He drags a hand over his stubbled jaw.
“And I want to make a baby with you.”
He expels a sharp breath. I can see the argument he’s waging within himself, though I don’t understand the reason for it.
“Isn’t that what you want?”
He stares down at me, desire flashing in his eyes, but something still holds him back.
“It’s okay,” I say quietly. “I mean it. This is what I want.” If only he knew how much, and why.
He swears in Qabidi, a gruff sound in a low, husky voice.
Anxiety cuts into my desire. Is it possible this is no longer what he wants?
“What’s the matter?”
“Why are you doing this?”
My heart misses a beat.
“You were adamant you didn’t want to conceive my child.”
That was before. Before I knew you, before I… The words are strangled in my throat.
“I changed my mind.”
“Your father’s return is not contingent on this.”
I shake my head. “Believe me, I’m not thinking about dad right now.”
And despite the tension in his frame, a smile flickers on his face. My heart twists. Love explodes through me. “Zahir? You’re making me feel seriously unwanted right now.”
His eyes latch to mine. “Unwanted is the last thing you should feel.” His expression darkens. “I do not think you would bother me so much if I didn’t want you like this.” And finally, he’s kissing me again, his powerful body moving over mine, his frame a beautiful weight, my breasts crushed beneath his hair-roughened chest. Unconsciously I run my fingers over his tattoo, waiting for him to take me, needing him, and yet his kiss is already sending my senses into overdrive. I arch my back in a silent invitation, and when it goes unanswered, I push at his chest, surprising him so it’s easy for me to topple him onto his back. His eyes show a hint of surprise before he’s laughing and reaching for me, bringing me over him, my hair forming a blonde curtain around my face, my eyes challenging his as I straddle him and take him deep inside of me in one movement, tilting my head back on that perfect moment of possession. His hands run over my sides then cup my breasts, holding them as I move over his length, the intimacy of this driving me crazy, pleasure like a whip at my spine, pushing my movements. He twists one of my nipples between his thumb and forefinger and they’re already so sensitive from his earlier ministrations that I whimper with the force of that pleasure, and then I move faster, my body taking what I need from him, every shift of my hips driving him deeper until we’re both cresting over a wave together; his fingers weave through mine, holding my hands at my side, demanding stillness of me before he shifts, bucking me onto the bed, his body on mine, kissing me as he thrusts until we are replete, our satisfaction mutual, shared, overwhelming.
Tortured breath sounds fill the room, mine and his, and then he rolls off me, onto his back, distance between us, the space on the mattress keeping us apart. I lay at his side, staring at the ceiling, something important pressing into my brain, a thought or recollection I fail to grab hold of in the face of other more urgent sensations.
He lifts up onto one elbow, staring down at me, so my eyes slide to his, a smile on my lips the only response I can offer. Our fight yesterday was like a terrible swelling of water and this is the bursting of the dam, the releasing of pressure, a relaxation, a pleasure I needed with all of my body.
“Where were you last night?” The question is asked without accusation, without agenda. It’s simply borne of curiosity.
“My office.”
“Why?”
He frowns, reaching for my forehead, running his fingers over my skin and into my hair. He stares at it as though he’s never seen anything like it before.
“I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me.”
“Why not?”
“After yesterday…”
I nod thoughtfully. “I wish –,”
But it’s a conversation that draws danger into something so otherwise pleasant.
“What do you wish?”