Bound to the Warrior King

Her heart was thundering so hard that if he spoke, she wouldn’t be able to hear him over the sound echoing in her ears. She felt compelled to close the distance between them. She knew one moment of hesitation, one moment where she thought she might be better off showing restraint. But why? There was no reason to show restraint of any kind. No reason to suppress the buzz of attraction she couldn’t deny she felt for him.

Maybe she felt it only because it had been so long since she’d been with a man. Maybe she felt it only because she was lonely. But maybe, just maybe, the reasons didn’t matter. Her ultimate goal was to marry him after all.

Chemistry was a very powerful reason for marriage, as far as she was concerned.

There would be no harm in testing that chemistry.

She looked at him, tried to assess what he was thinking. Searched for knowledge deep in his eyes about what would come next. She saw nothing. Nothing but an abyss. And yet, like a child drawn to a bottomless well, she kept on moving toward him.

He smelled like clean skin and the soap he had just used, and there was something about the simplicity, the intimacy of that, she found irresistible.

Somewhere in the back of her mind a logical voice was telling her to think through her actions. Was tapping her shoulder and reminding her that, though she had come here with the aim of marrying him, Tarek was a stranger. That she had waited two months to give Marcus so much as one kiss, and waited until she had been given an engagement ring before she shared her body with him.

That she was dangerously close to exposing parts of herself she should hide for her protection. Because she knew what happened when she stepped out of bounds. When she made waves.

She ignored that voice, because while it spoke the truth, it was telling the truth about the girl she had been. Not the woman she had become.

Tarek was a man. Not a boy barely out of university. And she would appeal to him as a woman appealed to a man.

She reached up, brushing her fingertips over his cheekbone, down along the line of his jaw. His skin was smooth now, the sensation intoxicating. She felt him tense beneath her touch, a muscle in his cheek jerking. “It’s very nice,” she said, drawing closer still.

Her heart was thundering hard, her breasts aching, her nipples tight and sensitive. She lifted her other hand, pressing her palm flat against his chest. He was so hot. So hard. She moved her hand slightly, intent on trailing her fingertips down his abs, but she found herself wrenched away from him, stumbling backward.

Those black eyes were fearsome now, his chest, the chest she had just barely touched, heaving with the force of his breath.

“What are you doing, woman?”

And suddenly the thoughts that had been nothing more than a niggle in the back of her mind blanketed her completely, suffocating her. What was she doing? He had given no indication he wanted this. She barely knew the man.

Belatedly, she snatched her hand back against her chest, holding it in tightly. As though contracting in on herself now would make him forget she had ever reached out to him.

Then she wondered why, why she was allowing herself to feel embarrassed. Why she should bother to cover up the impulse. If they were to be married, they would have to come to an agreement on this. She wasn’t going to spend the rest of her life pretending to be a different woman. Pretending to want different things than she did. Truthfully, she was a bit shocked she wanted much of anything with him, considering he was a stranger. But she did. And in many ways, it was fortuitous. Being married to a man she wasn’t attracted to would be a hideous fate.

“I was touching you,” she said, her tone hard. “Is that so shocking?”

“For what purpose?”

She stared at him, hard, trying to work out if he was being disingenuous. “Because I wanted to touch you.”

“Don’t.”

“If we marry, that could be a problem.”

“If we marry, we can deal with it then.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. It’s important that we deal with these sorts of things now.” She swallowed hard. “I expect for this to be a real marriage.”

“It could hardly be a fake marriage.” He turned away from her, stalking back to the center of the room, bending over to pick up his shirt. “It will have to be legal, obviously.”

“Paperwork isn’t all there is to it. You have to interact with the person you marry. You have to coexist together. Sexual chemistry and compatibility are important.”

“If it is important to you, then, should I decide that marriage between the two of us is the most advantageous option, I will ensure your needs are met.”

His words were so dispassionate, so disconnected she couldn’t think of how to respond. This was not the language of seduction as she knew it. This was a one-sided conversation. He spoke as though it didn’t matter to him. In her experience, sex mattered a great deal to men. And also, in her experience, having a similar appetite to one’s husband was extremely advantageous.

“It is important to me,” she pressed, mainly because she was so fascinated by his response. Or rather, his lack of response.

“Then, should we decide on marriage, we will deal with it.”

He shrugged his shirt on and she stood there, blinking. “I don’t... I’m not certain I understand.”

“There is nothing to understand.”

Maybe not for him, but she was confused. Never in her life had a man reacted so neutrally to her touch. Not that she was incredibly experienced. Marcus had been her only lover after all. But she had practiced flirting plenty when she’d been at school, and it had usually gone well. Her first forays into looking for attention from those other than her parents had gone well enough. It had never gone beyond very innocent kissing, but even that had been balm for her parched soul.

This was... It was far too close to that horrible, dead feeling of standing there, begging for more and receiving nothing.

Too close to that moment she’d finally told her parents she needed more than walking past each other on occasion in the halls, more than false conversation over a monthly dinner.

She was not going to think of that now.

“I imagined you would have an opinion on the topic. Men usually do.”

“Men, as a species, are weak. They are fallible creatures who have far too many appetites that demand constant satisfaction. A servant cannot have more than one master. I have learned to live for the service of my country. That means I cannot serve my own appetites, as well. Doing so would make me a weak servant indeed. The fact that I am now sheikh changes nothing. I can desire nothing greater than the desire to serve.”

His words made something inside her curl in on itself. Something she hadn’t realized had been trying to bloom.

What was wrong with her? Why did this matter so much?

Why did it feel so desperately personal to be rejected by a stranger?

Stop being so needy.

“I should arrange for your haircut now.” It was automatic for her to get on with the task at hand. Anything was better than lingering in her discomfort and unexpected pain. “And clothing. You need to address your clothing situation.”

“There is something wrong with my clothing?”

“What did your brother wear to various events? Did he wear traditional Tahari clothing, or did he wear Western-style suits? This is important. I need to figure out how to handle your wardrobe.”

“I can see that if I offer you one sweet you will clamor for the whole bag.”

She smiled widely, trying not to reveal the fact that the potential double entendre in his statement had hit her in a vulnerable place. Yes, it would seem that if all of this was a sexual metaphor, if he gave her one little treat, she would try to devour the whole thing. She cringed internally.

Rejection stung. Always.

“That is what I’m here for,” she said, rather than giving in to saying any of the insecure things that were rolling around in her head.

“It doesn’t matter to me what my brother wore. I would prefer to draw a distinction between him and myself.”