Ashraf strode down the corridor, knocked once and stepped into the nursery.
Wide eyes brilliant as starlight met his. Then he took in the rest of the scene. Tori in the rocking chair, the baby in her arms. His throat thickened. Her blouse was undone, hanging wide open on one side. A tiny dark head nuzzled at her bare breast.
Ashraf’s gaze focused on the voluptuous curve of that breast, on his son’s tiny starfish hand patting Tori’s alabaster flesh, and heat drenched him from head to toe. The heat of arousal, fierce and primal. A surge of lust erupting with dizzying intensity.
Breastfeeding wasn’t something he’d ever thought about. If he had it wouldn’t have been in terms of eroticism. Yet, watching the woman he’d made pregnant feed his son, Ashraf had never felt such hungry possessiveness.
‘We won’t be long.’ Tori’s voice was husky as she twitched her blouse across to cover herself.
Ashraf nodded.
‘He’s almost finished.’ She looked down, her gaze softening instantaneously on her baby.
Ashraf realised that for all the experience he’d gained in the royal court, in the rigours of army life and in the deliberate hedonism of his globetrotting playboy years, he’d never come across anything as real and fundamental as this.
His son.
His woman.
There wasn’t even astonishment. Just calm acceptance. Ashraf hadn’t got as far as considering a future wife. He’d been too busy cementing his role in a country that had never expected or wanted the younger, scandalous royal son to inherit.
Besides, this wasn’t a matter of logic, but instinct.
He smiled as a glow of satisfaction spread out from his belly.
Tentatively Tori smiled back.
Ashraf felt that smile in places he couldn’t even name. He’d never seen her smile before—not properly. He wanted to see her grin, he realised. Hear her laugh. Watch her as their bodies joined and she lost herself to ecstasy. In broad daylight. Not in the murky darkness of a desperate hovel that smelled of terror and pain.
‘Ashraf...?’ She frowned.
Was she picking up on the anger that simmered in his blood at the memory of what she’d suffered? Or was she frowning from embarrassment at him seeing her feed their child?
He smoothed his expression and leaned against the doorjamb, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets. Tori needed to get used to him being around.
‘It’s okay. There’s no rush. Let him feed.’
Whether it was coincidence, or the sound of his voice, Oliver chose that moment to stop feeding. Ashraf saw a glazed pink nipple before Tori quickly drew her blouse further across. A tiny head turned, dark eyes meeting his.
Ashraf crossed the room in a couple of strides. Oliver tracked the movement. Was that usual for a six-month-old? Or was his son inordinately clever? It was nonsense to think he sensed the link between them. Of course it was.
‘Would you like to hold him?’ Tori’s voice was different, as if she couldn’t catch her breath.
‘Show me how.’
She demonstrated, supporting the baby and then lifting Oliver up to her shoulder, gently rubbing his back. ‘When he’s hungry sometimes he gulps down air as well as milk. This helps.’
‘I didn’t think you’d be breastfeeding when you’re working.’
Not that he knew a thing about it. Just that he’d been rooted to the spot by the sight of Tori nursing his child.
‘I express milk for him to drink when I’m at work.’
Her cheeks grew pink and Ash stifled the urge to ask exactly what that meant. Time enough later.
‘Here.’
She lifted Oliver towards him and suddenly, looking down at the tiny form, Ashraf wasn’t so sure about holding him.