Never Refuse a Sheikh Page 7

  The silence in the room spread outwards, conversations quieting; the music that had been playing was suddenly much louder as everyone looked in her direction.

  So, this is the kind of difference you were hoping to make. A childish fuss at a state function. How is this proving yourself worthy?

  Grief caught in her chest, twisting with all the other emotions. Grief and guilt.

  Because of course it hadn’t proved she was worthy. All it had proved was that she was as unsuited to the role of princess now as she had been back when she was seven years old.

  Your parents saved you for nothing …

  She turned blindly away from Altair’s furious gaze, desperate now to get out, get away. Run and hide. Be alone with her grief.

  Walking away with pride was impossible, not with the weight of people’s stares hanging heavy on her shoulders and the whispers that followed her.

  The corridors were silent as she continued walking, heading in the direction of her apartments. Reaction had started to set in, the sharp prick of tears against the backs of her eyes.

  No, she couldn’t cry. She would not.

  As she walked, she suddenly became aware of footsteps following her. Coming closer and closer.

  Of course it would be him. Perhaps he would decide she wasn’t fit to be his sheikha after all. Perhaps he would take her back to the desert.

  She stopped. Whirled around. Only to find strong fingers at her waist as he pushed her against the tiled wall of the corridor.

  “What do you think you were doing?” he demanded, his voice full of fury and darkness. “Could you not contain yourself for one moment? Just one?”

  “You would not understand!” she shot back, her fury meeting his. “You didn’t have the world looking at you and wondering whether you measured up to your dead parents. Or wondering what the point of your survival was.”

  “If you had bothered to mention your fears to me beforehand, I might have understood. But you did not see fit to tell me.”

  “Why would I tell you? The only thing you care about is your throne!”

  He put his hands against the wall on either side of her head, wide shoulders blocking her view, the lean, hard length of his body only inches away. “Then explain it to me. Now.”

  There was a lump in her throat, the faint, warm scent of sandalwood clouding her senses. He smelled so good, the heat of his body so desperately attractive, and yet there was nothing but ice in his eyes. As if he was a fire she could see through a window but couldn’t get close to because of the glass that separated them. A barrier that he’d put there.

  “I don’t want to,” she said thickly. “Like I said, you wouldn’t—”

  “Safira.” His fingers gripped her chin in a gentle, firm hold. “Tell me.”

  Her heart was beating wildly and she couldn’t stop the tremble that swept through her. Because the cold anger had died out of his eyes, leaving behind a focused intensity that stole the breath from her body.

  Almost as if he really wanted to know.

  She swallowed. “I thought my feelings didn’t matter.”

  “They do when they cause an uproar in front of the world’s media.” His thumb moved on her chin in a gentle, almost absent caress. “You should not take to heart what those fools say about you. They are ignorant.”

  The lump in her throat grew. “It’s a little hard to believe that when I was never a particularly good princess, even before my parents sent me into the desert.”

  “You were a child. No one is perfectly behaved when they are seven.”

  She hadn’t expected this hint of understanding from him, and she didn’t quite know what to say because it made her feel vulnerable. Not wanting to look into his eyes, she focused on his mouth instead. “I should be now that I’m twenty-two. I just … did not expect coming here to be so difficult.”

  There was a silence.

  He had such a beautiful mouth. The top lip perfectly shaped, the curve of his bottom lip full and sensual. It looked soft. Was probably the only thing about him that was.

  He released her chin. “Do you know where they died?” The question was soft.

  She gave a jerky shake of her head, her chest suddenly tight. “Sayed wouldn’t tell me.”

  Another silence.

  “It was in the throne room. Not the ballroom.”

  Tears filled her eyes. So, it hadn’t been there in the ballroom where she’d shouted and broken glasses. She hadn’t dishonored their memory in the place where they’d died.

  She hadn’t known. She hadn’t realized she even wanted to know. Something tight inside her released, as if she’d been holding her breath for a long time and could finally exhale.

  She lifted her gaze to his and saw the truth in his eyes. Not an easy truth, but she appreciated it nonetheless. “Thank you,” she said, her voice hoarse.

  Unexpectedly, inexplicably, he looked away.

  Her hand reached out before she could stop herself and this time it was she who took his strong chin in her fingers, feeling the roughness of stubble against her skin as she turned him back to face her.

  He stared at her, the look in his amber eyes impenetrable.

  She didn’t quite understand where she’d found the courage to touch him, but she didn’t let him go, because this was important. “I mean it.” Her voice sounded husky in the quiet of the corridor. “I didn’t know where they died. I didn’t even know it would be important to me to know. So I’m glad you told me.”

  He said nothing, but something fierce had lit in his gaze. A hot, golden flame that zeroed in on her as if she was the only thing worth looking at in the entire world.

  It made something inside her shift and change.

  She’d had enough of being separated, of being isolated and alone. She wanted heat, a connection. The connection she’d found when his mouth had covered hers that moment in his office.

  Safira didn’t think. Releasing his chin, she reached up and shoved her fingers into his night-black hair. Then she pulled that beautiful mouth of his mouth down.

  * * *

  Altair stilled, the white heat of her mouth bright as summer lightning. Hunger rose up inside him, turning over and over, demanding a response as her kiss slowly seared him all the way through.

  He’d never been so furious as when he’d followed her out of the ballroom. A fury that was completely out of proportion to what had happened there.

  But of course it wasn’t as simple as being angry at her for her seemingly inexplicable outburst in front of his entire court and assembled media.

  He was angry at himself. Because he’d known from the moment he’d seen her response to the necklace that she would find this difficult. That the ghosts of her parents would come back to haunt her.

  He should have predicted it, should have guarded against it. Yet he hadn’t.

  She wasn’t like him, trained through the years to ignore her feelings and keep her passions on a tight leash. She wore her heart on her sleeve and wasn’t as practiced in protecting it.

  Again, you have hurt her. You killed her parents and now you are forcing her to experience their loss all over again.

  The grief in her eyes had slid beneath all his defenses, touched him in that unguarded place only she seemed able to reach, killing all his anger. And he’d wanted to do something for her, give her comfort in some way, yet he didn’t quite know how. So he’d given her the only thing he thought might help. The truth about where her parents had died.

  He hadn’t known whether that would be what she wanted to hear and her response had taken him off guard completely.

  The simple “thank you”, the gratitude she hadn’t hidden. It felt like she’d ripped a layer off him. Because if she only knew the real truth …

  If she knew she wouldn’t be kissing you like this.

  She wouldn’t. And he couldn’t work out why he was standing here letting her, when what he should be doing was pulling away, going back to the ballroom and repairing the damage
her abrupt departure had caused.

  Yet he didn’t move, because to stop this would hurt her as it had hurt her when he’d pulled away back in his office. And because he wanted to give her something more …

  Because you want her.

  Her mouth was so hot, seeking, passionate. Testing the limits of his restraint, clawing at the bonds that kept it tied down. Sliding through his self-control like the sharp point of one of her knives.

  Control in all things is the way to mastery over oneself.

  Another of his father Tariq’s sayings that he’d taken to heart over the years, and it came back to him now with the ring of truth. Giving her something in return for what he’d taken from her was dangerous, yet perhaps if the pleasure was controlled he could retain mastery over himself.

  He lifted his hand, put it to her throat, his fingers pressing against her skin underneath the edge of the necklace, his thumb on the frantic beat of her pulse, measuring her heartbeat.

  Then he pulled his mouth from hers and looked down.

  Her eyes were wide, the blue drowned in green sparks that echoed the emeralds in the necklace she wore around her throat. Pain and grief and arousal in every line of her lovely, vivid face. Deep red stained her cheekbones and neck, the swell of her breasts pushing against the neckline of her gown.

  “Please.” Her voice was husky and ragged. “Don’t go …”

  His thumb moved across her throat, stroking. And she shivered. “I’m not going,” he murmured softly. “But do you understand what you are begging for?”

  “Y-you.” Her voice was hoarse, ragged.

  “And what do you want from me, Safira? A kiss? More?”

  The look in her eyes flickered with uncertainty. “I …”

  “You should not ask for things you do not understand, kitten.” The endearment slipped out before he could stop it. “Because I might just give them to you.”

  Yes, he had failed her tonight, like he had failed her all those years ago. And though he couldn’t give her back her parents, he could give her pleasure. That might suffice.

  He stroked her again with his thumb, her skin soft and hot, and just like that the uncertainty vanished from her gaze.

  “Perhaps you should show me those things,” she murmured. “Help me understand.”

  He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. But if he was careful, if he kept a tight hold on his responses, then maybe he could.

  Leaning in, he put one hand on the wall by her head and loosened his hold on her throat, brushing the backs of his fingers over the dips and hollows of her collarbones.

  She gave another little shiver, her lashes fluttering closed as she arched against the wall, pressing herself into his touch. The grief had gone from her face, her expression relaxing as she gave herself up to him without hesitation.

  She wouldn’t if she knew what you’d done.

  Altair forced the thought away. She would never know, not if he could help it. Yet he couldn’t get rid of the unsettled feeling in his chest. She must trust him to let him do this to her, to want this from him. And only he knew how badly that trust was misplaced. God knew, he hadn’t done anything to deserve it so far.

  But he didn’t stop as he let his hand trail down over the swell of silk that covered her breasts. Didn’t pause as he circled the outline of one taut nipple with his thumb.

  Safira made a little sound of hunger, her mouth opening, her body trembling. Her hands came up, reaching for him, but he couldn’t have that. Touch would destroy him.

  “Keep still,” he ordered. “Keep very, very still.”

  Her eyes opened, black pupils almost consuming the vibrant blue-green. “I want to touch you.”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  He laid his hand around her throat again, stopping her protests. Her breath caught, her shocked gaze searching his face.

  Had he scared her? Yet it didn’t look like fear in her eyes. “Only I get to touch,” he warned softly. “You will not touch me.”

  She gave a jerky nod.

  “If you do not want this, you had better tell me now.”

  “I want this.” No hesitation whatsoever.

  “Raise your hands above your head.”

  Slowly, she did as she was told, the movement lifting her breasts and only the practice of a decade held him fast against the brutal rush of desire that came with the shift of her body against his. A desire that demanded he shove her hard against the wall. Bury himself inside her. Let loose the heat that had been burning hotter and hotter ever since he’d first seen her in that desert tent.

  But he didn’t. This was not for himself. This was for her.

  Reaching up he gripped her wrists and pinned them to the wall with one hand. Then, keeping watch on the changing expressions on her face, he began to ease up the silky fabric of her gown with his other hand.

  She gave a sharp little intake of breath, her gaze on his. Yet, again, there was no fear in her eyes. Only heat, brilliant green sparks of arousal.

  He lifted her gown, slid his hand beneath the fabric, his fingers meeting the smooth, hot skin of her bare thigh.

  Her lips parted, a rush of breath escaping her.

  He stroked inwards, encountering the exquisitely soft flesh of her inner thigh, and then the damp silken fabric of her panties.

  “Oh …” A shaky sound escaped her.

  Easing one finger slowly down the center of her sex in one long stroke, he watched her face. Her eyelashes lay in thick, golden fans on her cheekbones, her head falling back against the wall, her lush mouth open. A picture of complete sensual abandonment.

  So he did it again, the material becoming slick as he pressed against her wet flesh, the heat of her against his fingertip like a lick of flame.

  Another shocked gasp of pleasure broke from her and she trembled. “Oh … Altair …”

  She hadn’t spoken his name before and hearing it now, all husky and thick with pleasure was an unexpected torture. As was the smell of her, the dry, spicy desert scent redolent with musk.

  The leash he had on himself slipped a little and he couldn’t stop himself from ripping aside the damp silk in his way, his fingers sliding over her bare sex.

  She gave a soft cry, twisting in his grip, her hips flexing against his hand.

  The reasons for holding back began to dim, undermined by her heat and her scent, by the shift of her supple body. She was so sensual. And the way she gave herself over to what he was doing to her, so utterly and without reservation, felt like a gift.

  A gift he couldn’t refuse.

  Unable to help himself, he bent his head and licked her throat. The salty/sweet taste of her skin burst on his tongue, intoxicating his senses.

  She arched back farther as if offering herself to him so he took advantage, nipping the delicate cords at the side of her neck as he slid one finger inside her, the tight, wet heat of her closing around it.

  She gave another husky cry, her hips flexing, clearly wanting more so he gave it to her, shifting his thumb to press down on her clitoris. “Altair …” His name was a broken moan. “Oh … God … Altair …”

  He felt dizzy, drunk on her. His heart was thundering in his head and he was so hard it hurt. He was supposed to hold back, he knew that, but he couldn’t seem to remember why.

  “Shall I stop?” He nuzzled her throat, easing his finger out then back in again, his thumb circling. “Is that what you’re trying to tell me, kitten?”

  “No. Don’t … s-stop.” She was shuddering, the scent of flowers and musk thick in the air. An aphrodisiac he found impossible to ignore.

  She had begged him before, and now, suddenly, he wanted her to beg again.

  “Say please,” he murmured hoarsely against her throat. “Beg me, Safira.”

  “Please …” The word was so thick it was almost inaudible. “Oh … please …”

  “Please, what?”

  “Please, A-Altair. I want … oh, God … I want …”

  He knew what
she wanted.

  Pressing down with this thumb, he turned his head and bit her shoulder, a small nip of pain to join the pleasure.

  Safira cried out, her back arching, hips pressing hard against his hand as her body convulsed. Then the cry trailed off into a series of little sobs, tremors shaking her.

  Slowly, he withdrew his hand from between her thighs, smoothing down her skirts. His hand shook.

  God in heaven.

  He didn’t move away immediately, waiting until she’d calmed. Then he released her wrists and forced himself to stand back.

  She kept her eyes closed, the dark golden skin of her face and neck deeply flushed. One of her jeweled combs had come loose, letting fall a burnished lock of hair.

  Then suddenly her lashes lifted and her gaze met his, the vibrant color almost a slap in the face. “Why did you do that?” Her voice was cracked, the husky edge to it making him harder still.

  He needed to go, get away from her, and yet he couldn’t seem to move. “Because you begged me. I told you I would make you beg and you did.” It wasn’t quite the truth, but it was all he could give her.

  Her throat moved and she looked down at her hands, the flush on her cheeks deepening even further. “Oh … I …” She stopped. Then her gaze flickered back to his. “You didn’t want to take … anything for yourself?”

  Oh, he did. He wanted to take everything. But the days when he once would have done so were long gone.

  “No.” He schooled his voice, made it cold. “I suggest you retire to your rooms, princess. I need to go back to our guests in the ballroom.”

  Her eyes widened as his abrupt formality. “But I—”

  “But what?”

  She searched his face as if looking for something, her confusion obvious.

  You know she has no experience. You know she’s a virgin.

  Of course she would be. Sayed was a traditionalist and so was his tribe, and she in particular, as a princess of the blood, would have been safe from men. Which meant everything about this would be unfamiliar to her. Including his behavior.

  Well, she would learn.

  “Go back to your rooms, Safira,” he ordered softly. “Your evening is at an end.”