into the satellite phone at his ear, striding toward one of the larger tents nearer the water as if he expected her to follow along obediently in his wake.
Instead, Sterling stayed where she was. She tilted her head back and let the desert sun play over her face. She liked the lick of heat, the tease of the dry wind against her skin and in the ends of the hair she’d scraped into a low ponytail beneath a wide-brimmed hat. She liked the murmur of the water from the nearby pools, the suggestion of cool, inviting shade beneath the trees and inside the tents. She would have been enchanted by the whole desert oasis thing altogether were it not for the fact he’d insisted she leave Leyla behind with the nurses, which was making her anxious.
And for what she suspected Rihad meant to accomplish here, which made her…something a lot more complicated than simply anxious.
“Maybe we can go in a month or two,” she’d said when he’d brought up their perception-altering honeymoon again at another one of their dinners. This one had been more intimate, set up in his private dining suite with the wraparound balcony that opened up over the whole of Bakri City, where all she could seem to think about was his hands on her body, his hardness clenched tight between her legs. “When Leyla is a little bigger and will be better about me going away for a night.”
Rihad had appeared focused on the food on his plate that night, not on her, though she should have known better than to believe that.
“It was not an invitation, as I think you know,” he’d said after a moment. “It was an order. A royal command, even.”
“Apparently, I have to remind you yet again that I’m not yours to command.”
He’d laughed, and she’d started in her chair, because it had been genuine. The sound of it had cascaded over her, as if it was poured straight from the sun. “Do you think so?”
She tried to sound prim. Not at all like the sort of woman who would climax all over a man on a wrought-iron table one summer morning. “I’m not one of your subjects, Rihad.”
“You are my queen.” His gaze had risen to meet hers then and she’d flushed hot and red. His dark gold eyes had been alive with something like merriment, and there’d been hints of that laughter in his voice when he’d continued. “And in the spirit of transparency between us, which I know is your dearest hope—”
“What’s wrong with murky?” she’d protested, aware she’d sounded as cranky as she had desperate. “I like a good swamp, especially in my marriage.”
His eyes had gleamed, laughter and light, and she’d felt undone.
He would unravel her completely. She had no doubt.
He’d already started.
“It will be more than a single night in the desert. I already told you it would be two weeks. And so it will.” When she’d started to argue he’d only smiled. “I’d resign yourself to the inevitable, Sterling. Have I yet to promise you anything that didn’t happen exactly as I said it would?”
She hadn’t been able to breathe. But that hadn’t stopped her mouth from moving.
“Are you going to command me to have sex with you, too?” she’d asked in that same absurdly overpolite tone, as if she was inquiring after high tea. “Consummation on demand?”
And she’d had no words to describe what his smile had done to her then, or how that lazy, predatory gleam in his dark gold eyes had made her feel. God, the way it had made her feel. How it had sneaked through her, tangling all around and making her hollow and needy, scared and yearning at once.
Did she want him to command her? Reach up, he’d ordered her that morning. Hold on. Was that why she’d asked?
“If you insist,” he’d said after a moment, in a dark-edged way that had made everything inside of her feel the way he’d sounded. Like honey, sweet and slow. She remembered shattering all around him, again and again. She shivered just remembering it. “Is that how you like it, Sterling? Do you prefer to give orders on the street and take them in bed?”
It was as if he’d read her mind, and she’d told herself stoutly that she hated that. And that he hadn’t, of course.
She’d sniffed as if she found this discussion crass beyond measure. “Not from you.”
Rihad had only smiled again, harder and edgier than before, and it had banged through Sterling like a symphony of gongs. “We’ll see. We leave in two days’ time. I suggest you resign yourself to the torture.”
And now she was far, far away from anything even resembling civilization. The helicopter ride had taken at least two hours and they’d left the city limits within the first twenty minutes. There was nothing for miles in any direction. There was nothing here except forced intimacy and, she thought while her stomach cartwheeled around inside of her, nothing at all to keep her from exploring the one man alive whose touch she didn’t seem to mind.
“I’ve dismissed all but the most essential staff.” His voice made her jump and she opened her eyes to find him propped up against the nearest palm tree, his dark gold gaze simmering as it touched hers. “There is no one else here but the two of us and, farther out, my security guards to keep watch over the perimeter.”
“You mean, to keep me from running away from you.”
He smiled again, and that other night at the palace hadn’t been a fluke. It was devastating. It was almost as powerful as his kiss. It made her feel that same mix of weakness and wonder, and she didn’t have the slightest idea what to do about it.
“I mean, my most faithful and devoted guards are there to protect you whether you like it or not.” He’d let out a quiet sort of laugh. “But yes. Part of that protection would include returning you to my tender embrace should you wander too far from the oasis. The desert sands can be so treacherous.”
“How thoughtful.” But her mouth was pulling at the corners, as if her smile wanted to break free despite her own wishes. “Will you have men to guard the pools as well, in case I am tempted to drown myself rather than suffer your company?”
His laugh was deeper then. Richer. It was like drowning, indeed, in a masculine version of the best chocolate she could imagine, decadent and addictive.
She was in so much trouble.
“It depends which pool you mean to drown yourself in,” he said, as if he was giving the issue due consideration. “This nearest one will take some work. It’s barely knee-deep. You’re more likely to drown in your wineglass.”
“That can be arranged.”
He moved closer. He should have looked like any other man, the epitome of casual in nothing but a white oxford shirt and sand-colored trousers, but this was Rihad. He was the king. It didn’t seem to matter what he wore; nothing could conceal that low-edged hum of power he carried with him wherever he went.
“Shall we discuss our agenda, now that we’re here?” he asked when he was much too close. When she couldn’t seem to do anything but lose herself somewhere between that look on his face and the pounding of her heart.
“Our honeymoon has an agenda?” She fought to keep her voice light and airy—and to keep from leaping away from him because she knew,
