Sandra Marton - Pleasure - The Sheikh's Defiant Bride

Despite everything else—his anger, her intransigence, the legal quagmire he’d stepped into—his body was responding.

He was growing hard. Growing hard? He was already so erect he was like stone.

And she knew it.

Suddenly she became absolutely still. Her face lifted to his; he tried to read the dark mix of rage and fear in her eyes but it was impossible.

He only knew there was something else there, too.

Hunger.

He groaned. Brought her hand to him. Let her feel what she had done to him. And when she gave a hot little cry, he brought his mouth to hers. Kissed her, kissed her without mercy. She hissed like a wildcat. Her sharp teeth sank into his bottom lip. The taste of blood, of anger, of something darker and even more primitive was in his mouth and then her tongue was dancing against his, her hands were in his hair, she was kissing him back and moving, moving against him.

He slid his hands inside her robe.

Cupped one breast. Caught his breath as the nipple budded under the brush of his thumb. As she cried out and lifted herself against him.

“Yes,” he said thickly, “yes …”

His hand moved down her body, over her belly, brushed over her mons. She cried out again and as he kissed her, she sucked the tip of his tongue into her mouth.

Tariq grabbed the lapels of her robe. Jerked them open. Began pushing the robe from her shoulders but suddenly, she went crazy, pulled away from him, slammed her fists against his chest.

“No,” she said, her voice trembling, “no, no, no!”

He didn’t listen. Couldn’t listen. He wanted this, had to have this. And then she said “no” again and this time he was the one who jerked back, his breathing ragged.

She had played this game with him before.

“Get out!” she whispered. Her voice trembled. “Do you hear me? Get out!”

He stared at her and thought how easy it would be to finish this. He could carry her to the bed, show her what happened when a woman teased a man beyond endurance.

But the stakes were too high.

There was a new playing piece on the game board: the child they’d created together without sex, without emotion. The child she would not give him and he could not permit her to keep.

He turned away, ran his hands through his hair, forced himself to calm down. Then he swung toward her, his face a mask.

“I will not take the child from you,” he said, his voice rough and harsh and suddenly shot with the accent he had surely lost, years ago.

“No,” she said with conviction, “you most assuredly will not!”

“What I will do,” Tariq said, with the assurance of a man who’d just solved the riddle of the ages, “is take you as my wife.”

RUGGED cliffs rose above the Hudson River.

In the small hours of the night, the road that traversed those cliffs was almost deserted. Though the place was little more than an hour from the heart of Manhattan, Tariq could almost imagine he was racing his Porsche on a cliff above one of the wide mountain rivers of Dubaac.

His foot was almost to the floor; last time he’d bothered checking, the speedometer needle hovered at one-forty. It was a dangerous speed for a dangerous road, which made it perfect for a man still filled with a savage rage.

He had proposed marriage and Madison Whitney had laughed in his face.

His hands tightened on the wheel.

At first, he’d thought the expression on her face was one of shock. Who would have blamed her? He’d shocked himself but then, what other choice was there but marriage?

Whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t laughter.

“Me?” she’d said. “Marry you?”

Who did she think she was? She wasn’t expected to spin straw into gold, for Ishtar’s sake! He wasn’t Rumpelstiltskin. He was a sheikh. A prince. And he’d offered to make her his wife!

Fury had surged through him. He’d grabbed her by the elbows, hoisted her to her toes, imagined shaking her until her teeth rattled.

Imagined something far more primitive. Carrying her to the bed. Tearing off her robe. Taking her again and again until her laughter turned to cries of passion, until she understood the consequences of taunting a man until she’d stripped him of the last vestiges of self-control.

But he hadn’t.

He’d hung onto just enough sanity to wonder if that wasn’t exactly what she wanted, that she’d revel in turning him into a beast instead of a man.

He’d spat out a name for women like her, shoved her aside and stormed from her apartment.

Now he was on this road, letting out his anger and frustration, the Porsche as responsive to his touch as the woman had been.

And who in hell gave a damn about that?

He would never deliberately choose a wife like Madison Whitney. So what if she was beautiful? The world was filled with beautiful women. So what if she had him dancing on a sexual tightrope? He knew scores of women who would happily sate his hunger.

Why would he want a wife who played sexual games? Who teased and taunted? Who went from sex-kitten to defiant wild-cat in a heartbeat?

The road made a sharp turn. He took it without slowing down, finding satisfaction in the squeal of the tires and rush of adrenaline that came with the knowledge that he had sufficient control over the Porsche to keep it from skidding over the edge of the cliff.

If only he could control this damnable female the same way.

Still, he’d been willing to deal with that. She was not his idea of a wife but what choice did he have?

He wanted his child.

And he could change the woman.

He had trained horses and dogs and birds of prey. Not that training a woman would be the same: he was a modern man, fully aware of women’s rights but, after all, the same principles would apply.

There’d be rules. Goals. Rewards for good behavior and penalties for anything that wasn’t.

She’d balk, but she was intelligent. She’d learn quickly enough and then everyone would benefit. His people would have their heir, his child would have its birthright and Madison would have a husband.

That was obviously what she needed. A husband to tame her. That she’d even thought to have a child without a husband spoke volumes about the kind of obstinate, stubborn woman she was.

He eased his foot off the gas pedal, let the car’s speed drop until the dark trees no longer flashed by and swung into what a sign identified as a scenic overlook. Then he let down the windows, shut off the engine and let the night breeze cool his flushed face.

Madison carried his child. His child, and he would not be locked out of its life.

The question, he thought, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel, the question was, what could he do about it?

There was no point in calling Strickland for legal advice. The man had already made it clear he didn’t have any. Besides, he had no intention of telling him that he’d asked Madison to marry him and she had laughed in his face.

He’d be damned if he’d tell that to anyone.

Tariq heaved a sigh.

He was a man of this century in all possible ways. He traveled by private jet; his life was organized around his BlackBerry. He could not imagine life without computers and cell phones.

Still, there were times he could see the benefits in the old ways.

Centuries ago, if a man of his people wanted a woman who didn’t want him, all he had to do was kidnap her, sleep with her, then state, publicly, that he had made her his wife.

Vestiges of the custom lived on, even today.

A groom might carry off his bride on their wedding night. It was done in fun, to the cheers of the guests and with the bride pretending to fight her kidnapper.

Actually, among some of his people, those who clung to the old ways, it was still all that was necessary for a marriage to be legal.