drained right out of her. It wasn't a rape. It was something else.
She went cold. Colder than the breeze that had cooled her hot skin. Galen. She'd thought . . . It would have been different, before tonight. But after the evening they'd spent together, she'd thought . . . .
It hurt. The disjuncture between expectation and this ugly reality. Galen and his fucking head games.
She took a step and slammed the door. Rebolted it. And walked, slowly, coolly, back to Galen's room.
When she entered, the two men stopped their low mumblings and turned toward the door. She'd surprised them. They'd thought she'd left.
She didn't so much as glance at Galen. She locked eyes with the other—Khalid, she reminded herself—and, by force of will, moved slowly toward him, until their faces 99
were only an inch or so apart and their bodies were almost touching. She thought he'd smirk. Look smug. Or lascivious. But his face was serene. His eyes calm.
"This is what you want, Vanka?"
He had an accent. Maybe French. She hadn't noticed before.
"Yes."
She knew she was shaking. That if she said more than that small word, she might start to cry. In the periphery she glimpsed Galen moving toward the corner of the room and sinking into the chair Khalid had been sitting in when she'd first seen him.
Khalid lifted both hands to her face, and she flinched involuntarily as he ran his fingers over her hair so lightly she barely felt it. Her response registered in his eyes, but he didn't pull back. Instead he bent and kissed her mouth, fitting his lips, soft, soft over her bottom lip. Then he drew away and looked at her, and she was sure he could see her chin quivering, her eyes watering. He kissed her again, coming back to her, she thought, not like a man who didn't care that she was afraid, horrified by what was happening, but like a man of great patience and a will to change her mind, with a lingering kiss that slowly grew warmer. Deeper. Soon he was cradling her head and taking her mouth in a kiss that was at once incredibly sweet and gentle, and also the most intense, consuming kiss she'd ever experienced. She actually felt a little . . .
drugged.
When the kiss ended and she opened her heavy lids to look at him, there was a skip. A slip. How was it that she was standing there, being held and kissed by a man who wasn't Galen, looking at a man who wasn't Galen, knowing she was about to fuck him? And, with some part of her, wanting it?
100
He bent forward again, but this time his mouth went to her ear.
"No matter when, no matter what, if you ask me to stop, I will," he whispered.
He pulled back, looked at her with those warm, caramel-colored eyes. So beautiful. Fringed thick and dark with the same lush ebony that curled in soft waves by his ears and at his neck. His fingers, long and slender, converged at the top button of her blouse, and her chest cramped. Why couldn't one leave breasts out of sex?
"All right?" he whispered.
She nodded her head.
He unbuttoned her blouse and slipped it from her shoulders, and she let it fall to the floor. She watched as he lifted a hand to her hurt breast and, with the tip of his index finger, traced the raised pink curve of scarred skin.
"Your scar is pretty," he sighed, looking intently at the flesh his finger was touching.
It was the only compliment he'd paid her. The first thing he'd touched once he'd removed her blouse. He finished undressing her and, once she was completely naked and his eyes had roamed over every nuance of the front of her body, he told her to get on the bed. She sat down, at the foot, and slid back toward the headboard, watching as he undid the belt at his waist and, literally, disrobed. The champagne-colored silk slipped from his frame, and Khalid stood before her—and Galen—naked. Hard. His skin smooth, luminous in the dim, golden light of the room, his sinuous muscles sleek and defined.
Gazing down at her on Galen's bed, Khalid put one knee on the edge of the mattress,
She went cold. Colder than the breeze that had cooled her hot skin. Galen. She'd thought . . . It would have been different, before tonight. But after the evening they'd spent together, she'd thought . . . .
It hurt. The disjuncture between expectation and this ugly reality. Galen and his fucking head games.
She took a step and slammed the door. Rebolted it. And walked, slowly, coolly, back to Galen's room.
When she entered, the two men stopped their low mumblings and turned toward the door. She'd surprised them. They'd thought she'd left.
She didn't so much as glance at Galen. She locked eyes with the other—Khalid, she reminded herself—and, by force of will, moved slowly toward him, until their faces 99
were only an inch or so apart and their bodies were almost touching. She thought he'd smirk. Look smug. Or lascivious. But his face was serene. His eyes calm.
"This is what you want, Vanka?"
He had an accent. Maybe French. She hadn't noticed before.
"Yes."
She knew she was shaking. That if she said more than that small word, she might start to cry. In the periphery she glimpsed Galen moving toward the corner of the room and sinking into the chair Khalid had been sitting in when she'd first seen him.
Khalid lifted both hands to her face, and she flinched involuntarily as he ran his fingers over her hair so lightly she barely felt it. Her response registered in his eyes, but he didn't pull back. Instead he bent and kissed her mouth, fitting his lips, soft, soft over her bottom lip. Then he drew away and looked at her, and she was sure he could see her chin quivering, her eyes watering. He kissed her again, coming back to her, she thought, not like a man who didn't care that she was afraid, horrified by what was happening, but like a man of great patience and a will to change her mind, with a lingering kiss that slowly grew warmer. Deeper. Soon he was cradling her head and taking her mouth in a kiss that was at once incredibly sweet and gentle, and also the most intense, consuming kiss she'd ever experienced. She actually felt a little . . .
drugged.
When the kiss ended and she opened her heavy lids to look at him, there was a skip. A slip. How was it that she was standing there, being held and kissed by a man who wasn't Galen, looking at a man who wasn't Galen, knowing she was about to fuck him? And, with some part of her, wanting it?
100
He bent forward again, but this time his mouth went to her ear.
"No matter when, no matter what, if you ask me to stop, I will," he whispered.
He pulled back, looked at her with those warm, caramel-colored eyes. So beautiful. Fringed thick and dark with the same lush ebony that curled in soft waves by his ears and at his neck. His fingers, long and slender, converged at the top button of her blouse, and her chest cramped. Why couldn't one leave breasts out of sex?
"All right?" he whispered.
She nodded her head.
He unbuttoned her blouse and slipped it from her shoulders, and she let it fall to the floor. She watched as he lifted a hand to her hurt breast and, with the tip of his index finger, traced the raised pink curve of scarred skin.
"Your scar is pretty," he sighed, looking intently at the flesh his finger was touching.
It was the only compliment he'd paid her. The first thing he'd touched once he'd removed her blouse. He finished undressing her and, once she was completely naked and his eyes had roamed over every nuance of the front of her body, he told her to get on the bed. She sat down, at the foot, and slid back toward the headboard, watching as he undid the belt at his waist and, literally, disrobed. The champagne-colored silk slipped from his frame, and Khalid stood before her—and Galen—naked. Hard. His skin smooth, luminous in the dim, golden light of the room, his sinuous muscles sleek and defined.
Gazing down at her on Galen's bed, Khalid put one knee on the edge of the mattress,
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