The Princess Brides. Jane Porter
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you danced with women.’’
‘‘Not in public.’’
She couldn’t speak, adrenaline coursing through her veins and he moved toward her, his energy leashed, his powerful body graceful, languid. ‘‘But then,’’ he added in that deep sexy voice of his, ‘‘there’s lots of things I can’t do in public that I love to do in private.’’
He stood before her, arms loose at his sides, his chest bare. ‘‘Come here.’’
Her mouth had grown dry and Nic shook her head in a desperate plea for sanity. ‘‘You have no dinner engagements tonight?’’
‘‘None.’’
She touched the tip of her tongue to her lips, trying to moisten them. ‘‘No appointments?’’
‘‘Completely free.’’ His smile was in his eyes. His arms were strong, relaxed. He had all night. He could afford to wait. ‘‘I thought you’d like this song.’’
The group was one of her favorite bands. She’d met the band members on their last European tour, too. ‘‘I do.’’
‘‘So come here.’’
She didn’t know why she couldn’t go to him, but her legs wouldn’t move, her feet felt rooted to the floor, and dread hummed through her, reminding her that she was not who or what she seemed. ‘‘You come to me,’’ she whispered, praying he wouldn’t, praying he’d turn and walk away.
He laughed. He was so confident he could find her insolence amusing. Malik closed the distance between them, pulled her against him, shaping her body to his, silver gaze glinting with laughter. ‘‘Like this, princess?’’
She shuddered at the press of his thighs, his body hard, his torso firm. Nic’s eyes closed as Malik bent his head, pulled back her robe and kissed her bare shoulder.
He must have felt her shudder as he kissed the same sensitive spot again and this time as the shiver raced through her, he cupped the side of her breast, feeling her nipple harden in his hand.
Her legs went weak and she hid her face against his chest as the music wound around them, warm, seductive, intimate. Nic found herself drawn closer against Malik’s chest, his smooth hard bicep pressed to her shoulder. She liked his arms around her. She liked the way he slid his hands down her ribcage, as if counting each rib, shaping each rib, until he reached her hip bones. He knew how to make a woman feel like a woman, and when he rested his hands in the small of her spine, she thought she could stay that way forever, savoring his warm, his spicy fragrance, how easy he was with her. No strangeness, no awkwardness. No formality. No royal games.
Just Malik and Nic.
She felt a twinge of guilt. Make that Malik and Chantal. But she didn’t want to be Chantal anymore. She wanted to be herself with him. She wanted him to want Nic.
Impulsively she reached up and touched his prominent cheekbone, tracing the sweeping length of bone and the shape of his chin. Everything in his face was strong, everything in his eyes was mysterious. Yet she knew he’d answer any question she put to him. He’d talk openly, candidly, about any subject she chose.
What would it be like to love you? She silently wondered, letting her hand return to his shoulder, feeling emotion grow and swell inside her chest, her heart strangely tender. For a second her eyes burned, little pricks of pain everywhere.
She’d love to spend hours with him. She’d love to take it all so slow. No rush, no hurry, no goal. Just time together.
She’d never been one of those glassy-eyed optimistics. She didn’t believe in excess of hope, didn’t believe in romantic dreams that couldn’t be fulfilled. Dreaming for her was a precursor to action. If she desired it, she did it. It wasn’t a challenge but a fact. If there was something she wanted out of life, she went for it.
‘‘Thinking about Lilly?’’ Malik asked, interrupting her thoughts, his fingers playing her spine, sending rivulets of feeling in every direction.
Nic shook her head, feeling guilty. He must think she was a terrible mother. She sighed heavily. She was in this so deep, wasn’t she?
What was she doing here? What was happening between them? They were on a collision course with disaster.
Nic felt as if she were beginning to suffocate and she stepped back, putting space between them so she could try to think. ‘‘Can we sit down?’’
‘‘Certainly.’’ He took a seat, and she knew he expected her to join him, but she hesitated. If she sat next to him in her little flimsy robe she might as well give up the battle now. If he touched her again, peeled the robe from her shoulders, kissed that sensitive spot on her neck, or her collarbone, she’d hold his lips to her skin and ask him to just keep on going…
‘‘Maybe I should go put some clothes on first.’’
‘‘Why?’’
‘‘You know why.’’
He cocked his head, studying her. ‘‘I can’t believe you’re so afraid to make love with me.’’
Talk about honesty. Nicolette flushed. ‘‘If you were a terrible kisser we wouldn’t have a problem.’’
He rubbed his brow, ruffling his crisp black hair. ‘‘I could try to kiss badly. If that’s what would make you happy.’’
She groaned, exasperated. ‘‘It wouldn’t.’’
‘‘You’re very difficult to please, Princess.’’
‘‘Yes. I know.’’ Nic felt like she was losing her mind. ‘‘Even more so than usual.’’
‘‘What’s wrong?’’
She pressed her hands to her head, trying to quiet all the guilty recriminations, the little voices that wouldn’t let her rest. ‘‘I think I’m developing a split-personality.’’
Malik had to work very hard at keeping a straight face. ‘‘Really?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘Tell me about them.’’
Nic paced in front of him. ‘‘There’s the virtuous Chantal,’’ she said, shooting him a swift glance, ‘‘and then there’s the impulsive Chantal, the one that really likes you.’’
‘‘So what is the problem?’’
She stopped pacing. ‘‘If I don’t even know who the real me is, how will you?’’
‘‘I can tell.’’ He gestured to her. ‘‘Come here.’’
He was making her nerves dance, and she moved toward him, drawn to him despite her better judgment.
Malik reached up to clasp her hand, his fingers locking with hers, and smoothly, firmly, he drew her down onto his lap, and she gasped at the naked touch of skin. Her thighs rested against his, and even though they were wearing their robes, the silk fabric didn’t contain him. He was aroused and his body pressed against her, teasing her tender flesh, making her even more sensitive.
His hands curved around her hips, his fingers firm on her hipbones and he tilted her hips forward, and back, shifting her pelvis between his large strong hands.
‘‘You belong to me.’’ He placed a kiss on her mouth. ‘‘Married or unmarried, queen or friend, you can call us what you want, but you,’’ and he shifted her again, pulling her forward so his erection rubbed inside her thighs, at the apex of her thighs, ‘‘you were made for me, and I for you.’’
Her mouth had gone dry. She couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Of course she wasn’t his, and there was no way she belonged to him, but it’d been years since she felt this raw physical craving for anyone.
‘‘Do you do