His Defiant Desert Queen

“Says who?” he asked tersely, revealing the first hint of impatience.

“Me!”

“And you are an expert on reality? You, with the model for a boyfriend and the plan to enter Saidia on a stolen passport?”

“It wasn’t stolen, it was my sister’s, and you’re hateful to throw Damien in my face. You know I loved him, and you know he hurt me. And you’re just jealous because you can bombard me with expensive gifts but you know deep down, you’ll never be able to buy my love.”

Jemma walked out, pushing through the doors to the central courtyard, and then on to the other side, through a door to the Chamber of Innocence. She grabbed an ivory robe from the bathroom, wrapped it around her, and then walked out, leaving the Bridal Palace in search of her own wing. Her rooms, the ones she’d been brought to on arriving at the Kasbah.

She was done with this stupid honeymoon game. Done being kept locked up like a kidnapped bride. She wanted out. She wanted to go home.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Mikael’s deep voice rang out behind her. “We’re not done, laeela.”

“I am.”

“It doesn’t work that way.”

“Maybe not for you!”

“Or you,” he retorted, scooping her up into his arms and dropping her over his shoulder. “You owe me eight days and nights, and we’re only halfway through. I get four more, and I will take all four.”

“I don’t want to do this anymore!”

“Too bad.” He was carrying her back the way she’d just come, walking swiftly, his arm anchored across the back of her legs, holding her in place. “This isn’t a game. You don’t get to run away when you’re tired or your feelings are hurt. This is real, you and me. This is reality.”

He’d kicked open a door down the hall and then kicked it closed behind him. The room was dark and yet he knew where he was going, crossing the floor with long sure strides to drop her unceremoniously on the bed.

She scrambled into a sitting position. “Get out.”

“That’s not happening.”

“I want to be alone.”

“That’s not happening, either.” He untied the sash at her waist, peeled the robe off her shoulders and reached for the hem of her nightgown.

She slapped at his hands. “Don’t touch me!”

“That, my dear wife, is happening.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

MIKAEL REACHED PAST Jemma and turned on the small glass lamp on the bedside table, flooding the room with soft ruby light. The bed beneath Jemma gleamed with luxurious red satin, while the large jeweled mirror on the ceiling reflected the silk-covered walls and the decadent satin sheets.

With an irritated flick, he yanked the hem of Jemma’s violet nightgown up, pulling it over her head and then tossing the scrap of violet silk onto the floor, before kicking off his own pajama bottoms. “We don’t need these anymore,” he said flatly, “now that we’re in the Crimson Chamber.”

Jemma scrambled back on the bed. “You’ve lost your mind.”

“Maybe. Or maybe I’ve lost all patience. I’m not sure which right now,” he said, grabbing her ankle and pulling her back toward him.

Jemma sprawled back on the bed, her long dark hair spilling across the crimson satin, her green eyes flashing. She’d never looked more beautiful. He would have her now. No more games. She was his. He’d chosen her. Married her. She was his queen.

He stretched out over her, and settled his weight between her thighs, his arousal pressing against her core.

She was hot, wet and his length rubbed against her slick heat. It would be so easy to thrust into her, and take her.

So easy to prove to her how much she wanted him.

He knew she craved him physically.

He knew he could make her scream and climax. He could draw out the orgasm and make it last for hours, too.

But that wasn’t the point. His expertise as a lover wasn’t in question. His future as a husband was. His father might have failed as a husband, but Mikael wouldn’t.

Mikael dropped his head, and kissed her neck just above her collarbone, and then kissed higher on her neck, at the spot beneath her ear. He kissed the hollow and then the earlobe. He caught her earlobe in his teeth, his teeth lightly scraping, his breath lightly blowing in her ear.

He felt her nipples pucker and harden against his chest. He released her wrists and stroked her arms, moving in toward her ribs to cup the sides of her breasts, her skin soft and warm and then he stroked out again until his hands covered hers, his fingers linking with hers.

He kissed the side of her jaw, kissed the pulse beating frantically in the hollow beneath her ear and then he covered her mouth with his and kissed her, deeply, his tongue thrusting into her mouth, probing, possessing.

Her thighs parted wider for him. Her hips arched, her body rocking up against him.

“You aren’t really angry because I helped your mother,” he said, lifting his head to look down into her face. The paleness in her face was gone. Her cheeks flushed pink. She wanted him. “You’re angry because you’re afraid. You’re angry because you’re afraid these gifts—particularly this gift to your mother—will trap you in Saidia, with me.”

Her eyes widened and she bit down into her lower lip.

He was right. That was her fear.

His chest grew tight. He felt an unaccountable pang, the pang eerily reminiscent of the ache and loss he’d felt after his mother left Saidia all those years ago. “Laeela, I made you a promise. You give me eight days and nights, and I will not keep you here against your will—”

“It’s not you I’m afraid of,” she interrupted. “It’s me. I believe you will let me go. I believe you will put me on a plane should I request it. But I’m afraid that I might not request it, might not insist on it, and then everything that is uniquely me and mine, everything that I have worked so hard for all these years, will be gone.”

“But if you remain here, you gain a new identity and a new life.”

“As your wife. But I won’t be anyone without you, and I vowed years ago to never be dependent on a man, much less a powerful man, and here in Saidia, I will be completely dependent on you.”

“Is that such a bad thing if the powerful man is a just man?”

Her eyes turned liquid and she swallowed hard. “You already make my heart ache.”

“I think we would make a good team, laeela.”

She struggled to smile. “Maybe you should just make love to me.”

He dipped his head, kissed her lips. “Good idea. So what do you want, my beautiful bride? How can I please you today?”

“You,” she said. “I just want you.”

* * *

Jemma saw heat flare in Mikael’s eyes and felt him harden against her.

She rocked her hips up, savoring the sensation of him against her. He was hard and warm, so warm, and she couldn’t remember ever wanting anyone like this. “Make love to me, Mikael,” she added, wrapping her arms around his neck and sinking her fingers into his crisp hair. “I need you.”

His mouth covered hers, his tongue parting her lips to take her mouth even as he thrust smoothly, deeply into her body, filling her, stretching her.

He felt unbelievable.

She felt unbelievable.

Jemma’s eyes burned and her chest ached, emotion bubbling up inside of her. Her arms slid down around his shoulders to hold him tighter. He was big and powerful and yet he fit her, and felt perfect to her.

Mikael kissed her, drawing her tongue into his mouth, sucking the tip even as he buried himself deeper into her body. She welcomed his weight and the fullness that stole her breath, and then he began to move. His lean sculpted hips dipped and he pressed deeper, then withdrew, only to stroke deep into her again.

She sighed and arched as he hit a spot inside her that tingled with pleasure. “More,” she said, pressing up against him as he drove into her.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“It doesn’t hurt. It feels so good.” And it was true. It felt delicious everywhere. She felt delicious. Everything inside her was warm and sweet and bright. She felt like sunshine and honey, orange and spice and each stroke made her sigh a little deeper, and press against him a little harder.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered, meeting each of his thrusts, needing the friction, feeling the tension build. Each stroke of his body made her nerve endings tense, tighten, tingle.

He drove into her faster, increasing the rhythm. She loved the rhythm, the deep hard thrusts, the slickness of their bodies together, the warmth of his chest against hers. She could smell the scent of him, and them together, and it smelled right, felt right, more right than anything she’d ever felt before.

It didn’t make sense, but then, none of this made sense and maybe passion never did.