The Last Prince of Dahaar(57)
CHAPTER TEN
ZOHRA WOKE SLOWLY, her eyes adjusting to the soft light of the unfamiliar tent. Her limbs felt too heavy to move, as if they were filled with molten honey. Blinking, she pushed her hair out of her eyes and realized it was still damp from the bath Ayaan had ordered for her.
Solar-powered lamps illuminated a tent that was just as luxurious as hers but much larger. Frowning, she moved to get off the high bed and gasped, feeling an echo of pain in her shoulder. She rubbed it just as Ayaan materialized on the side of the bed.
His hair was damp, and he wore nothing but sweatpants. With a sprinkling of chest hair, the lean muscles of his torso beckoned her touch. She fisted her fingers in the sheets.
Just the sight of him in touching distance, in the same bed, weaved an intimacy that tugged at her. His words as he threw her on his bed came pounding back and a tingle swept down her body.
She remembered the maids coming in and pouring hot water into the claw-foot tub. And undressing her and giving her a massage despite Zohra’s objections.
The prince’s orders, one of them had whispered with a smile.
“Please tell me I did not faint,” she said, inwardly cursing herself. She wanted to add nothing more to the burden of guilt he already carried.
“I think you like falling asleep in bathtubs, ya habibati,” he whispered and she breathed in relief.
He sat in front of her, his face close to hers. And Zohra had to remind herself to keep breathing. His fingers found the sore spot on her shoulder. “Here?”
She nodded, the rough texture of his tone a velvet caress. His fingers moved with long, lingering strokes, reducing her body to a mass of sensation. The tang of his skin burrowed into her blood. More than physical hunger uncoiling inside.
She touched his chest, felt the shift of hard muscles under her seeking fingers, pulled herself forward until she was surrounded by the fortress of his lean body. With a sigh, she wrapped her hands around him, everything in her bracing for his rejection.
Instead, his arms came around her and he held her tight. Her throat locked down, and Zohra squeezed her eyes shut. It lasted only an infinitesimal moment but his embrace encompassed everything he was.
His fingers crawled up her nape, into her hair. She felt the press of his mouth at her temple, the whoosh of his breath over her skin. Swallowing her moan, she hid her face in his shoulder.
“You smell divine, latifa.”
She had no control over the next thing she did. She opened her mouth and licked his skin. Warmth billowed in her lower belly and pooled between her legs. He tasted of sweat and salt, like a hunger she had never known before.
A tremor racked his lean frame, the race of his heart a loud boom in her ears. “I want to be inside you so much that it is a physical ache...” The naked want in his tone rolled over her skin. She tilted forward and laced her fingers at his nape. “But, Ya Allah, Zohra, after everything you have seen, you still want this?” He buried his head in the crook of her shoulder. His mouth was hot and wet against her skin, branding her, his touch possessive, even as he struggled with himself, with honor that was his very blood. “Because if I touch you, I have no will left anymore to stop.”
Her stomach dived even at the thought that he might leave.
The image of him with his head in his hands, his features wreathed in pure anguish—it should have sent her running. Instead, for the first time, she felt the weight of the duty he shouldered with pride and grace, understood the honor he found in giving it his all, the struggle he took on every day without a complaint.