In Defiance of Duty. Caitlin Crews

she echoed, feeling the pull of that hard face, those unholy eyes. She wanted to move closer to that wicked mouth of his. She wanted it more than was wise. More than she should, out in public like this, where anyone could see. For a moment she forgot the game—herself—entirely.

      “If I want it,” he said quietly, so quietly, but she felt it flood into her as if he’d shouted it, as if he’d licked it into her skin, “I take it.”

      Kiara felt that hum in her, electric and something like overwhelming. For a moment she could only stare back at him, caught in that knowing gaze of his, as surely as if he’d caged her somehow. Trapped her as surely as if he’d used manacles and heavy iron bars. She shouldn’t feel that like a thrill, twisting through her, but she did.

      “Then I suppose I should count myself lucky that we are not in your country,” she said after a moment, not sure until she spoke that she would be able to at all. She was surprised that her voice sounded so steady. Almost tart. “This is Australia. I’m afraid we’re quite civilized.”

      “All of you in your new, young countries are the same,” he said in that low tone, his voice its own dark spell, weaving its way over her, inside of her, as inexorable as the setting sun. “So brash, forever carrying on about your purported civility. But you are all so close, still, to your disreputable pasts, aren’t you? All of it welling up from beneath, making a lie of these carefully cultivated facades.”

      Kiara realized two things simultaneously. One, that she could listen to him talk forever—about countries, about pasts, about whatever he liked. That voice of his triggered something deep inside her, something helpless and wanton, that made her breathless and so wrapped up in him that the world could fall to pieces around her and she wouldn’t notice. Or, as now, the sun could disappear entirely beneath the horizon without her registering it, ushering in the inky sweetness of the Sydney night, and she would still see nothing but him.

      And two, and more important, that she would die if she didn’t touch him. Now.

      “As fascinating as your thoughts on young countries and disreputable pasts may be,” she said then, keeping her voice a low murmur, her eyes hot on his, “I think that I’d rather dispense with all this meaningless chatter and just get naked. What do you think?”

      He smiled again, and she felt it shiver through her and curl her toes. He reached over and took her hand in his, carrying it to his mouth. It was the faintest hint of a kiss, a timeless gesture of chivalry for the benefit of the people all around them, but she felt it like a hard kick. Like a promise.

      “There is nothing I would rather do,” he said, that gleam of amusement in his eyes turning them something near silver. “But I’m afraid I’m meeting my wife for dinner. I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

      “I’m sure she’ll understand.” Kiara played with his strong fingers in hers. “Who would want to stand in the way of acrobatic, inventive sex, after all?”

      “She’s terribly jealous.” He shook his head almost sadly. “It’s like a sickness—ouch.” His gaze turned baleful, and a silver heat gleamed there, while something almost too warm to bear echoed in a kind of sizzle low in Kiara’s belly. “Did you just bite me?”

      “Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it.” It was a dare.

      He let go of her hand, but shifted closer, reaching over to pull gently on the end of her ponytail, tilting her head up slightly to meet his searing gaze.

      “Perhaps I can risk my wife’s jealous rages after all,” he said musingly. He moved still closer, until their faces were a mere breath apart, his delectable mouth just there, just out of reach.

      Her breath came out ragged, then, as if she’d broken into a run. She felt as if she had. His smile licked over her, into her.

      “You look as if you can take it,” Kiara agreed, and then she closed the distance between them and kissed him.

      His wife, Sheikh Azrin bin Zayed Al Din, Crown Prince of Khatan, reflected with no little amusement, was endlessly delightful to him.

      Her lips were soft and sweet against his, hinting at the passion that neither of them could succumb to out in the public eye like this. It was as frustrating as it was delicious. He wanted more than this hint of her, after two weeks apart. He wanted to taste her—take her—with a ferocity that might have surprised him, five years after marrying her, had he not been well used to this relentless thirst for her.

      A thirst he could not indulge. Not here. Not now.

      He pulled away, controlling himself with the ruthlessness that was second nature to him, particularly where his wife was concerned, and smiled again at the dazed look she wore, as if she had forgotten where they were. Azrin could look at her forever. Her pretty oval face with its delicate nose and brows, and her wide, decadent mouth that had been the first thing he’d noticed about her. Her hair was a mix of browns and golds, tumbling down past her shoulders in light waves unless, like tonight, she’d opted to put the heavy weight of it up in one of her sleek, deceptively casual styles. She looked taller than she was, her body firm and toned from her years of athletics and hard work, and she tended to dress conservatively as suited her position, yet with a quiet little flair that was hers alone.

      That deep current of wickedness was all for him.

      “If you had spoken to me like that when we met,” he said lazily, taunting her, “I doubt I would ever have pursued you at all. So disrespectful and challenging.”

      She rolled her eyes, as he’d known she would. “I did speak to you like that,” she replied. Her generous mouth widened into a smile. “You loved it.”

      “So I did.”

      He got to his feet then and took her hand to help her rise. She held on for a moment too long, as if she wanted to cling to even that much contact. He felt the kick of it, of her, deep inside of him. He craved her. He wanted to lick his way over every inch of her skin, relearning her as if the two weeks he’d been without her might have changed her. He wanted to find out for himself. With his mouth, his hands.

      She curved into his side as they began to walk back along the concourse toward Sydney’s impressive, glittering array of skyscrapers, and the penthouse he kept there that was as much a primary residence as anything could be for two people who traveled as much as they did. He slid his arm around her slender shoulders and contented himself as best he could with a light kiss on the top of her head that barely reached his chin. Her hair smelled of sunshine and flowers, and he could not touch her the way he wanted to.

      Not here. Not now. Not yet, he thought.

      No unrestrained public displays of affection for the Crown Prince of Khatan and his non-Khatanian, scandalous-merely-by-virtue-of-her-foreign-birth princess. Well did Azrin know the rules. The public—particularly in his country—might fight for any possible glimpse of what they called his modern Cinderella romance, but that didn’t mean they wanted to see anything that wouldn’t have suited the family-friendly film of the same name.

      There could be nothing that suggested that Azrin was compromised in any way by what many in his country took to be the lax moral code of anyone not from their own part of the world. There could certainly be no hint that the passion between Azrin and his princess was still so intense, so all-encompassing, that some days they did not even get out of bed, even after all this time. He was hoping that this night might lead directly into one of those lost days, even though he knew there was so much to do now, so many details to take care of and so little time to do it all in…

      He should tell her now. Immediately. He knew that he should—that there was no real excuse for waiting. There was only his curious inability to speak up as he should. There was only that part of him that didn’t want to accept this was happening.

      He wanted this one night, that was all. This last, perfect night of the life they’d both enjoyed so much for so long that had let him pretend he was someone else. What was one night more?

      “I