His Defiant Desert Queen(64)
He shifted, and leaned back on the blanket, and drew her on top of him, settling her slim hips between his thighs, so that his arousal pressed thickly against her.
Jemma sighed against his mouth, and he felt her yield to him, her body softening, shaping to his, her lovely full breasts crushed to his chest, her nipples peaked, hard, and he reached around to cup her bottom. She sighed again as he palmed her buttocks, his fingers kneading the smooth muscle. She groaned deep in her throat as he pressed her down against him, rubbing her pelvis against him, feeling her softness cup him. He nearly groaned, too.
She felt so good. He stroked her hips, her rounded bottom, her inner thighs, all while driving his tongue into her, an insistent rhythm that made her writhe helplessly against him, her body trembling in anticipation.
She strained to get even closer, her breath coming faster.
His hands slid up her thighs, until his fingers brushed the fabric of her bikini bottoms. She was hot, wet, and her heat scorched him. He rubbed across her, feeling her softness through the fabric, finding her sensitive spot.
Her eyes widened and she panted. He loved the way she did that...gasp, shudder, pant. She was so beautiful and sensual. He loved that she could forget her inhibitions and lose herself in him. In them.
He caressed her between her thighs again and again, feeling her grow hotter, wetter. She jerked, nerve endings exquisitely sensitized, and flung her head back, her eyes emerald, cheeks flushed. With her dark hair still wet and the halo of sun above them, she looked like a goddess from the sea and he had to have her, now.
He rolled her over onto her back, and tugged her damp bikini bottoms off of her. His thighs parted hers and he sank into the cradle of her hips, nudging her soft folds, eager to be inside her. His tip stroked her smooth, secret places, her creamy heat calling to him, drawing him in.
Mikael entered her with a thrust, slipping deeply inside her tight body.
He loved her the way he knew she liked to be loved—deep, slow, hard—and with his body he tried to say all the things he’d never be able to say in words.
That she mattered too much.
That she was too valuable.
That she deserved so much more than he could give.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
JEMMA LAY IN his arms on the blanket in the sand, resting comfortably, happily. There was no place she’d rather be than here, in his arms, against his chest. “What day is this?” she asked, lifting her chin, to look at him.
“I think I’ve lost count,” he said, smoothing her hair back from her brow.
She lifted a brow. “Really? I don’t believe that for a minute.”
“So what day is it?”
“Day eight. The last day and night of your half of our honeymoon.”
She waited for him to say something. He didn’t.
“Tonight you are still in control,” she added, blushing a little. “But tomorrow I take over. Tomorrow I’m in charge for the next eight days and nights.”
She smiled into his eyes, waiting impatiently for him to say something, something warm and sexy. Something encouraging. Something.
But he didn’t speak. He just looked at her, his dark eyes somber, expression grave.
Her heart did a funny double beat. Nervous and uncomfortable, she chewed the inside of her lower lip. “You’ve gone awfully quiet,” she murmured.
His jaw shifted, his lids dropping, hooding his eyes. “I have been thinking a great deal about tonight.”
“So have I. I think it’s time you let me pleasure you.”
“I don’t think there is going to be a tonight.”
Jemma froze. Blinked.
“There is just...today,” he added quietly.
For a second she couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything at all.
“I married you so you wouldn’t have to remain in Haslam under house arrest for seven years. But the eight days are up. I have fulfilled my responsibility as a groom, and I can now return you to London, without losing face.”
She still couldn’t take it all in. She took his words apart, bit by bit, processing them. Digesting them.
He didn’t want an eighth night. He didn’t want to be married to her. He intended to put her on a plane for London.
She licked her lips, her mouth dry. Parched. “I’m confused,” she whispered.
“I did what needed to be done,” he said carefully, after an endless moment, a moment where the silence cut, wounded.
Jemma slowly pulled away, and then scooted away, and sat up. She crossed her legs, hiding herself. “You never intended to keep me as your wife?”
“It’s not feasible. Nor realistic. My mother wasn’t happy in Saidia. You wouldn’t be happy here, not long term. You’d be better marrying an American or a European man. Someone Western with Western thought processes and beliefs.”