MIKAEL REACHED PAST Jemma and turned on the small glass lamp on the bedside table, flooding the room with soft ruby light. The bed beneath Jemma gleamed with luxurious red satin, while the large jeweled mirror on the ceiling reflected the silk-covered walls and the decadent satin sheets.
With an irritated flick, he yanked the hem of Jemma’s violet nightgown up, pulling it over her head and then tossing the scrap of violet silk onto the floor, before kicking off his own pajama bottoms. “We don’t need these anymore,” he said flatly, “now that we’re in the Crimson Chamber.”
Jemma scrambled back on the bed. “You’ve lost your mind.”
“Maybe. Or maybe I’ve lost all patience. I’m not sure which right now,” he said, grabbing her ankle and pulling her back toward him.
Jemma sprawled back on the bed, her long dark hair spilling across the crimson satin, her green eyes flashing. She’d never looked more beautiful. He would have her now. No more games. She was his. He’d chosen her. Married her. She was his queen.
He stretched out over her, and settled his weight between her thighs, his arousal pressing against her core.
She was hot, wet and his length rubbed against her slick heat. It would be so easy to thrust into her, and take her.
So easy to prove to her how much she wanted him.
He knew she craved him physically.
He knew he could make her scream and climax. He could draw out the orgasm and make it last for hours, too.
But that wasn’t the point. His expertise as a lover wasn’t in question. His future as a husband was. His father might have failed as a husband, but Mikael wouldn’t.
Mikael dropped his head, and kissed her neck just above her collarbone, and then kissed higher on her neck, at the spot beneath her ear. He kissed the hollow and then the earlobe. He caught her earlobe in his teeth, his teeth lightly scraping, his breath lightly blowing in her ear.
He felt her nipples pucker and harden against his chest. He released her wrists and stroked her arms, moving in toward her ribs to cup the sides of her breasts, her skin soft and warm and then he stroked out again until his hands covered hers, his fingers linking with hers.
He kissed the side of her jaw, kissed the pulse beating frantically in the hollow beneath her ear and then he covered her mouth with his and kissed her, deeply, his tongue thrusting into her mouth, probing, possessing.
Her thighs parted wider for him. Her hips arched, her body rocking up against him.
“You aren’t really angry because I helped your mother,” he said, lifting his head to look down into her face. The paleness in her face was gone. Her cheeks flushed pink. She wanted him. “You’re angry because you’re afraid. You’re angry because you’re afraid these gifts—particularly this gift to your mother—will trap you in Saidia, with me.”
Her eyes widened and she bit down into her lower lip.
He was right. That was her fear.
His chest grew tight. He felt an unaccountable pang, the pang eerily reminiscent of the ache and loss he’d felt after his mother left Saidia all those years ago. “Laeela, I made you a promise. You give me eight days and nights, and I will not keep you here against your will—”
“It’s not you I’m afraid of,” she interrupted. “It’s me. I believe you will let me go. I believe you will put me on a plane should I request it. But I’m afraid that I might not request it, might not insist on it, and then everything that is uniquely me and mine, everything that I have worked so hard for all these years, will be gone.”
“But if you remain here, you gain a new identity and a new life.”
“As your wife. But I won’t be anyone without you, and I vowed years ago to never be dependent on a man, much less a powerful man, and here in Saidia, I will be completely dependent on you.”
“Is that such a bad thing if the powerful man is a just man?”
Her eyes turned liquid and she swallowed hard. “You already make my heart ache.”
“I think we would make a good team, laeela.”
She struggled to smile. “Maybe you should just make love to me.”
He dipped his head, kissed her lips. “Good idea. So what do you want, my beautiful bride? How can I please you today?”
“You,” she said. “I just want you.”
* * *
Jemma saw heat flare in Mikael’s eyes and felt him harden against her.
She rocked her hips up, savoring the sensation of him against her. He was hard and warm, so warm, and she couldn’t remember ever wanting anyone like this. “Make love to me, Mikael,” she added, wrapping her arms around his neck and sinking her fingers into his crisp hair. “I need you.”
His mouth covered hers, his tongue parting her lips to take her mouth even as he thrust smoothly, deeply into her body, filling her, stretching her.
He felt unbelievable.
She felt unbelievable.
Jemma’s eyes burned and her chest ached, emotion bubbling up inside of her. Her arms slid down around his shoulders to hold him tighter. He was big and powerful and yet he fit her, and felt perfect to her.
Mikael kissed her, drawing her tongue into his mouth, sucking the tip even as he buried himself deeper into her body. She welcomed his weight and the fullness that stole her breath, and then he began to move. His lean sculpted hips dipped and he pressed deeper, then withdrew, only to stroke deep into her again.
She sighed and arched as he hit a spot inside her that tingled with pleasure. “More,” she said, pressing up against him as he drove into her.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“It doesn’t hurt. It feels so good.” And it was true. It felt delicious everywhere. She felt delicious. Everything inside her was warm and sweet and bright. She felt like sunshine and honey, orange and spice and each stroke made her sigh a little deeper, and press against him a little harder.
“Don’t stop,” she whispered, meeting each of his thrusts, needing the friction, feeling the tension build. Each stroke of his body made her nerve endings tense, tighten, tingle.
He drove into her faster, increasing the rhythm. She loved the rhythm, the deep hard thrusts, the slickness of their bodies together, the warmth of his chest against hers. She could smell the scent of him, and them together, and it smelled right, felt right, more right than anything she’d ever felt before.
It didn’t make sense, but then, none of this made sense and maybe passion never did.
The teasing tension within her quickened, sharpened, becoming bigger, and more powerful.
She panted and strained against him, wanting to come, not sure she could come and then he slipped his hand between them, stroking her even as he thrust hard into her wet tight body.
She wasn’t prepared for the intensity of the orgasm and she screamed his name as he continued to stroke her, pushing her over the edge, her control shattering, her body climaxing, convulsively tightening around him.
He tensed, strained, his big powerful body arching as he buried himself deep inside her. She was still convulsing around him, her body squeezing him. With a guttural cry, he pulled out, making sure he spilled his seed into the sheets and not her.
She rolled over on the bed, on to her back, eyes closed, still struggling to catch her breath. He followed, lying on his side, next to her, his hand settling low on her hip.
She floated, feeling blissfully relaxed, and yet also very aware of Mikael at her side. She could feel the pressure of his hand, the warmth of his skin, smell his masculine spicy scent, practically hear his steady heartbeat. He was more real to her right now than she was.
He’d become her world in four days. It was exactly as she’d feared.
Jemma opened her eyes to find Mikael looking at her, his dark eyes so beautiful but so impossible to read. “Yes?” she whispered, dazzled, dazed.
“How do you feel?”
She let out a soft laugh and she turned to him, moving into his arms to rest her face on his chest. She could hear his heartbeat, smell his scent.
He smelled good. He felt good. He felt perfect, really.
“Good,” she said softly, smiling unsteadily, because her emotions were bubbling up high and fast. “Very, very good.”
They slept for an hour like that and Jemma woke first, sleepily stirring but couldn’t move as Mikael’s arms were around her and his muscular thigh was tucked between hers.
She lifted her head, looked down at him. He was still asleep, his thick black lashes beautiful onyx crescents against the gold of his cheek.
He looked different asleep. Younger. Boyish. Just a man, not a sheikh.
She put her head back down and nestled closer, liking the weight of his arm, the texture of his skin. He felt right. Perfect.
Did other women feel this way after making love? She’d had sex before but it hadn’t felt like this. Like something important had happened. Something significant.
Even now she felt the rippling of emotion, like aftershocks. Something inside her felt aware, awake. Stirred.
Was this love? It couldn’t be. She had to be feeling merely the side effect of seduction, and passion, all the result of his expert lovemaking.
If that was the case, then why did her very heartbeat seem to repeat his name? Mik-ael. Mik-ael. Mik-ael.
A moment later, he shifted, rolling on to his back, carrying her on top of him. His hand tangled in her long hair, and he parted her thighs, pushing her down against his hips. He was hard again, his erection rubbing against her. “Are you too sore to let me love you again?” he asked, his deep voice as husky and smoky as his dark eyes.
“No.”
He lifted her, drawing her down on him, and with his hands on her hips, he helped her ride him, slow and deep, and then faster as the pleasure built.
After they both came, she tumbled forward onto his chest, and he held her. Her eyes closed. She listened to the thud of his heart and breathed him in.
He felt so good. He made her feel safe. Happy.
She was happy. This was the best place she’d been in months, emotionally, physically. In years.
Silence stretched between them, silence and a tingling awareness that everything had changed.
Mikael breathed in, out, and she traveled with his breath, his chest lifting her, carrying her.
That’s how it’d been when they were joined. She’d felt lifted, carried, supported.
It had been so intimate, and yet it wasn’t just sex. It felt like so much more, maybe because it had been so intense, and so physical, it’d demanded all of her, and she’d surrendered.
Making love to him, she gave herself up to him, offering him everything—her body, her mind, her emotions...her heart.
Why her heart? It made no sense. Jemma protected her heart. She’d learned it was necessary for survival. And yet in one morning of lovemaking, she’d dropped her defenses, lost her boundaries and become someone else. Or something else.
Changed.
There was that word again. She couldn’t help going back to it. Changed. Altered. Shattered.
Confused.
How could sex do that? How could sensation be so powerful? She didn’t understand and yet everything inside her felt open. Her heart felt open.
She pressed her palm to his chest, savoring the steady thud of his heart. “Did you really buy my mother a house?” she asked huskily.
His fingers played with her hair, twisting the long strands. “I will go check and see if the escrow has closed. I expect it will have.”
“And then it will be hers?”
“And hers alone,” he agreed.
Jemma hesitated. “Even if I leave here in four days?”
“No one can take it from her.”
Jemma was profoundly moved, but also troubled. “I don’t know what to say. I know I should thank you—”
“You don’t need to thank me. I didn’t buy it for you. I did it for her.”
“You don’t even know her.”
“I met her at Morgan’s wedding. She was kind to me. I liked her. She reminded me of my mother.”
* * *
Mikael left her to check on the status of the house and Jemma showered and dressed, slipping into the long ruby beaded skirt and matching ruby top laid out on the bed. Breakfast was served in the courtyard. She’d just sat down and had her first coffee when Mikael returned.
“Escrow closed. The paperwork has been signed. The house is hers,” he said, taking the chair opposite Jemma’s.
“Thank you,” Jemma said. “Thank you for caring for her. Thank you for wanting the best for her.”
“I do for her what I should have done for my mother.” His brow furrowed, and his voice dropped, cracking. “I was not good to my mother. I failed her, and I will carry that pain, and that shame, with me forever.”
She reached across the table, and covered his hand with hers. “How did you fail her? What did you do?”
“Nothing. That is what I did. Absolutely nothing.”
“I don’t understand.”
“When I explain, you’ll be appalled. And you should be. My behavior was selfish and it still disgusts me, but it’s too late to fix things. Too late to make amends.”
Jemma winced at his sharp tone, his voice laced with self-loathing and scorn. “Explain to me.”
“I was twenty-two when I learned the truth about my father and mother, that my father had lied to her, and had destroyed their wedding contract so he could take another wife. I was furious with my father,” he said, “but I’d lost my mother years ago, when I was just a boy, eleven, and I was terrified of losing my father, too. He had so many other children, so many other sons he could admire and love, and so I pretended I didn’t know the truth about the divorce. I pretended that I didn’t know who my father was—a liar, a cheat—and I acted as if my father was this wonderful man.”
“You were his son,” she said. “You were showing him respect.”
“My father had turned his back on my mother. I understood he expected me to do the same. And so I did, even when she came to me on my twenty-fifth birthday, asking for help. She was nervous about her future. She wanted financial assistance, and advice. She was worried she wasn’t managing her money well. She was worried she’d run out if she didn’t have the right investments.”
“Did you help her?”
“No.”
“No?”
His jaw tightened. “I took her to coffee and told her I couldn’t help her, that she’d created this situation by leaving my father. I told her there was nothing I could do.” Mikael averted his face, staring off across the courtyard, his features set. “She didn’t cry. She didn’t beg. She just folded up her papers and slipped them back into her purse, then kissed me, and left.”
Jemma’s eyes burned. “You were young.”
“I wasn’t young. I was angry.” He turned to look at her, expression fierce. “I wanted to punish her for leaving me all those years ago, for leaving me with a father who barely remembered me because he had so many wives and sons and daughters, all clamoring for his attention. So I rejected her, wanting her to hurt as I had hurt.”
Silence stretched.
He drew a deep, rough breath. “I never did help her with her investments, even though I had degrees in finance and economics. Even though I worked in London as an institutional investor until I was nearly thirty.” Mikael shifted restlessly. “I knew money. I knew how to make money. And I could have aided her, protected her, but I didn’t. So she went to your father and trusted him, and we all know how that turned out.”
“But she didn’t go to my father until after Morgan’s wedding. At least, that’s what I thought you said.”
“Yes. But she went to him because she’d made some bad investments earlier, and your father promised he could do impossible things with what capital she had left. He could get her an incredible return on her investment with him, and so she gave him everything. Everything. And he stole it all.”
Jemma winced, sickened all over again by her father’s betrayal. “That’s on his head, not yours.”
Mikael turned his head, looked at her from beneath his dense black lashes. “My mother should have died of old age, comfortable in her American home. But she lost her home, along with her nest egg. Heartbroken, and terrified, she took her life. Hung herself in the hall of her home the day she was to be evicted.”
Jemma stared at him, aghast. “She killed herself?”
He nodded. His jaw worked, and he ran a hand down his throat, as if trying to find the words. “She was just fifty-four,” he said when he could finally speak again. “But she’d lost her home...again. She knew she couldn’t go to my father. She was afraid to come to me. We were still rebuilding our relationship and she was afraid I’d be disappointed in her, so she panicked. She did what she thought was the best answer for all.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I still have that last note, the note she left, saying she was sorry, and begging me to forgive her for being stupid and weak.”
He turned his head abruptly but not before Jemma saw the suffering in his eyes.
For several moments there was just silence, an endless, impossible silence heavy with grief.
Jemma reached out and placed her hand over his. “People make mistakes,” she whispered.
“It’s my fault she died,” he said. “At first I blamed my father, and your father, but I am the one responsible for this. I did this to her. I rejected her. Refused her. I left her no hope—”
“Would you have helped her if she came to you about her house, Mikael?” she interrupted, leaving her seat and moving around the table to kneel before him. “If she’d told you her situation, that she had nowhere to go, and no way to pay her bills, would you have taken care of her?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure? Or is that what you say now?”
He stiffened, shoulders squaring. His dark eyes burned down at her. “You don’t think I would?”
“I know you would,” she said, taking his hands, holding them tightly. “But do you? That’s the important question. Because until you believe you would have helped her, you won’t be able to forgive...you, her, or your father.”