pleasure.
Even afterwards, he didn’t want to let her go. He didn’t move from his position inside her, his palms possessively cupping her buttocks to maintain that sweet contact. He could feel her breath warm against his neck and the pinpoint thrust of her nipples and he thought he could have stayed like that all night.
Eventually she spoke, her voice muffled against his neck.
‘I thought we weren’t going to do this.’
‘This?’
‘Making love in the palace. That’s what you said.’
‘Did I?’
‘You know you did.’
‘Maybe when I had the chance to think about it, it seemed a little short-sighted.’ He stroked her hair. ‘It suddenly occurred to me that I have much experience while you have barely any at all. It seemed to make sense that while you are here you should learn from me. We are harming no one provided that we keep our liaison discreet—and I am very good at being discreet, habibi.’
She lifted her head and her amber eyes were suddenly serious. ‘You mean, I’m to be your pupil? Like a novice rider who comes to the stables and needs to be taught everything about horses?’
‘In a way, yes. But you are more to me than that.’
‘I am?’
‘Indeed you are. You are also a temptation I find myself unable to resist.’ He saw the hope that died in her eyes as he took her hand and moved it down between his legs. ‘See how you arouse me so instantly, Livvy?’
She looked down. ‘Oh,’ she said, but her voice trembled a little.
‘Yes, oh. Now stroke me,’ he instructed softly. ‘Whisper the tips of your fingers up and down my length. Like that. Yes. Only lighter. Oh, yes. Just like that.’
He came suddenly, his seed spilling over her fingers, and then he stroked her moist flesh until she was writhing beneath him and he had to muffle the cries of her orgasm with the pressure of his kiss.
And only when her eyelids had grown heavy and her breathing had slowed into the steady rhythm of sleep did Saladin slide from her bed and, after pulling on his robes, slip silently from the room.
BE CAREFUL WHAT you wish for.
Livvy stared up at the ceiling, aware of the minutes that were ticking away, knowing that soon Saladin would rise from her bed and leave her room—like a ghost who had never been there.
She’d told herself that she would be contented with what she had. That making love with Saladin was sublime—and she should make the most of the sexual pleasure they enjoyed, night after night.
But it was not enough—and she didn’t know why.
During the day he treated her with a polite neutrality. He ate his meals with her and chatted to her, and came to the stables to watch her working with Burkaan whenever he had space in his schedule. It was hard to believe that this very formal sheikh was the same man whose touch always brought her to life in bed, leaving her sighing with pleasure as she snuggled up to him. But once the pleasure had worn off she was increasingly aware that he always kept something back. That there was a darkness at his core that he wouldn’t share, something hidden from her and the rest of the world.
It left her feeling incomplete. As if she was getting only half the man. She knew that what they had couldn’t last—but she couldn’t bear to leave Jazratan without having known her lover as completely as possible. Surely that wasn’t too much to ask.
So why act like his tame puppet who just accepted whatever he was prepared to dole out? Surely sexual relationships allowed for all kinds of discovery, other than the purely physical?
She rolled over on the bed and ran her fingertips along the rough rasp of his jawline.
‘Saladin?’
There was a pause. ‘Mmm?’
‘Can I ask you something?’
Beneath the rumpled sheet, Saladin stretched his legs, and as he did so his thigh brushed against the softness of hers. She really did have the most beautiful thighs, he thought as he yawned.
As usual, he had come to her bed once darkness had fallen, driven by a fierce sexual hunger that showed no sign of abating. He knew it was a risk to his reputation—and hers—to persist in his nightly seduction, but it was a risk he was prepared to take. Because he was beginning to realise that the qualities that made her such a consummate horse whisperer were the same qualities that made her such a superb lover. She was intuitive and curious—gentle yet strong. He’d thought that the innocence that had stayed with her until a relatively late stage might have made her cautious, or wary. But he had been wrong. There had been no variation on the act of love that Olivia Miller hadn’t embraced with an enthusiasm and sensuality that easily matched his own.
He tried not to react as her fingertips made dancing little movements across his chest, but he could feel the renewed throb of desire at his groin. ‘You can ask me anything you wish, habibi—although whether or not I choose to answer it is quite another matter.’
Seemingly undeterred, a single fingertip now made a journey upwards to drift along his chin—its progress slow as it scraped against the new growth there.
‘Why have you never married?’
The question came out of the blue and hit him like a slap to the face. He stilled and moved away from her. Had he been too quick to commend her? Too eager to think the best of her—his perfect lover—when deep down all she wanted to do was to probe into matters that did not concern her?
‘It never ceases to amaze me,’ he breathed, ‘how you can be in bed with a woman and all she wants to do is talk about other women.’
He felt her stiffen beside him.
‘Are you trying to change the subject?’
‘What do you think?’
She clicked on a small lamp and stared at him. ‘I think you are.’
‘Well, then. Take the hint. Don’t ask.’
‘You’re not the only one who doesn’t do hints.’ She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and kept her gaze fixed steadily on him. ‘I’m not asking you because I’m angling for some kind of permanent role in your life. I know what my limitations are. I know this is just sex—’
‘Just sex?’ he echoed, the taunt too much to resist as he reached for her breast.
She pushed his hand away. ‘I’m only asking because I’m curious,’ she said doggedly. ‘Your single status doesn’t seem to sit comfortably with a man who adores his country, but who seems to care more about the bloodline of his horse than his own. And I can’t work out why that is.’
‘Maybe
