he was expecting her to fall instantly in love with him and she knew that was never going to happen.
The heat in the tent was stifling and he was standing close to her. So close she could feel the heat and power of him. The breath was locked in her throat and Layla had no idea what she was supposed to do next. Was he expecting her to kiss him? Was he supposed to go first or was she? Both together?
Layla desperately wished she’d had time to study the various options.
She wished she’d read that book long before now, instead of grabbing it as an afterthought on the run from the palace and her old life.
The gaps in her knowledge were glaringly obvious. For a start, she was confused by how long he’d stood there just looking at her. She’d assumed it would all be over quickly. Instead he seemed to be taking his time. His hand had migrated from her hair to her cheek and the slow, exploratory stroke of his fingers unsettled her.
Her tummy tightened into a knot and her pulse leaped and pounded.
She wanted to look away but his gaze drew her to him, holding her eyes with his. And then his eyes flickered to her mouth and that made her feel strange, too. As did his next words.
‘So what did you dream about when you were growing up in the palace?’
How was she supposed to answer that? Every day had been focused on survival. On protecting her sister. ‘I didn’t really dream. I prefer to focus on things that are real. Tangible.’
‘You had no wish for the future?’
‘If I did then it was a hope that the future would be better than the present.’ She saw him frown slightly and felt his thumb slide slowly over the line of her jaw.
‘The present was hard for you?’
What could she say? However hard it had been for her, she knew it must have been so much harder for him. He’d lost his father and the woman he’d loved. ‘I had my sister.’
A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth. ‘You’re being evasive, but I’ll overlook it for now because the past has no place in our bedroom.’
Our bedroom.
Her heart was pounding furiously and she found herself trapped by his dark gaze as he slid his hands into her hair and tilted her face to his.
‘If I do anything you don’t like you must tell me,’ he breathed.
She’d just had time to think that was a very strange thing to say, because she had no expectation of liking any of it, when he lowered his head.
Anticipation held her rigid.
That sensuously curved mouth hovered close to hers, prolonging the moment of contact. Just as Layla was beginning to wonder whether there was a reason he was taking so long, whether there was something she was supposed to be doing that she wasn’t, he slanted his mouth over hers and kissed her.
The gentleness threw her. Braced for something quite different, she found the slow, deliberate movement of his lips on hers shocking. Equally unexpected was the sudden tightening of her stomach and the warmth that rushed through her body and into her limbs. The feelings intensified but still his mouth moved over hers while his hands, buried in her hair, held her head trapped.
She felt his tongue trace the seam of her mouth, teasing, coaxing, and she parted her lips, shocked to feel his tongue delve into her mouth.
Something—nerves?—made her shaky? and she closed her hands over his arms to steady herself, her fingers moving over the solid muscle of his biceps. His physical power was undeniable, and she remembered the way he’d controlled the stallion and lifted her out of the pool. But he used that strength lightly now, his hands gentle as he smoothed her hair away from her face and kissed her mouth, all the time watching her through slumbrous dark eyes that made her aware of every part of herself.
Layla had never felt anything like this before, and she felt a flash of panic because she was a person who liked to understand things and rationalise them. But there was no understanding the searing heat that shot through her body and pooled low in her belly.
Releasing her head, he curved one arm around her back, slid the other around her waist and pulled her into him. She felt the strength and power of his thighs and the hardness of him. Pressed against the evidence of his masculinity, she discovered that the works of Michaelangelo didn’t tell the whole story.
Layla was confused by the torrent of sensation that flooded her skin and seeped into her nerve-endings.
‘Kiss me back.’
His husky command was spoken against her lips and she stared up at him, unable to see him properly in the darkness but knowing her mouth was just a shadow away from the dangerous curve of his.
Kiss me back.
Wishing she had more knowledge of technique, Layla tentatively touched her lips to his. She wanted to ask, Is this right? But then she felt his arm tighten around her waist, drawing her closer. Pressed this close to him, she felt hot and unbalanced in every way. She knew her cheeks were flushed, knew he could taste her confusion on her lips, but still he kissed her and the slowness of it, together with the long drawn-out ache of anticipation and something else she couldn’t name, was agonising.
He kissed her until their surroundings faded and the only thing in her vision was him, and then he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed. The practical side of her prompted her to tell him she was capable of walking, but she thought it might be a lie so she kept silent and wondered how nerves could weaken limbs.
The light in the tent was dim, but not so dim she couldn’t see his face, and she remembered Yasmin dreamily telling her how handsome he was—how he was ‘hot’. At the time Layla hadn’t understood how a word used to describe temperature could be used as a positive indicator of visual appeal, but now she realised that looking at him made her feel hot. Burning hot. Her skin, her lips and other more sensitive parts of her that she rarely had reason to think about. And while he was kissing her he extracted her from her clothing. The ease with which he accomplished that feat was almost as embarrassing as being naked in front of him.
Grateful for the semi-darkness, she somehow resisted the desperate urge to cover herself. Never in her life had she felt so out of her depth and inadequate, and she lay there, her breathing shallow, staring up at him as he wrenched off his shirt, all the time watching her with eyes almost black in the candlelight.
Layla held her breath because even she, with her limited experience and previously limited interest in the masculine form, could see that his was perfectly proportioned.
Unable to help herself, she let her gaze slide over bronzed, muscular shoulders, down over his chest with its haze of dark hair, and lower still to his board-flat abdomen. She didn’t look lower and he slid his fingers under her chin and lifted her face, forcing her to look at him.
‘You’re scared.’
‘No.’ Her voice was a whisper. ‘But I wish I’d read more.’
‘Not all the answers can be found in books.’ His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth and his fingers slid into her hair, cupping the back of her head. ‘Perhaps you know more than you think you do. Follow your instincts.’
As
