‘No,’ he breathed hotly. ‘Not like that. Not the first time. I want to feel myself inside you again, Jazz. Deep inside you, where I belong.’
His erotic words rocked her. They set up an answering clamour in her body which made her long to accommodate him. But even as her trembling thighs were spreading open to welcome him, that cautious voice of earlier was louder now, and less easy to ignore. It was reminding her that his words weren’t true. That this wasn’t the first time. Far from it. She was countless episodes and almost two years away from that initial deflowering, which had taken him by surprise. She was no longer the virgin divorcee he had rapturously introduced to sex. Nor was she the idealistic innocent who believed that just because a man groaned out heartfelt words of desire when he was orgasming inside you, it meant any more than just physical satisfaction. With Zuhal it had only ever been about physical satisfaction. But now there was something else he wanted even more badly. His baby son. Was that what this was all about? Softening her with seduction while he plotted to take what he saw as rightfully his?
Did he think that if she had sex with him now she would instantly agree to marriage?
Because that had been part of the trouble before—she’d allowed passion to sweep her away, so that she wasn’t really thinking straight. Was that why she had tolerated her very part-time role as his mistress and been content to live in the shadows of his life? Maybe that was what amazing sex did to you…it robbed you of your strength and logic—and she needed both those things like never before. For her son’s sake, but also for her own.
Her thoughts blurred as he slipped a finger inside her panties and she knew that if she didn’t stop him soon, she would be past the point of making a rational decision…
Wriggling free of his intimate caress, she somehow managed to scra
mble off the day-bed, steeling herself against the sight of Zuhal still lying there in his rumpled robes, two high lines of colour flushed across his autocratic cheekbones, his black eyes burning with an expression she couldn’t quite work out.
‘Was it something I said?’ he questioned mockingly.
Flattening her fingers against her heaving breasts, Jasmine struggled to get her breath back. ‘That…that wasn’t supposed to happen!’
‘No?’ He raised his black brows. ‘So just what did you think was going to happen when I carried you in here, Jazz? Did you think we were going to have a discussion about world politics, or that I was about to start regaling you with stories of Razrastanian history?’
She realised that although outwardly he appeared cool and in control, his sarcastic words were underpinned with unmistakable irritation as he folded his arms behind his head to cushion it. She couldn’t blame him.
‘I’m sorry.’ Distractedly, she shook her head. ‘I wasn’t thinking.’
There was a pause as his black eyes bored into her. ‘Why don’t you want to have sex with me, Jazz?’
She could feel the burn of her cheeks. She shouldn’t have allowed him to bring her in here, putting herself in a situation she couldn’t handle. Because wasn’t the truth that she wanted to go right back over there and have him touch her with all that sweet unerring accuracy again? Didn’t she long to feel him inside her—deep inside her—as he himself had groaned out a few minutes ago?
But a few moments of pleasure weren’t powerful enough to make her forget why she was here. He’d offered her marriage but she was still unsure of what her answer was going to be. Because surely she could only accept if she felt equipped enough to cope with a loveless union. The last thing she needed was to be blinded by desire. ‘Because sex will just complicate things. Surely you can see that.’
‘You’re saying you don’t want us to be intimate?’ he queried softly.
Her voice was stiff as she tried to give an honest answer. ‘I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t want it. I just…just don’t feel ready for it at the moment.’
‘Maybe that’s something you ought to think about next time you start batting those big green eyes at me,’ he observed, a little pulse hammering frantically at his temple.
She gave an awkward nod of acknowledgement. ‘We were both responsible for what just happened, not just me. We got…carried away.’
‘And then some,’ he agreed drily.
Attempting to put some space between them, Jasmine walked across the room to stand beside a marble statue of a winged creature which was half-falcon, half-goat—before turning back to face him. But he was still tempting her. She suspected that he always would. ‘I’ll try to be more circumspect in future,’ she said.
There was a pause. ‘Even if that means resisting your own desires?’
She met the curious question gleaming in the depths of his ebony eyes. Could she explain what was making her so cautious, without coming over as vulnerable or needy in the process? ‘Here in your lavish palace, the only thing I have is my integrity and I don’t intend to compromise it,’ she said. ‘I won’t be able to think straight if we become intimate again. I’m afraid that desire will cloud my judgement and I can’t afford to let that happen.’
‘These are fighting words, Jazz,’ he observed softly.
‘They aren’t meant to be. I don’t want to fight with you, Zuhal.’ She drew in a deep breath, praying her new-found conviction wouldn’t leave her. Praying she wouldn’t morph back into that docile Jasmine of old who had been content with the crumbs of affection the powerful Sheikh had thrown her way. ‘We’re no longer two occasional lovers who can’t keep their hands off each other. We’re parents. We have a lifetime bond through our son. We rushed into a relationship once before without really getting to know one another. This time, I think we should take things more slowly—to decide whether or not we could make a marriage work.’
‘And am I supposed to admire your reluctance?’ he questioned. ‘Is your elusiveness part of some complex female game of playing hard to get in order to make yourself seem more of a prize?’
‘I can assure you I’m not playing games, Zuhal. This is much too important for that. I have to believe that there’s a basic compatibility between us before I agree to become your wife—otherwise it’s just a recipe for disaster.’
Zuhal shook his head, unable to believe that Jazz of all people was turning him down. A woman who had been eager to learn all he could teach her—who had been the most delightful of all his lovers. Was she holding out for what women always demanded—words of love he would not provide? Could not provide, he reminded himself bitterly. If Jasmine wanted violins and moonlight she was doomed to be disappointed.
He looked at her. During that tantalising tumble which had just taken place on his bed, her hair had come free from its ribbon and was now tumbling down in waves of golden silk. She looked like an angel, he thought reluctantly, her long lashes shuttering the verdant beauty of her green eyes. He watched her smoothing down her robes as she struggled to catch her breath and in that moment she looked like the Jasmine he remembered—young and wild and passionate. But this Jasmine had just pushed him away in a way she would never have done before.
For a moment he was tempted to walk over there and attempt to change her mind. Would she have the strength to resist him a second time? He suspected not as for a moment he imagined being inside her again, his length encased inside her molten tightness as he rocked them both towards that blissful goal.