From desert seduction…

…to carrying the sheikh’s baby!

Kasia’s thrilling encounter with Prince Raif rocked her to her core. As did his marriage proposal! Yes, she’d given him her innocence after his daring desert rescue. Yes, their chemistry had been intensely strong. But independent Kasia didn’t need or want a husband. She reluctantly fled, thinking she’d never see him again…

Until weeks later at a lavish party he’s right there, looking furious—and dangerously sexy! Kasia can’t hide the truth—she’s pregnant with his royal heir. And this time it’s clear Raif won’t let her go!

USA TODAY bestselling author HEIDI RICE lives in London, England. She is married with two teenage sons—which gives her rather too much of an insight into the male psyche—and also works as a film journalist. She adores her job, which involves getting swept up in a world of high emotion, sensual excitement, funny and feisty women, sexy and tortured men and glamorous locations where laundry doesn’t exist. Once she turns off her computer she often does chores—usually involving laundry!

Also by Heidi Rice

Vows They Can’t Escape

The Virgin’s Shock Baby

Captive at Her Enemy’s Command

Bound by Their Scandalous Baby

Carrying the Sheikh’s Baby

Claiming My Untouched Mistress

Contracted as His Cinderella Bride

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Claimed for the Desert Prince’s Heir

Heidi Rice

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09787-1

CLAIMED FOR THE DESERT PRINCE’S HEIR

© 2019 Heidi Rice

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

Note to Readers

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 Text to speech

To Daisy.

Thanks for the fabulous brainstorming session that

turned Raif from a desert rogue into a Modern hero!

Mwah! xx

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

EPILOGUE

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

KASIA SALAH SQUINTED at the heat haze on the horizon and the ominous cloud of dust that shimmered above it, then glared at her mobile phone.

No service.

She breathed the swear word she’d learned during her years at Cambridge University as sweat collected on her upper lip and trickled down her back beneath her T-shirt and the voluminous robe she wore to stave off the heat and dust of the desert landscape. It was the sort of swear word she would have been punished by her grandmother for even knowing—let alone saying—once upon a time. She tucked her smartphone into the back pocket of her shorts, taking several more frustrating moments to locate it under the miles of fabric. Then transferred her glare to the engine of the black SUV—and swore again, louder this time. After all, there was no one within a fifty-mile radius to hear her—and it felt empowering, even if it wasn’t going to help.

Why hadn’t she thought to take a satellite phone with her before leaving the palace for this research trip? Or a companion? Preferably one who knew a bit more than she did about car mechanics? She sighed and kicked the tyre of the broken-down Jeep.

It had been reckless, over-confident and overly optimistic…her three favourite flaws.

Then again, she hadn’t intended to break down in the middle of nowhere with no phone signal.

Sheikh Zane Ali Nawari Khan, her best friend Catherine’s husband, the ruler of Narabia and, nominally, her boss, had worked long and hard to bring internet connectivity and a cellphone network to large parts of the kingdom. But she suspected she was too close to the borderlands here—an undeveloped desert, flanked by the mountain region in the south, populated only by the Kholadi nomads. From what she could remember, the Kholadi didn’t even have running water, so the chances of them needing a phone signal were fairly slim.

Using the robe to cover her hands, so she didn’t burn them on the hot metal, she unhooked the defunct vehicle’s bonnet. It slammed down, the sound echoing in the febrile air. Luckily, she had given Cat and her assistant Nadia a detailed itinerary of her day trip, so when she didn’t return this evening they would send out a search party.

But that still meant spending a night in the Jeep.

Wasn’t that going to be fun, especially when the temperature plummeted as soon as the sun dipped below the desert floor.

The hot, dry wind swept a sprinkle of sand into her face. Tugging the robe’s head scarf over her nose and mouth so she didn’t inhale the gritty swirls, she peered towards the horizon. The cloud she had spotted earlier had grown, spreading across the land in both directions and blotting out the shimmering heat haze like a malevolent force.

Adrenaline kicked at her ribs like one of Zane’s thoroughbred Arabian stallions. And the anxiety she’d been keeping a tight rein on rippled down her spine.

Was that a sandstorm?

And was it headed her way?

She’d never experienced one before, having been cloistered in the luxurious safety of the Golden Palace’s women’s quarters for most of her life.

But she’d heard about the sandstorms. The carnage they wrought could strike terror into the hearts of grown men and women. Her grandmother had whispered about them in hushed reverential tones; how the worst of them had laid waste to the kingdom, turning farmland back into desert and causing numerous fatalities.

She swallowed down the panic threatening to overwhelm her.

Stop being a drama queen.

It was another one of her flaws. Seeing everything too vividly.

Her grandmother, for all her innate wisdom, had been a drama queen, too. Kasia had been only four years old when she’d gone to live with her, eventually becoming part of the palace staff herself when the old Sheikh had died, and the new Sheikh, Zane, had hired Catherine Smith, a Cambridge scholar, to write a book on the kingdom.

Getting a job as Catherine’s personal assistant at the age of nineteen had changed her life—especially when Cat had married Zane and become Narabia’s Queen, opening Kasia’s eyes to an exciting world beyond the palace walls. She wasn’t that over-eager, over-imaginative and overly romantic teenager any more—hiding all her insecurities behind a veil of unfulfillable dreams. She was a grown woman now with dreams she was already achieving of becoming an environmental scientist who would save Narabia’s agricultural land from the desert that threatened to consume it.

Some sand and a night in a Jeep wasn’t going to faze her…much. In fact, a night spent in the desert might afford her some useful research data.

And who said this was even a sandstorm? There had been no reports of any adverse weather, because she’d checked both the local and the satellite reports before she’d left the palace. She might be reckless, but she was not an idiot.

She repeated the reassuring words, but her gaze remained superglued to the horizon.

The dark, impenetrable cloud grew, blocking out the sun. It had to be at least thirty or forty miles wide, and although it was still a mile away it was advancing fast. The noise cut through the desert silence. Tiny creatures—a lizard, a snake, a rodent—scurried and slithered past her boots, rushing to burrow into the ground. The bright, cloudless sky darkened.

Fear clawed at her throat as her mind tried to engage. Should she get into the SUV? Should she get under it?

Then she saw something—a blot on the horizon—emerge from the cloud like a bullet. It took a while for the shimmering blot to solidify into a silhouette. It was a person, on a horse, galloping fast.

Panic and anxiety tightened around her throat.

Black flowing robes lifted in the wind behind the charging figure, like the wings of a giant predatory bird, as the horse’s hooves became audible over the roar of the sand.

The rider was a man. A very big man. His outline broad and strong, the fluid graceful movements powerful and overwhelming as he seemed to become one with the stallion as it galloped at full speed. He wore a headdress, masking most of his face.

The panic wrapped around her heart, the thundering beat matching the clump-clump-clump of the approaching hooves—as she saw the horse and rider change course and veer straight towards her.

Then she noticed the rifle strap crossing his broad chest.

A bandit. What else could he be, miles from civilisation?

Run, Kasia, run.

The silent scream echoed inside her head. The howling winds lifted the sand around her. Then in her grandmother’s voice—a voice she had always associated with salvation—Stay calm. Don’t panic. He’s just a man.

But even as she tried to rationalise the fear, liberate herself from the panic—reminding her of the sight of her mother walking away for the last time—a strange melting sensation at her core plunged into her abdomen.

A shout rang out, muffled by his scarf, in a dialect she didn’t recognise.

He was almost upon her.

For goodness’ sake, Kasia, stop standing there like a ninny and move.

The call to action helped drown out the fear of being alone and defenceless, a fear she had spent years conquering in childhood.

You’re not that little girl who wasn’t good enough. You’re brave and smart and accomplished.

She scrambled round the Jeep, wrenched open the passenger door, and dived into the stuffy interior. The sand peppering the windows sounded like rifle shots as her hand landed on the pistol in the passenger seat.

Zane had insisted she learn to shoot before he would allow her to go into the desert alone. But as her fingers closed over the metal, her heart butted her tonsils.

She knew how to shoot at a target with some degree of accuracy, but she had never shot a living thing.

The charging horse came to an abrupt stop only inches from the SUV’s bumper. Scrambling out, the sand slicing her cheeks like a whip, Kasia lifted the pistol in both hands and pressed a trembling finger to the trigger.

‘Stop there or I’ll shoot,’ she shouted in English, because it had become her first language after five years in the UK.

Chocolate eyes narrowed above the mask—glittering with intent and fury. The warmth in her abdomen became hot and heavy. And all the more terrifying.

The bandit swung a leg over the horse’s neck and jumped down in one fluid movement without speaking, those dark eyes burning into her soul.

She jerked back a step and the pistol went off. The pop was barely audible in the storm, but the recoil threw her down hard on her backside and she saw the man jerk back.

Had she hit him?

Before the thought had a chance to register, the stallion reared, its hooves pawing the air above her head. The bandit caught the horse’s reins before the animal could trample her into the desert floor, and she felt a rush of relief. Within seconds, though, he loomed over her again and the relief that she hadn’t killed him turned to panic. She scrambled back on her bottom, kicked out with her feet.

‘Get away from me.’

Where was the gun?

She searched for it frantically, but her vision was all but obscured by the swirling sands. He had become the only focus, the ominous outline bearing down on her.

Long fingers shot from the storm and gripped her arm. He hauled her up, bent down and hefted her onto his shoulder with such speed and strength she could barely grasp what was happening before she found herself straddling the huge black horse’s sweat-soaked back.

She lifted her leg, trying to dismount, but before she could get her knee over the pommel, he had mounted behind her.

He grasped the reins with one hand and banded his other arm around her midriff, pulling her into the unyielding strength of his body.

She let out an ‘Oomph…’ as the air was expelled from her lungs. The iron band of his forearm pressed into her breasts. Then suddenly they were flying, her bottom bouncing on the saddle—abandoning the Jeep, which was already half-buried in sand. Her body was forced to succumb to the will of his much bigger, much stronger one as he bent forward, his robes shielding her from the sand stinging her eyes. She tried to cry out, to fight the lethargy wrought by terror, the visceral heat coursing through her body making her too aware of every place their bodies touched.

He’s kidnapping you. You must fight. You must survive.

The words screamed in her head, but her breathing was so rapid now it was painful, her whole body confined, subdued, overwhelmed by his and the storm of sand and dust and darkness raging around them.

They seemed to ride for ever through the swirl of sand—until eventually her fear and panic stopped crushing her ribs and her body melted into exhaustion. The rhythm of the horse’s movements seeped into her bones, the man’s unyielding strength cocooning her against the elements.

Was this Stockholm syndrome? she wondered vaguely, her tired mind no longer capable of engaging with the terror as her body succumbed to the impenetrable darkness, the controlled purpose of her captor’s movements and the stultifying heat coursing through her.

As her eyes drifted shut and her bones turned to water, she dropped down through the years, until she became that little girl again. But this time she was no longer alone and defenceless, her mother gone without a backward glance, but sheltered in strong arms against the storm.

CHAPTER TWO

KASIA WOKE AGAIN in fits and starts. First the bristle of cold on her face, and the heavy weight at her back, both suffocating and warming her. As Kasia opened her eyes, her heart swelled into her throat.

Red light glowed on the horizon, starlight was sprinkled overhead. Shooting stars shot across the sky, illuminating the desert dunes. Her thighs trembled and she became aware of the large warm bulk between them.

A horse. She was on a horse.

His horse.

Memory flooded back.

Kidnapped!

She’d been kidnapped by the man whose muscular forearm banded around her waist. And whose body radiated heat as it cocooned hers.

All the inappropriate dreams she’d had about him returned, too. She shoved them to one side and tried to free her arms.

You’re not in Stockholm any more!

A grunt sounded next to her ear, making her aware of the unearthly quiet of the night, the chill of the evening breeze. The storm had passed.

And she was alone, in the middle of the desert, with the bandit who had captured her. And saved her. But why?

Whatever. Now it was time to save herself. From him.

The horse’s hooves thudded patiently against the rocky dunes as they rose over a hill. An oasis came into view in the valley below. The horse picked its way down the slope as sure-footed as a cat. The mirrored expanse of water reflected the dying red of the sunset, palm trees and plants grew in profusion around the water’s edge. The rasp of her kidnapper’s breathing echoed in her ears, making her heart thunder against her ribs.

Was that arousal she could hear in his rough breathing? How would she know? She’d never been in a man’s arms before when he was aroused.

Not the point, Kasia. Focus. For goodness’ sake.

The numbness in her fingers as she gripped the saddle horn tingled, her thighs quivered and burned, sore from what had to have been several hours on horseback. She became aware of the stinging pain where the sandstorm had abraded her exposed skin and got into her eyes.

She gulped, trying to force her tired mind to come up with a plan.

If he’d saved her from the storm, maybe he wasn’t planning to hurt her, now would be a good time to start talking to him.

‘Thank you for saving me from the sandstorm,’ she said, with as much authority as she could muster with her throat raw and her body brutally aware of the solid chest imprinted on her back. ‘I’m a close friend of the Queen. She will pay you handsomely for returning me to the palace now.’ The words flowed out, sounding impossibly loud in the quiet night.

But he didn’t reply, his body pressing heavily against her as the horse approached the water. She spotted a large tent erected in a copse of palm trees. The horse loped to a stop in front of the tent, and her heartbeat careered into her throat.

The scent of fresh water dispelled the fetid odour of horse and the salty scent of the man. She pushed his chest with her shoulder, freeing her arms from their confinement.

He grunted again, the sound trailing off into a moan, but strangely the panic from earlier didn’t return.

He was big and clearly very strong, having ridden for miles to escape the storm, but the way he was holding her didn’t feel threatening. It felt protective.

Unless that was just her cockeyed optimism taking another trip to Stockholm.

But he’d made no move to hurt her. So she clung onto her optimism—cockeyed or not—and repeated her promise of riches again in Narabian, but still got no response.

They sat together on the horse in silence, her whole body brutally aware of each subtle shift in his.

She could feel the thigh muscles that cupped her hips flex, sending a shaft of something hot and fluid through her. The wave of arousal shocked her. How could she be turned on? When she didn’t even know if this man was a good guy or not?

He shifted again, his moan shivering down her spine. But then the arm around her waist loosened. And his body began to slide to one side.

What the…? Was he dismounting?

She squeezed the horse’s sides with her knees and grasped the saddle horn. The rush of air at her back as his hot weight slid away was followed by a loud thud.

She gazed down to see the man lying on the ground beneath the horse.

‘Whoa, boy,’ she whispered frantically, scared the horse might bolt. But after stamping its hooves far too close to the man’s head, it settled, its tail swishing.

How could he have fallen off the horse? Was he asleep? Was that why he hadn’t replied? He had to be even more exhausted than she was after their ride.

The questions whipped around her brain. Relief and confusion tangled in her belly.

Leaning over the horse’s neck, she grasped the dangling reins. She hadn’t ridden a horse since leaving Narabia for the UK, and certainly never one this enormous, but as she went to kick the horse with her heels, she glanced down at the man again. He hadn’t moved, the lump of his body just lying there on the ground. Her legs relaxed and, instead of spurring the horse on, she found herself scrambling down from the huge beast.

Perhaps she was nuts—a cockeyed optimist with a side order of starry-eyed romantic—but she just couldn’t bring herself to ride away and leave him lying there. Not after spending what had to have been several hours sleeping in his arms while he’d ridden them both to safety.

Landing on the other side, she grasped the reins and drew the animal further away from the rider’s inert form.

She tried to lead the horse to the tent in the trees, but it wouldn’t budge, simply snuffling and lifting its muzzle. ‘You don’t want to leave him, is that it?’

The horse bounced its head as if it was nodding.

Oh, for… Get a grip, Kasia. Horses don’t speak English—especially not Narabian bandit horses.

Eventually she gave up trying to coax the horse away. And stepped closer to the man’s prone figure. He hadn’t moved, but still she approached him with caution. He’d looked enormous on the horse, and being flat on his back didn’t seem to diminish his stature much.

A shooting star lit up the dark sky, and she gasped as bright light exploded above her, shedding its glow over the man at her feet. The black headdress covering his head and his nose and mouth had fallen off. He had wavy, dark hair, which stood up in sweaty tufts, but it was his strikingly handsome face that stole her breath.

The sight was imprinted on her retinas as the light died and the shadows returned. High slashing cheekbones, black brows, and sun-burnished skin pulled tight over the perfect symmetry of his features. He had several days’ worth of stubble covering the bottom half of his face, but even with the disguising beard, she’d never seen a man as gorgeous. Even Sheikh Zane couldn’t hold a candle to him, his features less refined than the Sheikh’s but so much more compelling.

So not the point, Kaz. Who cares if he looks like a movie star? He’s still a bandit.

But he was the movie star bandit who had saved her, so there was that.

Gathering every ounce of purpose and determination she possessed, she knelt beside him, close enough to make out his features in the dying light. Why did he look familiar?

Another meteor trailed across the night sky, illuminating his face. Shock combined with the heat burning low in her belly as recognition struck.

She gasped. ‘Prince Kasim?’

Ruler of the Kholadi. He had attended Zane and Cat’s wedding five and a half years ago. She knew all the rumours and gossip about this man—that he was the illegitimate son of one of the old Sheikh’s concubines, thrown out of the palace as a boy when Zane, the Sheikh’s legitimate heir, had been kidnapped from his American mother in LA and brought to Narabia as a teenager. The story went that Kasim had crawled through the desert only to be treated with equal contempt by his mother’s nomadic tribe—until he had forced his way to the top of the Kholadi using the fighting skills he’d honed as he’d grown to manhood.

She’d adored all those stories, they’d been so compelling, so dramatic, and had made him seem even more mythic and dangerously exciting, not that she’d needed to put him on any more of a pedestal after setting eyes on him as a nineteen-year-old at Zane and Cat’s wedding.

Clothed in black ceremonial wear, he’d strode into the palace at the head of a heavily armed honour guard of Kholadi tribesman, and stolen her breath, like that of every other girl and woman there. He’d been tall and arrogant and magnificent—part warrior, all chieftain, all man—and much younger than she’d expected. He must have been in his mid-twenties at that wedding because he’d only been seventeen when he had become the Kholadi Chief. After years of battling with his own father’s army, he had negotiated a truce with Narabia when Zane had come to the throne.

Observing him from afar during the wedding and a few other official visits before she’d left for Cambridge, Kasia had become a little obsessed with the warrior prince. His prowess with women was almost as legendary as his skill in combat and his political agility. She’d adored all the stories that had trickled down into the palace’s women’s quarters after every visit—about how manly his physique was unclothed, how impressive his ‘assets’, how he could make a woman climax with a single glance. Like every other piece of gossip in the quarters, those salacious stories had been embellished and enhanced, but every time she’d had a chance to assess his broad, muscular physique or that rakish, devil-may-care smile from afar, she would fantasise that every word was true—and want to be the next woman on whom he bestowed that smile, and so much more.

He’d been a myth to her then, an object of her febrile adolescent desires, who had been larger than life in every respect. But he was just a man now.

The ripple of heat that she had been trying and failing to ignore sank deeper into her sex.

They didn’t call him the Bad-Boy Sheikh for nothing.

She stared at him, unable to believe she’d pointed a gun at him. Thank goodness she hadn’t actually shot him. Despite his wicked ways, he was a powerful prince. Plus, he’d rescued her. From a sandstorm.

As she pondered that far too romantic thought his eyelids fluttered.

The dark chocolate gaze fixed on her face and the heat in her sex blossomed like a mushroom cloud.

‘Prince Kasim, are you okay?’ she asked, the question popping out in English. She repeated it in Narabian. Did he even speak English?

He grunted again and she noticed for the first time the sheen of sweat on his forehead, and that his gaze, so intense earlier, now looked dazed. Then he replied in accented English.

‘My name is Raif. Only my brother calls me by my Narabian name.’ The husky rasp was expelled on a breath of outrage. ‘And, no I’m not okay, you little witch. You shot me.’

The bullet had hit him?

‘I’m so sorry,’ she yelped. But before she could say more, his eyes closed.

The darkness was descending fast, but gripping his robe she tugged it away to reveal bare skin beneath. Scars—so many scars—and a tattoo marred the smooth skin, making the bunch of muscle and sinew look all the more magnificent.

She ignored the well of heat pulsing at her core.

So, so not the point, Kaz.

She pressed trembling fingers to his chest, felt the muscles tense as she frantically ran them over his ribs up to his shoulder to locate the wound. Her fingertips encountered sticky moisture. She drew her hand away, her eyes widening in horror at the stain of fresh blood. The metallic smell invaded the silent night.

She swore again, the same word that had made her feel empowered several hours ago when she’d found herself alone in the desert with a broken-down Jeep.

Now she was alone in the desert with a bleeding man. A bleeding, unconscious warrior prince, who had saved her from a sandstorm and whom she’d shot for his pains.

She’d never felt less empowered in her life.

CHAPTER THREE

‘YOU’RE NOT MY SON—you’re not anyone’s son. You’re nothing more than vermin—a rat, born by mistake.’

The angry memory ripped through Raif’s body, his heart pounding so hard it felt as if it would gag him. His father’s face reared up, the cruel slant of his lips, the contempt in his flat black eyes, the cold echo of the only words he’d ever spoken to him cutting through the familiar nightmare like a rusting blade.

‘I clothed and fed you for ten years. You are a man now—any responsibility I had is paid. Now, get out.’

‘No…’ The desperate cry came out of his mouth, shaming, pathetic, pleading.

The crack of his father’s hand sounded like a rifle shot, although the ache wasn’t in his cheekbone this time but his arm. He shifted, trying to escape the cruel words, the bitter memories. The echo of remembered pain, too real and so vivid.

‘Shh… Prince Raif, you’re having a bad dream. Everything is okay, really, it was just a flesh wound.’

Soft words in English drifted to him through the cloaking agony. Something cool and soft fluttered over his brow. Like the wings of an angel.

‘Not a prince…a rat,’ he whispered back in the same language.

An exotic fragrance—jasmine, spice and female sweat—floated through the night on a cooling breeze. His nostrils flared like those of a stallion scenting its mate. The warmth of the night settled into his groin, swelling his shaft. He concentrated his mind on the pulse of pleasure, let it flow through him, to dull the aching pain always left by the nightmare in his heart.

Not a rat. You’re a prince… And a man now, not an unloved boy.

He thought the words but swallowed them, remembering even through his exhaustion that he should never admit to a weakness. Not to anyone.

Soft fingers touched his chin, then something cold pressed against his lips.

The urgent female voice spoke again but he couldn’t hear what it said because of the blood rushing in his ears. And the heat hurtling beneath his belt.

The taste of fresh water invaded his senses. He opened his mouth, gulping as the liquid soothed his dry throat.

‘Slow down or you’ll choke.’ The voice was less gentle, firm, demanding—he liked it even more. But then it took the refreshing water away.

He dragged open his eyelids, which had rocks attached to them.

The pleasure swelled and throbbed in his groin.

‘Who are you?’ he whispered in Kholadi.

The hazy vision was exquisite, like an angel, or a temptress—flushed skin, wild midnight hair, and large eyes the same colour as precious amber, the shade only made more intense by the bruised shadows under them and the wary glow of embarrassment and knowledge.

I want you.

Had he said that aloud?

‘I can’t understand you, Prince Raif. I don’t speak Kholadi.’ The lush lips moved, but the address confused him. Why was she mixing his Narabian title with his tribal name?

‘Beautiful,’ he whispered in English, his fatigued brain not able to engage with the vagaries of his cultural heritage. He wanted to touch her skin and see if it was as soft as it looked, to capture that pointed chin and bring her mouth down to his, trace the cupid’s bow on the top lip with his tongue, but as he lifted his hand, the twinge of pain in his arm made him flinch.

‘Lie still and go back to sleep, it’s not morning yet, Prince Raif.’

Prince Raif? Who is that? I am not Prince to the Kholadi. I am their Chief.

He gritted his teeth as her cool fingers brushed his chest, an oasis in the midst of the warm night.

‘Not an angel…’ he said, trying to cling to consciousness, wanting to cling to her, so the nightmare would not return. ‘A witch.’ Then the sweet, hazy vision faded as the rocks rolled back over his eyes and he plunged back into sleep.

Beautiful.

Kasia stared down at the man she’d been lying beside for several hours now.

Lifting the cloth out of the bowl of warming water beside the bed, she squeezed out the excess liquid with cramping fingers. Placing it on his chest, she brushed it over the contours of muscle and bone shiny with sweat. The now familiar prickle of awareness sped up her arm as she glided the cooling cloth over the taut inked skin of his shoulder.

The red and black serpent tattoo that curled around his collar bone and covered his shoulder blade shimmered in the flicker of light from the kerosene lamps she’d lit as night fell.

She blinked, forcing herself to remain upright and focused. His cheeks above the line of his beard were a little flushed but he didn’t have a fever, thank goodness. Surely the rambling that had woken him up had just been a nightmare.

As he sank back into sleep, his breathing deepened.

He’d managed to swallow a fair portion of the water this time.

She re-dipped the cloth and continued to sweep it over the broad expanse of his chest, her gaze drawn to the scars that had made her wince after wrestling him out of his bloodstained robe the night before.

How could one man have sustained so much damage in his life? And survived?

Heat flushed through her as she followed the white puckered mark of an old wound into the sprinkle of masculine hair that tapered into a fine line and arrowed beneath his pants.

Her gaze connected with the prominent ridge pressing against the loose black cloth—the only piece of clothing she hadn’t been brave enough to take off him.

Soaked with sweat, his pants didn’t leave much to her imagination as they clung to the long muscles of his flanks and outlined the huge ridge she’d noticed several times during the last few hours.

A sight that managed to both relieve and disturb her in equal measure. Surely he couldn’t be badly hurt if he could sport such an impressive erection? But what kind of man could be aroused after getting shot, however superficial the wound had turned out to be?

Look away from the erection. Maybe it’s a natural state for a man suffering from exhaustion? How would you know? You’ve never slept with a man before, and you’ve certainly never shot one.

The blush burned as she dipped the cloth once more and concentrated on wiping the new film of sweat from his skin. And not getting absorbed again in his aroused state.

She ought to be used to that mammoth erection by now. After all she’d spent rather a lot of time trying to gauge its size.

Seriously? Look away! And stop objectifying a stranger.

She forced her wayward gaze back to his upper torso.

The bandage she’d applied several hours ago remained unstained.

Thank goodness the bullet had only grazed his upper arm. Her first-aid skills did not extend to conducting emergency surgery in a tent. She’d lost her own phone when he’d rescued her. And she hadn’t been able to find anything resembling a satellite phone or communication equipment in the tent.

Although tent was far too ordinary a word for the lavish construction where they had been cocooned since nightfall.

She glanced around the structure, astonished all over again by the luxurious interior she’d discovered after managing to rouse her patient to get him off the desert floor and into his dwelling.

A dwelling more than fit for a desert prince.

Rich silks covered the walls of the chamber that held the large bed pallet and an impressive array of hunting equipment, chests full of tinned and dried goods, clothing and even a battery-powered icebox packed with meat and perishable food. Thankfully she had also discovered medical supplies, which she’d used to clean and bandage his wound. She had even found a goat tethered at the back of the encampment where there was a corral and a shelter for his horse and a smaller pack pony.

How long had Prince Raif, or Prince Kasim, as she had always heard him addressed before he had corrected her, been living here, and why was he living here alone? Or was this simply an emergency shelter the Kholadi kept stocked for tribespeople caught alone in the desert?

Stop asking questions you can’t answer.

She dumped the cloth in the bowl and sat on her haunches, a wave of exhaustion making her feel light-headed.

She examined her patient, and pressed the back of her hand to his brow. She released a breath. Still normal, no sign of any adverse effects from his wound.

After several hours of getting intimately acquainted with this man’s face and body, hearing the strange plea she couldn’t understand in his nightmares, she had no desire to hurt him more than she already had.

The guilt had crippled her at first. But as the minutes had stretched into hours, her vigil had morphed into something strangely cathartic.

Prince Raif fascinated her, he always had even from afar. But he fascinated her even more now, bandaged and virtually naked, flushed with what she suspected was a mild case of heatstroke from their exhausting escape and with the evidence of his own mortality—and the harsh reality of his life—visible in those scars and that striking tattoo. Awareness prickled and glowed, making her skin tighten over her bones and her heart thump against her ribs.

The crack of a log in the fire outside the tent made her jump. She shook her head, trying to dispel the fugue state into which she seemed to be descending.

He’d called her a witch and—while he had a valid reason to think she was one, after all she had shot him—she’d also seen hunger in his eyes. A hunger that had disturbed her as much as it had excited her.

The visceral intimacy that had been created by his rescue and her recent vigil was an illusion.

Prince Raif was famous, or rather infamous, for seducing any woman he wanted and then discarding her.

Another crackle from the fire forced her tired mind to unlock.

Getting a bit ahead of yourself there, Kaz.

Worrying about how she was going to explain shooting him when he woke up made more sense than worrying about how she was going to resist a seduction that hadn’t happened.

She forced her gaze away from his mesmerising body and out towards the desert. The shimmer of light on the horizon as dawn began to seep over the dunes was gilded by the orange and gold flames leaping from the fire pit.

The desert was another world, wild and beautiful and sophisticated in its own way—especially its eco-system. But it was a world she had never been a part of, cocooned as she had been in the Sheikh’s palace and then the world of UK academia.

She had never known a man like Prince Raif, however well she might once have wanted to know him, or how well she now knew the contours of his harsh body, the design of his tattoo.

Forcing herself to her feet, she stumbled out of the tent, absorbed the glorious beauty of another desert sunrise, then walked to the corral, watered the horse and brought back an armful of wood. She fed the fire, aware the temperature would remain low until the sun rose fairly high in the sky.

As she staggered back into the tent her gaze tracked inexorably to the Prince’s broad chest. She watched it rise and fall in a regular rhythm, the nightmares no longer tormenting him. The serpent tattoo coiled around his shoulder in the flicker of lamplight—as vibrant as the man it adorned.

Her heart lifted and swelled with relief. He would be fine. She hadn’t hurt him too badly.

He looked peaceful now—or as peaceful as a man as large and powerful as he was could ever look.

She lay down, curled up beside him and dragged the soft blanket over the T-shirt and shorts ensemble she’d been living in for nearly twenty-four hours as the night’s chill seeped into her weary bones.

She needed sleep. And however frivolous or foolishly romantic the urge, she wanted to stay beside him, just in case he had another of those nasty nightmares.

She placed her hand over his heart. She absorbed the steady rhythm and the sharp tug of awareness. She could feel the puckered skin of an old wound. Okay, maybe she didn’t want to lie beside him just for the sake of his health or well-being. But what harm could it do?

She’d never get another opportunity to touch him like this, and maybe she owed this much to the fanciful girl she’d been, the girl she’d thought had died during all those hours of reading and studying, a world away. She was glad that girl hadn’t died completely, because she’d always liked her.

‘Sleep well, Prince Raif,’ she whispered.

As soon as her lids closed, she dropped into the deep well that had been beckoning her for hours. Vivid erotic dreams leapt and danced like the flames in the fire pit and the shooting stars in the desert night, full of heat and purpose, both dazzling and intoxicating.

But the dreams didn’t disturb her any more, because with them came the fierce tug of yearning.

CHAPTER FOUR

RAIF JERKED AWAKE, then slammed his eyes shut again as the light from the sun shining into the tent seemed to burn his retinas.

Why was he lying in bed at midday?

But as soon as he shifted, he felt the twinge in his arm, and he knew. The memories assailed him all at once. The deafening sound of the storm, the pop of gunfire, the sharp recoil as a bullet glanced off his flesh. The scent of jasmine and sweat during the endless ride to safety, the long night of exhausted sleep and nightmares, the sound of voices—his father’s sneering contempt from many years ago and the pleas of an angel to lie still, to drink, not to drink too fast…

She’d been quite a bossy angel now he thought about it.

Not an angel, a witch. She’d tried to shoot him—the fierce look in her eyes as she’d pointed the pistol at him both arousing and infuriating. A rueful smile edged his mouth, but then he hissed as his dry lips cracked.

He closed his eyes and became one with his body—a process he’d learned as a boy through brutal experience—to assess his injuries.

His arm was a little stiff, but not as stiff as when he’d been kicked by his stallion Zarak a week ago on his first trip back to the tribal lands in over five months.

The gap had been too long since his last return, and the stallion—always high-spirited—had thrown a temper tantrum.

Zarak had missed him, but not as much as he’d missed Zarak, and the landscape, the culture, the people who had saved him as a child—and turned him into a man.

But this trip had been fraught with surprises. After leaving the desert encampment, in the outskirts of the tribal lands, to spend time alone at his private oasis, to enjoy the challenge of being a man again—instead of a chieftain, or a prince, or a business tycoon—the sandstorm had struck.

He moved his arm, testing its limits. The mild ache that had woken him during the night was gone now. Unlike the more pressing ache in his groin.

A gust of breath raised the hair on his chest and made the pounding in his groin intensify. He blinked, letting his eyes adjust to the light, and turned, to see the vision he had encountered the night before.

It was her. The angel. The witch.

She lay beside him, fast asleep. Her wild hair, tied in a haphazard ponytail, accentuated her exquisite beauty—high cheekbones, kissable lips, and those large eyes, closed now as she lay sleeping.

How old was she? Early twenties? Definitely more a woman than a girl. Bold enough to aim a gun at him.

And where was she from? The dust-stained T-shirt stretched enticingly over her breasts bore the insignia of the same British university Catherine, the Queen of Narabia, had attended. With her colouring, the girl could be a native of this part of the world, but she was dressed like a student in LA or London.

The swell of arousal grew as he examined the toned thighs displayed by her shorts.

The colour in her cheeks heightened and her breathing became irregular. Her eyelids flickered, the rapid eye movements suggesting she was having a vivid dream. Could she sense him observing her?

He had to stifle a smile when she moaned—the sound so husky it seemed to stroke his erection. Was she dreaming about him? He hoped so, because he had dreamed of her.

She mumbled something in her sleep, shifted and then her small hand, which had been resting on the bedding, reached out to touch his chest. He gritted his teeth as her fingertips slid over his nipple and down his ribs, trailing fire in their wake, and turning his erection to iron, before getting tantalisingly close to the waistband of his pants. Her touch dropped away abruptly as she rolled over—giving him a nice view of her pert bottom.

He wetted his lips, struggling to quell the brutal pulse of unrequited desire and ignore the stab of something else at the loss of her touch.

Disappointment? Regret? Longing?

He remembered the same feeling from the night before when he’d had the recurring nightmare, and he’d clung to her compassion. Which was not like him. He didn’t need tenderness from anyone.

He’d been alone all his life, had been shot at many times and had survived much worse than a sandstorm. He had made it his mission never to rely on the kindness of others. If his life had taught him one thing—both as a boy in the desert and as a man in the boardrooms of Manhattan—it was that no one could be trusted. That life was brutal and survival was all that counted. That weakness would destroy you.

Dragging his gaze away from the girl’s perfectly rounded backside, he sat up. Taking a deep breath, he got a lungful of his own scent.

Damn, he smelt worse than Zarak after a day-long ride. His stomach growled so loudly he was surprised he didn’t wake the girl. He must eat and wash. And tend to Zarak, and the goat and the pack pony. He could decide what to do with the woman later. If she came from the Golden Palace, the seat of his brother Zane’s power in the neighbouring kingdom of Narabia, he supposed he would have to return her at some point.

He tugged off the blanket covering his lap, then risked another rueful smile at the evidence of his arousal.

He’d been forced to rescue the woman when he’d spotted her stranded by her Jeep. But maybe having her here didn’t have to be bad. These few days alone were supposed to be an escape from the burden of leadership, a chance to reconnect with the basics of his life before he had become Kholadi Chief well over a decade ago at the age of seventeen.

His role as Chief had become a great deal more complex and challenging five years ago, when the decision to mine the huge deposits of minerals had given his people vast riches. Riches that had to be managed and invested to give his tribe a more settled, secure existence. It had been his mission to use the wealth to alleviate the hardships of life in the desert and give the tribe’s younger generation choices he had lacked. But dragging the Kholadi into the twenty-first century, while protecting the traditions that had shaped their lives for generations, was a juggling act, which had only become more difficult as his life abroad had dragged him away from the homeland that had defined and sustained him.

What better way to relax and escape those burdens than to lose himself in a woman, if she were willing? How long was it since he’d had the chance to enjoy such soft fragrant flesh, to explore the pleasures of an angel? Or a witch?

He rose to his feet, and made his way out of the tent. As he breathed in the dry desert air, and the sun burnished his skin, his usual vitality returned.

Once he had washed and eaten, he would wake the girl. And see if she was as open as he was to some harmless fun before he returned her to the palace.

Kasia woke slowly, then shot up so fast she had to breathe through the dizziness.

Where was the Prince?

The bed beside her was empty. Bright sunlight shone through the open flaps of the enormous tent.

She scrambled out of the bedding and raced to the entrance. Had he left her here? Gone for a stroll? How long had she slept?

Guilt assailed her all over again as she recalled bandaging the cut on his arm, listening to the rambling cries of his nightmare, and paying far too much attention to the impressive ridge in his pants.

She shielded her eyes against the bright sunlight, blinking furiously as she headed to the corral to search for her rescuer.

The stallion’s head lifted and it whinnied, before returning its muzzle to the trough full of fresh water. At least he hadn’t ridden away in disgust.

The sound of the spring water tumbling over the red rocks of the oasis beckoned. After giving the stallion’s nose a pat, she edged through the grove of palm trees towards the blue pool created in the rock crevice.

She spotted the bandage first, lying unravelled on the ground, the flecks of dried blood making her stomach hurt. Then the black pants, hooked over a desert shrub. Standing at the edge of the trees, her bare feet sinking into the wet sand by the water’s edge, she scanned the pool.

Heat raged to every one of her erogenous zones as she spotted her patient, standing under the waterfall.

Her nipples tightened, and her thighs weakened, the moisture pooling in her pants like the water gushing from the rock face.

Wow!

Thigh deep in water and with his back to her, Prince Raif was every teenage fantasy she’d ever had made flesh. All strong lines and hard contours, the serpent tattoo coiling over his shoulder, the bruising from the cut on his arm just one of the many scars marring the smooth brown skin. Her gaze dropped to the tight orbs of his backside, which flexed as he scrubbed the water through thick dark hair.

Goodness, he was even more magnificent naked than he had been in full ceremonial wear at Zane and Cat’s wedding.

Kasia stood transfixed, knowing she should move, to leave him to bathe in peace. Hadn’t she already caused him enough trouble?

But instead she watched him, absorbing the beauty of his hard male body. She’d never seen a naked man before. Not one in the full prime of manhood. She’d been asked on dates during her years in Cambridge, but had always shied away from making any kind of commitment outside her studies. She hadn’t partied much because she’d wanted to return to Narabia with an education that would make her an asset to Narabia’s ongoing struggle to become self-sufficient.

Cat and Zane had invested a fortune in her education. Cat had always insisted the money was not important, that Kasia had earned the opportunity after her years at the palace. But she wanted to be worthy of that investment. She was the first native Narabian woman to get such an opportunity. And she intended to be the first of many. Her studiousness had never felt a burden, though, until this moment.

She had no experience of what to do with a physical attraction so intense it scared her a little.

She’d always been curious about sex and excited to explore it—when the time was right. But as she watched the Prince’s butt muscles bunch and flex as he bent to scoop more water over his head, her breath clogged in her lungs and she wondered if it was possible to be too aroused. Too excited. Because the tightness in her nipples, the looseness in her thighs, and the gush of longing in her panties was becoming painful. And her heartbeat was so frantic she was concerned she might pass out.

She breathed, trying to ease the sensations besieging her body, but then the Prince turned and began to wade towards her.

Her gaze devoured his full-frontal male glory.

Oh, my…

Her thundering heartbeat crashed into her throat.

His chest was as broad and heavily muscled as it had appeared last night, but now his skin glowed with health and vitality. He had his head bent, to watch his step as he strode over the rocks in the pool, giving her precious seconds to absorb every inch of him unobserved.

And there were a lot of inches.

He had to be at least a foot taller than her. But as her thirsty gaze drank in the sight of mile-wide shoulders and the washboard ridges of his abdominal muscles, it was drawn downwards.

Even no longer erect, his penis did not disappoint, completing the mesmerising picture of strong, sensual masculinity.

She blinked, suddenly aware he was no longer moving.

She jerked her gaze to his face. Flaming heat blasted across her chest, flooded up her neck and exploded in her cheeks.

‘Good afternoon, little witch,’ he said, in perfect English—his deep chocolate gaze sparkling with mocking humour. ‘Are you assessing the damage?’

‘I…’ The word came out on a squeak. She swallowed, folding her arms over her chest to control the ache in her nipples. It didn’t help.

‘I’m so sorry I shot you, Prince Raif.’

And I’ve just invaded your privacy by ogling you naked while you bathe.

She kept the last part of her apology to herself. He didn’t seem bothered that she was seeing him naked. Arrogance and confidence issued from every perfect pore.

‘Prince…who?’ His lips quirked. Even with the beard covering the lower half of his face, the half-smile was devastating. ‘What did you call me?’

‘Prince Raif,’ she said, confused. Had she addressed him incorrectly? Wasn’t that what he’d told her to call him?

From his amusement it was obvious she’d misunderstood. Perhaps she was supposed to kneel? As she once had before Zane, because he was a sheikh?

But as the man before her strolled the rest of the way out of the pool and stopped in front of her, she resisted the urge to drop to her knees.

He didn’t seem particularly outraged by the breach of etiquette. And, anyway, if she knelt down she would be at eye level with his… She jerked her chin up.

Do not stare at his junk again. Haven’t you been disrespectful enough already?

‘Just Raif,’ he corrected her. ‘I am not a prince in Kholadi, only Chief.’

There was no only about it, she decided as he reached past her, his pectoral muscles rippling as he snagged the black pants off the shrub where he’d dumped them.

She inhaled the aroma of desert thyme alongside the salty aroma of his skin, gilded now by the sheen of fresh water instead of sweat. He used the cotton to mop the moisture drying on his magnificent chest and swept it through his hair, before finally putting the pants back on.

Her breath released, the muscles of her neck finally allowed to relax as he drew the loose pants up to his waist.

‘My brother insisted on giving me the title of Prince Kasim when we reached an accord ten years ago,’ he said, bending his head to tie the drawstring. ‘But it means nothing in the desert.’

The comment sounded casual, but she detected the edge in his voice.

She knew the Kholadi and the Narabian kingdom had been at war for several years, before the old Sheikh, Tariq, had been incapacitated by a stroke. As soon as Zane had taken control of the throne, he had negotiated a truce with his half-brother and the two countries had lived in harmony ever since.

But it seemed their fraternal relationship wasn’t entirely comfortable. Her heart stalled as she thought of the scars all over his body, and the nightmares that had chased him the night before. Like everyone else, she’d heard the stories of how he had been kicked out of the palace as a boy to make way for his legitimate brother, and left to die in the desert.

She had no idea how much of the myth was true. And she’d never given a lot of thought to the devastating effect a trauma like that might have, because the legend of Prince Kasim’s survival and battles to lead the Kholadi had been just that, a legend. A fairy-tale. A myth.

But the myth now seemed as real and raw as this man’s scars. Of course, his relationship with his brother would be strained, after being rejected so cruelly by their father.

He might seem strong and invincible, but he could be hurt, just like anyone else.

The wave of compassion washed over her as she took in the torn flesh on his upper arm from the injury she’d caused.

‘I should re-bandage your arm,’ she said, the guilt choking her. But as she went to touch him, his hand shot out and he grabbed her wrist.

‘There is no need,’ he said.

‘But what if it starts to bleed again?’ she said, tears of shame stinging her eyes.

Could he feel her pulse pummelling her wrist in staccato punches? Did he know how aroused she was? Even though he was hurt? And she was the one responsible?

The half-smile returned and spread across his impossibly handsome features, and her pulse sped into overdrive.

He knows.

‘It is barely a scratch,’ he said, releasing her. ‘I have survived much worse.’

‘Not from me,’ she said, appalled at the thought of all the other scars on his body. Was injury a regular occurrence for him? ‘I feel awful that I shot you.’

‘You did not shoot me, you missed. And you were scared. You were defending yourself. It is a natural reaction.’

‘No, it’s not,’ she said. ‘I’ve never shot at anyone before.’ He appeared unmoved.

Because he must live in another world. A harsh, cruel world where people shoot first and ask questions later.

‘Would you let me check the wound at least, Prince Kasim?’ she said, trying to maintain at least a semblance of decorum. Although decorum was the last thing she felt. ‘It would make me feel better.’

He stroked a thumb down the side of her face. ‘You can check the wound if you wish, but only if you agree to call me Raif.’ His hand dropped away, leaving a trail of goosebumps ricocheting down to her core. ‘Given how much of me you have already seen, there is little point in standing on ceremony.’

She shook her head, mesmerised by the husky tenor of his voice and the effect it was having on her.

It was only five minutes later, as he sat on the edge of his bed and she knelt beside him to bandage the wound again, that she realised her error.

Because the memory of his body, wet and naked, only made being with him in his bedchamber, inhaling the intoxicating scent of man and desert, all the more overwhelming.

So much so, she wasn’t even sure this was reality any more, because it felt like all her teenage fantasies come to vibrant, vivid life.

‘What is your name?’ Raif asked, needing a distraction as the girl’s fingertips brushed his biceps while she wound the new—and entirely unnecessary—bandage around his arm.

She’d been tending him for two minutes—and controlling the surge of heat to his groin each time she touched him had become excruciating.

Did she know the effect she was having on him? Surely she must.

‘Kasia. Kasia Salah,’ she said, concentrating on the bandaging. But he noted the bloom of colour darkening her cheeks.

‘You are Narabian?’ Why did that seem important? He’d slept with women of many different nationalities. He didn’t judge women by their geography but by how much he wanted them. And he wanted this woman, very much.

‘Yes, I was brought up in the Golden Palace. My grandmother worked there as a cook. I was one of the domestic staff.’

Something unlocked inside his chest. So she was of humble birth. Not unlike him.

‘Until I became Cat’s assistant,’ she added, the hint of pride unmistakeable.

‘Cat? Who is Cat?’

‘Catherine Smith, who is now Queen Catherine Ali Nawari Khan—you know, the Sheikh’s wife,’ she said, her chest puffing up. ‘She is my best friend. It is because of her I have spent the last five years studying abroad.’

‘Not because of yourself?’ he asked, annoyed by her willingness to give someone else the credit for her achievements.

Zane’s wife was beautiful and accomplished. But no more so than this woman. The only difference was that Catherine Khan hadn’t had to fight for her education, the way he would guess Kasia had.

The girl’s gaze flashed to his—direct and irritated at his observation.

The heat in his groin surged. Her golden gaze sparkled enticingly when it wasn’t shadowed with guilt or shame.

‘Well, yes,’ she said. ‘But…Cat is the reason I sought an education. And she and Zane…’ She sank back on her heels, finally having finished caressing his biceps. ‘They made it possible for me to study abroad in a place called Cambridge University.’

A place called Cambridge University!

Did she think he had never heard of the British institution? What did she take him for? A savage?

His pride bristled—but he bit down on the urge to correct her.

She had been away from her homeland for five years, meaning all she would know of him was that he was the Sheikh’s bastard son—a primitive warlord, an unprincipled womaniser.

The rumours had some truth behind them, especially when he’d been a younger man, and he’d been more than happy to foster them because they had always given him a power and mystique he could use to his advantage—in politics, in business and in his bed.

Being the Bad-Boy Sheikh had been an advantage with women, because they loved the allure of the forbidden, the wild.

Why not exploit Kasia’s misconceptions about him? He had never been ashamed of that unloved child, who had been strong enough to survive thirst and starvation in the desert, or the angry teenager who had been savage enough to defeat the Kholadi’s greatest warriors and become Chief. His past still lived inside him—and defined him in many ways. It always would. Wasn’t it to reconnect with those parts of himself that he had returned to the desert?

Adrenaline raced through his bloodstream. This woman had seen him helpless, something that had made him uneasy. But being the womanising warlord would put the power back in his hands.

She took a tube of antiseptic cream out of the medical box. ‘I noticed some scrapes on your back, where you fell off the horse,’ she said as she unscrewed the cap. ‘Turn around and I’ll dab some of this on them.’ She held up a finger covered in ointment. ‘Before they get infected.’

‘Enough.’ Raif captured her wrist, satisfied when he felt her pulse pummel his thumb.

‘But I should treat the scratches,’ she said.

‘It’s not my back that hurts.’ He interrupted her nonsense.

Taking the hint, her gaze dipped to his lap. The blood pounded into his groin. He was as aroused now as he’d been during the depths of his nightmares.

She lifted her head.

Her pupils dilated, obliterating the rich amber of her irises. She was as aroused as him.

‘I…I see what you mean,’ she stuttered, desire colouring her skin.

‘We have had enough foreplay,’ he said.

He preferred to be open and honest with women about his appetites. When it came to sex, he never played games.

‘If you want me as much as I want you, we can take this ache away.’ He touched her cheek, not able to keep his hands off any longer, the heat rising at the way her breath hitched. ‘If you don’t, I will escort you back to the palace.’ He let his hand drop. He wasn’t usually so abrupt with women, but something about her made it hard for him to be subtle about his needs. ‘What is your choice?’

CHAPTER FIVE

I CHOOSE YOU.

‘I…I…’ Kasia stuttered, the heat in her cheeks nothing compared to the liquid tug in her sex.

Prince Kasim’s bold offer seemed to be genuine. With no ands, ifs or buts, just like the man himself.

The tug turned into a yank.

Not Prince Kasim… Raif. She corrected herself. Because he was the furthest thing from a prince at the moment. Even a desert prince.

He had no airs or graces, no polite manners, no etiquette. His desire was basic and unashamed, and so much more compelling because of that. His need was arrogantly displayed by the tension in his jaw, the direct gaze and the thick erection.

‘I don’t know what to say,’ she blurted out. Disconcerted by her own driving need.

She’d flirted with men before, even kissed a few. But she’d never been subjected to such a focused assault on her senses by a man like him—who was so bold and unambiguous.

Why did that seem refreshing, and yet disturbing?

‘It is a simple question, Kasia.’

Was it simple? Maybe it was to him. Because he had so much more experience. But she could hardly tell him she had never slept with a man before. It felt too revealing.

His lips quirked beneath the beard. ‘Let me make it simpler. Do you want me, Kasia? For I dreamed of having you last night.’

The raw declaration tugged at her romantic heart.

He cupped her cheek, and her breath seized, the rasp of his callused skin sending heat spiralling into her tender sex.

His thumb traced her cheekbone, then slid down her neck into the well of her collarbone. The rabbit punches of her pulse echoed in the sweet spot between her thighs.

‘I want to make you sob with pleasure.’ His thumb circled her breast through her T-shirt and bra. ‘To make your nipples ripen and swell beneath my tongue.’

Her nipples squeezed into peaks, as if already being subjected to the promised caress. She panted, unable to catch her breath under his intense gaze.

He chuckled, the sound arrogant, and so unbelievably hot she felt burned.

‘Tell me you want me, Kasia, and we can feed this hunger.’

‘Yes.’ The word popped out before she could stop it. ‘I want you.’

Surely this didn’t have to be wrong? They’d survived a sandstorm. They were young and alive. Their worlds might be miles apart, but here and now she wanted to feed the hunger, too. A hunger that had tantalised her all through the night.

She would return to the palace today. Cat and Zane would be frantic with worry—she’d been lost for over twenty-four hours already. She would go back to Cambridge at the end of the month. She had no intention of venturing into the desert alone after this, so she would be unlikely to see him again.

Why couldn’t she have this moment? When she wanted him so much? And what better person to initiate her than a man she had idolised? A man who was supposed to be an incredible lover? A man whose ‘assets’ she’d been assessing most of the night?

He nodded, accepting her surrender as if he had expected no less. Then he grunted something in his own dialect.

She didn’t need a translation, though, when his nostrils flared, his gaze becoming so focused her flesh felt scalded.

Standing, he tugged her to her feet. Framing her face in his hands, he positioned her head, then licked the seam of her lips. She opened for him instinctively. The kiss was firm, coaxing. The hunger roared from her core. She had expected him to devour her, but his tongue danced with hers, allowing her to follow his lead in subtle licks.

But as the hunger built, the driving need became more urgent, and the kiss changed, his tongue exploring her mouth and capturing her sighs as he demanded more.

His hands skimmed up her back underneath her T-shirt. The hook of her bra was released. She gripped his shoulders, overwhelmed by sensation as he cupped her breasts, playing with the responsive nipples until she was sobbing into his mouth, the tight peaks yearning for more.

He lifted his head, his eyes dark and unfocused. ‘I want you naked, Kasia.’

The gruff request shimmered across her skin, and the ache in her breasts intensified, the hot spot between her thighs throbbing.

She nodded, no longer capable of coherent speech.

Stepping back, he lifted the grubby T-shirt over her head, disposed of the bra.

She folded her arms over her chest, desperately self-conscious.

‘No,’ he said as he captured her wrists. ‘Do not hide, you are so beautiful.’

She felt beautiful as she forced herself to relax, to let him pull her arms gently away from her body. The morning sunlight gilded his chest, making her aware of the bunch of muscle.

The huge erection stood proud under the loose cotton pants and her mouth watered as she imagined seeing him naked and fully erect. But to her surprise, he sank to his knees in front of her. Undoing the buttons on her shorts, he watched her as he drew the denim down with her panties. His rough hands slid down her legs, stripping her bare with exquisite tenderness.

She stepped out of her shorts at his direction, the need charging through her system as he blew across the triangle of curls, then pressed his face into her sex.

She gripped his shoulders—so broad, so solid—to steady herself as he opened her with his thumbs and licked.

She shuddered, her ragged panting filling the tent as he lapped at the very heart of her. He held her firmly for the shattering exploration. Licking, sucking, discovering the root of her pleasure and ruthlessly exploiting it.

At last he captured the swollen nub of her clitoris and suckled.

The climax broke over her, the waves battering her body. She collapsed over his shoulder, the afterglow like an impenetrable cloud of bliss.

‘More,’ he grunted, as he stood, lifting her.

Within seconds, she lay on the bed as he stood over her, blocking out the sunlight. He shucked his pants.

Her gaze devoured his nakedness, her tender sex melting at the sight of that massive erection—even larger and harder than she had imagined.

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