waited for reality to return—for this moment to pass, this dream sequence to pass, for the real Zoltan to return—but instead she saw only this Zoltan waiting for her answer.
‘You’re wrong, you know.’
‘About you?’
‘About being no good at apologies. That was one of the best I think I’ve ever heard.’
It was true. His confession had reached out to her, warming her in places she would never have suspected him reaching. His previous assessment of her was no surprise. She had known he had resented her from the start, assuming she was some shallow party-girl princess who cared nothing for duty. But what was a surprise was the way his words touched her. And, even though he had not realised yet in how many ways he had misjudged her, his words touched her in places deep inside, places she thought immune to the likes of anything Zoltan could say or do.
He smiled. ‘I am so sorry, Aisha,’ he said and she blinked up open-mouthed at him.
‘You called me by my name. You have never called me that before.’
He nodded, his eyes contrite. ‘And it is to my eternal shame that I did not do so from the very beginning. You deserved to be called by your name rather than your title. A name that spoke of the goddess you were surely named for, the goddess who must be so jealous right now of your perfection that she is hiding away up there behind the blinds.’
And, even though he’d gone too far, she could not help but smile. ‘You should not suggest such things of the gods,’ she said, still battling to find balance in a world suddenly shifted off its axis. ‘Lest they grow jealous and seek their revenge against the mortal.’
‘A goddess could be jealous of you,’ he said, curling his hand around her neck. ‘Except that you are bound in marriage to me, and no goddess could possibly ever envy you that. They would figure you are already paying the price for your beauty.’
She swallowed, wondering where the other Zoltan was hiding, the one who would come out at any moment breathing hell-fire and damnation and demanding that she do her duty by him, if not willingly, at least for the good of their respective countries.
Yet she didn’t want that other Zoltan to appear, because this Zoltan made her feel so good—not only because he awakened all her senses, but because he spoke to her needs and desires and touched her in dark, secret places she had never known existed.
‘Do you have an evil twin?’ she asked on impulse, remembering another conversation where he had implied the same of her, because she needed something—anything—to lighten the tone of this conversation and defuse the intensity she felt building inside.
His lips turned up. ‘Not that I know of.’
She smiled as she shook her head and looked up into his dark eyes, wondering if it would be some kind of sin if she wanted to enjoy this other Zoltan just a little while longer. ‘I’m not entirely convinced.’ She allowed her smile to widen. ‘Because this twin I wouldn’t mind getting to know a little better. If I thought he was going to stick around a while, that is.’
He dragged in a breath, his dark eyes looking perplexed, even a little tortured. ‘I’m not sure that’s possible,’ he said, his gaze fixed on her mouth. ‘Because right now I want to kiss you. And I’m not sure I should. I’m not sure which twin you might end up with.’
‘Maybe,’ she said a little breathlessly, watching his mouth draw nearer, ‘there’s only one way to find out. Maybe we just have to risk it.’
Something flared and caught fire in his eyes. ‘I think you might be right.’
He dipped his head, curled one hand around her neck and drew her slowly closer, pausing mere millimetres away, forcing their breath to curl and mingle between them, a prelude to the dance to come.
Then even that scant separation was gone as he pressed his lips to hers.
One touch of her lips and he remembered—sweet and spice; honey, cinnamon and chili; sweet and spice with heat. But there was so much more besides.
For this night she tasted of moonlight and promises, of soft desert nights and whispered secrets. She tasted of woman.
All woman.
He groaned against her mouth, let his arms surround her, drawing her into his embrace. She came willingly, accepting his invitation, until her breasts were hard up against his chest, her slim body curving into his, supple and lithe, while he supped of her lush mouth. And when he felt her hands on his back, felt her nails raking his skin through his shirt, he wanted to lift his head and roar with victory, for the goddess would be his tonight.
Except there was no way he was leaving this kiss.
She was drowning. One touch of his lips and the air had evaporated in her lungs and it was sensation that now swamped her, sensation that rolled over her, wave after delicious wave. His lips on hers, his taste in her mouth, his arms around her and her body knowing just one thing.
Need.
It bloomed under the surprisingly gentle caress of his lips. It took root and spread a tangle of branches to every other place he touched. It built on itself, growing, becoming more powerful and insistent.
He held her face in his hands and kissed her eyes, her nose, her chin before returning to her waiting lips, seducing her with his hot mouth while her hands drank in his tight flesh.
And in the midst of it all she wondered, how could this be the same man who had kissed her in the library? The same man who had so cruelly punished her with his kiss and had demanded her presence in his suite so he could impregnate her with his seed?
Yet it must be the same man, for she recognised him by his taste and his essence and the far-reaching impact he had upon her body.
But in between the layers of passion and the onslaught of sensation, in between the breathless pleasure, a niggling kernel of doubt crept in: how could he be so different now and yet still be the same person?
‘Aisha,’ he said, breathing as heavily as she, resting his forehead on hers, his nose against hers. She almost forgot to care that he seemed different, because he was so warm now, so wonderful, and the way he said her name made her tremble with desire. This man, who was now her husband. That thought made her shudder anew.
‘You are a goddess,’ he said, his big hand scooping over her shoulder and down, inexorably down, to cup one achingly heavy breast. Breath jagged in her throat, her senses momentarily shorting before he brushed the pad of his thumb against her nipple and she gasped as her entire circuitry lit up with exquisite pleasure that made her inner thighs hum.
She mewled with pleasure. ‘I think,’ she uttered, breathless with desire, ‘maybe you must be the evil twin after all.’
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