Maisey Yates - Sheikh's Desert Desire - Carrying the Sheikh's Heir

Rashid’s head dropped slowly toward hers and she closed her eyes, tilting her mouth up until he captured it. She sighed—or maybe that was him. But then he started to move and she no longer cared about anything except what he was doing to her.

He was gentle at first. But as she arched her body into his, he took her harder and harder, until they were moving into each other in an almost punishing rhythm. She ran her hands over his skin until he gripped her wrists and shoved her hands over her head, binding her.

It was erotic, sensual and utterly exhilarating. Their skin grew hot and moist as they tangled together and the tension inside her coiled tighter than the lid on a pressure cooker.

And then she couldn’t hold on a moment longer. He was too good at this, too compelling, and she came in a rush of blinding intensity that left her gasping for air and crying his name at the same time.

She felt his body tighten inside hers, and then he flew over the edge with her, his breath a harsh groan in her ear. They lay together for a few moments, hearts pounding, skin slicked with perspiration, breaths razoring in and out. Sheridan’s legs trembled from gripping his hips so tightly with her thighs. She eased them down and lay still beneath him, her eyes closed and her brain finally began to whir into consciousness again.

What did one say after sex like that? Especially with a man you hardly knew and definitely didn’t like?

She didn’t get a chance to find out.

He pushed off her and stood, and cool air wafted over her skin, chilling her. She wanted to grab the covers and pull them up, and yet she couldn’t seem to move. Because he was staring down at her, his face stark in the darkness, his chest rising and falling with more than exertion.

He was angry. Or tormented. She wasn’t sure which, and it alarmed her. She sat up and wrapped her arms around her knees, trying to hide herself.

“Thank you, Sheridan,” he said, his voice so courteous and calm. And cold. Sheridan shivered at the frost in his tone. He bent down a moment and then straightened, laying her nightgown and underwear on the bed at her feet. “Get dressed and I will escort you back to your room.”

* * *

Rashid was up at dawn. He’d tossed and turned for the past couple of hours in a bed that still smelled like the woman he’d shared it with. The corners of his mouth turned down in a frown as his stomach twisted with guilt.

But why should that be? He enjoyed sex as well as the next man. He’d only ever loved one woman with his heart, but he’d loved many women in the physical way. He was not a monk and he hadn’t been celibate for the past five years. It had taken him over a year to take a woman to his bed again, but he’d done so.

Sex with Sheridan Sloane was nothing out of the ordinary for him. And yet it was. Because she might be carrying his child, and though he’d been so focused and intent on her body, on tasting her and enjoying her, he hadn’t expected the gravity of that fact to hit him with such a jolt after he’d found his pleasure in her body.

He’d bedded the woman who could be pregnant with his heir. A woman he didn’t love, but who he would have to take as his wife if she was.

Still, he should be happy he’d finally released some of this pent-up tension. He was not. He was strangely restless. Keyed up.

Ready to explore Sheridan’s creamy skin and secret recesses again and again.

That was the part that unnerved him. The sex had been pretty spectacular, hot and exciting and intense, and he’d been utterly focused on it, lost in it.

But then it was over and they’d lain there together, breathing hard, her heart throbbing against his own—and he’d wanted to escape. He didn’t understand how he could be so cold and unemotional one minute and so gutted the next.

She’d gutted him. Sex with her had gotten into his head in a way that sex with other women did not—and he didn’t like it one bit. So he’d risen and gone to get her robe from the terrace while she dressed. When he’d come back, he’d handed it to her silently. It had been cold from being outdoors, but she’d put it on anyway and belted it tight.

Then he’d escorted her back to her quarters because he hadn’t been certain she could find her way alone. She hadn’t spoken on the walk back down the corridors. He’d stopped in front of the door to the women’s quarters, vowing to himself to station a guard there at night in the future instead of outside the entrance to the private wing.

There was another way to her rooms, through his own, but he’d refused to use it. It would be too easy to go through that entry again if he started now, so he simply didn’t.

She’d hesitated at the door as if she wanted to say something to him, but he’d put his hands in her hair and held her face up for his kiss. To silence her. To end any awkwardness.

When she’d been rubbery and clinging to him, when his body was beginning to respond with fresh heat that he knew would ignite into a fire at any moment, he’d let her go, striding away without another word.

Her reaction had been a very resounding door slam. But it was for the best, really. He had too much to do, too many things to worry about, and no time to navigate the mire of repeatedly bedding a woman who might be carrying his heir. A woman who might soon be his wife.

If she was angry with him, so much the better. He’d intended to be nice to her, but he’d gone way overboard. And now he would have to stay away from her, as he’d intended in the first place.

* * *

Sheridan didn’t believe that Rashid would come to see her that day. After the confusing—and paradigm changing—previous night, she didn’t really think his decision to talk to her would stand.

And of course she was right. As the day wore into night, there was no sign of Rashid. She was allowed to wander the palace, as he’d promised, but she did not bump into him anywhere. She wore one of the dresses from the dressmaker, along with a hijab that covered her hair, and then she spent fascinating hours walking through the palace and studying the architecture.

But in spite of her enjoyment of everything the palace had to offer, she remained preoccupied with Rashid. With last night. She couldn’t think of it without blushing. She’d had sex with him—hot, wild, crazy, passionate sex—after knowing him for two days.

Worse, she wanted more. She knew it wasn’t going to happen—that it shouldn’t happen—but she couldn’t help but imagine Rashid coming to her room in the night. He would peel her clothing away, and then use that magical mouth of his to drive her insane with wild need.

Sheridan fanned herself absently with her hand. The guard who strode silently along wherever she went didn’t bat an eyelash. She’d tried to talk to him about mundane things, but he remained silent.

When she ventured out to the stables after dinner, he followed. But when she tried to touch one of the horses, just to pet its velvety nose, he stopped her.

“His Majesty would not want you to get bitten, miss.”

“I’ve been around horses before,” she said, more than a little surprised that he spoke English. She’d started to think he was ignoring her because he didn’t speak her language. “I think I can tell when they’re going to bite.”

Still, she strolled along until they came to a room at the end of the stable. She looked over the top of the door and practically melted.

“Puppies!” She turned to her guard. “What kind of dogs are they?”

He seemed to hesitate, as if he didn’t want to engage in conversation, but then he relented. “They are Canaan dogs, miss. A hardy and ancient breed.”

The puppies were small and squat, and had curled tails. They almost looked like huskies, except they weren’t gray and didn’t have thick fur. The mother dog was nowhere to be seen at the moment.