THE TRUE KING OF DAHAAR(30)

                Every inch of her came alive at the delicious pressure in all the right places. His breathing sounded harsh, too, every hard muscle that pressed into her tight with tension.

                She righted his trousers, her fingers deceptively steady, as if she did this every day, as if she hadn’t pulled them through an emotional firestorm goaded by a fiercely selfish desire. “Did the bullet shatter the bone?”

                He sighed, as though accepting that she wasn’t going to back off, and she wrapped her arms around his waist. “No. It hit the bone and dropped momentum somehow. From what I gathered from them, the Mijab were able to quickly extricate it. They took me to a hospital at the border of Zuran. A small metal joint was inserted to hold the bone together until it could grow back.”

                “They left it inside,” she said, finally understanding the source of his pain. “That’s why it gets so stiff, why it hurts so much.”

                He nodded and his hands pulled her hands away from his hip. “Are we through?”

                Nikhat straightened and looked away. “Here, yes. We will start stretching immediately.”

                She halted at the exit, her skin gleaming with vitality, her eyes blazing with piercing honesty. The fabric of her caftan stuck to her body and with her hair curling around her face, she was the most striking woman he had ever seen, and a sharp hunger, unbidden and unwelcome, yet one that made him feel fiercely alive, clawed at Azeez.

                All he would have to do was close his eyes to feel the feathering touch of her fingers over his flesh, hear the sinuous whisper of her breath over his skin.

                “You can’t imagine what Khaleef and the others see,” Nikhat said. “They see the prince who always had a kind word for them, they see the prince who remembers their name without hesitation, they see the prince whom they mourned with tears and their hearts—they do not see your limp or your scars or your guilt. And what you see is not their pity, Azeez, but their love.

                “I would give anything to see my mother one more time. Think about what you’re doing to yours.”

                * * *

                His hip muscles sore, but also surprisingly limber, Azeez slid himself onto the bench in his private garden.

                He had expected Nikhat to decline his invitation.

                Was she as curious about him as he was about her?

                The silverware tinkled as she poured him mint tea. Sitting here, as the sun streaked the sky gold and red, surrounded by lush roses, the scent of Nikhat, jasmine and something undeniably her, shouldn’t have registered at all on him. Yet, as she handed him the tea and took a sweet date cake for herself, the scent of her wafted over him, teasing arousal from his beaten body.

                The sensation was fierce, sharp, after so many years of feeling nothing.

                He took a sip of tea and grimaced. His hip was throbbing, the muscles in his thighs and arms shaking from the strenuous stretching after four months of inactivity. “I need something stronger than this.”

                “No alcohol, Azeez. Not as long as you want my help.”

                He frowned, and yet was unable to stop smiling at the relish with which she said it. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

                “Yes. How many women can claim Azeez Al Sharif bows to her every command?”

                “None.”