Crowned For His Desert Twins by Clare Connelly
CHAPTER EIGHT
KHALILLEANEDLOW to the stallion’s mane, his eyes focussed on the waving lines of the horizon, the early morning sun already beating down on his back. He rode hard, the wind rushing past him a balm he needed, the freedom of the desert one of the few things that could bring him a sense of relief.
Every day since India had arrived, he’d done this—pursuing the dawn in a fruitless attempt to catch it, pitting his power and strength against the elements of the universe. He wasn’t seeking victory though, so much as attempting to outrun his thoughts.
His engagement to Fatima had been a disaster. For one thing, he’d believed himself in love, which was, he realised now, just about the worst reason one could have for getting married. Particularly a wedding of this sort. He didn’t need a wife he loved, he needed one who would provide him with heirs, and in this way, India was perfect. Two children already on the way meant the order of succession would be protected.
But he had been careless with Fatima—because he’d loved her. He’d trusted her and believed her: mistakes he would never make again. It was the only explanation for why he’d palmed off the arranging of the marriage contracts to his lawyers rather than overseeing negotiations himself. He’d presumed Fatima would want nothing—that she would know that, as his wife, she could have whatever she wished. It hadn’t been enough, though. Her greed had known no bounds, and as her list of demands had grown more and more outrageous, his legal team had sought to protect him, with no idea that she had something in her belly he would have paid his entire kingdom to keep safe.
He leaned lower, murmuring quietly to the horse so his ears pricked and he began to move faster, cooperating with the Sheikh’s commands.
A week ago, India had arrived in Khatrain, and since she’d provisionally agreed to marry him, he’d steered clear of her. But that, he realised, was a mistake. If he’d been more involved in the negotiations with Fatima, he might have been able to prevent what had happened. He should have been able to save their baby. He would never forgive himself for the fact that his carelessness had led to that tragedy—he had to do whatever he could to protect these babies, here and now.
He would care for India, he would manage their marriage negotiations personally, and then, on the day of the deadline she had imposed, they would marry.
Discomfort pressed against him. He had never imagined he’d be in this position. He was a highly sought-after bachelor, his bed never empty for long, the prospect of marrying him something many princesses and heiresses had made clear they wished to fulfil. India was not one of them.
And that bothered him.
What was he expecting? That she’d jump at the chance to marry a man who’d scorned her the morning after they’d slept together? That she’d ignore the way he’d spoken to her, ignore the fact he’d treated her like—
He made a low growling sound, his frustration bursting from him. He hated how they’d met. He hated that he’d used her, and that she’d used him. He hated the way he’d spoken to her the morning after they’d slept together, but, more than that, he hated the idea of her using her beautiful body to seduce men purely for financial gain.
And yet, what if Ethan had lied?
The question had been hammering away at him since he’d left America. What if he was wrong? What if she was telling the truth? The sun shifted, rays of warmth beating across his back. He clamped down on his naïve desire to believe her, or even to set aside what he knew of her career. He’d believed in Fatima, and it had cost him the world. He would never be so stupid again. India was to be the mother of his children, but he could never allow himself to trust her. Too much was at stake.
But that didn’t mean he could keep ignoring her either—or pretending to ignore her. No purpose was served by running away from her—if he wanted to get her out of his mind, he needed to keep her in his life, in his bed, so that he no longer spent every waking minute craving her to the point of distraction... They were to marry, and the sooner he found a way to live with that—and her—the better.
India disconnected the call with Jackson, a frown on her face. She hated lying to her little brother, but it was for the best. Until she was absolutely certain that she was marrying Khalil, and staying in Khatrain, she didn’t see any point in bringing him up to speed. It was just easier to pretend she was still in New York, that life was continuing as normal—or in their new normal, at least.
A knock sounded at her door, startling India out of her thoughts. She put down her phone on the tabletop and stood, just as the door opened and Khalil strode in—but not as she’d ever seen him! He wore loose linen pants, long to the ankle, and his chest was bare, moist with perspiration. His hair was damp, and there was an intensity in his eyes that spread fire to her core. India hadn’t seen him in a week, and her body ached for him, so seeing him in her room, dressed like this, was enough to shoot her pulse into overdrive, big time.
‘Khalil.’ Her voice was hoarse. She stood exactly where she was, even as he began to move towards her and her first instinct was to jolt her legs into action and touch him. The instinct shocked her; she mentally bolted her feet to the floor. ‘Is something the matter?’
‘Yes.’
Was it possibly he was regretting their arrangement? She stood perfectly still, watching as he strode towards her, but with every step he took, an answering thud landed in her heart, so her pulse was thick and thready by the time he reached her. His eyes furrowed, as though he were lost in thought, his expression inscrutable. He had six freckles across his cheeks, barely recognisable because of the depth of his complexion, but up close she could see them and they mesmerised her.
‘This isn’t working.’
She swallowed hard. ‘What’s not?’
‘Ignoring you. It won’t work.’
Her pulse jumped.
‘If we’re going to get married, we need to act like it.’
She ignored the torrent of adrenaline and desire that tore through her, aiming to keep a restrained, cool expression on her face. ‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning we have to be seen together.’
Disappointment seared her; she blinked away, and he made a throaty sound of understanding. Damn it, why was she so easy to read?
‘Publicly, but also we must be together privately. It’s the only way.’
‘We can wait three weeks. Until we know for sure—’
‘Can we?’ His lips formed a grim smile. ‘Is that what you want?’
He scanned her face, not waiting for an answer.
‘Or have you been thinking of me this week as I have you? Have you been tortured each night, wanting me to kiss you, to touch you? Have you touched yourself, imagining it was me?’
Heat exploded in her cheeks. She looked away from him, even as her body leaned forward, traitorous, needy body. Her nipples tingled, silently begging for his touch, and, as though they were connected in some way, he lifted his hands, cupping them, catching their weight and brushing his thumbs over her nipples. She tilted her head back, stars dancing against her eyelids.
It was madness, but a madness she had wanted all week, a touch she needed, even when she hated herself for that.
‘We are not marrying for love, but that doesn’t mean our marriage need be empty.’
She blinked, his words like a hammer against ice, so she straightened, staring at him, but he moved quickly, kneeling before her, catching the hem of her skirt in his hands and pushing it up as his eyes met hers, taunting her, teasing her, challenging her to reject him. But she didn’t—she couldn’t. She was spellbound, desire throbbing in her belly. He drew her underpants down slowly, the feel of his palms on her legs sending shock waves of need through her, so she tilted her head back again.
When he kissed her sex, she cried out, the touch so personal and perfect, so unlike anything she’d ever known, that she almost couldn’t bear it. Her fingers drove into his hair, tightening around its lengths, a whimper in the base of her throat as his tongue lashed her most sensitive cluster of nerves until she was tumbling into an abyss of delight, her cries ringing out in the room, loud and fast, her hands wrenching his hair until the waves of torturous release eased and she could breathe once more. He stood, something like satisfaction glinting in his eyes, and then he scooped her up, carrying her through the enormous suite and into the bedroom.
‘This was real,’ he said, and it made no sense, but she didn’t have time to question him, because he was undressing, staring at her, as though she were a puzzle he needed to understand. A moment later, his knee separated her legs and his arousal was pushing into her warm, moist core. She arched her back, calling his name out, the taste of it in her mouth perfection, everything about this moment perfection.
His body played hers like a maestro. His mouth tormented her nipples as he thrust into her, hard and fast, then slowly, pulling her pleasure back so that it built to an ultimate, unruly crescendo, each time such pleasure pain in the nearness of her release. He was prolonging their mutual release, and frustration at his mastery clipped through India, so suddenly she pushed at his chest, rolling him onto his back. His eyes caught hers for a moment, surprise obvious, and she grinned as she straddled him, moaning at the delight of it, moving her hips to her own tempo, moving her hands over her breasts as the wave built and built and she rode it towards the crest. His hands dug into her hips, moving her faster, holding her lower, and he bucked as she moved, so their bodies morphed and exploded as one, their cries mingled, the air in the room explosive with the pleasure they felt.
India could barely think afterwards. She stayed where she was, focussing on her breathing, on the tingling that ran through her body, the throbbing between her legs, the beauty of the man beneath her, the rightness of what they’d just done, even when everything else was such an abject mess, and she realised she didn’t feel the regret she had thought she might. She was sure it would come, but for now she wanted to glory in being with him, with the fact she’d taken control and driven him over the edge, with how perfectly their bodies worked together.
‘See, India? Whatever else happens in our marriage, we have this. It is enough.’
She wished he wouldn’t talk. Their bodies spoke fine for both of them; words ruined everything.
But he had spoken and her brain had clicked back into gear, so she had no choice but to respond. ‘Is it? I always thought marriages were about love and respect.’
‘A childish fantasy,’ he murmured, indolently running a hand over her breast, his eyes following the gesture with possessive intent.
‘How can you say that?’ She shook her head, thinking of her parents’ marriage, or everything she knew to be true. ‘Haven’t you ever been in love?’
‘That’s irrelevant. We are not in love, and never will be, but it doesn’t matter.’
She opened her mouth to argue with that, but his finger brushed the flesh between her legs, sparking a bolt of lightning in her belly. She stared at him, and he moved his fingers again, his gaze locked to hers.
Damn it, he knew exactly how to pleasure her, and he did so now, stirring her to fever pitch all over again, before rolling her onto her back, kissing her as he moved his fingers, so when she crested over the wave this time, she was breathless and exhausted, and totally absorbed by sensual pleasure.
She looked like a woman who’d been made love to so thoroughly she could barely speak. He stood, scanning her beautiful body, stepping away from the bed with regret. He’d thought sleeping with her would ease the ache in his gut, the ever-present need, but having opened the floodgates, he simply wanted more of her. He wanted to shower with her, to run the sponge over her body, feeling her soapy and wet beneath his hands, to kiss her, naked, as water ran over them both...
‘There is an event tonight. I usually take a date. Come with me.’
She flipped her head to face him, a frown on her lips. He moved towards her, kissing her quickly, so the frown disappeared. ‘It’s a formal affair. I’ll send a stylist to help you prepare.’
He dressed, watching her, waiting for the inevitable argument, because India so often liked to find a flaw in his plans. But she stayed silent, her eyes on him, for so long that it didn’t make sense.
‘Okay?’
She nodded, but something was clearly wrong.
‘What is it?’
Tightness began to coil in his gut. Guilt. They’d both wanted—needed—the release of their coming together, but was she regretting it now? It was a doubt he’d never felt with a woman before.
‘It makes sense,’ she said eventually, her eyes latching to his. ‘If we’re going to marry in a few weeks, it will be less...dramatic...if there’s some evidence that we actually knew one another prior to the wedding. A date is a good idea.’
‘I’m glad you agree.’ Even when he’d half been looking forward to convincing her a little more...
‘And in private,’ he said, moving closer to the bed, his whole body craving her, wanting to lie at her back and hold her close, to simply feel her pressed against him. ‘At night, you will be mine, India. We’d be fools to ignore the one good thing this marriage has going for it.’
She swallowed and looked away, so he couldn’t tell how she was feeling. ‘Three good things,’ she said, eventually, when he was about to turn and walk to the door. He waited for her to continue, his breath held.
‘The babies,’ she reminded him. ‘If it weren’t for them, we’d never have seen one another again. It’s because of them that we’re marrying.’
He nodded, and left the room, wondering at the hollow sensation in his gut that simply wouldn’t quit.
‘Who will be there tonight?’ she asked, as the car slowed down at traffic lights, anxiety thickening her blood.
‘Dignitaries, film stars, politicians, some diplomats and artists.’ He spoke with cold detachment, as though they hadn’t made love earlier, as though they were strangers who barely knew one another. ‘The gallery is renowned throughout Europe and the Middle East.’
‘Are these people your friends?’
‘Some are,’ he said, but she had the feeling he wasn’t being completely honest with her. ‘My cousin will be there—Astrid el Abdul. She is a few years younger than me, and a woman of great integrity. I will introduce the two of you. If I am busy, she will take care of you.’
Her smile was lopsided. ‘I don’t need to be taken care of—you might have forgotten but I’m quite experienced at mingling with strangers at fancy events.’
‘The kind of mingling you indulged in in the past will not be tolerated here, remember?’
She looked away from him, her smile dying. ‘So Astrid is actually some kind of babysitter for me?’
‘If necessary, she will be.’
India bit down on her lip. ‘I don’t know what I can do to make you believe me,’ she said softly, shaking her head at the futility of that. ‘I was never that kind of escort.’
He stared at her, his eyes probing hers, and she waited, because for a moment it almost seemed as if he believed her, or wanted to believe her, and she desperately needed that. She didn’t know how they could really make their marriage work if he bought into such lies about her. But after a moment, he shrugged, a careless, throwaway gesture, and looked to the window beyond her. ‘It doesn’t matter any more. We’ve put the past in the past. Our children are the future.’
But it did matter! India reached across to touch him, and his eyes dropped to the gesture, consternation on his face, so she withdrew her hand abruptly. Were there rules for this too? That they could touch in the bedroom, but not beyond it? Ice filled her heart. She looked away, nodding once, just as the car pulled to a stop outside a modern building on the edge of one of the canals she’d spied from the plane. It was illuminated by red spotlights, and enormous posters were hung from the windows proclaiming the benefit. A score of paparazzi stood waiting, roped off the event, kept separate from the guests.
His hand on her chin surprised her, and as he drew her face back to his she didn’t resist. ‘I have never wanted a woman as I’ve wanted you.’
‘Is that supposed to make me feel good?’
‘It’s a start,’ he said, with a frustrated jerk of his head. ‘We’re both working this out as we go along. I don’t want to hurt you, but nor do I want to lie to you. I’m not going to pretend to feel something for you that I don’t, I won’t act as though I care for you or am falling in love with you, simply to placate you. I’m offering a relationship that works for me; you have to decide if it works for you.’
