Innocent in the Desert: The Sheikh's Impatient Virgin / The Sheikh's Convenient Virgin / The Desert Lord's Bride. Trish Morey
Читать онлайн книгу.
around his unfamiliar surroundings half asleep in the night the Prince had presumably stumbled his way into her bed … or rather any bed—it just happened to be hers.
Nothing personal, it wasn’t the lure of my body. A bubble of hysteria rose in her throat as she pressed a hand to her lips. She finally had a man in her bed. Of course, he was unconscious and she hadn’t intended for him to be there, so possibly it didn’t count.
Eva, her wide eyes fixed on the sleeping man, began to surreptitiously ease herself away from the sleeping prince and towards the edge of the bed.
She was tantalisingly close to achieving her goal when the sleeping figure moaned in his sleep and shifted his position.
Dismayed, she looked down at the arm that he had thrown across her waist. A second later a heavily muscled thigh followed and she was effectively pinned to the bed.
She was reviewing her options when he reached out blindly and pulled her to him. Their bodies collided, her softer one automatically moulding itself with startling ease to his hard contours.
Shock held her momentarily immobile, then something else stopped her from pulling back.
The something had a lot to do with the intoxicating novelty of being held this intimately close to a hard male—or was it just this male in particular?
The disturbing question was for another time when her mind was not being bombarded with so many new and exciting sensations. Her nostrils flared as her senses responded, independent of her brain, hungrily to the musky male scent of his warm body.
Eva had never thought about how different the male body was from her own. She lay there now, her breath coming in short, shallow, painful gasps, thinking about it, thinking about how seductive the differences were—hard instead of soft and the solid weight of a male body. She wondered about being under that weight, feeling it press her into the mattress, and felt her temperature spike—or was that him? Eva felt sure that if she touched his skin it would burn her … not that she would, of course, because that would be wrong on too many levels to count, and, besides, not a good idea. She needed to cool down, not inflame an already dangerously inflammatory situation.
What I need is distance and plenty of it.
Eva swallowed and tried unsuccessfully to ease her leg from under his; she needed to be somewhere safe from the musky male scent of his body.
The thought was there but not the will to carry it through. Drowning in the sensual lethargy that made her feel intensely aware yet simultaneously strangely disconnected from her own body and what was happening to it, she got fatally distracted by the length of his eyelashes.
Training her gaze on this relatively safe area of his anatomy, she examined with growing fascination his eyelashes. Dark against the angle of his high cheekbones, a hank of dark glossy hair had fallen across his face.
Eva had actually lifted her hand with the intention of pushing it back—this felt as if it were happening to someone else … but it wasn’t!
What was she doing?
Face burning with shame, she began to pull away. As she did so his grip tightened. She felt rather than heard the groan that vibrated in his chest and panicked … He was waking up!
Clumsy in her haste, her elbow connected with his ribs. She was muttering a mortified, ‘Sorry,’ while trying to slide out from under the weight of his arm when, without warning, he buried his face in her neck.
Thoughts of escape went out of the window along with common sense. Her tightly closed eyelids fluttered as she felt his mouth on her neck. Then his hand was pushing under her shirt and closing over her breast and everything inside her melted as his thumb moved across her sensitised nipple and a feral moan was dragged from somewhere deep inside her.
‘No … yes … this is …’ Eva made a token attempt to move, but only managed to get her fingers tangled in his hair.
She wanted to make love to a total stranger—wanted barely began to cover the driving urgency that blitzed along her nerve endings through her veins. The realisation shocked her back to reality.
What are you doing, Eva? Whatever it was it was incredible. ‘Wake up!’
She was afraid her plea did not carry the conviction it ought, but it seemed to have some effect. He stopped nuzzling her neck and lifted his head.
Eva could never be sure in what order the next three events occurred, but his slumberous eyes opened and connected with hers.
She heard herself say stupidly, ‘I’m Eva. How’s your head, Mr … Prince?’
And Luke walked in, his eyes trained on the two takeaway coffees and a carton of croissants he was balancing.
‘I knocked, no answer. I let myself in—a peace offering. Do you know you’re late for your tutorial, Evie?’
Luke’s head lifted and his eyes opened wider than seemed physically possible as he saw the couple in the bed. His eyebrows shot to his hairline as he murmured, ‘Oops!’ And did a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn before exiting.
Eva gave an anguished groan as she sat up in bed, scarlet to the roots of her hair, and yelled after him, ‘This isn’t what it looks like, Luke!’
‘He is particularly gullible, then, your boyfriend? Or just the forgiving kind?’
Eva looked down at the man lying in the bed beside her, one arm curved over his head, the other touching the gash on his head. Gone was the air of vulnerability and vagueness of the previous evening; replacing it was a sardonic expression and a remarkably expressive and deeply unpleasant sneer.
He didn’t look forgiving; he looked like a man who held grudges.
There was a time lapse of several seconds before she realised that his eyes were trained on her gaping top.
Hating the blush that rose to the roots of her hair, Eva bunched the fabric of her top in one hand and, flinging off the duvet with the other, leapt out of bed. Her expression of indignant reproach produced a bold grin that revealed even white teeth and contained no hint of repentance for the ogling—not that she had a lot to ogle.
Not that she gave a damn how this stranger rated her breasts, because that would make her needy and mildly pathetic.
‘Last night …’ she began, struggling to look like someone who took waking up with a man in her bed in her stride, ‘… you were …’
‘Last night …’ he echoed.
Eva saw the sudden recognition flash into his eyes and watched as the sardonic amusement faded abruptly.
‘You’re Hassan’s lost princess.’
‘I’m not lost. I live here.’
He flashed a less than enthusiastic look around the room and said, ‘But you’re planning on moving up in the world, aren’t you, Princess?’
The rather cryptic observation brought a distracted frown to Eva’s brow … distracted because she was conscious of the background clatter as Luke slipped the latch on her front door.
‘I won’t be a minute.’ She gave an apologetic grimace and snatched up her robe from a chair.
‘I do not have a minute,’ Karim observed grimly.
His guilt climbed as he thought of his extended absence … his recollection was hazy, but one fact was inescapable: he had presumably, in some aberrant moment of unforgivable, shameful weakness, walked, or at least wandered, away from his responsibilities.
If he was not there when Amira woke he would never forgive himself.
The glance he slid her had the chill factor of an arctic front and Eva couldn’t help but contrast his present manner with the heat of his lips on her neck and the urgency in his hard, hot body as it had pressed into hers minutes earlier.
‘What time is it?’