He rolled his hips and she bit down on her lips, his name heavy in her mouth. It pushed against her tongue, rolled over her teeth, saturated her lips, but she would not speak it. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of hearing her beg for him over and over, even when his name was thundering through her blood stream.
Her eyes showed defiance even as waves of pleasure broke upon her soul, even as she welcome the collapse of resistance, as she welcomed all of this.
She arched her back, drowning in her body’s needs and he grabbed her, lifting her up, holding her tight to his chest as he came inside of her, his own body wracked with the strength of his release, his voice deep and guttural.
Her breathing was as forced as if she’d run a mile at speed, her lungs burning from the intensity. She clung to him – spent and exhausted – her body satisfied while her mind was spinning, trying to make sense of this feeling, this pleasure, this strange, pervasive hunger.
He pulled out of her, and moved to his side of the bed, lying on his back.
Sophia looked at him, her eyes running over his profile.
“Go to sleep, Sharafaha. It’s the middle of the night.”
The middle of her wedding night. She swallowed, the lump in her throat heavy and constricting. She searched for something to say – anything – but he rolled over, turning his back to her, and silence descended once more.
If she’d known what point she wanted to make, she would have woken him up, but she was a tangle of confusion. She lay down, rolling to her side of the bed, staring at the ancient stonewalls of this room, cast in a milky, silver moonlight, and tried not to think.
Not to
think of Addan and the way they’d laughed about this tradition. She tried not to think about whether she could have walked away from this marriage, this obligation, and gone back to her real life.
But what was her real life?
Since childhood, she’d been groomed for this role, she’d believed it to be her fate. She spoke Abu Fayan and two dialects of the Bedouin tribes, she knew everything there was to know about the history and culture of this proud and prosperous nation. And what was there for her at home? A mother who’d hastily married a man much younger than herself? A sister who was busy raising her own family?
Or marriage to Malik, a man she knew little about save for one vital, salient fact: Addan had adored him. Addan had believed him to be the best of men, and she trusted Addan unstintingly. She therefore trusted that this marriage would, in time, make some kind of sense.
A pit opened up in her heart, though, and she suspected it would never be full.
When he woke, the sun had crested over the dunes in the distance, bathing the white stone walls of this turret in pale peaches and gold. He’d always loved this time of day, for the magic that draped itself around the world, whispering secrets of decades long since past.
He loved this time of day for its faithfulness, its service, for the fact the palette hadn’t changed at all since his childhood.
He woke up feeling like he could do anything, as though he were all powerful. The feelings were familiar to Malik – sex always left him with this sense of utter satiation and egotism. Good sex was even better.
And last night had been some of the best sex of his life.
A rock seemed to drop through him, thudding in his chest. Because he hadn’t just slept with a beautiful woman, a random woman, a royal groupie, a willing lover keen for a night in the bed of the Sheikh.
He’d slept with Addan’s fiancé. He’d taken the virginity of the woman his brother had loved.
And he would do it again and again and again, given the chance.
His insides churned as he turned to look at her and disgust –self-disgust – rolled through him. Fast asleep, she looked so much younger than she was. Her blonde hair was loose, tumbling about her shoulders in glorious waves, her cheeks were pink, even in her sleep, and her little cupid’s bow lips were parted slightly.
“You don’t know her like I do,” Addan had said, his smile enigmatic as he’d surveyed the view of the desert’s primary oasis. Palm trees curved around one edge, and wild camels drank greedily at its edge.
Malik had picked up a stone and cast it over the water’s surface, his expression grim. “I beg your pardon, I have known plenty of women like Sophia Howard.”
Addan’s laugh had filled the space, causing one of their Arabian stallions to beat its hooves in disapproval. “You think so?”
“She is just a silly American girl.”
Addan had shaken his head. “You are determined not to like her, and that saddens me, brother. But I know you well enough to know I cannot change your mind once you have made it.” His eyes had narrowed with that quiet determination of his. “Only promise me, as my brother and my subject, that you will keep your feelings to yourself. She is valuable to me, valuable to this country, and she is more sensitive than she seems. I will not have her upset because you think she is just like one of your cheap lovers…”
Malik’s gut tightened now. He’d promised Addan he would never let Sophia know how he felt. He’d promised his brother, his best friend, a man he adored and admired, that he would keep his feelings to himself.
And he had.