Royal Weddings. Annie West

She rubbed her face against his skin, inhaling that delicious scent: essence of Tariq. ‘The way you held me back there...’ Just thinking about it made her inner muscles clench in remembered pleasure. Samira adored it when Tariq’s loving was slow and thorough but hard and fast definitely had a lot to recommend it.

      ‘I like that you’re so eager for me.’ She heard the smile in his voice and imagined his smug grin. No wonder. He’d overturned her ‘no sex’ rule in mere days and now she couldn’t get enough of him.

      It was just sex, of course. Sex and liking. A marriage with benefits.

      Yet his earlier words lingered in her mind, teasing her.

      ‘What did you mean—you’ve always wanted me? Since the day I came to you in Paris?’

      Tariq said nothing. His fingers dragged through her hair, making her head tilt up. From here she saw his solidly hewn jaw and the strong column of his throat as he swallowed.

      ‘Tariq?’

      ‘Since then too. When you came to the hotel in that tight skirt and jacket I wanted to rip them right off you.’ His fingers strayed across to her hip, distracting her as he traced delicate whorls of pleasure on her flesh.

      Samira wriggled and clamped her hand on his, making him stop.

      ‘Since then too? What does that mean?’

      He sighed. ‘You always were tenacious, weren’t you?’

      She’d had to be. If she’d waited for her parents to give her guidance she’d have waited all her life. She’d had to cling to her dreams, forging her career despite the roadblocks: disbelief that a princess actually wanted to learn to sew; prejudice from peers, teachers and the public who thought she wasn’t serious or that she’d pulled strings to get her sought-after training place.

      ‘It’s not a trick question, Tariq. What did you mean?’

      ‘What I said. I’ve always wanted you.’

      The words shimmered in the air, simple yet devastating. Samira blinked, trying to get her head around them.

      ‘Define “always”.’

      ‘You’re not going to let it go, are you?’ He lifted his head and fixed her with a stern eye. She stared back. He might be the Sheikh of Al Sarath but she was his wife. She had a right to know.

      Tariq let his head drop back on the pillow. Beneath her hand his fingers resumed their leisurely exploration of her hip.

      ‘I’ve wanted you for years. Since you were seventeen, to be precise,’ he said at last, effectively stealing her voice. Samira’s heart fluttered.

      ‘I remember coming to Jazeer that winter as usual. My uncle encouraged me to learn as much as possible about our neighbouring states.’ Silently Samira nodded. Tariq’s stern uncle had been his guardian till Tariq had come of age. He’d raised his orphaned nephew along with his own much younger sons. She’d often thought that was why Tariq had been so patient with her. How many boys and young men put up with their best friend’s kid sister following wherever they went?

      But wanting her since she was seventeen? She felt like someone had upended her world, leaving it altered for ever.

      At seventeen Samira had been increasingly aware of Tariq, not just as her brother’s friend but as the sort of man a teenage girl could hang her dreams on: those dreamy eyes; the deep, smooth voice that did strange things to her insides and still did. That tough, lean body.

      Her younger self had been embarrassed and excited by the new daydreams she’d begun to have about him. She’d even wondered if she’d given herself away and that was why he’d left so abruptly, never to return.

      ‘I never suspected,’ she said at last.

      ‘Of course not. That would have been unforgivable. You were my best friend’s sister. And you were far too young. You weren’t meant to know.’

      Samira frowned. ‘Never?’

      What if she’d known years ago that Tariq had been attracted to her? She’d spent long enough mulling over her mistakes to know her infatuation with Jackson Brent had stemmed as much from self-doubt and her need for love, as from his attractiveness and his efforts to charm her.

      Despite her looks, perhaps because of them, Samira had always harboured a fear she was fatally flawed, all show and no substance. Maybe because her parents had never really cared for her, she’d always secretly believed she was unlovable. Hence her reckless leap into a relationship with the first man to sweep her off her feet.

      Knowing that a man she respected, like Tariq, was attracted to her... Could that have changed her attitude and given her a little more confidence?

      Or was that wishful thinking?

      ‘You were untouchable, Samira. It wouldn’t have been right. That’s why I left.’

      Had he really wanted so badly to touch her? There was something in his voice, an echo of regret that resonated deep.

      Samira twisted, lifting her head to look at his face. His forehead was corrugated, his mouth set in a firm line.

      ‘You left because of me?’ A flurry of emotion hit her—regret, dismay and delight.

      Tariq raised one arm, slipping his hand beneath his head. His biceps bulged, a reminder of his latent power. Heat streamed through her all over again. She blinked, distracted by the urgent flutter of response in her belly.

      ‘What else could I do? I felt guilty, lusting after a kid who looked on me as a big brother.’ His tone was hard.

      ‘But you stayed away. You never came back.’

      Tariq shrugged. ‘It was better that way.’

      What he left unsaid was that by the time she’d grown he’d lost interest, for he’d never returned. Instead she’d heard the rumours of his many lovers. Then he’d married Jasmin, whom everyone said was the love of his life. Of course he’d never have come back. Samira must have been a passing fancy. Given his distinction between sex and love, she could only guess he’d lost his heart to his first wife and knew no one could replace her.

      He’d made no secret that first day in Paris that he hadn’t wanted to marry. Because he still loved Jasmin? Samira had assumed so. But now, in Tariq’s bed, the idea tore at something deep inside. Her chest squeezed as an ache filled her.

      Had he married her out of pity?

      Samira bit her lower lip and looked away, subsiding against his chest.

      No. Not pity. The way Tariq touched her didn’t feel at all like pity.

      He wanted her physically. What they shared was simple and mutually satisfying. Now she had a family, a place to belong, real purpose. The boys were bonding with her and hopefully would come to love her. Tariq respected her. Plus there were the benefits of sex.

      Why then did dissatisfaction grate at her? Why the bitterness on her tongue, the edge of disquiet?

      Samira breathed deep, inhaling the musky man aroma she’d come to adore, and forced herself to relax. Automatically Tariq curled his arm around her, drawing her close, his breathing slowing beneath her ear.

      She had everything she wanted, she reminded herself. More, given the glow of wellbeing in her sated body and heavy limbs.

      Yet Tariq had unsettled her. His revelation made her realise she didn’t know him as well as she’d thought. All these years she’d been certain of two people in her life: her brother, Asim, and his best friend, Tariq.

      Now Tariq made her question what she thought she knew.

      First had come the revelation he’d misled her, pretending to accept a paper marriage. Next the revelation she’d never known him as well as she’d thought. All those years ago he’d hidden how he felt from her.

      Had