The Sheikh's Ransomed Bride

He felt like a fraud. To all intents and purposes he was comforting her. Yet inside he was reveling in the knowledge that her tears were nothing more nor less than the aftermath of the sensual journey he’d taken her on. He’d lost count of the times she’d climaxed under his touch. Had known he should give in to her hoarse cries to let her go. But selfishness had driven him on.

Selfish pleasure at the unstinting way she responded to each new caress and a wholly self-centered desire to mark his ownership deep in her psyche. To make her so utterly his that there’d be no doubt, ever, in her mind that she belonged to him.

He should have untied her long before. Should have listened to her pleas for release before he tipped her into this emotional state.

He should have. But he wondered if, given the same circumstances again, he’d have the strength to act differently.

She’d been so unstintingly responsive, so much an embodiment of those midnight fantasies that had kept him wakeful every night since he found her. It would have taken far more strength than he possessed to let her be.

He’d tied her hands simply because, if he’d let her touch him again, he wouldn’t have been able to restrain himself. He would have exploded as violently as the fireworks on the night of their wedding. And far, far too soon.

Yet honesty made him admit, at least to himself, that he’d found the act of binding her hands, of having her helpless before him, so sexually stimulating that he’d allowed himself free rein. He hadn’t been content when she’d shuddered in his arms once, even twice. It was as if he’d grown addicted to her hoarse mews of excitement, to the flare of astonished exhilaration in her eyes as he brought her to peak after peak.

He’d fed his own ego with her unbridled responses under the guise of preparing her for his body. True, he’d wondered if she’d experience discomfort when they came together, given her delicate proportions and his own size. He’d been determined to ease the way. But he’d gone too far. He listened to her subsiding sniffs and knew he’d taken far more from her than he’d given.

`Sleep now, Belle. Just sleep.’

He felt her yawn against his bare chest and clamped down on the realization of how very much he wanted to feel her lips on his body.

She snuggled into him, her hair teasing his flesh and her weight unconsciously provocative.

Rafiq gritted his teeth as he realized with mirthless humour how he was paying now for his unfettered lust in seducing her so thoroughly. She was sated, exhausted. And here he was, already eager for her again. Yet even a man so acutely tempted as he couldn’t in conscience impose himself on her again so soon. She needed rest.

He knew he deserved every bit of this torture: holding her so close and not being able to have her.

Belle woke slowly. Her eyes felt gritty and her limbs heavy, as if she’d been swimming for hours. It took so much energy to open her eyes that she gave up the effort, luxuriating instead in the comfort of just lying there, so utterly relaxed.

It took her some time to realize that it wasn’t a bed she lay on. She felt the thrum of a heartbeat under her ear, and, as she moved, the tickle of springy hair under her cheek.

Rafiq! Her head rested on a solid wall of muscle, and pressed against her abdomen lay the hard, flagrant evidence of his arousal.

Her pulse notched up a pace as she remembered all that had happened between them. His deliberate patience and her uncontrolled responses. She’d been like a wild thing, untamed and so blatantly eager for him. Heat washed her cheeks at the memory of her behavior. It was so unlike her. What must he think of her?

She wriggled, wondering if she could slide off him and away before he woke. If she could face Rafiq when she was fully dressed again, it might be easier. Perhaps then she could pretend that he hadn’t stripped her bare of every inhibition, till she’d acted with all the abandon of a sex mad teenager.

Cautiously she slid down his body a fraction. But the movement only made her more aware of his aroused state, and she paused.

`You are awake, Belle.’ His voice was a low rumble that stole her breath.

So much for trying to gather her tattered self-respect unnoticed.

`Yes,’ she said, staring at the muscled bicep that lifted in front of her as he raised his hand to stroke her shoulder. His touch was gentle, unassuming, yet to her horror she felt that tingle in her blood that presaged her own readiness. How could it be?

`You are feeling better for your sleep?’ he asked, and she nodded.

`Yes, thanks.’ She couldn’t bring herself to lift her head and look at him. Not yet.