Desert Sheikhs Collection: Part 1. Jane PorterЧитать онлайн книгу.
groom, who bowed his head in response.
Lara had been watching the little interchange and looked up at him in surprise as he approached. ‘Wasn’t that Marabanese you were speaking to the groom?’
‘It was.’
‘Who taught you?’
The golden eyes glittered. ‘Khalim has been instructing me in the basics of the language.’
He sat down beside her, took the glass from her and drank deeply, putting the empty glass down and wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
‘You’re acting more and more like a sheikh every day!’ she teased.
‘Yeah.’ He stared moodily into the middle distance.
‘And sounding like one, too!’ She wished she knew what was going on in that head of his. She’d thought they were supposed to have abandoned hostilities and declared an unspoken truce of sorts. Were they or were they not able to exist in relative harmony? In theory, yes, of course they were—except that there was this terrible hunger bubbling away inside her. An overwhelming longing to feel his lips on hers once more.
Maybe it was one-sided. Maybe he just didn’t feel it any more and the way she had deceived him had killed his desire for her stone-dead. They were sharing a bedroom, but that was the one place she barely saw him. He crept into the bedroom in the early hours, completely ignoring her and the large, empty space in the bed beside her, and was gone when she woke in the morning.
She watched while the groom led the horse away. ‘Exotically beautiful, isn’t he?’ she remarked.
‘Mmm,’ he said, non-committally.
‘They’re a unique breed, you know.’
‘Are they?’
Lara drew a breath. ‘Yep. Arguably the oldest surviving cultured equine breed.’
‘You don’t say?’
Well, she had to say something, or else she was going to come out with something like, Don’t you find me attractive any more, Darian?
‘They’re known for their speed, stamina and intelligence,’ she continued, the words coming out in a flurry.
He turned his head to look at her, drowning in the blue of her eyes, then looked away again. ‘A little like me, then?’
Her heart pounded. ‘A little, I guess.’
There was a split-second pause, and when he spoke his voice was lazy. ‘What else about them, Lara?’
‘They’re hot-bloods, definitely not warm-bloods.’
He didn’t say anything.
‘And unusually sensitive to the way they are treated,’ she rushed on. ‘They’re responsive to gentle training, and can be stubborn or resentful if treated rudely.’ She paused and held her breath as he turned to her again, only this time he didn’t look away. ‘A little like me, in fact.’
He saw the pulse at her temple begin a frantic little beat, and suddenly all his defences left him. He brushed a line over the fine skin there and felt its throbbing beneath his fingertip. ‘Is that so?’ he murmured.
‘Y-yes.’ She held her breath as his fingertip traced its way down her cheek, lingering on the line of her jaw, then down to the hollow of her neck. She could feel the flutter of her heart and the honey-rush of sweet desire, but she didn’t dare move. It was like being in the middle of a spell—one wrong word or gesture and it would be broken, and she would be back to frustrated longing once again.
‘What else?’ he murmured, only now his fingertip was teasing the tip of her breast.
Lara swallowed. ‘Their eyes are…’
‘Are what, Lara?’ He felt the nipple bud and harden and he sucked in a breath.
‘Are 1-large and expressive. And sometimes almond-shaped.’
The golden blaze almost blinded her. ‘Like your eyes,’ he observed softly. ‘What else?’
Now his hand was drifting down over her torso and she could scarcely breathe.
‘Tell me, Lara,’ he urged. ‘I want to know.’
‘Their…their bodies are long and lean.’ She swallowed again. ‘The muscling well-defined, s-smoothly hugging the bone.’
‘That’s me,’ he whispered. ‘Isn’t it?’
By now his fingertip had edged down to the fork in her legs, drifting forward and back, forward and back, so that Lara closed her eyes and gasped.
‘Isn’t it, Lara?’
‘Well, yes. You know it is.’
‘Don’t you want to feel for yourself how it feels?’ he purred. ‘Feel the muscle which hugs the bone…?’
She didn’t need to be asked twice. Her hands flew to his chest, feeling the masculine heat of him through the damp shirt, and all the while his finger continued its erotic little dance, the material of the jodhpurs both restricting and heightening her pleasure.
‘Darian!’ she gasped.
‘Mmm?’
‘We can’t do this here!’
‘Do what?’ he questioned innocently, enjoying the way her thighs were now parting, revelling in the urgent little grind of her hips. ‘We’re not doing anything, are we? Not really. I’m just playing with you a little. Touching you there.’ He felt her squirm. ‘And there.’ He increased the pressure of his finger and her head fell back.
‘Someone might come!’ she protested, in a thick, slurred voice which didn’t sound like her own.
‘I think someone might,’ he agreed unsteadily. ‘But all the grooms have gone, if that’s what you’re worried about.’
Too late, she realised just where he was taking her. ‘Kiss me, Darian,’ she pleaded on a moan. ‘Please. Just kiss me.’
‘No.’
The single word should have terminated her pleasure with all the finality of a bucket of cold water being thrown over her, but it did no such thing. If anything, the cold, harsh word only increased her ascent into that tantalising, nebulous place which made such mockery of almost everything else which existed. Maybe she wasn’t so like the Akhal-Teke at all, she thought desperately, for there was no resentment on her part about the way he was treating her—and shouldn’t there have been? Shouldn’t there have been?
But then it happened, great wave upon wave of engulfing pleasure, and she opened her mouth, the pleasure so intense that she wanted to scream. And that was when he kissed her at last, swallowing up her cries with the fierce, hard pressure of his mouth, clamping his hand possessively over her jodhpurs while she still pulsed with sweet, dying spasms and her head fell uselessly to his shoulder.
‘Oh,’ she moaned. It was a helpless little cry, and it was edged with sorrow as well as fulfillment—for hadn’t the kiss been merely a silencing technique instead of a demonstration of affection?
‘Touch me,’ he urged. ‘Please.’
Her hand moved down and her eyes snapped open. ‘Oh!’ she breathed. He was hard, so very, very hard.
‘Yes—oh,’ he murmured wryly.
‘Wh-what do you want to do now?’
‘I want you,’ he shuddered. ‘That’s what I want. And I want you to undress me. Now.’
She felt the flush move from her neck to her cheeks, so that they burned like fire. It was a stark and unequivocal sexual command, dark with promise but devoid of all tenderness. ‘Wouldn’t you rather go back to our room?’
He was sliding her jodhpurs down now, with