The Sheikh's Sinful Seduction(74)
It had been like Christmas morning—a tradition his mother had insisted upon despite his father’s Muslim faith. Zafir had stood for a long moment admiring the ribbon of her red hair, the polka dots of her freckles, the hidden potential in her slumbering countenance.
Eventually he’d gone in search of something to wear to bed. He went naked under most things whether it was sheets, thobe or tuxedo so a simple pair of boxers was a struggle to locate. Then he’d dozed beside her, too aware of her to fall into a proper sleep, mind turning over possibilities while his body ached to pull her across the desert plain of sheets into the pillar of his own.
She’d been equally restless, getting up several times.
“I’m sorry I keep waking you,” she’d murmured when she’d come back at one point. “Do you want me to sleep somewhere else?”
“No. I could find another bed if I wanted to.” He’d rolled toward her, cursing the expanse of the mattress. “Does your back hurt?” He’d done some reading before settling in.
“No, there’s just no room in this body for anything but baby anymore.” She’d yawned, and added in a drowsy whisper, “I keep getting so confused. I wake up and realize you’re here and think I’m at the oasis so how can I be pregnant? But it’s nice to sleep with you again. I missed you.”
She’d drifted off, leaving him thinking, yes. For all the ache of desire coursing through him, it was very nice to have her beside him. He’d missed her, too.
They’d then had a busy morning of appointments and arrangements. Fern was given a complete physical before an official came in to marry them in a perfunctory ceremony witnessed by his mother and grandfather.
His mother could grouse all she wanted about a proper church wedding, but the one thing his father had got right in Q’Amara’s evolution was tolerance of other faiths. Zafir was often criticized for not limiting or outright censoring online content, but his mixed parentage meant neither of the two dominant faiths in his country felt threatened that he would refute one or the other.
Which is why he’d chosen a civil union rather than favoring one religious blessing over another.
They’d followed it with photographs for the press release and he’d approved his mother’s preliminary guest list for a proper reception in the summer. They’d eaten in the air on the way to Q’Amara before Fern had gone to sleep in his stateroom, leaving him answering emails between fielding conversation attempts by the obstetrics nurse he’d hired to travel with them.
He had timed the release of their marriage announcement so it hit the wires just before they landed. His country’s media stations were barely out of bed and no international paparazzi were among the lenses trying to get a shot of his new wife. Well veiled in the predawn light, she didn’t offer much to scoop for those who’d made it to the airport in time to catch them deplane and travel to the palace.
He ought to sleep now, he knew, before the demand for interviews became too great to ignore and he was tied up for hours.
But sleep was not the reason he wanted to find his bed.
No, after the brief research on his tablet last night, he’d lain awake with a need for confirmation burning a hole in his mind. He’d waited through Fern’s exam with barely controlled impatience, was heartened to hear her pronounced in excellent health and well enough to travel with sensible precautions, and then Dr. Underhill had thankfully been ahead of him.
“And since I expect any groom in your situation would want to know, Zafir, I’ll save you the trouble of asking. Fern, so long as you feel comfortable making love, it should be perfectly safe to do so.”