TO DEFY A SHEIKH Read online

  She smiled, her dark eyes glistening. She looked at him as if he was a god. As if he was her hero, not her enemy. And he felt like the worst sort of bastard for stealing that moment. One he didn’t deserve. One he could never hope to earn.

  And for what? Because he had given her shelter when she had none? Because he had offered her prison or marriage? He should stop her. But he didn’t. Instead he watched her face and soaked in the adoration. The need. He didn’t deserve it. Dammit, he didn’t deserve a moment of it and he was going to take it anyway.

  Such was his weakness.

  “I want to…could…” She slid down, her movements graceful, her knees on the floor, her body between his thighs. “I want to taste you.”

  “Samarah…” He should not allow this.

  “Please.” She looked up at him, and he knew he couldn’t deny her. What man could deny a woman begging to allow her to take him in her mouth? Certainly not him. He had established that he was weak.

  Maybe for the moment he would let his guard down fully. Maybe he would let her see it all. He forked his fingers through her silky hair, curling them inward, making a fist. Holding her steady.

  She lowered her head and he allowed it, holding her back only slightly so he could catch his breath. So he could anticipate the moment she would touch him.

  But when she did, it was nearly the end of it. Because there was no bracing himself for this. For the sheer, blinding pleasure of her hot, wet tongue on his skin. For the unpracticed movements she made, so sincere. Only for him.

  She dipped her head and took him in deep. His hold tightened on her hair, his other hand holding tight to the bedspread. Trying to anchor himself to earth. To something.

  “Samarah…” He said her name like a warning. A curse. A prayer. He needed her to stop. He needed her to keep going. He needed this because it made the past feel like less. Made it feel like maybe this need wasn’t so wrong. Like maybe he wasn’t so wrong.

  Pleasure rushed up inside of him. Hot. Dangerous. Out of control.

  He tugged her head upward and tried to catch his breath, tried to get a handle on the need that was coursing through his veins like fire.

  “Not like that,” he said, his words harsh in the stillness of the room. “I want to be inside you. Just like you said. You said you wanted that. Wanted me.”

  “I do.”

  “Show me, habibti. Show me.”

  She rose up slowly, her hands on the beaded band of her skirt. She pushed it down her hips slowly, then stepped out of the fabric, leaving her bare to him.

  “You are water in the desert,” he said, pulling her close, his face pressed against her stomach. He kissed her tender skin, tracing her belly button with the tip of his tongue. “You are perfection.”

  She put her arms around his neck, one knee pressed onto the mattress beside his thigh. Then she shifted and brought the other one up, too. “I want you, Ferran Bashar. You are not my enemy.”

  Words he didn’t deserve. Words he would never deserve. And yet, he did not have the strength to turn her away.

  She lowered herself onto his length, slowly, so slowly he thought his head might explode. And other parts of him. But if that happened, he wouldn’t get to see this through to the end. And he desperately needed to. If only to watch her face while it happened. When she reached her peak. If he could see that again…maybe he would put up the walls after. And carry that with him.

  He watched, transfixed as she took him in fully, her lips rounded, her eyes closed. The pleasure there was humbling. More than he deserved. But he was of a mind to take it all, whether he deserved it or not.

  He curved his arm around her waist, his palm resting on her hip. And he put his other hand on her chest bracing her as he thrust up inside her. She gasped, her eyes opening, locking with his.

  “Yes,” he said. “Look at me, Samarah. Look at me.”

  He shifted his hold, tightened the arm around her waist, cupped the back of her head with his other hand, his thumb drifting to her mouth. She turned her head and bit him. Lightly, just enough to send a short burst of pain through him, the sensation setting off a chain of sparks.

  She moved over him, with him, and he held her tight, held her against him, tried to brace them both for what was coming.

  He thrust up hard as he pulled her down against him and she cried out, his thumb braced against her lips as she shuddered out her release, her internal muscles tightening around him.

  He moved his thumb and claimed her mouth in a searing kiss as he thrust inside her one last time and gave in to the need that was battering him, breaking him down. And he gave in to his own need. His own desire washing over him like a blinding wall of cleansing fire. Strong enough to burn away the past. Strong enough to burn away blood.

  And when they were done, he pulled her onto the bed with him and held her close, their hearts beating together.

  “Don’t make me go,” she said, burying her face in his chest.

  “I doubt I could make you do anything you didn’t want to do.”

  “I don’t know about that,” she said, moving against him, her breasts against his bare chest sending a fresh shock of desire through him. He couldn’t blame the celibacy. This was all Samarah.

  “Maybe someday we can go back to the palace by the ocean, Ferran,” she said. He stiffened, dark memory pouring through him. Like black ink on white, it stained. It couldn’t be stopped. “Maybe together we can make new memories there. Memories that aren’t so sad. I remember loving it. I remember…almost loving you.”

  Her words choked him. Made his vision blur. He didn’t deserve this. A man like him. She knew he’d killed her father but she didn’t know how he’d felt. The rage. The decisive, brilliant rage that had made sinking his knife into the other man’s back feel like a glorious triumph…

  “I don’t know that we should go back, Samarah.”

  “We won’t let the past win, Ferran. You were the one who taught me that. You were the one who made me want more.”

  “I should not be the one who inspires you, little viper.” He was her captor, nothing more. A man who went through life ruling with an iron fist and—he envisioned the past washed in a haze of red—when he had to, blood.

  And that was the man who held her.

  He had enslaved her, and she was thanking him. He had robbed her of her choice, and she gave him her body. He should go. He should leave her.

  He started to roll away, but she held tight to him. He felt the hot press of her lips on his back. “Don’t do that,” she said. “Please don’t.”

  He put his hand over hers, pinned it to his chest. Then he turned sharply, pulling her naked body against his as he kissed her, hard and deep. He didn’t deserve this. He shouldn’t take it. He had no right.

  But he was going to take it anyway. He lowered her back down to the bed and settled between her thighs, kissing her neck, her shoulder, the curve of her breast. “I won’t do it then,” he said. “Why? When we can do this instead.”

  “Ferran, we should talk.”

  “I don’t want to talk,” he said, his voice rough. “I don’t want to talk.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because…” He kissed her again. “Because words are dangerous, and until I’m not feeling quite so dangerous…I don’t think I should speak.”

  “Then we won’t speak,” she said.

  And they didn’t for the rest of the night.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THEIR WEDDING DAY was fast approaching and Samarah felt as if she was sleeping with a brick wall.

  Ferran Bashar was nothing if not opaque. He didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want her to talk. He wanted to make love. Frequently. Constantly, some might say, and she was okay with that. But she wanted something else. Something more.

 
She wanted him to feel what she did, and she had no earthly way of knowing if he did. Because she felt as if she was butting up against a brick wall whenever she tried to find out.

  She thought of the woman she’d been only a month ago, and she could scarcely remember her. Angry. Hopeless.

  Now her whole life stretched before her, a life with Ferran. But she was afraid it would always be like this. He talked to her more before they’d started sleeping together. At least then they’d tried. Now it felt like he only wanted to see her at night.

  It could not stand. Because when she’d chosen him, she’d done so with the intent of having a life. A real life. Everything she wanted. So she would damn well have it. She was tired of feeling nothing but hunger, cold and exhaustion. Tired of only seeing to the basics.

  She wanted more. Whatever more might be. And she wanted it with him. If she could walk away now and do anything, be anything. Be with anyone, she wouldn’t.

  She would stay here. Because her home was with him. She felt as if her heart might even be with him. And that meant it was worth pushing for what she wanted, didn’t it?

  Yes, it did. She would not question herself. She adjusted the tape on her fists and strode into the gym, where she knew Ferran would be. He was probably hoping for a quiet workout. But she wasn’t going to allow it.

  Because she wasn’t simply going to accept what he gave. She was going to break through the brick wall.

  “Hello, hayati,” she said. My life. Because that was what he was. He’d changed her life, given her new purpose. New hope. And she would do her best to give him the same.

  Ferran turned, his broad chest glistening with sweat. Samarah licked her lips. She loved him like this. It made her think of pleasure. Of being in bed with him, because he often looked like this there. Out of breath, physically exhausted.

  They were an athletic couple, and they were not only athletic in the gym. The thought made her face hot, even now.

  “What are you doing here, Samarah?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry, were you looking for an exclusive workout time?” she asked, approaching the punching bag and treating it to a crescent kick, sending it swinging.

  Ferran caught it, holding it steady, a dark brow arched. “And if I were.”

  “Too bad. I’m not leaving.” She crossed her arms beneath her breasts and cocked her head to the side. “I want to spar.”

  “Do you?” he asked.

  “Yes. I feel like we’re both getting complacent. But when I win, I expect something in return.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes. I’m going to ask a question, and you will answer truthfully.”

  He tilted his head back, his nostrils flaring. “You think so?”

  “Are you afraid I’ll win, Ferran? You know my moves. I have no size advantage. But I will make a rule about biting.”

  “What are we playing to?”

  “First to five?” she asked.

  “And what do I get if I win?” he asked. “You have not offered me incentive.”

  “What do you want?”

  “If I win, you ask me no more questions.”

  His expression was hard, uncompromising.

  “That is imbalanced,” she said. “I’m only asking for one question, and you’re asking for none, ever?”

  “It is not my fault if you set your sights too low.”

  “I do not…”

  “I do not have to answer any,” he said. “So I suggest you fight if you have a hope of getting even one answer. I do not live on anyone else’s terms.”

  “All right,” she said, moving into position. “We have a deal.”

  He took his stance, his dark eyes meeting hers. “Ready?”

  Yes. She was ready to fight for her life. For this new life she wanted, with this man.

  “Ready,” she said. And then without waiting, she advanced on him, landing a kick that was a more of a tap, to the side of his neck. “One!” she shouted.

  He narrowed his eyes and sidestepped her next move, then grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him, tapping her cheek with his fist. “One,” he said.

  “Bastard,” she hissed, rolling out of his hold and stepping away, backhanding him gently before turning and landing an uppercut to his chin. “Two, three.”

  He reached for her arm again and she hopped back, sidestepping and moving to his side, flicking a snap kick into his side. “Four,” she said.

  He turned and countered, but she blocked. He grabbed her around the waist and tugged her against him, her feet off the ground. She wiggled, pushing herself up higher into his arms and over his shoulder. Then she shouted and felt his arms loosen, the jolt from the noise offering her just enough give to use her weight to flip herself over his shoulder, land on her feet and plant her foot between his shoulder blades “Five,” she said.

  He turned, his chest heaving with the effort of breathing. She knew she looked the same, sweat running down her neck, her back. But she was fighting for her relationship with him. She was fighting for a break in his facade.

  She bowed, a sign of respect for him, even in his defeat. He squared up to her and did the same.

  “You owe me,” she said. “One question. We’re getting married in two days and I require this.”

  He said nothing, he just faced her, his dark eyes blank. “You have earned your question. Ask.”

  He looked more like a man facing the justice she’d promised just a month ago.

  “What are you afraid of?”

  “You think I am afraid, Samarah?”

  “I know you are.”

  “Not of anything outside myself.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That is two questions,” he said. “But I will indulge you. Here is your prize. I have to keep control. At all costs. Because that day taught me not just what manner of man your father was. But what manner of man I was. Do you know why I keep the tiger pacing the bars?” he asked, moving to her, resting his hand on her throat. “Because if I ever let him free, he will destroy everything in his path.”

  “Ferran you won’t…”

  “You can’t say that, Samarah.”

  “Yes,” she said, feeling desperate to combat the bleakness in his eyes.

  “No, because it happened before. And you can never guarantee if won’t again. Unless I keep control.”

  He lowered his hand and turned, leaving her there, bleeding inside, bleeding for him. For wounds that hadn’t healed. For wounds in both of them she wasn’t sure would ever heal.

  Maybe that was the problem. Maybe when she’d looked ahead and saw a life she’d never thought possible she’d only been dreaming. Maybe a life like that could never really belong to her and Ferran.

  Maybe they were simply too broken to be fixed.

  * * *

  The day of the wedding was bright and clear, like most other days in this part of the country. Ferran didn’t believe in abstracts and signs, so he considered it neither a particularly good or bad omen.

  He had kept himself from Samarah’s bed as a necessity ever since they’d spoken in the gym. Ever since she’d forced him to confess the one thing he wanted most to erase from his past.

  The wedding was to be small out of concession for Samarah’s issues with crowds. And frankly, it suited him, as well. There would be dignitaries and approved members of the press.

  It suited him because he still felt far too exposed, as if his defenses had been torn down. He’d confessed his deepest sin to her, his biggest weakness. And now he felt desperate to build everything back up so no one else could see.

  So that he was strong again.

  So that nothing could touch him.

  He strode out of his room and walked down the corridor, toward the room where the ma
rriage would take place. It was far too hot to marry outside. They could have done so if they were by the oasis, or the ocean, but he hadn’t seen the point in taking the trip out to the oasis.

  He walked inside the room and looked at the guests, seated and ready. He strode down the aisle, completely deaf to the music, the faces of everyone present blurring. He had no family, so there was no one of real importance.

  He took his position, his hands clasped in front of his body and waited. Only a few moments later, Samarah appeared in the doorway. She had an ornate gold band over her head, a veil of white and embroidered gold covering her head. Her gown was white, a mix of Western and Eastern traditions.

  She looked like a bride. She looked like a woman who deserved to have a man waiting for her who wasn’t so terribly broken.

  But she did not have that. She had him. And he wondered if he’d truly spared her anything when he’d offered her marriage to him instead of prison.

  She approached the raised platform and took his hand, dark eyes never wavering. He was shaking to pieces inside, and she looked as smooth and steady as ever.

  The ceremony passed in a blur. He had no memory of what he said. Of what she said. Only that they were married in the end. Only that Samarah was his wife, till death ended it, and he could feel nothing but guilt.

  He could give her nothing. He wouldn’t. Opening himself up like that could only end in destruction.

  They walked through the crowd of guests together, and he didn’t know if people clapped for them or not.

  “I need to talk to you,” Samarah said, as soon as they were in the hall.

  And he knew there was no denying her when she’d set her mind to something. Not really. She was far too determined.

  “We have a wedding feast to get to.”

  “It can wait.”

  “People are hungry,” he said.

  “It can start without us. I have a question for you.”

  “I didn’t agree to more questions.”