Jennifer Lewis - The Sheikh Who Desired Her

But for those three weeks he’d been gentle and infinitely generous. He’d been as she had remembered him—affectionately indulgent to her, and tolerant of her constant chatter and exuberance. But when she’d trespassed too far she’d been subjected to his icy-cold front and dismissed like all the others—cast out to the periphery.

She couldn’t and would never forget his cruelty to her, but it was already becoming a more ambiguous, multi-faceted thing. Why would he feel like that about himself? What had happened to him to make him believe that? She knew if she kept on this path it would be a very dangerous one. She shouldn’t be curious. She shouldn’t care.

Abruptly she put down her napkin and stood up, making a hasty excuse, hating herself for it. ‘I need to get some papers from the suite for my own meeting this afternoon.’

With smooth grace Jamilah saw Salman make a discreet gesture to someone behind them, and he stood up, too, indicating for her to precede him out of the gazebo. She was surprised he wasn’t pushing for them to stay for coffee and dessert. She walked out a little unsteadily. And then he took her arm to lead her back into the hotel through the gorgeous private gardens.

As they neared the doors, where staff waited, she cursed her gullibility. She stopped and turned to him, looked up. ‘You knew very well what you were asking for when you requested a table outside, didn’t you?’

Eyes as black as sin turned her insides molten. He smiled wickedly. ‘It was a mere manipulation of the truth to get you to stay.’

Jamilah fought the lazy tendrils of desire unfurling inside her. ‘I don’t want you to seduce me, Salman. I won’t be seduced.’

‘It’s too late, Jamilah. We’re here now … for a reason.’ His mouth firmed, ‘I don’t believe in fate, but I believe in this.’

He pulled her into him and his mouth was on hers before she could even squeak in protest. One hand went to his chest, to push him away, but his steely strength called to her, making her legs weak. She emitted a groan of pure self-disgust mixed with the inevitable rise of wanton desire. Their mouths clung, tongues touching and tasting. It grew more heated, and Jamilah found that her arms and hands had climbed up to Salman’s neck and she was straining on tiptoe to get even closer.

She pulled back, her heart racing, disgusted to find herself in this position— again .

He held her fast against his body, where she could feel the heat and strength of his burgeoning arousal. ‘Tell me again you won’t be seduced …’ It wasn’t even a question.

Jamilah wanted to deny him, but the way she kept falling into his arms and responding so forcibly mocked her. Her heart fell at the unmistakable light of triumph in his eyes.

‘The problem is that we are dealing with a force greater than ourselves, and the fact that our desire never got a chance to burn itself out,’ he said.

Jamilah finally managed to pull away. ‘Unlike you, I have a healthy respect for things that aren’t good for me. I can resist this, and I will . Find someone else, Salman, please.’ And she hoped to God that he would listen to her plea.

JAMILAH had only gone back downstairs when she was due to have her own meeting with the envoy from Dubai. To her abject relief she hadn’t seen Salman again, but she steeled herself now for the evening ahead, when they were due to go to a black tie function.

When she heard Salman moving around in the main salon she took a deep and shaky breath in. She regarded herself in her bedroom mirror. Make-up covered most of the ravages of the last sleepless night, and the aftermath of that lunch and the kiss. There was an awful feeling of inevitability burning low in her belly, and she couldn’t ignore it much as she wanted to.

Her dress was strapless silk and floor-length, midnight-blue in colour—almost black. It managed to be effortlessly chic even while the low back presented a much more daring view.

Her mother had been a famous fashion model—one of the first Arabic women to break into the international scene—which was how she’d met Jamilah’s father in Paris. Before Jamilah’s parents had died so tragically her mother had already instilled within her a love and appreciation for classic elegant clothes and jewellery. Jamilah didn’t buy much, but when she did it was always quality pieces.

She’d twisted her hair up, and now added a pair of her mother’s sapphire earrings to match the simple necklace that adorned her neck. With another shaky breath she picked up her short faux fur coat and evening bag and left her room.

Her hands clenched tight around her bag when she saw Salman, standing and flicking idly through a magazine on the table. He looked up, and for a moment Jamilah felt as if she was drowning. She’d seen Salman in a tuxedo before, but something about seeing him now, tonight , seemed to hit her right between the eyes. He was simply the most stupendously handsome man she’d ever seen.

Salman looked at Jamilah. She was a vision in dark silk which showed off every elegant curve of her body. Her breasts were soft pale swells above the bodice, and a gem hung with tantalising provocation just above the vee in her cleavage. Her eyes glittered a dazzling blue, and Salman knew that if they didn’t get out of there right now he’d take her to his bed and she would hate him for ever. And then he had to concede bitterly that he’d already taken care of that when he’d rejected her so cruelly six years before.

Curtly, Salman said, dropping the magazine, ‘We should get going, or we’ll be late for the opening speech.’

Jamilah nearly reeled back on her heels. She felt as if she’d just hurtled through a time continuum, been burnt by the sun and then thrown out the other side. Had she just imagined that incendiary moment?

Standing in the lift moments later as they descended, she felt very shaky and vulnerable. Salman was stony-faced and taciturn, and it gave her a sickening sense of déjà-vu to when he’d changed so utterly on that fateful day six years before. She welcomed it, and hardened the tender inner part of herself that had felt an awful weakening as the day had progressed, as if on some level his relentless pursuit was starting to dissolve her own resolve to resist. She could resist. She had to resist.

Outside the hotel, in the cool night air, he helped her to put on her coat. Visibly flinching when his hand brushed the bare skin of her shoulder.

Jamilah tugged her coat from his hands and said curtly, ‘It’s fine. I’ve got it. I’m sorry you had to touch me.’

His car was just drawing up, and he turned her to face him with his hands on her shoulders. Jamilah hated that she was feeling so raw. But the stark hunger etched onto his face sent tremors of awareness through her. Along with confusion.

‘You think that I don’t want to touch you?’

Jamilah couldn’t speak. In her peripheral vision she could see the driver standing and holding the door open, but they weren’t moving. Salman spoke again in low husky tones.

‘If I hadn’t got you out of that suite as quickly as I had, I think it’s safe to say that your dress would already be in ribbons and we’d be indulging in the most frantic and urgent coupling of our lives. All I can think about is how I want to pull you onto the back seat of that car, spread your legs around me and take you right now—because quite frankly the suite is too far away. I’ve never before contemplated stopping a lift to make love to a woman, but I just did. Don’t you have any idea how much I want you?’

Jamilah’s mouth opened and closed with shock. Any resolve that had recently fired through her was washed away by a rush of desire so intense that she literally ached for Salman to do exactly as he’d said. All she could see was their naked limbs entwined, dewed with sweat, hearts beating frantically as they came closer and closer to the explosive pinnacle.