Royal Weddings: The Sheikh's Princess Bride / The Doctor Takes a Princess / Crown Prince's Chosen Bride. Annie West
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you boys and my hair?’
‘It’s the novelty.’ Tariq’s voice seemed ridiculously deep after his son’s high squeal of pleasure. And it held a husky note that brushed along her nerves like rich velvet. ‘They’ve never seen anything like it.’
Samira looked up to meet his eyes. There it was again, that flash of brilliance that made her catch her breath. She was grateful her hair was loose. It hid the way her nipples swelled against her swimsuit, as if reaching out for his touch. The idea sent discomfort squirming through her.
Yet it was true. Every instinct she possessed urged her to forget her qualms and take what Tariq offered. This honeymoon with him and the twins at the ‘small’ summer palace on the edge of the desert and the mountains had worn down her doubts and her resistance.
They’d spent almost every waking hour together since he’d set aside royal responsibilities for a week and declared this family time.
It had become appallingly difficult, trying to remember exactly why intimacy with Tariq was such a bad idea when he was with her all the time.
‘Sofia, their nanny, has short hair. So do the other staff.’
As he spoke his gaze followed the fall of Samira’s hair. That took his stare down to her waist, then lower to the high-cut edge of her swimsuit and her bare thighs. Immediately fire zinged along her veins, concentrating at the sensitive spot between her legs. She shifted her weight and watched a tiny smile tug at his mouth. As if he knew exactly how she responded.
It wasn’t the first time he’d seemed to know more about her desires than she did herself.
‘Maybe I should get it cut.’ Carefully she extricated Risay’s fingers from her hair and distracted him with a brightly coloured bucket. ‘I’ve been thinking about it for ages.’
‘No!’
Her head swung up at his sharp tone. Tariq was frowning down at her, his game with Adil stopped. What was his problem?
‘People cut their hair all the time, Tariq.’ It was past time she updated her image. Jackson had suggested it more than once when they’d been together and Samira had worried that her reluctance proclaimed her old-fashioned or just plain cowardly. She’d had long hair all her life. But was that any reason to keep it?
‘Please don’t.’
Samira opened her mouth to say something offhand, until she read what was in Tariq’s eyes and her mouth snapped shut. Heat seared her from top to toe and in every crevice and pulse point in between.
It struck her that this was the first time Tariq had asked her for anything.
She was so distracted she barely noticed Sofia bustling along to gather up the boys and take them back inside for dinner. Slowly Samira stood, stretching her toes to counteract the pins and needles in her feet from kneeling so long. Finding any excuse to look away from Tariq.
But he was still there, still watching, when she straightened. Surely he stood closer?
Her breath stalled. It wasn’t just the magnificence of him. Or the fire in his eyes. This was Tariq, the man she’d known and trusted all her life. The man who’d made her dream of a family come true. The man who looked at her and made her feel utterly unlike the sensible, careful woman she’d striven to become.
‘Promise me you won’t cut it.’ Before Samira could work out if that was a request or a command, Tariq reached for her.
He threaded his fingers in her hair, combing slowly from her ear, down past her jaw and throat, hovering for long moments near her breast, then down to where her stomach muscles automatically tensed as he ran out of hair. His hand came to a stop barely grazing the red Lycra at her hip bone.
The hiss of Samira’s indrawn breath was loud in the silence. Her muscles clenched hard in response to his feather-light touch. She ordered herself to step back but her legs weren’t listening.
‘I like it the way it is.’ He lifted a fistful of hair and held it to his face, burying his mouth in the dark locks, closing his eyes as he inhaled, his mighty chest rising as if sucking in her essence.
It was the most erotic thing she’d ever experienced. Every erogenous zone in her body slammed into awareness. Samira’s mouth dried and her breasts tingled anew. Her knees wobbled alarmingly and she shot out a hand, grabbing his elbow. He felt hot and hard and flagrantly male.
Slowly he lifted his eyes and lightning jolted through her as their gazes met and held.
Could he feel how she shook? Did he hear the rasp of her uneven breathing?
She swallowed hard, telling herself she still had time to retreat. Nothing had happened.
Yet she knew that for a lie. This was... She shook her head. She had no words to describe this.
* * *
Tariq stood stock-still. Samira in a red one-piece swimsuit, her sable silk hair rippling in waves to her waist, equalled his most fervid imaginings. The perfume of her skin was in his nose and mouth, like the sweetest of all treats. His lips brushed the impossible softness of her hair and he wasn’t sure he could let go.
Yet he’d promised not to rush her. He’d given his word.
This week of holding back from her had almost killed him. His breath sawed in his throat as he struggled to breathe.
He wanted so badly to reach for her. Holding back gouged a chasm through his midriff. But, despite the longing in her eyes, he saw the way her teeth sank into her bottom lip and the tight defensiveness of her shoulders.
Tariq looked into her beautiful face and suppressed a shudder of desire. His need for her was a ravening hunger that obliterated any satisfaction that she was obviously weakening. He’d assured himself it would be easy to enjoy the physical benefits marriage brought. Yet he felt himself hover on the edge of control.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. So all-consuming.
Guilt was a sudden sharp, twist of pain driving up from his gut to his heaving chest. How could he feel this rush of powerful desire when not much over a year ago his wife—
He slammed the door on that thought, but not before shame scored him.
Jasmin had asked him to do what was best for the boys, to find a woman who’d care for them as her own. Yet he’d been in no rush to fulfil his promise, appalled at the thought of marrying again. Nothing, he’d thought, would induce him to take another wife, to step into the quicksand that was emotion.
Now, holding Samira’s soft hair in his hand, feeling her touch on his arm, he wondered what the hell he’d done. How was he supposed to control this?
What he felt was too big, too deep, too raw and unfamiliar. He resented it, despised the weakness it revealed in him. His whole upbringing had been designed to eradicate weakness. His guardian’s regimen of hard work, discipline and self-denial had honed Tariq into a man with the strength and single-mindedness to rule a nation, to lead in war if necessary, not to wallow in feelings or succumb to neediness.
Yet his fingers were stiffly reluctant as he released Samira and stepped back. Warm water eddied around his calves. He wished it was deep and icy so he could douse the heat in his blood and his phenomenal erection.
Abruptly he turned, wading out until the water reached his hips and then striking out for the other side of the oasis pool.
TARIQ STOOD, ARM BRACED high against the open window as he stared at the winking stars. The desert night sky glittered, diamond-bright. A soft breeze feathered across his chest and rippled his loose cotton trousers against his thighs. But it did nothing to cool him. Even the plunge in the oasis and a cold shower later hadn’t brought relief from the heat simmering within.
What he