His Majesty's Mistake

“My staff is very happy for us,” he answered, filling a slender flute with icy-cold sparkling water for her, and then another for him.

“Just because I can’t drink, doesn’t mean you can’t.”

He shrugged, powerful shoulders rolling. “I don’t need to drink to be with you. In fact, I prefer not to drink.”

“Why?”

“I enjoy you too much.”

She blushed, and took a seat on the low couch, her body suddenly sensitive and tingling everywhere.

She could feel Makin’s gaze rest on her and it just made her heart race faster. He still overwhelmed her, but now it was in a sexy, wicked sort of way. She’d never felt beautiful with anyone but Makin before, had never felt so important before. In his eyes, she mattered.

Her heart turned over and hot emotion washed through her and suddenly Emmeline wasn’t sure she could live without him.

She needed him. Wanted him. And yet love wasn’t a sure thing.

Emmeline went hot and cold and her fingers tightened on the stem of the flute.

“Are you all right?” he asked, concern deepening his voice.

She nodded. “Yes.” She forced herself to smile, the warm breeze caressing her, making her think of his hands on her skin. “Just a little overwhelmed … but in a good way.”

“I hope so. I like having you here for me. It feels right. Makes the island feel like home.”

Her heart ached all over again. She blinked back tears. “I love being here, too.”

“You enjoyed today?”

“Very much.”

“What did you enjoy most?”

She thought for a moment. “Swimming … snorkeling. The coral reef was amazing. So many beautiful fish.”

“My mother loved it here, too. She believed it was very healing.”

“Marquette was her island then?”

“My father bought it for her as a wedding gift. Growing up we spent many holidays here, but I haven’t been to Marquette in years.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not a boy anymore. I have work. Am usually too busy for pleasure trips.”

She frowned a little at his intense work ethic. He was so driven, so ambitious. “Even men need to relax.”

“My mother used to say the same thing to my father.”

“And did he listen to her?”

“Most of the time.”

“Good. So you have to listen to me, too.”

Makin smiled at her, amused.

He’d told Malek Nuri that he’d married Emmeline because he couldn’t let her go—which was true—but now looking at her in her daring pearl-and-satin gown, he knew it was more that that. He’d married her because she was made for him, destined for him, fated.

In Kadar her tears had moved him, but her laughter was twice as powerful. When she smiled at him he felt invincible. For her, he thought he could do anything.

And he would.

The evening passed slowly for Makin though. He didn’t want to spend two hours at a table eating and talking, not when he found Emmeline and her satin-and-pearl gown so damn distracting. All evening the ropes of pearls and slinky satin fabric had teased, hugging her curves and revealing her smooth, flawless skin.

He was delighted when she passed on an after-dinner coffee. Back in their bedroom he shut the door, locking it and turned to discover Emmeline lifting her hair off her neck and presenting her back to him. “I’m going to need your help getting me out of this dress,” she said.

Makin groaned under his breath. She looked like Aphrodite in that position, head slightly forward, hair piled in golden waves, arms up, her long slim back gorgeously exposed. And she was his.

Would always be his.

He hardened instantly, desire surging through him, making him feel even hotter and hungrier as his gaze swept over her, taking in the gleaming hair, the creamy nape, her bare back covered by just those long delicate strands. During dinner he’d been fascinated by the way the pearls draped across her skin, attached from the beaded shoulder straps of her gown to the dip in her spine where the ivory satin fabric just barely covered her bottom. Now he just wanted his hands on her bottom. Wanted to feel the softness of her skin on his.

And even though he was impatient to have her, he held himself in check, knowing she was still learning about sex and love. So he unhooked her gown carefully until the dress spilled to her feet in a tumble of silk and pearls.

The gown had been too bare for a bra. She stood now in just her high strappy heels and that tiny scrap of satin she called a thong.

Stifling another growl, he drew her backward and held her against him, his hands on her hips, her round pert butt pressed against his straining shaft.

God, he wanted to bury himself in her. Spread her thighs, drag her down on him and have her ride him.