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As though he’d read her mind, he asked, ‘Are you protected, my sweet one?’
‘No,’ she mumbled, rigid with embarrassment.
‘It is no problem.’ He got off the bed.
Lexie knew she should be relieved, and was shocked to discover that the thought of carrying Rafiq’s child sent a subversive pang of longing through her.
Keeping her eyes away from what he was doing, she looked downwards. Her gaze stopped on the thong her sister had insisted she wear under the silk dress.
Should she take it off?
Colour mantled her skin, and desire ebbed under the weight of her embarrassment. How on earth did people ever make love with all these things to think about?
‘What is worrying you?’
It was scary just how easily he could read her. ‘Nothing.’
But once she was in his arms again, and his mouth on hers wreaked the familiar havoc to her busy mind, the need came back, swift and sure and compelling. Her virgin fears and worries vanished in an intense, voluptuous craving for something only Rafiq could give her.
‘You taste like desire,’ he said. ‘Warm and silken and mind-blowing.’
His hand touched her breast, and she was unable to prevent a convulsive jerk of response.
‘What is it?’ he demanded.
‘I just… I can’t… I want you so much,’ she finished in a rush, scarlet with an odd sort of defiance, but determined to be honest.
His laughter was deep and intimate. Her hips thrust upwards in an involuntary plea and demand for something she craved so much she could feel the wanting in her bones.
Against her skin, he murmured, ‘So fierce you are, so responsive, so passionate, my dove. But shy—I won’t break if you touch me.’
Almost dazed by the ferocity of her need, she smoothed a hand over his chest, her fingertips tingling at the resilience of his skin, the subtle shift and move of the muscles and tendons, their power and promise.
‘Yes,’ he whispered, his warm breath tantalising the sensitive tip of her breast. ‘Touch me, Lexie, as you want to—and as you want to be touched.’
Cautiously she ran a coaxing, tentative hand across his shoulder, her fingertips thrilling at the heat of his fine-grained skin, the coiled strength that called to something deep inside her. Her breath came quickly; she bent her head so that her hair fell across him in a golden-amber flood, and then she kissed the path her fingers had made, rejoicing at the sudden thunder of his heart.
Emboldened, she opened her mouth and licked him, savouring his taste—a hint of salt, faint musk, all vital male.
Passion was a painful flame, an exciting demand, a surge of sensation through her so intense it was all she had room for. She said in an aching voice, ‘You are beautiful.’
‘Ah, no.’ Rafiq sounded oddly shaken. ‘That is for me to say to you. But beautiful does not convey enough—you are lithe and graceful, a woman of flame and satin and desire. The moment my eyes found you, I knew that this was inevitable.’
And he kissed her again, banishing her final fears and worries so completely that she willingly followed wherever he led, her body arching in uncontrollable urgency as he showed her what pleasure points lay in her breasts, her waist, the tiny hollow of her navel, the sleek curves of her hips…
And the removal of the thong became an erotic experience that almost banished all of her shyness.
But when his black head moved lower, she stiffened. He dropped a final kiss on the plane of her stomach and looked up, his eyes unexpectedly keen.
Colour flooded her skin. Rafiq smiled slowly, almost cruelly, and stroked one lean, long-fingered hand from the hollow of her throat. A thread of fire followed that deliberate claiming, radiating between the high peaks of her breasts, across her stomach, finally erupting when he cupped the wildly sensitive mound at the junction of her legs.
It was a gesture of pure possession—a statement of ownership—and oddly it gave Lexie a confidence she’d never have achieved otherwise.
Eyes holding his, she mimicked the sweep of his hand, letting her fingers linger on the antique pattern of hair across his chest, discovering the small, masculine nipples. The dark flush across his high, patrician cheekbones made her even bolder; she slid her palm across his flat, taut abdomen, relishing the hardening of muscles beneath her touch.
Narrow hips beckoned. Carefully, lovingly, she outlined them, bending to kiss the lean contours of his body.
And then her confidence faltered, faded. He was acutely aroused, and she literally didn’t know what to do next.
He laughed quietly, darkly glittering eyes registering her embarrassment without censure. Silently he moved his hand and, as she bucked beneath his probing fingers, he found the passage that waited for him so eagerly, and explored it with a gentleness she found unbearably stimulating.
A soft, almost guttural sound broke past her lips. Gripping his shoulders, she felt the slickness of sweat beneath her hands, but this time she was too lost in the shatteringly sweet sensations he was conjuring to understand what was happening to him.
She needed—her whole body yearned for—something. Connection, completion, she thought inadequately, a unity she could only imagine, yet it was what she’d been waiting on for these long years past.
‘Rafiq,’ she breathed, her fingers clenching on him as he moved over her.
‘Yes, my sweet one. Wait just a little time.’ His voice was laboured, hoarse, as he turned away.
Lost in the turmoil of her senses, she closed her eyes, but when he poised himself over her again she opened them, and slid her hands down his back to his hips, then smiled and pulled him down.
He dragged in a harsh breath. His half-closed eyes locked with hers, so that she thought she was falling into the centre of a green firestorm, as he slowly, carefully, eased himself into her.
For a split second pain threatened, and she tensed, but then he broke through that tiny invisible barrier. Shivering, she felt sensation flood through her in a wave of heat, of joy, of seeking that something wonderful that still lay ahead of her, and again she arched into him in speechless supplication.
Rafiq’s jaw clenched and, as though her movement had snapped the last shred of his self-control, he pressed home with a single, powerful thrust. Almost sobbing with pleasure, she soared at each welcome intrusion, up and up, and over a barrier into an ecstasy that shook the foundations of her world.
Almost immediately he followed her into that rarefied region, and when his climax was over he asked in a raw voice, ‘Why the tears, my lovely girl?’
‘I didn’t know,’ Lexie said unevenly, surprised to find that she was crying.
He rolled over onto his side, raising himself on one arm to look down into her face. Shaken to her centre, she closed her eyes, because she couldn’t see anything in his expression to match the tumult of emotions rioting through her—a kind of relief, fierce exultation, wariness, and a sweet exhaustion.
Obviously he felt nothing like that; once more he was fully in control, the arrogant framework of his face even more pronounced, the green eyes hard and accusing.
‘Was that the first time you’ve had an orgasm?’ he asked.
Flushing, she turned her face away, and resisted when an inexorable finger turned it back. He didn’t hurt her, but she knew he was scanning her face for every nuance, every fleeting emotion.
‘Look at me,’ he commanded.
‘No.’
Her heart thudded in the silence, until he said, still in that cool, controlled tone, ‘Or was that the first time you’ve made love?’
He couldn’t know. There was no way he could know. There had been only one swiftly vanishing second of pain…
But why did it matter so much to her that he shouldn’t know?
‘Is it important?’ she parried, wishing her voice wasn’t so thin.
No muscle moved in his face, but her heart quailed. However, his tone was grave when he replied, ‘I think it is, if it was the first time for you. I could have been gentler—?’
‘I didn’t want gentle,’ she flashed, determined to put an end to this hugely embarrassing conversation. Weren’t men supposed to roll over and go to sleep after sex?
But then, Rafiq de Courteveille wasn’t like other men. In that moment she realised that she was in even greater danger than she’d imagined.
The danger of falling in love, if she hadn’t already done so.
In words brittle with desperation, she said, ‘I’m sorry if it wasn’t—’
‘Hush.’ He stopped the tumbling words with his mouth, in a kiss that brought every emotion and thought to a crashing halt, vanquished by the turbulence of sensation and remembered rapture.
Rafiq lifted his dark head so that his words were spoken against her lips in the lightest of kisses. ‘It was—’ He paused, as though choosing what to say next, then went on, ‘Much more than I expected. I hope that for you it was good too.’
CHAPTER NINE (#ulink_819e5757-6cde-5722-8b1f-ad23347d7aa2)
LEXIE breathed, ‘It was wonderful. Couldn’t you tell?’
Rafiq’s smile was wry. ‘Some women fake orgasms very well, but yes, I could tell. I’m glad.’
And without saying anything more he got up and stooped for his clothes, giving her a last view of his powerful back and leg muscles shifting in smooth harmony, the light of the lamps casting golden highlights and coppery shadows over his lean, magnificent body.
He looked both alien and heartbreakingly familiar, a man of sophistication backed by raw power, his combination of bloodlines and cultures so different that the only thing they had in common was this passionate desire.
Lexie’s heart clamped into a hard knot in her chest. What now?
Without hurrying, he got into his trousers and slung the shirt over one broad shoulder. She couldn’t read his expression; he’d retreated behind the bronze mask of his face to a place where he seemed entirely unaware of her.
Chilled, she sat up and reached for her dress. Perhaps the movement broke his introspection; he came across and picked it up from the floor to put it beside her.
‘Not a good way to treat such a pretty thing,’ he said conversationally, his eyes hooded and enigmatic, and walked away to the table where the champagne flutes gleamed in the lamplight.
Hastily scrambling into her clothes, Lexie wondered dismally what on earth she was supposed to do now.
What followed was a tense ten minutes spent in sophisticated conversation with Rafiq—conversation Lexie could match only with taut, disconnected answers.
So she felt relief and disappointment in equal measure when he walked her back to the door of her bedroom.
There he paused, and said with a humourless twist of his lips, ‘This is not how I envisaged the end of the evening, but I think we both need a night of sleep before we talk.’
Eyes raking her face, he finished, ‘Before that, I should repeat that I enjoyed very much our evening together—all of it. I hope you did too.’
She flushed, wanting only to be taken in his arms again, to be reassured in the most basic of ways that he was telling her the truth.
But that wasn’t going to happen. ‘I’ve already told you I did,’ she said, her tone aloof and edged with more than a hint of defiance.
He laughed softly, and for a transparent second she thought he was going to put paid to the tumbling whirlwind of her thoughts and emotions with another sensuous kiss and the addictive security of his arms.
Then his face closed against her, and he stepped backwards with an inclination of his head. ‘Goodnight. Sleep well,’ he said formally.
‘Goodnight.’ She closed the door on him before the hot tears could reach her eyes.
As always he’d been considerate, but even though he’d liked making love to her he might still be regretting that it had happened. After all, there was a huge difference between an experienced woman of the world, who knew how to conduct an affair with style and grace, and a virgin with no skills or experience when it came to matters of sex.
He might even now be trying to find a way to tell her that it was over—a kind, considerate way, of course—she thought on a spurt of fresh anguish.
She woke the next morning with one decision fixed in her mind: she’d go back to the hotel.
‘No,’ Rafiq said unemotionally when she told him at breakfast on the terrace that overlooked the lowlands.
Lexie’s brows shot up. Pleased with the cool crispness of her tone, she stated, ‘I’m not asking your permission. I’m perfectly well, so the hotel no longer has any reason to object.’
He leaned back. A stray ray of sun struck across his face, and she glimpsed a corsair, dark and dangerous—a leader of men even more desperate then he was.
‘It is not possible,’ he said evenly. ‘Your accommodation has been given to another guest.’
Stunned, she closed her mouth with a snap. ‘Who made that decision?’
‘I told them to,’ he said with a controlled assurance that grated across her nerves. ‘The hotel opening was a huge success—bookings have come in from all over the world. It would have been foolish not to take advantage of that. Why do you want to leave the castle?’
‘Because there’s no longer a reason for me to be here.’ She stared at him, her eyes sending a challenge she didn’t care to voice. ‘My stay was only ever temporary. I’m fine, my ribs are fine—’ Colour burned her skin but she ploughed on, ‘As you know.’
When Rafiq got to his feet in one swift movement, she had to stop herself from flinching. He loomed, and although Lexie knew she had nothing to fear from him she had to resist her immediate impulse to leap up so that she faced him on slightly more equal terms.
He was deliberately being intimidating, she realised, her hand closing around the handle of a knife. Why?
Calmly, yet with an edge of authority to his voice as though reasoning with a rebellious teenager, he said, ‘There is no need for you to go. I understand your feelings, and I agree—this has happened so fast that we don’t know each other very well. But fleeing is not the way to deal with it.’ His eyes dropped to her death grip on the handle of the butter knife. ‘I refuse to believe that you are afraid of me.’
‘I’m not!’ She dropped the knife back onto her plate. The sharp little chink broke into the soft air like a small explosion.
No, she wasn’t afraid of him; she just wanted him so much that her last shreds of prudence dictated flight, before she made a total fool of herself by falling madly and hopelessly in love with him.
‘Perhaps you should be,’ he said, and the silence between them became suddenly charged with a menace that sent shock waves through her.
Disbelievingly, she stared at him as he leaned down and caught her wrist, urging her upwards. His mouth came down on hers; she resisted for a second, then sank into his warmth and strength, even as part of her mind fought this insidious entrapment.
The sensations—potent, arousing—were the same, yet she knew something was different. Behind his passion she sensed an icily restrained anger and a determination that made her extremely wary.
When he released her she commanded furiously, ‘Don’t ever do that again.’
He examined her with hooded eyes, flinty and cold. As she watched the anger faded, and he said something in a raw, harsh voice in the local language.
Lexie didn’t have to understand it to know that he was swearing.
Between his teeth he said in English, ‘I will not touch you again until you ask me to.’
‘I— All right,’ she snapped, hoping her uncertainty wasn’t humiliatingly obvious.
