Sandstorm. Anne Mather
find your company—informative,’ she ventured at last, choosing her words carefully. ‘You obviously know Paris very well, and your knowledge of Versailles—’
‘I did not mean that, and you know it,’ he exclaimed, pushing himself away from the door and moving towards her with a firm pantherlike tread. ‘We were beginning to know one another, that is the important thing, and I want to know why you chose to sever our relationship with the sensitivity of a camel driver!’
He came round the end of her bed, imprisoning her in a corner of the room with no escape except across the bed itself. Abby considered climbing across the counter-pane, but such behaviour seemed undignified, and besides, if he attacked her she could always scream. Brad’s room was next door, and by now he must surely have finished the drink he had intended to have in the bar before coming upstairs.
‘I think you ought to go, Prince Rachid,’ she insisted tremulously, endeavouring not to look as anxious as she felt. ‘It—it was good of you to give me your time, but—’
‘It was not good at all,’ he interrupted roughly, now only inches away from her. ‘I wanted to spend my time with you, Abby. I can think of nothing I have enjoyed more, and—’ he reached out a hand to touch her cheek, ‘—I do not believe you did not enjoy it, too.’
Abby’s instinctive flinching away from him brought a faint flush of anger to his cheeks. ‘Haji, what is wrong with you?’ he demanded, gazing down at her without comprehension. ‘What kind of man do you think I am that you tremble like a gazelle just because I lay my hand on you?’
‘Please go,’ she got out chokingly, panic rising unbidden inside her. ‘Please, I want you to leave. At—at once. And I never want to see you again.’
‘No? Is this so? And what has happened to change your mind?’
He was so close now that she could see the flecks of lightness in those dark eyes, approve the texture of his skin, that was firm and tanned, and only slightly shadowed by the shaven growth of his beard. She could see the strong column of his throat rising from the collar of his shirt, and smell the clean odour of his body, mingling with that of his clothes and his shaving lotion. His hair clung smoothly to the shape of his head, free of any of the greasy dressings some men needed to keep their hair in order, and beneath the flaring pendulum of his tie his quickened breathing strained the buttons of his shirt. Her eyes dropped lower, only to dart up again swiftly, in case he imagined she was as curious about him as he appeared to be about her.
‘Prince Rachid—’
‘Rachid will do.’
‘Rachid, then…’
She put out a hand to ward him off, but he was too close. Her fingers made contact with the taut silk that covered his chest, and as they recoiled in embarrassment he bent his head and touched her ear with his lips.
It was the lightest caress, a brief meeting of the flesh, but Abby quivered in the grip of emotions far greater than the touch warranted, and as if compelled in spite of himself, he slipped an arm around her waist and brought her close against his hard body.
‘Rachid—’ she began again, more frantically now, but the smouldering passion of his gaze rendered her speechless. Almost involuntarily her lips parted, and this time when he bent his head, his mouth found hers.
It was a devastating experience, the firmness of his lips tasting hers with sensuous enjoyment. She felt a dizzying sense of imbalance in the increasing pressure of his embrace, and her hands groped blindly for his lapels in an effort to maintain some hold on reality. She was imprisoned against him, her breasts crushed by the sinewy strength of his chest, the bones of her hips melting against the powerful muscles of his thighs.
‘Abby…’
He said her name against her mouth, and a weak sense of inadequacy gripped her. She was no match for his experienced advances, and contrary to what Brad had told her, Rachid was no amateur in the matter of sensitivity. His whole approach was skilful, measured, and she was helpless against the sensual needs he was deliberately arousing. There was no need for brutality, no need to force her at all. In his hands, with the pulsating heat of his desire thrusting against her, she only wanted to respond, and her moan of submission was as much a plea for possession as a protest at his undoubted expertise.
With unhurried movements he slid the towelling robe from her shoulders, his mouth tracing its passing with lingering pleasure. Then, when she was desperately trying to recover her modesty, his hands loosened the cord that circled her waist so that the robe fell open before him.
‘Rachid, no…’ she gasped, but her denial was submerged beneath the sharp thrill of indulgence she felt when his long fingers cupped the swollen fullness of her breast.
‘Beautiful,’ he said, his voice low and husky with emotion. ‘So perfectly formed. So round and pink and delicious. I must taste…’
‘Oh, Rachid,’ she whispered tremulously, as his tongue probed the roseate peak, and his eyes narrowed with emotive anticipation.
‘You do not really want me to stop, do you?’ he murmured, as the towelling robe fell to the floor. ‘Do not be ashamed of your body. It is a temple at which I worship, and never have I held so much beauty in my hands.’
Abby was totally bemused. She had never shared such intimacy with any man, but when he tossed off his own jacket and tie, and unfastened the buttons of his shirt, the lingering memory of Brad’s insinuations returned to torment her.
‘I—I can’t,’ she got out chokingly, as he swung her up into his arms and lifted her on to the bed. ‘Rachid, I haven’t—I’ve never—’
‘Do you think I do not know that?’ he demanded huskily, lowering his weight beside her. ‘But do not be afraid. I will not hurt you. I will just caress you—so, and you will have nothing to fear.’
Abby’s trembling limbs were weak with longings she hardly knew or understood, but still she had to understand him. ‘You mean—you mean—you’re not going to—to—’
‘—make love to you?’ he finished, nuzzling her shoulder with his lips. ‘Not if you do not want to, no. There are—other ways of pleasing one another, and if you are afraid…’
‘Oh, Rachid…’
Relief made her wind her arms around his neck, bringing his mouth down to hers with hungry urgency, and the burning pressure of his mouth ignited the stirring flame inside her. Hardly aware of what she was doing, she moved beneath him eagerly, arching against his hard length, until only the layer of his clothes separated her from his throbbing possession.
‘Abby…’
Now it was Rachid who protested her innocence, but the imprisoning weight of his body drove all desire to resist from her, and her mouth opened beneath his.
The smooth expanse of his chest spread beneath her palms, warm and male, and only slightly roughened by the fine dark hair that was abrasively virile to the touch. Her hands investigated his shoulders, her nails probing the hollows of his ears, the strong column of his neck where the hair grew down to his nape. She wanted to know every inch of him, and time and place were forgotten in the delights of exploration.
Rachid’s mouth devoured hers as his hands searched the curve of her waist and the swell of her hips. His touch aroused her to unknown heights of excitement and anticipation, and she was all yielding woman in his arms.
She heard his muffled imprecation when her fingers found the buckle of his belt, but by then neither of them was capable of thinking beyond the moment, and the moment demanded surrender. With a groan of submission, Rachid lost what little control he had left, and his legs parted hers.
The heat of him against her promoted its own consummation. What happened was as natural as the turning of the season, and Abby’s cry of pain was stifled beneath the probing hunger of his kiss. She was hardly aware of the moment when he started to move within her, or indeed of the moment when the