The Highest Bidder. Maureen Child
Читать онлайн книгу.
didn’t feel lucky. She felt confused and vulnerable, and more frightened than ever.
He took another step back. “You may sleep on the floor.”
She wasn’t sure she’d heard right. A reprieve? Why would he give her a reprieve?
“You will join me by morning.” He turned to the bed. “I will not tolerate servant gossip.”
So, it would happen in the morning then?
Laila was afraid to ask.
She was afraid to move. She averted her eyes while he undressed and climbed into the big bed. She waited for him to change his mind. But he didn’t. He said nothing else.
After a few minutes, her shoulders slumped in relief. She found a few pillows and lay down on the floor.
But she was a princess. She’d never slept anywhere but in a soft, luxurious bed, beneath fresh, fine linens. It was a fitful, horrible night. So when the sun began to rise, she crept fearfully to the bed, teetering on the very edge to stay far away from Tariq. There, she fell instantly asleep.
She lasted three days, and three long, miserable nights. On the fourth night, wide awake, cramped and uncomfortable, she waited until Tariq’s breathing was deep and even. He wouldn’t know, she reasoned. How would he tell what time she’d joined him? It might as well be now as in the cold streaks of dawn. At least then she’d get some sleep.
She rolled silently to her feet, whispering her way across the tile floor, her soft cotton gown flowing in the moonlight. She inched back the covers, slipped one leg onto the bed, and carefully eased onto her back, laying her head on the blessedly soft pillow.
“You are weak,” came Tariq’s deep voice.
She tried to make a quick escape, but his arm clamped over her, pinning her to the bed.
“I thought you would last longer,” he told her.
“I didn’t think you’d wait,” she blurted out in a fit of honesty.
“I guess we both surprise each other.”
They fell silent. Laila couldn’t bring herself to ask what happened now.
Tariq rose on one elbow. He seemed genuinely confused. “You are not the first princess to marry for her country.”
She knew he was right. She knew it was her duty. She even conceded that he had been unexpectedly patient with her. Her gaze focused on the Gold Heart statue at the foot of the bed as she struggled to put her fears into words. “You have killed so many people.”
“I won’t kill you.”
The words surprised a laugh out of her. “That makes it better?”
“You are my wife, Laila. I will protect you and your family and your country.” His face was all planes and angles in the white moonlight. And though he still looked fierce, he didn’t look frightening. For the first time, she pondered the idea of his strength as protection instead of a threat.
This morning, she’d seen him practicing with his sword in the courtyard, swift and skilled against his partners. He was impressive then, and he was impressive now. His chest was bare, and his muscles were defined and delineated from his biceps to his abdomen. Angry-looking scars crisscrossed his chest and shoulders, and she felt her sympathies engage. Despite those flaws, he was a handsome man, a magnificent man. She’d become aware that she was the envy of the women in the palace.
“You’re good at fighting,” she ventured.
“I’m still alive.”
“While your opponents are not.”
“That’s the way it’s supposed to be.”
She nodded, her gaze resting on his bronze chest.
“Touch me,” he whispered.
She shook her head.
“My patience is not endless.”
She looked into his eyes. They had darkened again, and she missed his better mood. So, she took a breath, screwed up her courage, and placed her fingertips against his chest. It was hot, supple, but iron-hard.
His hand closed over hers. “You are beautiful.”
“Is that why the king chose me?” The question leaped out. She had two sisters, but her father had chosen her for Tariq, and she couldn’t help but wonder why.
“The king said you were strong. You are not.”
“Are you disappointed?” There was no reason for her to care, but she did.
“I am impatient.” He moved in closer, his lips coming down on hers in the way she remembered. They were soft at first, then firmer, then they parted.
His tongue teased the seam of her lips. She knew what he wanted this time, and she knew she had no choice. She parted her lips, waiting for revulsion to overwhelm her.
It didn’t.
As he kissed her deeply, a flicker of warmth grew to life in the pit of her belly. He shifted, and his hard body pressed intimately against hers. This time, when his hand closed over her breast, she waited, holding still in wonder as the pleasure rippled over her skin.
His thumb flicked her nipple, and a spike of exquisite sensations shot through her body, twitching her thighs and making her gasp.
Tariq drew back in obvious surprise.
He did it again, and her chest arched reflexively against his hand.
“I have changed my mind,” he rumbled, his tone pouring over her like sun-warm honey.
She wanted to ask why, but words were nothing but a jumble inside her head.
“I am not disappointed,” he finished. Then his lips came back down on hers.
For some reason, her arms wound around his neck. She curled against him, reveling in the hard contours of his male body. When he pulled up the hem of her gown, she knew she should protest. But his hands felt exquisite along the length of her thigh, and she could only lie mute, kissing him back, squirming against the softness of the bed as desire caught fire in her throat.
He touched her intimately, and she knew she should be mortified. But she liked it, she loved it, she never, ever wanted him to stop.
“Laila,” he breathed, easing her thighs apart, bunching her gown up out of the way.
He drew back the covers, his gaze on her naked body. Instead of feeling shy, she felt wild and alive.
His fingers pressed firmly to her. She knew what he was doing, but she didn’t care. It didn’t hurt. No one had told her his touch would feel good.
He gazed into her eyes. “You are beautiful.”
“You are gentle,” she told him in absolute wonder.
He smiled at that. His hand moved against her, and warmth suddenly flooded her limbs. She writhed and moaned, arching her hips.
“I am selfish,” he rumbled.
He put his lips to her breast then, drawing her nipple into his heated mouth, his tongue doing something that showered sparks through her body.
“Tariq,” she cried, gripping him tight.
He moved on top of her.
His weight felt good.
His palms stroked the backs of her thighs, pushing up her knees, as his maleness pressed bluntly against her.
She waited for the pain.
Her aunt had told her that much.
But it was swift and slight, and then she was wrapped around him, and he was fully inside her, and all her