His hard mouth curved. “I like my name in your mouth. But I have other priorities.”
Then he bent his head and put that stern mouth of his on hers.
Everything inside of Anya, all that fire and need, exploded.
Tarek gripped her head, he angled his jaw, and then he swept her away.
His kiss was a hard claiming. He possessed her, challenged her and dared her. Anya surged forward, pressing her palms harder against the glory that was his hard chest as if she could disappear into all his heat.
And she kissed him back, pouring everything she had into it. Into him.
Again and again.
He made a low, gloriously male sound, then tore his mouth from hers.
“No,” Anya breathed, heedless and needy. “Don’t stop.”
He laughed. Deep, dark, rich. It rolled through her, setting her alight all over again.
Anya felt swollen and desperate straight through, and he was still laughing.
“Order me around, Doctor,” he suggested, his voice moving inside her as if it was a part of her. As if it was the sun, even now, in the dark of night. “Tell me what to do and see how that works for you.”
But before she could try, mostly to see what he would do, Tarek bent slightly to sweep her into his arms.
Anya knew that none of this made sense. That she should have left with the American ambassador when she’d had the chance. That she certainly shouldn’t have exposed herself to this man, telling him secrets she’d never breathed to another living soul.
Yet she had.
What was another vulnerability to add to the list? Maybe she was lucky she hadn’t become a psychiatrist. She doubted she would enjoy knowing the inner workings of her own mind. Not when there was a king gazing down at her, his expression stern and possessive, sending a spiral of delight all the way through her.
Maybe, finally, it was time to stop thinking altogether. And to let herself feel instead.
Because she already knew what it was like to sit frozen in the dark. Literally.
Tonight, Anya intended to shine. And live. And feel everything—every last drop of sensation she was capable of feeling. Every touch, every sigh, every searing bit of flame she could hoard and call her own.
It took her a moment to realize that Tarek was moving. His powerful body was all around her, those arms of his holding her aloft as if she weighed little more than a notion. The granite wall of his chest. The tempting hollow at the base of his throat. His scent, a faint hint of smoke and what she assumed gold might smell like, warmed through and made male.
She assumed he would carry her off to his bed, wherever that was in this sprawling place, but instead he headed out through the grand, windowed doors that led outside. Anya caught a glimpse of the lights of the old city, gleaming soft against the desert night. Then he was setting her down, and it took her a moment to get her bearings, to find herself out on one of the palace’s many balconies.
This one was made for comfort. He placed her on one of many low, bright couches, ringed all around with torches, and a canopy far above. There was a thick rug tossed across the ground at her feet and lanterns scattered across the table, making her think of long-ago stories she’d read as a child.
Tarek stood before her, gazing down at her as if she was the spoils of the war he’d fought, and he intended to fully immerse himself in the plunder.
Her entire body reacted to that thought as if she’d been doused in kerosene. She was too hot. She had too many clothes on. She wasburning alive.
Looking at him was like a panic attack, except inside out. Anya’s heart pounded. She could feel herself grow far too warm. And she felt a little dizzy, a little unsure.
But what was laced through all of that wasn’t fear.
There was only him.
And how deeply, how wantonly and impossibly, she wanted him.
As she watched, Tarek began to remove those robes of his, casting them aside in a flutter of ivory and gold. He kept going until he stood before her, magnificently naked.
And when he made no move toward her, she felt a moment’s confusion—