So she hadn't imagined it.
She closed her eyes to savor the sight of him in his land's traditional garb. He looked regal in anything, but in this, he looked … whoa. Yeah. Whoa should become a sanctioned adjective to describe the indescribable. Him. The ultimate in mind-blowing virility. Especially adorned in what he was born to wear.
He stood in one of those fluid moves that never ceased to amaze her, considering his size and bulk. Before her eyes could travel up to his, he swept the net surrounding her away and his abaya fell open.
Her gaze snagged on his chest. But for his bandages it was bare, a bronzed expanse of perfection and potency.
This was where she'd sought refuge from jeopardy and exhaustion, the haven that had turned their nightmare into a dream she'd cherish for the rest of her life.
His bandages were now narrower than she'd made them, exposing more of the ebony silk that accentuated each slope and bulge of sheer maleness. If that wasn't bad enough-or good enough-the tantalizing layer arrowed down over an abdomen hewn from living granite, guiding her eyes to where it began to flare … before it disappeared beneath string-tied white pants straight out of Arabian Nights. Those hung low, dangerously so, on those muscled hips, their looseness doing nothing to hide the power, the shape and size of his formidable thighs and manhood.
She couldn't breathe. Her insides contracted with a blow of longing so hard, she moaned with it.
Which was good news. If she could go from zero to one thousand in seconds at the mere sight of him, all her systems were functioning at optimum. "Don't, ya talyeti. I beg you, don't close your eyes again."
She hadn't realized she'd squeezed them shut. His ragged plea and the dipping of the mattress jerked them open and up to his. And she moaned again.
The urgency in his eyes, in his pose, doused the heat spiraling through her. Even though his expression made him look more imposing, intimidating even, and even more arousing … .
Enough. Say something!
She tried. Her throat was sore and as dry as the desert from disuse and the aftereffects of dehydration and exhaustion.
Her voice finally worked in a thready whisper. "I'm a-awake. For r-real."
He loomed over her, his eyes singeing her with the intensity of his examination and skepticism. "You said that before. Too many times. My sanity can't take much more false hope." He looked heavenward, stabbed his fingers through his hair. "What am I saying? If you're still sleep-talking, this won't make you snap out of it."
She struggled to sit up, managing only to turn fully toward him. "I a-am awake this time. I sort o-of remember the false starts. But I'm not only awake, I feel as good as new." His eyes darkened. "No, really. I've self-diagnosed since coming around, and I'm back to normal. I'm just woozy, which is to be expected, and sore from the exercise of my life and lying in bed too long … ."
Her words petered out as she tried to sit up again and took her first look down her body.
She was in a low-cut, sleeveless satin nightdress in dazzling blues and greens and oranges, echoing the exuberance of the room's furnishings.
Heat rose as she imagined him taking her out of her clothes and dressing her in it. Her imaginings scorched her as they veered into vivid, languorous enactment of him taking her out of it again … .
To make it worse, he was coming nearer, his anxiousness to ascertain her claim trapping her breath into suddenly full lungs, making the nightdress feel as if it had come alive, sliding over her nipples, slithering between her legs with knowing, tormenting skims, intensifying the heavy throb within.
She wriggled, trying to relieve her stinging breasts, squeezed her legs together to contain the ache building between them. She looked up at him with eyes barely open with the weight of desire. "Say … h-how long have I been out?"
He snapped a look at his watch, before looking back at her, his eyes losing their bleak look. "Fifty hours, forty-two minutes."
"Whoa!" she exclaimed, her voice regaining power and clarity with each syllable. "But that's a very acceptable time frame to get over a combo of dehydration and sunstroke. Good thing I'm a tough nut, eh?"
Elation dawned in his eyes, intensifying their vividness and beauty. "That you are, along with being an in-evaporable dew droplet. And shokrun lel'lah-thank God into infinity for that."
Her lips managed a tremulous smile. "So what have you been doing while I was sleep-talking?"
His lips quirked, the old devilry she knew and adored reigniting his eyes. "I took care of you, sent envoys out to my brothers, took more care of you. Then, oh, I took care of you."
She slapped his forearm playfully in response to his teasing then patted it in thanks for his effort to paint his grim vigil in lightness. "Did you take care of you at all? Did you get any sleep?"
He gave her a delicious look of mock contrition. "Not intentionally, I assure you."
She now saw the strain and exhaustion traversing his face in lines that hadn't been there even during their worst times. Her heart compressed even as it poured out a surplus of gratitude and admiration. "Oh, Harres, you're such an intractable protector." She caressed his forearm, basking in mixing their smiles. Then she gasped. "What about your wound? Did you get someone to look at it? How is it?"
He gave a perfect impression of a boy mollifying his teacher before he revealed something that would send her screaming. "Uh-I have good news and bad news."
Her eyes flew over him, feverishly assessing his condition. No. Whatever his news was, it couldn't be terrible. Apart from the evident fatigue, he looked fine.
Her heart still quivered in her chest as she said, "Hit me with the bad."
He gave a pseudograve look. "Your sutures were very good."
"Past tense?" she squeaked. "You busted them!"
He nodded, holding his hands up. "Good news is, there's no sign of infection. See?" He moved his left arm up with minimal effort and no apparent discomfort. "What's more, the oasis people retrieved our medical kit, so you can sew me up again."
"You bet I will!" She subsided in relief at the proof that he was okay. Her eyes darted away from him for the first time and took in the whole room. She could see the rest of the place through the open door behind him. "This place is incredible."
"It is a very special place," he agreed. "It was the previous oasis-elder's dwelling. He died two years ago. Elders' houses remain uninhabited, as a tribute to their lives and leadership. It is an honor to be given this place during our stay."
Her smile trembled again. "Only the best for Zohayd's Guardian Prince."
He shook his head, his eyes bathing her in warmth. "It's not that. Any refugees they claimed back from the desert would have been given the same treatment. I also have a relationship with the people here that has nothing to do with me being their prince. I'm not sure they consider the Aal Shalaans their ruling family, or if they do, that they give the fact much significance."
"Why not?"
"The oasis and its people are considered off-limits to the outside world they live independent of. They are … revered by the rest of Zohayd and all the region, almost feared as a mystic nation who will always exist outside others' time and dominion."
She digested this, the feeling of being in another world and time intensifying, validated. "A nation? How many are they?"
"Around thirty thousand. Yet their refusal to join the modern world in any way makes them unique. Uniqueness is power beyond any secured by numbers."
"Not if they lack the modern methods of defending themselves against intruders, it isn't."
His face closed. "There will never be intruders. Not on the Aal Shalaans' watch. Not on mine."
She believed him. Harres the knight whose honor dictated he protect the helpless against the bullies of the world.
Suddenly, she felt she'd suffocate if she didn't feel him against her.
She held out trembling arms. "So, do I get a welcome back to the land of the awake?"
His face clenched with what looked like pain. For a heart-bursting moment, she feared he'd been placating her about his wound. Then his eyes filled with such turmoil, she thought she'd imposed on him.
Just before mortification caused her arms to slump to her sides, he groaned and sank into them.
The enormity of the reprieve, after thinking she'd lost her chance of having him like that, of everything, had her hands quaking as they slid over the breadth of his back, the leashed power of his arms. Her fingers caressed his vitality, his reality, committed every detail of him to tactile memory, felt him being integrated into her perceptions and senses.