Guarding the Princess(61)

And it scared him.

Brandt chose to embrace this. In the dark night, with Dalilah soft in his arms, his finger on her ring, he promised himself he wouldn’t stop caring, and he’d see her through. Saving her would save him.

This conscious decision, this sudden sharp conviction, cracked something free in Brandt’s heart. He felt the night breeze on his face, and his muscles relaxed.

For the first time in ten years—and more—Brandt was finally seeking a way to mend, to heal. He was ready to face the pain of his past head-on, instead of seeking relief in the bottom of that damn bottle.

* * *

Brandt checked his watch—4:00 a.m. He eased out of the sleeping bag and stoked the fire, flames warm against his naked body. Making sure his gun, panga and knife were all within reach, he eased back into the sleeping bag and zipped himself in. She turned around, murmuring as he embraced her.

High above in the indigo vault of sky, stars moved. Dew began to settle and temperatures dropped a little further. But in his arms Dalilah was warm. Brandt eased himself into a new position, not wanting to wake her, and he closed his eyes, allowing himself to drift down to a light level of rest, something for which he’d been trained, a state where he’d remain conscious of ambient sound, movement. He’d wake in an instant should anything shift in the atmosphere, even in the most subtle way.

* * *

Brandt woke sharply, pulse quickening, senses acute. He listened to the night, trying to discern what had changed. He realized it was a difference in the rhythm of Dalilah’s breathing. Fear laced through him. He looked at her face. She was flushed and she moaned softly.

Brandt checked her pulse. It had quickened. She moaned again, suddenly stirring restlessly in his arms. Then with a sharp start he felt the tightness of aroused nipples against his chest. She murmured again, moving her hips. His heart began to slam so hard he thought it would burst out of his chest. She arched her lower back, pressing her pelvis against his naked groin, as she hooked her leg over his. The warm rock between her thighs slid to the side.

Brandt lay dead still. But she moved again, her shirt opening, the other rocks sliding out from the crooks of her arms. He felt the sharp angles of the jewel in her navel pressing against his abdomen.

Sweet heaven, he couldn’t breathe. She rubbed her pelvis against his, her leg caressing his, and he felt her pulse fluttering fast as her breathing quickened. She was coming on to him in her sleep, dreaming of sex.

His vision narrowed. His groin heated, his body hardening, quivering with need.

Her arm draped over his bare torso, and she stirred again, edging even closer. Brandt glared at the stars, willing himself to hold still. It was just a dream.

Her leg moved higher, the inside of her thigh chafing him to the sharp, painful exquisite peak of arousal. His erection began to throb. Brandt tried to breathe—he should get out of the bag, now. While he still could.

Yet he couldn’t. His need was growing so fierce, Brandt feared that if he moved so much as a millimeter in any direction right now, he might just come.

Her hand, soft, warm, moved up his waist, and she murmured words in Arabic—smooth, guttural, impossibly seductive. He groaned. She’d stop any minute, he told himself. Just hold on for another minute.

But she turned her face to his and pressed her lips against his mouth. She began to kiss him, suddenly aggressive, hungry, predatory. And Brandt snapped. He yanked her hard against his body, kissing her back, sliding his tongue into her mouth as he moved his hand down her body, cupping her buttocks.

Dalilah groaned, moving her leg higher. Brandt was blind now, incapable of thought, conscious only of delirious sexual contact. Her tongue twisted with his and he moved his hand around, slipping it into the front of her pants, cupping her groin.

She made a soft noise, opening her legs as his fingers met smooth, damp, hot flesh. She widened access, her body going hot, her pelvis suddenly thrusting. Brandt slid his finger up inside her and his vision swirled into a kaleidoscope of scarlet and red. She was tight—impossibly tight. It made him wild. He slipped another finger inside.

She went dead still.

Her eyes flared open.

Breathing fast, she stared at him, eyes widening in what looked like sheer horror. Brandt pulled back.

“Oh, no,” she whispered. Then she exploded up from the sleeping bag, frantically trying to free herself from its confines. “Oh, no, no, no!”

Confusion raced through Brandt. “Dalilah?”

She scrambled to pull her shirt closed over her chest, to get out of the sleeping bag, panic in her features, her hair a wild tangle.

“Dalilah, stop! Wait.” She must be delirious, he thought, not thinking right. He placed his hand firmly on her shoulders. “Steady. Stay in the bag, stay warm, wait while I stoke up the fire, make you some tea.”