was inside her space, dominating her space. She wanted to pull away, and yet she couldn’t do so. She didn’t like men who tried to dominate her—
And yet …
And yet …
Hands still tangled in her hair, he tugged her head back, exposing the column of her throat. He was so much taller than she was. She should feel vulnerable and afraid, but she did not.
“See if you remember this,” he growled.
His head descended and her eyes dropped closed without conscious thought. He was going to kiss her, and she realized with complete shock that she wanted it. How could she want it when she didn’t even like him?
But she did. And she knew she would hate herself for the weakness later.
His mouth didn’t claim hers, however. Instead, she felt the touch of his lips—those hard, sensual lips—in the tender hollow of her throat. She gasped as sensation rocked her, throbbed deep in her core.
His tongue traced the indent of her collarbone. He pulled her head back farther, forcing her to arch her body against his. Her breasts thrust into his chest, into the warmth and solidity of him. Her nipples were aching peaks against the thin cups of her bikini. Surely, he knew it, too. She was embarrassed—and not embarrassed.
Her hands tangled in the silk of his shirt, clinging for dear life as his mouth moved up her throat, his kisses stinging her with need.
And then he claimed her mouth. She opened to him, let him sink into her, met him as an equal. The ache inside her chest was new, and not new. She thrust away thoughts of a possible past she couldn’t remember and tried to focus on the now.
On the way he kissed her as if she was the only woman in the world. The heat between them was incredible. Had she really been chilled only moments ago? Because now she wanted to tear at the layers of clothes between them, to remove all barriers, to quench this fire the only way it could be quenched: by opening her body to him, by joining with him until the fire burned itself out.
If what he said were true, then how many times had they begun just like this? How many times had they lost themselves in each other’s embrace after a scorching kiss? She couldn’t ever remember being with this man—being with any man—and yet her body knew. Her body knew.
One hand left her hair, spanned her rib cage, his fingers brushing beneath her breast. She couldn’t stop the little moan that escaped her as he gently pinched her nipple through the fabric. The sweet spike of pleasure shot through her, connecting to her center. Liquid heat flooded her, so foreign and familiar all at once.
She became aware of something else then, as her body ached for more touching, more soft exploration. Of something thick and hard pressing into her abdomen. The first ribbon of unease rippled inside her. This couldn’t be a good idea.
She couldn’t give herself to him. She simply couldn’t. She’d already let it go too far.
She should have never touched him. She didn’t understand it, but it had been like setting a match to dry tinder.
She could feel an answering change in him, as if he too were confused and wary about what was happening between them. Before she could push him away, he stepped back, breaking the contact between their bodies.
The loss of his mouth on hers was almost a physical pain. She wanted to reach for him, pull him back, but she would not do so. She could not ever do so.
He looked completely unaffected as he bent to pick up his phone from where he’d dropped it when he’d shoved his hands into her hair.
Her lips tingled, her skin sizzled and her breathing wasn’t quite the same as before he’d kissed her.
“Why did you do that?” she asked, her voice thick. It would have been so much easier if he had not.
He looked at her then, his golden skin so beautiful, his eyes still hot as they slipped over her. How many women had melted under the force of that gaze? How many had taken one look at that face and body and burned with need?
Hundreds. Thousands.
Her included.
“Because you wanted me to,” he said.
She shook her head to deny it, but stopped abruptly. What would be the point? She had wanted him to kiss her. But she knew what it felt like now, and she would never be so weak again. “Now that you have, I’d like you to go,” she said firmly.
“You and I both know that’s not going to happen, Isabella.”
Isabella drew in a sharp breath. The man had a hearing problem. “You can’t force me to return to Jahfar. I’m an American citizen, and there are laws here that prevent such things.”
He looked so coolly elegant, in spite of his casual clothing, in spite of the way she’d crushed his shirt in her fists and wrinkled the fine silk.
“Nevertheless, you will go—”
“There’s no reason,” she insisted.
“There is every reason!” he thundered, the fine edge of his temper bared at last. “You will cease being so selfish, Isabella. You will do this for Rafiq, if for no other reason.”
Isabella hugged herself as a river of ice water poured down her spine. She was tired and confused and ready for this to be over. “I’m sorry you think I’m being selfish, but I’ve told you the truth. I don’t know you. And I don’t know who Rafiq is, either.”
Adan’s eyes were so cold in his handsome face. Like black ice as he gazed at her with unconcealed contempt. He was angrier than she’d yet seen him.
He pronounced the next words very precisely, each one carefully measured, each one like a blow to her subconscious as the full effect landed on her with the force of a sandstorm whipping through a purple Jahfaran sky.
“Rafiq is our son.”
CHAPTER THREE
THE interior of Adan’s private jet was sumptuous, but Isabella hardly noticed. She’d been in shock since the moment he’d told her they had a child. It had felt as if someone was slicing into her heart with a rusty knife. How could she have given birth to a child and not know it?
It was surreal.
But as much as her mind kept telling her that everything he said was impossible, her heart whispered doubts. Her heart said that something had happened to her two years ago, and that a car wreck didn’t explain it nearly as well as she would like.
She’d gone with him then. She’d let him take her back to her condo where she’d packed a suitcase and called the landlord to tell him she would be gone for a couple of weeks. Adan had stood by impassively, not saying a word as she’d readied herself. He’d looked around the small living space as if it were completely foreign to him. As if he were horrified she would live there.
Which, she supposed, he probably was. He was a prince of Jahfar. Princes did not live in studios that weren’t much bigger than a large shoebox.
They’d ridden
