Pleasure: The Sheikh's Defiant Bride. Sandra Marton

      But it was Madison who reached back and shut the door, locking them into the silken silence of his in-flight bedroom.

      “Tariq,” she whispered, “Tariq …”

      His fingers fumbled at the buttons on her white silk blouse until he cursed and tore it open. She had worn no bra; she’d told herself it was a warm day but now, with his mouth closing around her nipple, with her cry of passion in the air, she knew she had worn none because of this, because she’d wanted this, ached for this.

      For him. Only for him.

      “Madison.”

      His voice was thick, hoarse with desire.

      “Yes,” whispered, “yes, yes …”

      They tumbled onto the bed together. She lifted her hips and he pulled her skirt off; she reached for his zipper but his hands were there first and then, God, then he was free of his trousers and he was big, so big that for an instant, she was afraid.

      “Touch me,” he growled.

      He took her hand and put it on his erect flesh. He pulsed with life beneath her fingers. And yes, she was right, he was enormous. She couldn’t close her hand around him.

      “Watch,” he said thickly, and he moved forward, put his hands under her bottom. Lifted her. Entered her. Entered her on one long, exquisite thrust and she sobbed his name, cried out in ecstasy at the feel of him stretching her, filling her.

      He bent to her, kissed her deeply, hungrily. She put her arms around him; she could feel the fine tension in him, his muscles quivering under her hands as he held back, gave her body time to adjust to his size.

      But waiting was more than she could bear. She moved. Moved again.

      “Habiba,” he said in a warning whisper.

      “Yes,” she said, rising to him as he began to move, as she found his rhythm and matched it.

      And came, a heartbeat later, came on an endless, undulating wave of passion as he groaned, threw his head back, buried himself even deeper within her and exploded inside her.

      He fell against her, his face in the crook of her shoulder. His breathing was heavy; his weight bore her down into the bed but she loved it, the feel of his body against hers, the scent of him, clean sweat and hard sex and all of it gloriously male.

      All of it for a purpose.

      The final vestiges of passion ebbed away. Cold reality set in.

      God, what had she done?

      He had taken her only to weaken her. To prove how fragile her resolve was in the face of his power. He was a man who always got what he wanted… .

      And what he wanted was her baby.

      “Get off me!” Her voice was low, as broken as she felt. When he didn’t move, she banged her fists against his shoulders. “Damn you, get off!”

      Tariq stirred. He lifted his head, rolled to his side and put his arm across her, hand cupping her naked hip and keeping her where he wanted her.

      “Such charming pillow talk, habiba.” His tone was lazy; his gaze hooded. “Are you always this sweet-tempered after sex?”

      She didn’t answer and he took his time looking at her. She was more beautiful than ever, with her blond hair wild against the pillows, her mouth and nipples rosy from his kisses, her breasts flushed from her climax.

      The only thing that spoiled it was the look in her eyes. She had given herself to him and now she hated herself for it.

      It wasn’t as if he’d planned to do things this way.

      Kidnapping her? Yes. Taking her to Dubaac, to the Golden Palace? Yes, again. There, he’d imagined seducing her with cold deliberation.

      But this—the hot, overpowering passion that had all but consumed him. The soul-deep hunger. The need to have her, to possess her.

      He had not anticipated any of it, or how badly he wanted to take her in his arms now and kiss her, change the expression on her face to what it had been moments ago—a mix of desire and need and something that transcended submission.

      Tariq rolled to the edge of the bed, got to his feet and zipped up his trousers.

      “What’s the matter, habiba? Have you never been played a game and been defeated before?”

      Madison grabbed at the duvet and dragged it to her throat as she scrambled up against the pillows.

      “Is that what this is to you? A game?”

      “What else could it be? A game, of course, and one you play so well. The temptress and the toad. The temptress and the prince.” His smile hardened. “But you’re right. This is no time for games. All that concerns me is my child.”

      Tears stung Madison’s eyes. Her pride was shattered. Her clothing was ruined. Once she stepped out of this room, everyone on the plane, his obedient, heel-clicking minions, would know what they had done.

      “I was right about you,” she said brokenly. “You’re a horrible human being! All this, just to—to get me into your bed …”

      “You underestimate me, Madison.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “How long do you think it takes to fly to Boston?”

      The change in topic caught her off-guard. She stared at him. He could almost see her coming up with the correct answer, then calculating how long they’d actually been in the air.

      “That’s right,” he said softly. “We’ve been flying almost three hours.”

      “Then why … then why haven’t we landed yet?”

      He moved swiftly, grasping her shoulders, bringing her to her knees in the center of the bed. The duvet fell away, leaving her naked and exposed to his eyes.

      “Do you know anything about my country, habiba?” He smiled; the look on her face was all the answer he required. “In some ways, we are very modern. In others, we still cling to the past.”

      “That’s fascinating,” she said, trying to control the tremor in her voice, “but—”

      “For instance, a man who wishes to take an unwilling woman as his bride may still resort to the old ways. He carries her off, takes her to his bed and she is his forever.”

      He saw the color drain from her face.

      “That’s ridiculous. It’s barbaric. It’s—it’s a joke.”

      “No joke, sweetheart. There is more to the world than America.”

      “Are you trying to scare me? Because it won’t work, your highness. Luckily for me, this is America, not Dubaac!”

      He caught her face between his hands and kissed her, hard, again and again until he felt the first softening of her mouth under his.

      The knowledge that she still wanted him, despite everything, made him want to push her back against the pillows and take her again and again until she was clinging to him, whispering to him, until his possession was all that mattered.

      But he was not a fool.

      She knew how to use her sexuality, and he knew better than to succumb to it.

      So he drew back, ran his thumbs over the razor-sharp bones of her cheeks and smiled into her eyes.

      “We are over the Atlantic, habiba. And though I am sure you find my title an amusing anachronism I assure you, it is quite real. It has power. For instance, it means that this plane is the equivalent of Dubaacian soil.”

      Her eyes widened; he smiled.

      “That’s right, habiba. For all intents and purposes, you are already in Dubaac. And, because