‘You don’t?’
‘I admire you,’ he admitted gruffly. ‘I admire the hell out of you and damn it if I don’t want to kiss you more than ever right now.’
Her knees could barely hold her. If he weren’t standing so close, pinning her to the wall, she wasn’t sure she would have trusted her legs to keep her upright. His face was so close, his lips just an inch from hers. She tilted her face, her own lips parting in an unspoken invitation, and she stared at him, hoping, wanting, every fibre of her being reverberating with need.
‘How do you make me forget so easily?’
‘Forget what?’ Closer. Did she lift onto the tips of her toes or did he lower his face? Either way, her mouth could almost brush his now. Adrenalin surged through her veins, fierce and loud.
‘Who you are.’ He threw the words aside as though they were inconsequential, and then finally he kissed her, a kiss that was for him exultant and for her drugging. Her need for him obliterated every shred of rational thought, every ability to process what was happening. But even as his tongue slid between her lips, tangling with hers, and his knee nudged her legs apart, propping her up, her sluggish brain threaded his simple statement together. Who you are.
Who she was. It was so fundamental—her parentage, her lineage, her place in the Taquul royal family.
His hands gripped her hips, holding her possessively and almost fearfully, as though she might move away from him; he held her as though his life depended on her nearness. His kiss stole her breath and gave her life. She lifted her hands, tangling them behind his neck, her fingers running into the nape of his hair, pressing her breasts against his chest, her nipples tingling with remembered sensations.
How do you make me forget so easily?
But they couldn’t forget. It wasn’t that easy. He was a Haddad and she a Qadir and somewhere over the last one hundred years it had been written in stone that they should hate each other. Yet she didn’t. She couldn’t hate him. He’d done her no wrong and, more than that, she’d seen qualities that made her feel the opposite of hate. She liked him. She enjoyed spending time with him. She found talking to him hypnotic and addictive. And kissing him like this lit a thousand fires in the fabric of her soul.
But Amir would never accept her. He would always resent her, and possibly hate her. And that hatred would destroy her if she wasn’t very, very careful. And what of her brother if he learned of this? Even her defiant streak didn’t run that deep.
With every single scrap of willpower she possessed, Johara drew her hands between them and pushed at his chest, just enough to separate them, to give her breathing space.
‘Your Majesty.’ She intentionally used his title, needing to remind him of what he claimed she made him forget. ‘Nothing has changed since last night.’ She waited, her eyes trying to read his face, to understand him better. ‘Has it?’
His eyes widened, as though her reminder had caught him completely unawares. She could feel the power of his arousal between her legs, and knew how badly he wanted her. Yet he stepped backwards immediately, rubbing his palm over his chin.
‘You’re right, Princess.’ His smile was self-mocking. ‘That won’t happen again.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘IT’S ONLY THREE more days.’ Malik’s voice came down the phone line, in an attempt to offer comfort. He could have no way of knowing that, far from placating her, the reminder that the week she’d been invited to Ishkana for was halfway over would spark something a little like depression inside her belly.
She looked out of her magnificent bedroom window over an aviary very like the one in Taquul, and again felt how alike these two countries were—just as Amir had said.
‘I know.’ It was the end of a busy day, filled with commitments and engagements. She’d seen so much of the city, met so many politicians and leaders, and the more she saw of this country, the less contented she felt.
The war had been so futile.
This was a beautiful country, a beautiful people. They’d been hurt by the past, just as the people in Taquul had been. Not for the first time, frustration with her parents and grandparents gnawed at her. Why hadn’t they been able to find a peaceful resolution sooner? Why had it rested on two men, one hundred years after the first shot was fired?
‘What’s it like?’
‘It’s...’ A movement below caught her attention. She swept her gaze downwards, trying to catch it again. Something white in amongst the olive and pomegranate trees below. Another movement. Her heart recognised before her mind did.
Amir.
He moved purposefully towards one of the aviaries, his frame powerful, his movements everything that was masculine and primal. He opened the door, and made a gesture with his hand. A large bird, with a wingspan half the height of Amir, flew from the cage and did a circle above his head, above Johara, its eyes surveying what they could, before neatly returning and hooking its claws around Amir’s outstretched arm. Its feathers were a pale, pearlescent cream with small flecks of light brown, its beak tipped in grey.
‘What?’ Malik was impatient. ‘Terrible? Awful? Are you hating it?’
‘No!’ She had forgotten all about her brother, on the other end of the phone. She shook her head despite the fact he wasn’t there to see her. ‘It’s...wonderful.’
Amir’s lips moved; he was speaking to the bird. She wished, more than anything, that she could hear what he was saying.
‘Wonderful?’ Malik’s surprise was obvious. She ignored it.
‘Yes. I have to go now.’