Royal Weddings: The Sheikh's Princess Bride / The Doctor Takes a Princess / Crown Prince's Chosen Bride. Annie West
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huffed out a gasp of mirthless laughter. ‘You’re the only one to think so.’ There was an element of the press, and the public, that insisted on wondering whether she’d been to bed with every man ever photographed with her.
‘Believe me, you don’t need to be in love to enjoy sex.’
Samira supposed he was thinking of the many beauties who’d warmed his bed before his first marriage and, if rumour was right, in the period since his first wife’s death. None had lasted long enough to make a claim on him.
‘I know that.’ She wasn’t a complete innocent. ‘But it was like that for me and I can’t afford for it to happen again.’ She couldn’t survive such disillusionment a second time.
‘You don’t love me, do you?’
‘No.’ She clenched her jaw.
‘Yet you feel this?’ This was the graze of his knuckles across her breast, lingering at her nipple, making it harden. Her breasts seemed to swell and an arrow of fierce heat shot directly to her womb.
Samira jerked back against the table, shock skittering through her.
‘Don’t touch me like that!’
‘Why not, when you enjoy it?’
She opened her mouth to deny it but he continued. ‘I can see the flush of arousal at your throat so don’t pretend I’m not right.’ His gaze dipped from her neck. ‘Your breasts are burning up, aren’t they? Is there heat lower too? Deep inside, do you feel empty? Needy?’
Samira gasped as the muscles between her legs clenched greedily, responding to Tariq’s words. He knew her too well. Better than she knew herself.
‘I can fill that emptiness, Samira. I can make it good for you. For both of us.’
He could too. Instinctively she knew it. Certainty gleamed in those penetrating eyes. Her body was inching forward, eager for his expert touch.
Samira grabbed hard at the table behind her. ‘I don’t want that.’
Slowly he shook his head. ‘Of course you do. So do I.’ His face was taut with a hunger that should have dismayed her, yet instead intrigued her. She imagined them together, here in this room, his big, capable hands gentle yet demanding on her flesh. She wanted...
No! She’d made that mistake once.
‘I told you, Tariq, it’s not for me. Intimacy and love are bound up together. I won’t go there again.’
‘You speak with such experience. How many lovers have you had?’
‘One.’ She jutted her chin. ‘That was one too many.’
His gaze narrowed. His words, when they came, held a contained savagery she’d not heard from him before. ‘You had your heart broken by a bastard who shouldn’t have been allowed even to touch the hem of your dress.’
Samira blinked, taken aback by the depth of Tariq’s anger.
‘Take it from me, little one, sex can be quite, quite separate to love.’ He paused and she sensed he chose his words carefully. ‘That makes us an ideal match. I don’t want love from you and you don’t want it from me. We’re on a level playing field. Neither of us will fall for some grand romantic illusion about this marriage.’
Was that bitterness in his voice?
Samira bit her lip. No doubt he was thinking of Jasmin and the fact no other woman could take her place in his heart.
‘We have the marriage you wanted,’ he continued. ‘But we can have more. We can enjoy each other. It’s only natural, you know.’ This time his touch wasn’t at all sexual, a mere brush of fingertips against her hair, yet she felt it all the way to her toes.
‘Desire is a part of life. Why not enjoy it? After all, neither of us is in danger of falling in love.’
A SMILE CURVED Samira’s mouth at the way Risay’s small hand tucked confidingly into hers as they entered the stables. Shade engulfed them, with the scent of horses, hay and leather.
She paused, letting her eyes adjust, basking in the gentle pleasure of this outing with her new son.
Her son. The word shimmered like a vibration in the warm air, wrapping around her. How long before she grew accustomed to this wonderful new reality?
Her reverie was broken when Risay tugged her hand. Stiff-legged, he marched forward, gabbling in baby language to a man sitting amidst a selection of harnesses.
‘Your Highness.’ He rose and bowed, a bridle hanging from gnarled hands.
‘Please, don’t let me interrupt your work.’
With another bow he sat and picked up his polishing cloth. Light from a window caught the ornate silver decorations on the bridle. ‘The little prince admires the harness,’ he said as Risay strained forward, hand outstretched.
Samira smiled. Anything bright was sure to catch Risay’s eye. ‘We’re looking for the Sheikh. I believe he’s here somewhere.’
‘Just in the training ring.’ The stable hand gestured to the open space on the other side of the building.
The thud of hooves on dirt drew her attention and she turned to look out of the wide doors. Movement caught her eye.
‘I’ll look after the young prince if you wish to talk with His Majesty,’ the stable hand offered. ‘We’re old friends.’
Samira dragged her gaze away from the arena. Risay already half-sat on the man’s lap, obviously at home, plucking at an intricately wrought harness.
‘Thank you.’ She nodded and moved towards the open doors.
In a sunlit arena a man and horse faced each other—the horse skittish, its gait high as it pranced, eyes rolling. Her heart jumped as Tariq, unperturbed, approached it. His lips moved and the horse’s ears flicked.
Samira’s skin drew tight as she caught the delicious, low cadence of Tariq’s voice. That same voice had mesmerised her just yesterday.
Desire is a part of life.
Neither of us is in danger of falling in love.
The voice of temptation.
She’d told herself she was immune to such temptation. Yet her body betrayed her. Even here, now, when Tariq wasn’t aware of her presence.
Fire trawled her veins, stirred the feminine pulse point between her legs, scorched her breasts. She just had to look at Tariq’s powerful frame, hear his rich coffee voice, and she went weak at the knees.
Despair gripped her. Maybe her critics were right. Perhaps she was tainted for ever since she’d once given in to a man’s blandishments. Perhaps desire had become an intrinsic weakness, no matter how hard she battled for a cool head.
Her eyes ate him up. He wore a collarless shirt that stuck to broad, muscled shoulders in the heat and pale trousers tucked into boots. Tall, confident and erect as a soldier, he was magnetic. His total lack of fear as the stallion sidestepped wickedly close made her gasp.
Heart in mouth, Samira moved nearer, watching the horse try to intimidate. A rider herself, she understood the stallion’s magnificence and the danger. One strike of his powerful hoof could seriously wound.
Yet, as she watched, something changed. That sharply nodding head lowered. Wide nostrils flared as it scented the man who stood, murmuring, keeping eye contact with the big beast.
Seconds strung out to minutes and, apart from quick checks to see Risay was happy, Samira’s gaze remained glued on the figure of her husband as he, by some magic, quieted the