Electricity lit his veins at the thought of her. The two of them were absolutely alone, with no staff present to witness any lapses in decorum. Any uncontrolled response would be private...a secret shared between him and his wife.
With her downstairs, preparing dinner for the two of them while he showered, he could almost pretend they were ordinary people—a regular man and woman settling down for the evening, rather than a king and a queen with responsibilities to put their nation before their own happiness. He could almost imagine that they were united by common ground and shared desire, rather than by merely being the casualties of an antiquated contractual agreement.
He turned off the shower and pulled a plush towel from the tidily stacked pile to wrap around his waist. Exiting the bathroom, he was greeted by the scent of North African spices, drawing his attention to his gnawing hunger. Whether he was starving for sustenance or the woman behind the delectable combination of aromas, however, he wasn’t sure.
He followed the scent downstairs and into the kitchen, to find Mina standing in front of the stove with her back to him.
She still wore her jeans and his shirt, the hem of which hit her mid-thigh and hung loosely. The jeans beneath it certainly weren’t cut to showcase the female form, yet the image of what lay beneath was so clear in his mind it was as if he could see through every layer of clothing.
More curls had escaped the loose bun she’d started the day with, but the effect sat well with her masculine attire, hinting at the vibrant femininity that lay beneath. And below that her dizzying intellect. What lay below that he could only guess at, though each layer he discovered seemed more powerful and awe-inspiring than the last.
He could spend a lifetime delving into her depths and never run out of new facets to explore... The idea brought unfamiliar warmth to his chest.
He knew the moment she became aware of his presence, though she didn’t turn around. It was as if a pulse of electricity travelled through her body, until she thrummed with a kind of tension that invited him closer.
“The kitchen is really well stocked,” she said. “We had everything I needed for my grandma’s chicken tagine.”
She kept her voice over-bright, and he knew she was trying to settle her response to him. Not wanting that, he stepped further into the kitchen, standing only a few feet away now as she continued to cook.
When he spoke, he let his smile spill into the words. “Definitely better than a heated can of green beans. Smells delicious.”
And even though she kept her back to him he could sense the blush of pleasure that heated her skin. Could hear it in the catch of her breath.
“Thank you. You’re lucky. It’s about one of ten dishes I know how to make, and it is by far the best.”
Warm laughter rumbled in his chest, rising up out of him from a place far different from the presentational mirth he normally put on. Unbidden, an image of his father rose in his mind. Of the three of them, in fact—his father, mother, and himself—together in this very kitchen, his father at the stove, joking, he and his mother sitting at the counter, his rapt audience.
He was sure he hadn’t recalled that evening since it had happened, which had to be at least fifteen years before, because there was nothing remarkable about it. And yet there the memory was, crystal-clear after all these years.
“Almost done here.” Mina’s voice shone through the bittersweet thoughts, and she said over her shoulder, “Do you mind setting the table?”
He almost laughed.
The question had been so natural and innocuous, delivered off-hand from one person to another. For a brief moment, at least, she’d forgotten that he was the King. It was a novel experience—one he rather liked.
She turned off the stove and finally turned around, opening her mouth to speak as she moved.
But whatever she had been about to say was lost when she abruptly snapped her mouth shut, eyes going wide. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you weren’t dressed. I’ll set the table.”
He did laugh this time, the sound low and heated. Still smiling, he said, “I’ll get dressed after dinner. I’d be happy to set the table.”
She licked her lips, and although his groin tightened in response, threatening the stability of the towel, he was certain she was unaware of the action.
Her cheeks had a rosy sheen to them, and there was a light in her eyes that hadn’t been there moments before, but rather than take any steps down the path of seduction, she clapped her hands together and said in an overloud voice, “Great. Thanks.” Before reaching for, and knocking over, the container of wooden serving spoons that sat on the counter.
Sure that his laughter would not be abating any time soon, Zayn decided to give her a break, gathering the silverware to set the table as his lady had requested.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ITHADTObe shock. Shock that was setting in after a day that had begun with her first hangover, included a plane crash, and was now coming to a close with a disorienting coziness that felt almost normal—albeit on a rather larger scale than most people could afford.
Considering the last few weeks of her life, any hint of normalcy would be reason enough for her to go into shock. So that was what was happening. That was why her temperature had spiked when she’d turned to see Zayn’s broad chest, clean and gleaming, a plush low-slung towel wrapped around his waist the only barrier between her eyes and his full naked glory.
Shock was why her breasts had gone heavy and tender when he’d stepped closer to her in the kitchen, and her imagination had supplied her with the sensation of his breath against the back of her neck, his body heat radiating outward to envelop her.
Shock was behind the growing heat at her core—not the King.
Her body was short-circuiting from a system overload, rather than due to the arousal the biologist in her demanded that she acknowledge. She was a mammal, after all. She couldn’t help her body’s natural response to being confronted with the perfection that was her King.