A Secret Birthright

What had she said or done that he found so funny?

Maybe it was her braid, mommy robe and fluffy slippers? And the cartoon character pajamas beneath?

God, of course it was. He must have gotten a good look at her and rethought his intentions. No wonder he was laughing.

All thoughts scattered as he moved, still laughing, until he was on the same step, bearing down on her with his heat and virility. Then he leaned down, put his lips to her ear.

“I just have one question—” each syllable, each feathering of his lips shot arousal right to her core “—will you ever stop surprising me?”

She raised confused eyes up to his, found fire simmering just below the mirth.

“You exhausted me at every turn,” he whispered, intimate, maddening, “contesting my every declaration, my every decision, the minor before the major. Then I tell you I’m taking you to my bed and you just…agree?”

Her gaze wavered as his eyes lost their lightness, flames rising higher. She shivered as her own fever spiked in answer.

Then to her amazement, she heard her voice, husky with hunger and provocation. “I didn’t exactly say I agree.”

He caught her around the waist, slammed her against his hard length. Her breath and heartbeats emptied against his chest.

Twisting her braid around his wrist, harnessing her by it, ferocity barely leashed with gentleness, he tilted up her face, his eyes now a predator’s excited by his mate’s unexpected challenge.

His next words poured almost in her gasping mouth. “You said better. You commanded me not to wait. Now I’ll obey you, ya fatenati. No more waiting, ever again.”

Then he bent and swept her feet from beneath her, cut her every tie to gravity and sanity.

She went limp in his hold, becoming weightless, timeless, directionless, as she lay ensconced in his arms. She burrowed into him as the world moved in hard, hurried thuds, each one hitting her with vertigo, the pressure of emotion almost snuffing out her consciousness, like that day lifetimes ago.

And that was before he pressed his lips to her forehead in a branding kiss. “Never stop surprising me, ya saherati.”

She almost blurted out that he was the enchanter, the sorcerer. She choked on the words. She hadn’t let on that she knew Arabic, couldn’t bear lying if he asked why she did.

Every anxiety vanished as he relinquished his hold on her and she sank in the depths of soft dark beddings, was shrouded by the golden warmth of gaslight and the intoxication of incense and craving.

Then he came down over her.

She moaned with the blast of stimulation, emotional and sensual, of her first exposure to the reality of him, his weight and bulk and hunger, the physicality of his passion.

He rose off her, slid her robe off. She felt a blush creeping up from her toes to her hairline as he exposed her pajamas.

“Bugs Bunny.” He shook his head in disbelief. “And if I find you arousing beyond endurance in this, I might not survive seeing you in something made to worship your beauty.”

She crossed her hands over her chest, burning with self-consciousness. “I know how I look in this thing. I picked it to match one of Ryan’s…”

“Answer me this other question, Gwen.” His hand unlocked hers, before imprisoning them over her head in one of his. “Will I always have to say something over and over before you consider believing me? Will you ever believe I only ever say what I mean?”

She felt her flush deepening. “It’s not you I’m doubting.”

“Then how can you doubt your own beauty, your effect on me? If anything, I’m holding back, not telling you what you really make me feel, what I really want to do to you.” His eyes flared with mock-threat and too-real lust. “I don’t want to scare you.”

She shook her head against the sheets. “You won’t ever scare me. Show me everything you feel.”

Her ragged words elicited a smile that was sheer male triumph and assurance. “Amrek, ya rohi—command me.”

Yet his hands trembled in her hair as they undid her braid, spread its thickness around her. Then he buried his face in it, breathed her in hard, let her hear in his ragged groans that he was at the mercy of his need for her as she was for him.

“I’ve wanted you, I’ve needed this…” He bore down on her harder, pressed all of him into all of her. “Your flesh and desire, you scent and feel, since the first moment I saw you all those years ago. I craved you until I was hollow. Now you’re here and you’ll be mine, at last, Gwen…at last.”

She whimpered her agreement, her eagerness. He swooped up to capture the sound, his lips taking hers in a hot, moist seal, enveloping, dissolving, his tongue thrusting into her recesses, in total tasting, in thorough possession.

She’d imagined this until she’d felt she’d be forever empty, too, if she never experienced it. But this far surpassed the imaginings that had tormented her. The power and profundity of his kiss, his feel and scent, and his taste…his taste…

He bit into her lower lip, stilled its tremors in a nip so leashed, so carnal that it had her opening wider, deepening his invasion.

Just as she felt she’d come apart, he severed their meld, groaned, “Gwen, habibati, hayaati, abghaaki, ahtaajek.”

She sobbed again as she pulled him back. He’d called her his love, his life, said he coveted her, needed her.

She knew those were the exaggerated endearments his culture indulged in. They didn’t have to be literally meant, and in those moments, were likely driven by arousal.

It didn’t matter. Just hearing him say those things was enough. And if it were possible to give him of her life to fill his needs, she would have surrendered it.

She surrendered what she could now, all of herself.

He swept her pajama top over her head, his arm beneath her melting her into his length, circling her waist, raising her against the headboard to bury his face into her confined breasts.

She moaned at seeing the dark majesty of his head against her, let her hands fulfill what she’d thought would remain a fantasy, burying them in the luxury of his silken, raven mane, pressing his head harder to her aching flesh.

He groaned something deep and driven, the sound spearing from his lips into her heart as his hands went to her back. She arched, helping him release breasts now peaked with arousal, throbbing for his ownership.

He gathered her hands again above her head, drew back to gaze at her. Naked to the waist, the image of abandon, on wanton offer. She turned her face into the sheets, unable to withstand his burning scrutiny.