Royal Weddings. Annie West

sex. Hastily he began revising his assumptions about her level of experience. It seemed that her famous ex-lover, despite his notoriety, had left Samira remarkably inexperienced.

      Tariq couldn’t stop his hands from skimming up her sides to brush the edges of her breasts. Her jump of pleasure and her startled stare, as if surprised at her body’s response, told its own story.

      ‘No, that’s not why it was amazing. It’s just us, Samira. The chemistry between us.’

      And the fact that she’d been in his blood for over a decade. No wonder his orgasm had been so explosive.

      He felt the sudden tension in her and knew at once she was second-guessing the implications.

      ‘Good sex is like that, Samira. It’s nothing to fret over.’

      Finally Samira dropped her head onto his shoulder, slumping sated against him. He rested his chin on her head, feeling the tickle of her hair, the softness of her body against him, her tight, enticing heat.

      And as easily as that he was ready again, heavy with arousal, deep inside her.

      Samira’s indrawn breath said it all.

      Shock hammered him even as he moved tentatively, wresting a sigh and a little shiver of pleasure from her. Her lips pressed to his shoulder, her tongue swiping his damp flesh.

       In all these years he’d never wanted any woman as much as he wanted Samira.

      Nothing in his past compared with his passion for her.

      Tariq swallowed an iron-hard knot of guilt but couldn’t dispel the shame in his belly or the burn of desire.

       He’d never wanted Jasmin like this.

      That was significant enough.

      But it was more than that. The truth stripped him of honour, eating into his corroded soul.

       He felt more for Samira after a week than he’d felt for his first wife after four years of marriage.

      What kind of man was he?

       CHAPTER EIGHT

      THE REMAINS OF the village were a pathetic mess, even after a team of engineers and builders had been hard at work. Samira struggled to keep her eyes on the faces before her, rather than stray past them to the pitiful rubble, the ruins of what had once been homes clinging to the edge of the narrow valley.

      She swallowed hard. She’d never seen such devastation.

      Yet the women around her in the new community centre were beaming, excited to welcome their queen. They’d turned the building, currently used for emergency accommodation, into an inviting space, like the interior of the vast nomad tents their forebears had used. Rugs lined the floor and walls and sweet treats were proffered on platters.

      Tariq had been right. Her presence today, wearing sumptuous traditional dress rather than the more sombre outfit she’d planned, had been the distraction these women needed. And his insistence that they bring the boys had been a masterstroke.

      Samira smiled and thanked the young girl with huge eyes who offered her tea in a tiny, filigree-edged glass. The girl ate up everything about her from her scarlet silk skirts to her old gold jewellery and henna-stained hands.

      With their backs to the open doors, older women sat beaming, clucking over Adil and Risay as they played with a couple of local toddlers in the safety of the circle of adults. Some women wore traditional finery, silver coins sewn into their scarves, their dresses trimmed with exquisite embroidery, bangles clinking on their arms. Others, whom Samira guessed had been lucky to survive the flash flood that had swept away half the village, wore plainer garments. But even they were smiling.

      Samira sipped the tea, declared it delicious and turned to her nearest neighbour. Conversation was tentative at first, but grew animated as the women lost some of their shyness. Their talk centred on the recent devastation and plans to rebuild.

      Opinion was unanimous that the recovery effort had been wonderful. Why, the royal Sheikh himself had been here the day after it had happened! He’d taken a personal interest in the rebuilding, insisting the plans be developed in consultation with the community.

      The Sheikh was so capable. So wise. So willing to listen.

      So handsome.

      A titter of laughter circled the room and all eyes focused on Samira.

      To her amazement she felt heat wash her cheeks, just as if she were a real bride besotted with her husband.

      She wasn’t besotted. But she was a bride. Ever since the night she’d found the courage to face her fear and her desire for Tariq and gone to him, she’d been swept up in a world of sensual pleasure and breathless anticipation. Life had never felt so...real, so vibrant and exciting.

      Her gaze shifted outside to where Tariq, wearing jeans, boots and a hard hat, clambered with a group of men over rubble beside the scaffolding for a new building.

      Predictably her mouth dried as she took in his towering form. Broad-shouldered, slim-hipped, long-legged, he was so masculine just the sight of him did funny things to her.

      And the memory of the things he did with her in the privacy of their rooms... Her blush intensified, to the delight of the women around her.

      She smiled and shrugged, accepting their gentle ribbing with good grace. Why shouldn’t she? She had it all. The children she’d craved, the husband who respected but didn’t try to dominate her. And sex that could melt her bones, nights of glorious pleasure that left her feeling better than she ever had in her life.

      What more could she want?

      * * *

      Tariq turned, following the gestures of the village elder and project manager as they discussed how the new site for the village was so much safer than the old one. They’d been over this before and his attention strayed to Samira sitting surrounded by women in the newly constructed community centre. Even from this distance he saw the stiff formality of the group had disappeared, replaced by what looked and sounded like a party.

      A grin tugged his mouth as he heard laughter and saw an old woman pick up Adil and croon to him. It would do his sons no harm to get out of the palace and be with his people. Their people. Learning to mix with strangers would stand them in good stead for the future.

      But it was his bride who drew his eyes.

      From the moment she’d emerged in her finery this morning he’d wanted to bundle her back into her bedroom and strip away the gossamer silk that made her shimmer like some enticing gift waiting to be unwrapped. Or maybe it was the knowing glint in those warm, sherry eyes, reminding him of how they’d spent the better part of the night, naked and desperate for each other.

      Even now, with the whole population of the village between them, he felt his blood rush south, his groin tighten as need stirred.

      He found himself striding towards the village centre, the men following.

      There was a stir among the women as they made ready to serve refreshments to the men. He was given the place of honour, the headsman to his right, Samira to his left. He breathed in her sweetness and looked down, registering the slow-fading henna on her hands that marked her as his. Once more Tariq felt a surge of triumphant possessiveness.

      As ever, it sideswiped him. Such intensity, such need, was unprecedented.

      Black guilt hovered as it had after they’d had sex the first time. With it came a frisson of warning, as if someone stroked an icicle down his spine. A sense that with Samira he’d strayed into unknown, dangerous territory.

      Tariq wrenched his mind free before the thought could take hold.

      He had exactly what he wanted. Life was good. So good that for the first time since boyhood he toyed with