Читать книгу Royal and Ruthless: Innocent Mistress, Royal Wife / Prince of Scandal / Weight of the Crown - Annie West, Robyn Donald - Страница 13

CHAPTER EIGHT

LEXIE swallowed again, her throat closing. He was talking about dancing, not making love. He didn’t even know she was a virgin, and she had no intention of telling him.

In a voice she barely recognized, she said, ‘Unfortunately, I don’t think I’ll be here long enough to learn—to dance, that is.’

‘You’re very graceful, so I’m sure you have a natural aptitude,’ he said, his smile cool and subtly mocking.

‘I don’t know about that.’ This banter with its tantalising undercurrents was new to her. Nervously she glanced away, eyes widening as she saw that the table had been set with trays of small delicacies and what was clearly a bottle of champagne.

‘I thought we should toast your stay on Moraze,’ Rafiq told her. ‘I noticed that you didn’t drink anything stronger than fruit punch at the party, but I’m hoping to tempt you with some champagne.’

Lexie knew she should refuse. In this magical glimmer of moonlit enchantment, any sensible woman would make sure her brain was in full control.

But then a sensible woman would have seen danger in the prospect of an evening with Rafiq, and would have pretended a fragility she didn’t feel. And once at the party, no sensible woman would have allowed herself to be carried away by the erotic rhythms and hypnotic drumbeats of the dancing, the whirl of colour and the open sensuousness.

And even a halfway-sensible woman would have avoided any sort of post-party drinks, and said a briskly cheerful goodnight at the door of her room before shutting said door firmly on him.

All right, so she wasn’t sensible. She certainly wasn’t going to walk back to the arid, lonely refuge of her bedroom.

To the crackle and heat of bridges burning behind her, she said, ‘I’m easily tempted,’ adding hastily when she realised what she’d implied, ‘To champagne.’

Colour burned across her cheekbones and she fought back embarrassment, holding her head high and her smile steady.

One black brow lifted to shattering effect. Without saying anything, Rafiq turned to ease the top off the bottle. Instead of a pop it emitted a soft sigh—of satisfaction?

Don’t even think about satisfaction! Small sips, Lexie promised herself as he poured the sparkling wine into long, elegant flutes. She’d take tiny little sips, at long, long intervals…

And when she got back to real life she’d remember this evening—this whole stay on Moraze—without regret. Instead she’d feel gratitude that the man who summoned those reckless, dangerous impulses from her was a man of honour and integrity.

‘So,’ Rafiq said calmly, handing her a glass, ‘We drink to your continued good health.’

After one tiny, wholesome sip, she said, ‘Oh, that’s superb wine.’

‘It is French, of course. Moraze produces some excellent table wines, but for champagne we rely on France.’ He set his glass down. ‘I’m glad you like it.’

Lexie made the first comment that came into her head. ‘New Zealand makes good wines too.’

‘Indeed it does. I have drunk a very supple, subtle Pinot Noir from the south of the South Island, and some extremely good reds from an island off the coast of Auckland.’

‘Waiheke. It has its own special microclimate.’

Her innocuous words were followed by silence, far too heavy with unspoken thoughts, unbidden desire.

Desperately Lexie broke it. ‘I’m no connoisseur, but I do like the wines made in Marlborough from Sauvignon Blanc grapes. In the north of the North Island, where I live, wine growers are also trying out unusual varieties of grapes to see which cope best with the humidity and the warmth.’

Oh, brilliant, she thought in despair. Talk about banal!

‘Shall we stop fencing?’ Rafiq suggested, his amused tone laced with another emotion, one that sent shivers of excited recognition through her.

‘I wasn’t aware we were,’ she lied, hoping she sounded crisp and fully in control.

He held out his hand for her glass, and when after a moment’s hesitation she handed it over, he set it beside his own on the low table. The moonlight glimmered on his white shirt, lovingly enhancing the breadth of his shoulders, the narrow waist and hips, the arrogant angles and planes of his features. Whenever she’d ridden a roller coaster she’d felt like this: both exhilarated and terrified.

‘Of course we were,’ he said, straightening up to smile at her. ‘We are like swordsmen, you and I, continually duelling for advantage. But it is time to bring an end to it.’

Once again her stomach did that flip thing. A hot rush of sensation drove away memories and common sense. When he looked at her like that she was aware of nothing but the drumming of her heart in her ears, and the relentless heat of desire building like a storm through her. Honey-sweet, potent as the strongest rum, powerful and frightening, it shook her to the core.

Eyes dilating endlessly, she watched his smile harden, and her breath locked in her throat at the slow slide of his hands up her arms.

‘Your skin is finer by far than the silk you’re wearing. For this whole interminable evening I have been wanting to touch it,’ he said in a low, harsh voice, and bent his head to kiss the place his fingers had caressed.

Sharp as joy, acute as pain, pleasure shot through her at the touch of his mouth. When he slid his hands across her back and pulled her against him, she sighed his name and met his seeking, demanding kiss with open passion.

It ended too soon. He lifted his head and looked at her, green eyes glittering, and in a tone that was almost angry said, ‘That is the first time you’ve allowed yourself to say that.’

Somehow the simple act of pronouncing the two syllables that made up his name was almost more intimate than the kisses they’d exchanged. ‘You’ve never told me I could,’ she said huskily.

A smile curved his sculpted mouth. ‘I didn’t know New Zealanders held to such strict rules of etiquette. In fact, I believed the publicity—that you are a laid back, ultra-casual lot.’

But her mother had not been a New Zealander, she’d been Illyrian, and she’d brought up her daughters to be more formal than their friends.

Rafiq went on, ‘We’ve kissed—that gives you the right to call me whatever you want.’ And he kissed her again, this time lightly. ‘And me the right to call you sweet Lexie—no?’

Sweet? Was he indicating that he knew she was a virgin, and that it was all right? Forcing a smile, she said, ‘I don’t think I’m sweet. Practical, perhaps…’

But a practical woman wouldn’t be like this, locked in his arms, her body rejoicing at the hardness of his, her heart pounding so heavily he must feel it.

‘Do you feel practical right now?’ His voice was low and tender.

She closed her eyes against him, afraid that he’d see just what she was feeling—total surrender, a desperate, wanton abandonment of all the rules she’d lived by until she’d met him.

‘No,’ she admitted, gaining confidence from the thudding of his heart against her. Whatever he thought, he couldn’t hide the fact that he wanted her.

‘So—how do you feel?’ And when she didn’t answer, he laughed softly. ‘A little wild?’

He punctuated each word with teasing kisses, but she sensed the inner demands driving him, and something unregenerate and fierce flared up to meet and match his hunger.

‘Reckless?’ he murmured, his mouth poised so close to hers that their breaths mingled.

‘Yes,’ she said simply, knowing what she’d just agreed to, knowing that after this there would be no going back—knowing, and not caring, because there was nothing in the world she wanted as much as learning about Rafiq in the most intimate way of all.

Later? Oh, she’d deal with later when it came.

She gave a squeak of astonishment as the world swooped, and he lifted her high in his arms and carried her across to that sinful double day bed.

Beside it he lowered her to her feet, sliding her down his lean, powerful length so that his need for her became blatantly, erotically obvious. Shivering, afire with sensation, she couldn’t drag her eyes away from his narrowed gaze, which darkened with an elemental need that banished all her shyness with its heat.

‘This pretty dress is a seduction in itself,’ he said deeply. ‘I’ve been wanting to slide these tiny, taunting buttons free, push them back so that the silk frames you…’

As he spoke his hands followed his words. Prey to an intensity of feeling she’d never experienced, she ignored the colour burning her skin and shrugged free of the bodice. And then stopped, acutely conscious that the only thing between her breasts and his deft, insistent hands was her bra.

Should she undo it?

Almost before the thought had formulated she felt his hands at the catch—knowledgeable and far too skilful at this, she thought on a spurt of sharp jealousy that kept her head high when he eased her bra away.

He stood looking at her, the dark, fierce hunger in his eyes satisfying something primitive and untamed in her.

On a raw note, he said, ‘You are—perfect,’ and took her eager mouth, bending her back over his arm so that his lips slid easily from hers to the demanding, importunate tips of her breasts.

The hot caress of his mouth splintered every inhibition. Moaning, lost in a carnal haze, Lexie’s hands clenched helplessly in the fine fabric of his shirt as his mouth worked erotic magic on her.

‘No,’ she muttered when he lifted his head.

‘What?’

He bit it out with such harshness she forced her eyes open, and saw the sudden rigidity in his features. ‘Don’t stop,’ she said on a gasp.

But he held her eyes in a measuring stare. ‘You are sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure.’ Frustrated, she stumbled over her next words. ‘If you stop, I just might kill you.’

Strong arms closed around her again, and he set her on the bed. Shivering with anticipation so keen it came close to pain, she watched him shuck off his shirt. Lamplight gilded his skin, picking out the smooth swell and flex of muscles as he dropped the garment to the ground. But when his hands moved to the belt of his trousers she looked away, suddenly and shyly aware of her total lack of experience.

Should she tell him? Would he think she was some sort of frigid freak? Worse still, would he be overcome by an outdated chivalry and refuse to make love to her?

Clamping her mouth to hold back the confession that threatened to tumble out, she kicked off her shoes, not caring whether they landed on the stone terrace beside the bed or in the pool a few feet away.

Lithely, Rafiq came down beside her, muscles shifting and coiling, a study in gleaming bronze power. Lexie swallowed to ease a dry throat as the sheer size of him struck home. Without the civilising influence of his superbly tailored clothes, the difference between her female slenderness and his forceful masculinity overwhelmed her.

But that initial qualm was immediately eased by his gentleness as he began to slide the dress down her body.

Only to stop when he saw the faint shadows on her ribcage. She said quickly, ‘They’ve just about gone now.’

‘I don’t want to hurt you.’ He bent his sleek black head and kissed them, his lips sending darts of sensation to her very soul.

‘You couldn’t hurt me.’ When he hesitated, she held her breath in an agony of supplication.

He said, ‘I will be very careful, and you must tell me if there is any pain.’

‘I will.’

Her eyes flew open in dismay as another thought presented itself. What if he thought she was using contraceptive medication?

As though he’d read her mind, he asked, ‘Are you protected, my sweet one?’

‘No,’ she mumbled, rigid with embarrassment.

‘It is no problem.’ He got off the bed.

Lexie knew she should be relieved, and was shocked to discover that the thought of carrying Rafiq’s child sent a subversive pang of longing through her.

Keeping her eyes away from what he was doing, she looked downwards. Her gaze stopped on the thong her sister had insisted she wear under the silk dress.

Should she take it off?

Colour mantled her skin, and desire ebbed under the weight of her embarrassment. How on earth did people ever make love with all these things to think about?

‘What is worrying you?’

It was scary just how easily he could read her. ‘Nothing.’

But once she was in his arms again, and his mouth on hers wreaked the familiar havoc to her busy mind, the need came back, swift and sure and compelling. Her virgin fears and worries vanished in an intense, voluptuous craving for something only Rafiq could give her.

‘You taste like desire,’ he said. ‘Warm and silken and mind-blowing.’

His hand touched her breast, and she was unable to prevent a convulsive jerk of response.

‘What is it?’ he demanded.

‘I just… I can’t… I want you so much,’ she finished in a rush, scarlet with an odd sort of defiance, but determined to be honest.

His laughter was deep and intimate. Her hips thrust upwards in an involuntary plea and demand for something she craved so much she could feel the wanting in her bones.

Against her skin, he murmured, ‘So fierce you are, so responsive, so passionate, my dove. But shy—I won’t break if you touch me.’

Almost dazed by the ferocity of her need, she smoothed a hand over his chest, her fingertips tingling at the resilience of his skin, the subtle shift and move of the muscles and tendons, their power and promise.

‘Yes,’ he whispered, his warm breath tantalising the sensitive tip of her breast. ‘Touch me, Lexie, as you want to—and as you want to be touched.’

Cautiously she ran a coaxing, tentative hand across his shoulder, her fingertips thrilling at the heat of his fine-grained skin, the coiled strength that called to something deep inside her. Her breath came quickly; she bent her head so that her hair fell across him in a golden-amber flood, and then she kissed the path her fingers had made, rejoicing at the sudden thunder of his heart.

Emboldened, she opened her mouth and licked him, savouring his taste—a hint of salt, faint musk, all vital male.

Passion was a painful flame, an exciting demand, a surge of sensation through her so intense it was all she had room for. She said in an aching voice, ‘You are beautiful.’

‘Ah, no.’ Rafiq sounded oddly shaken. ‘That is for me to say to you. But beautiful does not convey enough—you are lithe and graceful, a woman of flame and satin and desire. The moment my eyes found you, I knew that this was inevitable.’

And he kissed her again, banishing her final fears and worries so completely that she willingly followed wherever he led, her body arching in uncontrollable urgency as he showed her what pleasure points lay in her breasts, her waist, the tiny hollow of her navel, the sleek curves of her hips…

And the removal of the thong became an erotic experience that almost banished all of her shyness.

But when his black head moved lower, she stiffened. He dropped a final kiss on the plane of her stomach and looked up, his eyes unexpectedly keen.

Colour flooded her skin. Rafiq smiled slowly, almost cruelly, and stroked one lean, long-fingered hand from the hollow of her throat. A thread of fire followed that deliberate claiming, radiating between the high peaks of her breasts, across her stomach, finally erupting when he cupped the wildly sensitive mound at the junction of her legs.

It was a gesture of pure possession—a statement of ownership—and oddly it gave Lexie a confidence she’d never have achieved otherwise.

Eyes holding his, she mimicked the sweep of his hand, letting her fingers linger on the antique pattern of hair across his chest, discovering the small, masculine nipples. The dark flush across his high, patrician cheekbones made her even bolder; she slid her palm across his flat, taut abdomen, relishing the hardening of muscles beneath her touch.

Narrow hips beckoned. Carefully, lovingly, she outlined them, bending to kiss the lean contours of his body.

And then her confidence faltered, faded. He was acutely aroused, and she literally didn’t know what to do next.

He laughed quietly, darkly glittering eyes registering her embarrassment without censure. Silently he moved his hand and, as she bucked beneath his probing fingers, he found the passage that waited for him so eagerly, and explored it with a gentleness she found unbearably stimulating.

A soft, almost guttural sound broke past her lips. Gripping his shoulders, she felt the slickness of sweat beneath her hands, but this time she was too lost in the shatteringly sweet sensations he was conjuring to understand what was happening to him.

She needed—her whole body yearned for—something. Connection, completion, she thought inadequately, a unity she could only imagine, yet it was what she’d been waiting on for these long years past.

‘Rafiq,’ she breathed, her fingers clenching on him as he moved over her.

‘Yes, my sweet one. Wait just a little time.’ His voice was laboured, hoarse, as he turned away.

Lost in the turmoil of her senses, she closed her eyes, but when he poised himself over her again she opened them, and slid her hands down his back to his hips, then smiled and pulled him down.

He dragged in a harsh breath. His half-closed eyes locked with hers, so that she thought she was falling into the centre of a green firestorm, as he slowly, carefully, eased himself into her.

For a split second pain threatened, and she tensed, but then he broke through that tiny invisible barrier. Shivering, she felt sensation flood through her in a wave of heat, of joy, of seeking that something wonderful that still lay ahead of her, and again she arched into him in speechless supplication.

Rafiq’s jaw clenched and, as though her movement had snapped the last shred of his self-control, he pressed home with a single, powerful thrust. Almost sobbing with pleasure, she soared at each welcome intrusion, up and up, and over a barrier into an ecstasy that shook the foundations of her world.

Almost immediately he followed her into that rarefied region, and when his climax was over he asked in a raw voice, ‘Why the tears, my lovely girl?’

‘I didn’t know,’ Lexie said unevenly, surprised to find that she was crying.

He rolled over onto his side, raising himself on one arm to look down into her face. Shaken to her centre, she closed her eyes, because she couldn’t see anything in his expression to match the tumult of emotions rioting through her—a kind of relief, fierce exultation, wariness, and a sweet exhaustion.

Obviously he felt nothing like that; once more he was fully in control, the arrogant framework of his face even more pronounced, the green eyes hard and accusing.

‘Was that the first time you’ve had an orgasm?’ he asked.

Flushing, she turned her face away, and resisted when an inexorable finger turned it back. He didn’t hurt her, but she knew he was scanning her face for every nuance, every fleeting emotion.

‘Look at me,’ he commanded.

‘No.’

Her heart thudded in the silence, until he said, still in that cool, controlled tone, ‘Or was that the first time you’ve made love?’

He couldn’t know. There was no way he could know. There had been only one swiftly vanishing second of pain…

But why did it matter so much to her that he shouldn’t know?

‘Is it important?’ she parried, wishing her voice wasn’t so thin.

No muscle moved in his face, but her heart quailed. However, his tone was grave when he replied, ‘I think it is, if it was the first time for you. I could have been gentler—?’

‘I didn’t want gentle,’ she flashed, determined to put an end to this hugely embarrassing conversation. Weren’t men supposed to roll over and go to sleep after sex?

But then, Rafiq de Courteveille wasn’t like other men. In that moment she realised that she was in even greater danger than she’d imagined.

The danger of falling in love, if she hadn’t already done so.

In words brittle with desperation, she said, ‘I’m sorry if it wasn’t—’

‘Hush.’ He stopped the tumbling words with his mouth, in a kiss that brought every emotion and thought to a crashing halt, vanquished by the turbulence of sensation and remembered rapture.

Rafiq lifted his dark head so that his words were spoken against her lips in the lightest of kisses. ‘It was—’ He paused, as though choosing what to say next, then went on, ‘Much more than I expected. I hope that for you it was good too.’