The Royal Collection. Rebecca Winters

      She blushed. Somehow he had made her blush. He found that near as heady a rush as making her climax had been. “You’re a good study.”

      “I am a thorough man. In all things.” He swallowed, looking down at her body. “And you are far too precious for me to approach this with no skill. With no control.”

      “I had no complaints about your skill.”

      “Perhaps I have been too honest.”

      “No.” She pressed her hands against his chest, bracing herself against him. “I’m glad you were honest.”

      She looked up at him, then focused in on his torso, pressing a kiss there. He closed his eyes, doing his best to maintain his hold on his control. What control he had. Dimly, he thought back to his earlier realization that allowing her to have his control here, in this place, might make him stronger outside of it.

      She angled her head, kissing him lower, and he reached back and grabbed hold of her hair, working his fingers through the soft blond strands. She wrapped her fingers tightly around the base of his shaft, squeezing him as she curved her lips around the head.

      He tightened his grip on her, flexing his hips toward her. She widened her mouth, taking him in deeper. White light exploded behind his eyes and he gritted his teeth hard to keep himself from reaching his release then and there. He had never conceived of such pleasure. Never imagined the intensity that might come from wrapping something other than his own fist around his body. Certainly, there had been times when he hadn’t been able to transcend the ache, that knot deep in his gut late at night. Then he had dealt with it quickly, as efficiently as possible. But this wasn’t about efficiency. This wasn’t about simply satisfying the ache. This was about relishing it. Enjoying every pass of her tongue along his length, every sweet jolt of pleasure wrapped up in pain.

      He recalled then the pain he had experienced at the hand of his brother. Pain designed to break him.

      He looked down at the soft, beautiful woman pleasuring him with her mouth, subjecting him to a new kind of torture. He was as out of control now as he had been then. At the mercy of his captor. But he had never had such a beautiful captor.

      Her gentle hands on the most male part of him were more powerful than any whip brought across his skin had ever been. He had a feeling she could turn the tide inside him with a flick of her wrist. Or rather, a skilled turn of her tongue.

      She took him in deeper, and he could think no more. There was nothing, nothing but a blessed blankness, carrying him through the darkness on a wave of sensation. He had, at points in his life, been filled so full of pain he had been afraid it would burst forth from him in an endless torrent. That it was too much for his physical being to contain. A knife plunging into his skin, deeper and deeper, until he was certain it would hit something vital and end him forever.

      Now it felt as if the blade had turned. And it was still too much. Still too deep. But it was pleasure he was drowning in rather than pain.

      He gritted his teeth, so near the edge he wasn’t certain how long he could hold himself back from going over. But the idea of finishing like this horrified him. He couldn’t subject her to that. Her lips were on him. Surely that was not acceptable. Even he with his limited experience knew that.

      He tightened his hold on her hair, tugging her backward. “Enough,” he said, “I cannot endure any more.”

      “Good,” she said. “I want you inside me.”

      Her words made his stomach pitch. “I’m not sure I can withstand it.” His voice was rough, his words honest.

      “We can only try,” she said. Smooth, perfect Olivia. As always. She never seemed ruffled. Never seemed at sea.

      He felt certain that he must make it a goal to see her as lost and desperate as he was.

      He growled, pressing her back into the mattress, gripping her wrists and holding them above her head. Much like the voluntary position she had assumed earlier. He parted her legs roughly with his own, settling between her thighs. “I will do more than try,” he said.

      He might be a virgin, but he was also a warrior. Was a man who led troops into battle. Toward death, and yet ensuring they never in fact met that darkest of demons.

      Surely if he could march into a line of enemy soldiers, he could breach a woman’s body.

      He kissed her neck, because she looked delicious and he wanted to, and she arched against him, her breasts pressing firmly into his chest, her hips tilting upward. The head of his arousal met against her slick entrance. Yet again it was as though a blade had twisted inside him, a new brand of pleasure and pain bursting through him.

      He wanted nothing more than to sink into her. The promise of all that heat, so sweet and slick, sheathing his body, pushed him to the brink.

      “Say you want this,” he ground out, his lips still pressed against her neck.

      “Yes. Tarek. I want this. Please.” She lifted her hips off the bed, pressing herself more firmly against him.

      And he couldn’t hold back any longer.

      He pressed against the opening to her body and entered her slowly, gritting his teeth as she surrounded him. Inch by excruciating inch.

      He trembled, burying his face in her neck as he tried to hold back the orgasm that was threatening to end this before it even began.

      He thought back to his long years in the desert. Barren, dry years that stretched before him as far as he could see. Blank, pale sand meeting a washed-out sky.

      He thought of all the years he’d been without touch. Without anyone to speak to. Anyone to hold him.

      He was here now. And so was she. And he would be damned to hell if he let it end now.

      This was his due. For every slash in his skin made by a blade. For every lash of the whip. Every moment he’d gone without food or water. So much deprivation. And here he was submerged in sensation. In her.

      Now, for the first time, he would maintain control, not for the sake of anyone else. But for himself. Only for himself.

      He lifted his head, looked down at her. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted, cheeks flushed. He lifted his hand, traced her lower lip with his thumb. Could feel his body respond, pulsing deep inside hers.

      He kissed her mouth, relishing her flavor, relishing the moment.

      And then his control slipped its leash. He couldn’t stay still any longer. He withdrew, before thrusting back in deep. Repeating the motion when she moaned, the sound spurring him on.

      She wrapped her legs around his hips, arching against him, urging him on. She whispered in his ear. Pleas, cries. All in English. His brain lost the ability to translate, her words losing their meaning as he moved with her.

      She met his every thrust, pressing hard against him when he was sheathed fully within her. She shook in his arms, coming apart completely, her internal muscles tightening down hard on him as she gave herself over to her release.

      And then he let go. And he was falling over the edge.

      Blood roared through his ears, howling like a beast as he lost himself in his climax. In her. Olivia.

      He opened his eyes, cupped her face, met her gaze. Her eyes were wide, shocked. Until she closed them. Looked away.

      “Olivia,” he said, his voice rough. Unrecognizable.

      She shifted beneath him, a small squeak escaping her lips. “Could I just...?”

      “Sorry.” He rolled to the side, allowing her space. She sat up, drawing her knees to her chest, and he stayed where he was. On his side, his head propped up by his hand.

      He gazed at the lines, the curves of her body. He couldn’t stop staring. She was beautiful. The most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Just looking at her was like water on parched earth. Healing. Reaching deep, untouched