Desert Jewels. Annie West
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of pride as she looked down at him—because he was certainly back to his usual robust self. If anything, he looked better than she could ever remember seeing him. Less strained. More relaxed. His olive skin was highlighted with a glorious golden glow, and his lips were softened at the edges.
But the hard beating of her heart made her realise that her new-found feelings for him hadn’t gone away. That stupid softness hadn’t hardened into her habitual indifference towards him. Something had changed—or maybe the feeling had always been there, deep down. maybe it was a left-over crush from her schooldays and she’d only buried it rather than abandoning it. But, either way, she didn’t know what she was going to do about it.
She continued to stare at him, willing herself to feel nothing—but to no avail. She was itching to touch him, even in the most innocent of ways. Because what other way did she know? A thick ebony lock of hair had curled onto his forehead, and she had to resist the impulse to smooth it away with the tips of her fingers.
But maybe she moved anyway—if only fractionally—because his lashes suddenly fluttered open to reveal the watchful black gleam of his eyes.
Did she suck in a sudden breath and then expel it with a sigh which shuddered out from somewhere deep in her lungs? The kind of sigh which could easily be mistaken for longing? Was that why his arm suddenly snaked up without warning, effortlessly curling around her waist before bringing her down onto his bare chest in one fluid movement?
‘T-Tariq!’ she gasped, feeling the delicious impact as their bodies made unexpected contact.
‘Izzy,’ he growled, as every fantasy he’d been concocting over the last few days burst into rampant life.
Izzy with her hair loose and cascading around her shoulders. Izzy wearing some ridiculously oldfash-ioned pair of pyjamas. Izzy warm and soft and smelling of toothpaste, just begging to be kissed. Reaching up, he tangled his fingers in the rich spill of her curls and brought her mouth down on his.
‘Oh!’ Her startled exclamation was muffled by his kiss, and it only partially blotted out the urgent clamour of her thoughts. She ought to stop him. She knew that. A whole lifetime of conditioning told her so.
But Isobel didn’t stop him, and the words which her mother had once drummed into her floated straight out of her mind. It no longer mattered that Tariq was the worst possible person to let make love to her. Because her body was on fire—a fire created by the blazing heat of his. She wanted him, and she wanted his kiss. She wanted it enough to turn her back on all her so-called principles, and now she gave in to it with greedy fervour, her mouth opening hungrily beneath his.
She could hear the small moan he made as the kiss deepened. He crushed his lips against hers and a fierce heat began to flood through her body, from breast to belly and beyond.
Frantically, her fingers slithered over his chest and began to knead at the silken flesh, feeling the mad hammer of his heart against her palm. She moaned into his mouth as his hand skimmed down from the base of her throat to her breast, slipping his fingers inside her pyjama jacket and capturing the aching mound with proprietorial skill. She could feel him stroking one pinpoint nipple between finger and thumb until she gasped aloud, wriggling uselessly as she felt the flagrant ridge at his groin pressing against her belly.
Tariq groaned. She tasted of mint, and her hair tickled him as the thick curls cascaded down the side of her face. She felt amazing. Was that because this had come at him out of the blue? Or was it novelty value because she was the last person in the world he could imagine responding with such easy passion? My God, she was hot.
He kissed her until he had barely any breath left in his lungs, and it became apparent that her narrow sofa was hopelessly inadequate for two people who were exploring each other’s bodies for the first time.
‘This is getting a little crowded,’ he managed, pulling his lips away from hers with an effort.
He slid them both to the ground, barely noticing the hard flagstones beneath the thin rug. All that concerned him was the gasping beauty in his arms, her hair spilling out all over the floor like tendrils of pale fire and her eyes as tawny as a tiger’s.
‘Comfortable?’ he questioned, as he smoothed some of the wiry corkscrews away from the pink flush of her cheeks.
Heart thundering, Isobel gazed up at him, wondering why she didn’t feel shyer than she did. Was it because Tariq was staring down at her with such gleaming hunger in his eyes that in that moment she felt utterly desirable? As if almost anything was possible? ‘Oddly enough, yes, I am.’
‘Me too. Deliciously comfortable. Perhaps I can help make you more comfortable still, anisah bahiya.’ Pulling open her dressing gown, he began to unbutton her pyjamas—until two rosy-peaked breasts were thrusting towards him. Unable to resist their silent plea, he bent his head to suckle one. Slicking his tongue against the tight bud, he felt the responsive jerk of her hips and heard her gasp his name. ‘I’ve never seduced a woman in pyjamas before,’ he whispered against the puckered flesh.
‘Are you…are you going to seduce me, then?’
‘What do you think? That I’ve got you down here because I want to discuss my diary for next week?’
Thinking was the last thing Isobel wanted to do—because if she did that then surely she would realise that what they were doing was crazy. Wouldn’t thinking remind her that Tariq was a cavalier playboy, and that there was a reason why men like him should be avoided like the plague? Wouldn’t it prompt her into doing the only sensible thing—which was to tear herself away from him and rush upstairs to her room, away from temptation?
She felt the graze of his teeth against her nipple and shut her eyes. Far better to feel. To allow these amazing sensations to skate over her skin and fill her with an urgent longing which was fast spiralling out of control.
‘Oh!’ she breathed, eagerly squirming her hips beneath him and feeling a warm, wild heat building up inside her. And he answered her voiceless plea by slipping his hand inside the elasticated waistband of her pyjamas.
She held her breath as his warm palm navigated its way down her belly, tiptoeing tantalisingly to the fuzz of hair which lay beyond. Still she held her breath as he stroked at the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, and then gasped as his fingertips seared over her moist heat.
‘Oh!’ she said again.
‘You’re very wet.’
‘A-am I?’
‘Mmm…’ Tariq’s mouth brushed over hers as his finger strayed to the tight bud at the very core of her desire. Her instant compliance didn’t surprise him—he was capable of reducing a woman to a boneless state of longing no matter what the circumstances. But the sheer and urgent spontaneity of what they were doing made him tense—just for a moment. And that moment was enough for him to remember one vital omission.
He froze, before snatching his hand away from her. Damn and damn and damn!
‘I don’t have any protection with me,’ he ground out.
For one stupid moment Isobel thought he was talking about the bodyguards he sometimes used, and then she saw the look of dark frustration on his face and realised what he meant. A wave of insecurity washed over her.
Should she tell him?
Of course she should tell him—they were on the brink of making love, and now was not the time for coyness.
‘Actually, I’m…’ Isobel swallowed, wanting his fingers back on her aching flesh. ‘I’m on the pill.’
Her admission dampened his ardour fractionally. He drew away from her, his black eyes slitted in a cool question. ‘The pill?’
Isobel heard the unmistakable disapproval in his voice. ‘Lots of women are.’
There was a pause. ‘Yes. I imagine that they are.’
Suddenly she shrank from the truth in his hard black eyes, indignant words tumbling