The Desert Princes. Jackie Braun
a cushion and ruffled his hair.
‘Good,’ he said, giving her a scorching once-over. ‘I’m going to take a swim and then I’ll be right back.’
Good? She stood up, infusing limbs that had become languid with a much overdue dose of primness and purpose. ‘Would you like anything to eat?’ she said, stopping him mid-stride. ‘Or something to drink, perhaps?’
‘All of the above,’ Raffa agreed, shooting her a look. ‘But I want extras on the side.’ He held up his hands when she started to protest. ‘I’ll be back in ten.’
See that you’re ready? Was that what he meant? She stood transfixed as he strode away. She thought she’d been aroused before, but this was better—stronger; this was fantasy and reality clashing head on.
And it was wrong, her inner voice counselled.
How long would he be? How would she survive until he came back again? She started to pace. How much harm could one more night do? Casey reasoned as a crescent moon competed for her attention with the sun.
Raffa returned with just a towel wrapped around his waist. His body was bronzed and superbly muscled. His powerful torso, with the fearsome tattoo glistening on his still-damp skin, was something Casey knew she would never forget.
‘Thank you for bringing me here, Raffa.’
‘It’s a shameless ploy to make you change your mind about leaving A’Qaban,’ he said, swiping his wilful hair behind his ears with both hands.
‘You’re dripping on me.’ Casey laughed as Raffa stood over her.
‘I intend to do a lot more than that,’ he said. Dropping down on the cushions beside her, he drew her into his arms. ‘You look beautiful in A’Qabani traditional dress,’ he murmured, reverently stroking the soft blue fabric.
As his knuckles grazed her peaking nipples the tiny silver cross-stitches seemed to glitter as the shadows turned from sienna to purple, as if the robe had been created for the night. There was no need for conversation, for concerns or second thoughts. Raffa simply removed his towel, tossed it away and drew her beneath him, lifting her robe above her hips in the same, fluid movement. He sank inside her, pausing only to savour the same extremes of pleasure she was experiencing.
It was enough…this was enough. It was impossible to put into words how close she felt to him. To say they were one was a cliché, but when Raffa lifted himself on his elbow so he could stare into her eyes as he began to move, she knew there would never be another night like this. Tears spilled onto her cheeks as the desert moon rose higher in the indigo sky.
‘If I make you cry, I’d better stop,’ Raffa warned huskily, nuzzling his sharp black stubble against her aroused neck.
‘If you stop I’ll howl,’ she warned.
His answer was to kiss her tears away, and keep on kissing her until her rhythmic sighs filled their ears. And when holding on was impossible, he held her safe in his arms, staring deep into her eyes as she cried out his name in the throes of ecstasy.
She must have slept for a while, because she woke to find Raffa propped on one arm, looking at her. Her robe had come off some time during their lovemaking, and she was sprawled contentedly on the bank of cushions, with the light from a lantern throwing golden ribbons of light across her naked skin.
‘What’s this?’ she murmured groggily as Raffa lifted her into his arms, kissing her brow as he wrapped a wisp of fabric around her head. ‘It’s my shawl!’ she exclaimed, recognising it.
‘AnA’Qabani wedding shawl.’ Raffa’s darkly handsome face creased in a grin. ‘Some might say it was fate that made me choose to donate it to the auction, and you to bid for it and win.’
‘And some might say it isn’t fair to tease me,’ Casey said sensibly, drawing herself into a sitting position, keeping the lovely shawl in place around her shoulders.
‘I love you, Casey Michaels,’ Raffa murmured, helping her to adjust the folds of filament-fine fabric.
‘You shouldn’t say that.’
Raffa’s brow creased. ‘And why not?’
‘You’ve already admitted this is just a ploy to keep me here in A’Qaban.’
‘I don’t deny it.’
‘And saying I love you comes so easily to you. And please,’ she said, throwing up her hands, ‘don’t tell me that years of experience have made it easy.’
‘I’m not teasing you now. I’m serious.’
‘Serious about my being funny and something of a novelty in your high-tone world?’
‘That’s not fair, Casey.’ He cut across her. ‘I think you’re caring and clever, and a whole host of things that don’t make me laugh.’
‘I make you angry and impatient?’ she suggested dryly.
‘Never,’ he said fiercely. ‘And please don’t make fun of this. I’m being serious.’ Cupping her face in his hands, he asked in a fierce whisper, ‘Why can’t I love you for yourself?’
‘Because there’s not that much to love? Because your definition of love and my definition are worlds apart?’
‘Why can’t you believe you’re worth loving, Casey?’
‘Average loving between two people I can buy into; family loving I can buy into. Loving a friend—I understand that too. But you’re a—’
‘A king?’ Raffa threw back his head and laughed.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘I’m a man,’ he said. ‘A man who loves a woman. I’m a man who wants one particular woman and can think of no other woman at his side. I want you to have my babies—lots of them. And I want you to help me with the development and growth of my country. And as for love—I want you to have it all.’
‘And you haven’t mistaken me for someone else?’
‘If you don’t want to stay—’
‘You’ll let me go?’ she said, confident he was asking her to give him the easy way out.
‘No,’ he argued. ‘I’ll make you my captive virgin of the desert.’
‘It’s a bit late for that.’
‘But not too late to smile, to hope—and, yes, even to dream.’
‘You can’t see what I’m thinking behind my veil,’ Casey said confidently, drawing the fabric over her face.
‘Ah, but you’d be surprised at just how much your eyes can tell me.’
‘The secret language of the veil,’ she murmured.
‘What?’
‘The secret language of the veil,’ Casey repeated. ‘I speak it and you understand.’
‘Like a true A’Qabani,’ Raffa agreed, lips tugging in wry amusement as he took the veil and moved it away. ‘But I prefer to look at your face, Casey Michaels. Because this is the face of the woman who’s going to stand at my side as my equal, and never, ever doubt herself again.’
THEY chose a Bedouin ceremony. Or had the Bedouin chosen it for them? Casey wondered, stealing a glance through the heavy curtain over her bridal tent. It hardly mattered; she felt happy here—as if she belonged.
The women whose task it was to dress her were already gathering in small excited groups, adding to her own almost unbearable sense of anticipation. Her parents had been over in the country for a week and loved everything about the desert kingdom. They were