Royal Weddings: The Sheikh's Princess Bride / The Doctor Takes a Princess / Crown Prince's Chosen Bride

‘Absolutely.’ Her voice was that of a temptress, throaty and low. She speared her hands through his hair, clamping his head as she brought her lips to his. Sweet as wild honey, delicious as ambrosia. That was Samira. He plunged into her mouth, demanding complete submission. Elation filled him at her unstinting response. Yet even that wasn’t enough.

He let one hand trawl high to the soft hair at the apex of her thighs. It was damp and she jerked at the fleeting brush of his hand. He circled back and she tilted her pelvis greedily, inviting.

An instant later, hands bracing her hips, he lifted her bodily, not breaking their kiss, and positioned her over his erection. She sighed against his lips as he drew her slowly down.

Tariq felt his brain fog, every part of him focused on the sensation of slick pressure as Samira bore slowly down on him. Had there ever been a moment like this? So tight, so perfect, so right?

The taste of her in his mouth, her scent filling his nostrils, the feel of her surrounding him... He shuddered, already too close to the brink.

He devoured her with a marauder’s kiss, angling his body higher against hers till she took him all, and ecstasy hovered on the edge of his consciousness.

Samira moaned into his mouth and he swallowed her pleasure, the sound of it rushing through him in fiery trails.

Not yet. Not yet. He wasn’t ready to relinquish this.

But there was no holding back. Already he was lifting her high, supporting her as she finally found the rhythm they both needed. Tariq tilted his hips and stroked deep as she returned to him then rose, riding him harder, drawing him in as far as she could.

Fire flashed and her hands grabbed tighter, her movements growing jerky. His blood sizzled, his skin tingling, every sinew and tendon straining as he felt the first ripple of her pleasure drawing him closer to the edge. The ripples became shudders; the synchronicity of their bodies grew staccato, almost out of rhythm. Samira tugged her mouth away, gasping his name as she shattered around him. He’d never heard anything so beautiful.

With a last, desperate surge Tariq powered up hard, touching heaven and spilling himself in spasms of bliss.

A lifetime later he came back to himself. He held Samira tight in his arms: warm and sumptuous. Her thighs locked around him, her body trembling, each movement teasing him with agonised delight.

Tariq breathed slowly, filling burning lungs. His brain still swam. He felt dazed, as if he’d passed through some mysterious rite of passage.

He frowned, unsettled at the way something at once familiar could feel so extraordinary.

Samira snuggled closer, her breathing muffled in his collarbone, wetness smearing his shoulder.

‘Samira?’ He wouldn’t have known his own voice. It was a hoarse, unfamiliar rasp. ‘Are you crying?’ Dismay rose at the suspicion that glorious, white-hot sex had turned to something else. Something fraught with female emotion.

She shook her head. The movement brushed her breasts against his chest and Tariq sucked in his breath as pleasure stirred anew.

‘It’s just a little overwhelming.’

‘Good overwhelming?’ He found himself soothing her back with gentle, circular strokes.

‘Fantastic overwhelming.’ She sniffed and blinked, her wet eyelashes spiky against him. ‘I’ve never done it like that before.’ Her head tipped up and huge, soft eyes met his. He knew an insane urge to fall into those glowing depths and lose himself for ever. ‘Is that why it was so amazing?’

Tariq felt his eyes widen. She’d never had sex astride a man? It was hardly adventurous 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 (#u17b71c3f-2a6a-58fc-bc34-7d79103d8785)

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.