The Desert King's Virgin Bride

‘So, did you achieve your aim, Sorrel?’ he questioned unsteadily.

What riddle was this he was testing her with? Sorrel wondered. But she wanted to do something—anything—to remove that obdurate look of anger from his face, and so she played along.

‘What aim?’ she questioned back.

The slam of his heart increased. ‘Did you dress like a…tramp in order to lose your virginity to the first man who would take you?’

Lose her virginity? Sorrel swayed. Only this time it had nothing to do with the wine but with sheer, disbelieving anguish that Malik could utter such damning words of criticism against her and look at her with such contempt.

Fiercely, she bit her lip, and the self-inflicted pain brought her up sharply—what right did he have to chastise her in such a way? He had been her guardian, yes, and a remarkably good one for many years. But the years had now passed and his little bird had flown the nest—and she would not be insulted like that for behaving just as any other young woman of the same age would do.

‘I am not dressed like a tramp!’ she defended.

‘Really? That is a matter of opinion.’ He saw the way her breasts jiggled when she moved—like some damned belly dancer! Controlling his angry breathing only with a monumental effort, he flicked her a disdainful look. ‘And you haven’t answered my question!’