she’d only said the words on their last night together. She’d loved him.
But not enough. If she had, she wouldn’t have run away.
His grip on the shisha tightened. There was nothing left between them now but passion. She might not love him, but she did want him. He would have to be made of stone not to know it. He could feel the electricity between them when she was near, feel the way she quivered with anticipation. When he touched her, she leaned into his touch. And she fought with herself until she won the battle and pushed him away.
His body ached with need for her. He remembered her touch, her scent, the feel of her beneath him. He missed that. He wanted to possess her again, wanted to own her mouth and her lush body. Wanted her to admit she wanted him, that maybe they had unfinished business left between them.
He’d brought her out here because he was angry. But also because he wanted to leave behind all the distractions of Port Jahfar. Out here in the desert, there was nothing but space and time.
Nothing to distract them. Nothing to interfere.
Malik climbed to his feet and thanked the Bedu for their hospitality. Then he stalked toward the tent where he’d left his wife.
Sydney lay in the big bed beneath a pile of furs. She’d been shocked at how cold the air grew after the sun went down. Malik had sent a Bedouin girl with food earlier, but she hadn’t seen him since earlier in the day when he’d left her alone in the darkened tent with her heart in her throat.
Why could they not be in a room together without wounding each other? Why did every conversation between them degenerate into a battle of words, of old hurts flung so carelessly?
Sydney shoved a hand behind her head, stared up at the darkness. A small light burned nearby, throwing a purple glow into the room. She’d thought it was an oil lamp at first, had even managed to say the words in Arabic, but the Bedu girl smiled and shook her head as she flipped a small switch in the back.
A sound in the other room lodged her heart in her throat. She sat up, dragging the covers up with her. Waiting. What if it wasn’t Malik? This was a wild, untamed place—even her cell phone didn’t work, much to her dismay. What would she do?
A long shadow appeared on the wall, and then a man stepped into the room.
“Malik?” Her voice was little more than a whisper.
“You are awake,” he said.
Relief made her sag into the mattress. “Yes. It’s so quiet here.” Not just that, but she’d been wondering about him. Worrying about him.
He began to remove his clothing. She could see the fabric whisper over his head, see the gleam of his bare chest in the lamplight. Her breath caught in her throat.
“I—I didn’t know when you’d be back. I’ll move to the couch in the other room.”
He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled at his boots. “No,” he said, and her heart skipped.
“No? I won’t sleep with you, Malik, and I won’t have sex with you,” she said in a heated rush.
“So you keep saying. But I don’t believe you, Sydney.” He stood, still wearing the loose trousers he’d had on beneath the dishdasha. They hung low on his lean hips, tied at the waist with a drawstring. His hipbones protruded from the waistband, and her mouth went dry.
Oh, dear God. His abdomen was as tight as ever, his chest sculpted with lean muscle. His body was perfect.
Her heart throbbed. And, God help her, her body was responding.
“You won’t force me,” she blurted.
He put his hands on his hips. “No, I won’t. But I won’t have to, will I?”
Before she knew what he was planning, he grabbed her foot and dragged her down until she was lying flat on the bed. And then he was on top of her, his body hovering over hers but not quite touching.
His head dropped, his lips skimming her throat. She splayed her hands against his chest, intending to push him away—except that she didn’t quite manage to do so. Heat seared her, glorious heat.
She arched
But not enough. If she had, she wouldn’t have run away.
His grip on the shisha tightened. There was nothing left between them now but passion. She might not love him, but she did want him. He would have to be made of stone not to know it. He could feel the electricity between them when she was near, feel the way she quivered with anticipation. When he touched her, she leaned into his touch. And she fought with herself until she won the battle and pushed him away.
His body ached with need for her. He remembered her touch, her scent, the feel of her beneath him. He missed that. He wanted to possess her again, wanted to own her mouth and her lush body. Wanted her to admit she wanted him, that maybe they had unfinished business left between them.
He’d brought her out here because he was angry. But also because he wanted to leave behind all the distractions of Port Jahfar. Out here in the desert, there was nothing but space and time.
Nothing to distract them. Nothing to interfere.
Malik climbed to his feet and thanked the Bedu for their hospitality. Then he stalked toward the tent where he’d left his wife.
Sydney lay in the big bed beneath a pile of furs. She’d been shocked at how cold the air grew after the sun went down. Malik had sent a Bedouin girl with food earlier, but she hadn’t seen him since earlier in the day when he’d left her alone in the darkened tent with her heart in her throat.
Why could they not be in a room together without wounding each other? Why did every conversation between them degenerate into a battle of words, of old hurts flung so carelessly?
Sydney shoved a hand behind her head, stared up at the darkness. A small light burned nearby, throwing a purple glow into the room. She’d thought it was an oil lamp at first, had even managed to say the words in Arabic, but the Bedu girl smiled and shook her head as she flipped a small switch in the back.
A sound in the other room lodged her heart in her throat. She sat up, dragging the covers up with her. Waiting. What if it wasn’t Malik? This was a wild, untamed place—even her cell phone didn’t work, much to her dismay. What would she do?
A long shadow appeared on the wall, and then a man stepped into the room.
“Malik?” Her voice was little more than a whisper.
“You are awake,” he said.
Relief made her sag into the mattress. “Yes. It’s so quiet here.” Not just that, but she’d been wondering about him. Worrying about him.
He began to remove his clothing. She could see the fabric whisper over his head, see the gleam of his bare chest in the lamplight. Her breath caught in her throat.
“I—I didn’t know when you’d be back. I’ll move to the couch in the other room.”
He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled at his boots. “No,” he said, and her heart skipped.
“No? I won’t sleep with you, Malik, and I won’t have sex with you,” she said in a heated rush.
“So you keep saying. But I don’t believe you, Sydney.” He stood, still wearing the loose trousers he’d had on beneath the dishdasha. They hung low on his lean hips, tied at the waist with a drawstring. His hipbones protruded from the waistband, and her mouth went dry.
Oh, dear God. His abdomen was as tight as ever, his chest sculpted with lean muscle. His body was perfect.
Her heart throbbed. And, God help her, her body was responding.
“You won’t force me,” she blurted.
He put his hands on his hips. “No, I won’t. But I won’t have to, will I?”
Before she knew what he was planning, he grabbed her foot and dragged her down until she was lying flat on the bed. And then he was on top of her, his body hovering over hers but not quite touching.
His head dropped, his lips skimming her throat. She splayed her hands against his chest, intending to push him away—except that she didn’t quite manage to do so. Heat seared her, glorious heat.
She arched
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