead she bit her lower lip and endured the exquisite torture.
He licked and nibbled his way across her palm, then up the inside of her wrist and arm, all the while speaking of his name and hers, of the weaving of time and futures and how she belonged to him. She didn’t really listen. They didn’t have a future, she didn’t belong to him, and right now she didn’t care about anything but the way he touched her.
His mouth pressed against the inside of her elbow. Strong hands splayed across her back as he urged her to recline against the mound of pillows on the bed. She thought about protesting, but it was too late for pride. She was here because she couldn’t imagine surviving without knowing what it was like to make love with him again. She might play the fool, but she wouldn’t play the hypocrite.
When she’d stretched out on the bed, he leaned over her. “Dora,” he whispered, speaking her name with a husky passion that made her ache inside. She was already wet between her thighs, wet and swollen and so very ready for him. She wanted to know his body again, his weight on hers, his maleness pressing inside of her.
She waited for his kiss, but he didn’t touch her lips. Instead he nibbled on her shoulder, then moved lower, taking her nipple in his mouth.
She still wore her silk chemise. As he suckled her, the thin, gossamer fabric dampened. When he raised his head she saw that the material was now transparent. She could see the peachy-pink bud puckering against the undergarment. He saw it, too. Holding her gaze, he deliberately touched the tip of his tongue to the sensitized peak. To see as well as feel his seduction was more than she could stand. She half raised herself, grasping his head, pulling him down so she could kiss him.
Their mouths met in frenzied passion. She needed all of him. Next to her, in her, on top of her. More and more of him. She pushed at his clothes, fumbling for the ties of his robe. He shrugged out of them quickly, then pulled off his loose shirt. He had to leave the bed to remove his trousers, and she was shocked to hear herself whimper when he stood up to shed the garments.
But then he stood before her, naked and so incredibly beautiful. She studied the hard planes of his chest, the thick coils of his muscles, the dark hair crowning his arousal.
“Tell me,” he commanded, standing by the bed but just out of reach. “Say the words. Tell me that you want me.”
She shook her head. “I can’t.”
“Want me, or say it?”
Both, she thought, but she wouldn’t tell him that. He moved closer…close enough that she was able to reach out her hand and stroke the powerful length of him. She encircled him with her fingers and moved back and forth, savoring the feel of him. Baby-soft skin over the unyielding pulse of his desire. She looked up at him and found herself caught in his hooded gaze. Only the tightening muscle at his jaw indicated that he was the least bit affected