Sheikh's Royal Baby Revelation. Annie West

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      Trying to ignore her rounded breasts and buttocks. Standing solid, holding her high, his face pressed to her soft belly as she heaved and twisted, trying to force her way through the roof. Feeling the narrowness of her waist, inhaling her female essence, fresh and inviting, despite the overlay of dust and fear.

      Beneath the loose trousers and long-sleeved shirt she was all woman. Firmly toned, supple and fragrantly feminine.

      By the time he lowered her for the last time and sagged against the wall his body shook all over. From reaction to his wounds. From fury at himself for allowing Qadri to get the better of him.

      And from arousal. Flagrant and flaming hot.

      Ashraf told himself it was the adrenaline high—a response to life-or-death danger. Naturally his reactions were heightened. His need to fight his way free. His primal urge was to defy death in the same way generations had done since the dawn of time, by losing himself in the comfort of a warm, willing woman. Spilling his seed in the hope of ensuring survival, if not for himself, then for the next generation.

      ‘Are you all right?’

      She was so close her breath was a puff of warm air against his face.

      ‘I knew it was too much with your wounds. We should have stopped earlier. Are you bleeding again?’

      A gentle hand touched his chest just above his wound.

      ‘Don’t!’ Ashraf grabbed her hand, flattening it against his chest. His eyes snapped wide and he found her staring up at him, clearly concerned. This close, he saw her eyes were pale. Blue? Grey? Maybe amber?

      Realisation slammed into him.

       She feels it too.

      The tug of need. The connection between two people trapped and desperate. The powerful urge to find comfort in the face of impending death. For, even if she wasn’t being executed in the morning, Tori’s fate was dark.

      ‘Don’t fuss. I’m fine.’ He pulled her palm away from his body. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to relinquish her hand.

      Because her touch brought unexpected comfort?

      He was furious with himself for getting captured. Frustrated that, after all that had happened, maybe his life would end tomorrow and his father would have been right. The old man had said he’d never amount to anything. If Ashraf died within the first six months of his reign, with none of his changes cemented in place...

      He released Tori and turned from her searching stare.

      ‘I’m not fussing.’

      She drew herself up so her head topped his chin. Her little sound of frustration reminded him of his favourite falcon, fluffing up her feathers in huffy disapproval when he didn’t immediately release her for flight.

      ‘I apologise.’ He paused, surprised as the unfamiliar words escaped. ‘I’m not bleeding again.’ Hopefully. ‘It was kind of you to be concerned.’

      ‘Kind?’ She choked on the word and it hit Ashraf that she was fighting back tears.

      For him? No, she couldn’t know that he faced death tomorrow. It was a reaction to her kidnap. She’d been courageous—more courageous than most men he knew—projecting a calm façade, persevering in trying to find a way out when many would have given up.

      ‘Thoughtful,’ he amended.

      She shook her head and silvery hair flared out from her ponytail. Ashraf’s hands curled tight. He knew an urgent desire to see that shimmering hair loose, so he could tunnel his fingers through it.

      Temptation was a cruel thing. He couldn’t take what he wanted. Or ask for it. Not from this proud woman who still fought panic.

      ‘You’d better get some rest,’ he murmured, his voice gruff as he ruthlessly harnessed his baser, selfish instincts. ‘That’s what I intend to do.’

      Ashraf lowered himself to the floor. He felt every muscle, every movement. His wrist had rubbed raw against the manacle and there seemed little hope of escape.

      Yet despite the pain he felt a sense of exultation. He was still alive. He had no intention of meekly submitting to execution for Qadri’s pleasure.

      Ashraf had spent his life fighting for his place, proving himself, ignoring the jibes. Showing his father that his disdain meant nothing. Thumbing his nose at him by building a public profile as a pleasure-seeking playboy, delighting in scandals that he knew would rock the old man.

      Now he was back in Za’daq and everything had changed. Especially given his brother’s recent sacrifice. Ashraf’s belly contracted at the thought of Karim.

      ‘I’d feel better if you’d let me examine your wounds.’

      Tori knelt beside him. So close he barely had to move to touch her face, her rounded breast. Too close for a man so severely tempted.

      ‘There’s nothing you can do in this light. Unless you have a torch and a first aid kit hidden somewhere?’

      She pursed her lips and looked away, that silvery mane sliding over one shoulder.

      Instantly he regretted his harsh response. He felt ashamed. It wasn’t concern for Karim that had made him snap, but his visceral sexual response to her. He wanted things he shouldn’t.

      ‘I’m sorry.’ It was the second time he’d apologised. ‘That was uncalled-for. You’re right, there’s some pain, but it’s not as bad as it looks.’ What were bruises and cuts in comparison to what tomorrow held for him? ‘But there’s something you could do.’

      ‘What’s that?’

      ‘Rest. We need to conserve our strength.’ He stretched out, stifling a groan as abused muscles throbbed.

      After a long silence she finally followed his example, lying down nearby.

      Ashraf didn’t sleep. Instead he focused on tomorrow, wondering if his security detail would find him before it was too late. Wondering if Basim was alive.

      Finally a tiny sound caught his attention. Were Tori’s teeth chattering? The desert night had turned chill.

      ‘Come here, Tori. We’ll be warmer together.’

      She lifted her head. ‘But your injuries...’

      He reached out his untethered arm. ‘Snuggle against this side.’

      When she did Ashraf bit his tongue against a sigh of satisfaction.

      ‘Put your head on my shoulder.’ She complied and he felt the gentle whisper of her breath through his torn shirt. Soft curves cushioned his side, silky strands of hair tickled his neck and her hand rested warm at his waist.

      Ashraf lifted his hand to stroke her hair. It was silken. Like the softest cushions in the royal harem, spun in the days when the Sheikhs of Za’daq had had a bevy of concubines devoted to their pleasure.

      Pressed СКАЧАТЬ