A Royal Wedding(46)

His eyes flashed. “Not to her, about whom I could not care less. But to you, my future queen.”

“Your mean your possession,” Lara flashed at him. Her temper was a live thing, fusing with her panic, her fear, the memories of her sixteen-year-old heart. Making her too reckless, too thoughtless. But she couldn’t stop—as if she was as desperate now as she had been then. “Your pawn. Your object.”

“If that is how you see yourself, who am I to contradict you?” he asked, but she could see the temper he kept at bay. It was in the fire in his cold eyes, the set of his hard jaw. “Demean yourself as you see fit.”

“You would love that, I’m sure,” she seethed at him, drifting closer to his seat, so focused on her anger that she hardly noticed what she was doing. Or maybe you just want to be close to him, as you always have, a small voice whispered, daring her even closer. “Why don’t I just bow down and give you all the power? Why don’t you just treat me like one more mindless marionette who dances on a string for your pleasure?”

She did not like the way he stared at her, the way his hard mouth curved into an even harder smile, the way his gray eyes glittered. She did not understand the loud beating of her heart, much less the way she shook.

She did not want to understand.

“Ah, Princess,” he said, his voice a low growl that seemed to reverberate through her like a drum. “You should not tease.”

And then, with an economy of movement and a shattering male grace, he hauled her into his arms, across his lap, and took her mouth with his.





CHAPTER FOUR



LARA had no time to react.

His mouth was on hers, hard and demanding. One hand held her at the nape of her neck, the other at her hip, holding her fast against the granite expanse of his chest.

His kiss was possessive, angry, hot. Nothing like the sweet kisses they’d stolen so long ago—and yet so much more. Lara could do nothing but glory in it, even as her hands rose to his shoulders—whether to push him away or pull him closer she would never know.

Fire rolled through her, scorching her, making her forget everything except the power of his kiss, the dark mastery of it, the tight, lush angle of his mouth, his heat and his taste and the breathtakingly sensual way he held her.

As if he had all the time in the world to explore her mouth.

As if tasting her was a matter of critical importance.

As if he was already inside her, claiming her, taking her, making her his in every way.

She felt more than branded. More than stamped, somehow, as his.

She felt more than the molten, restless heat between her legs, more than the wild drumming of her heart, more than his hardness beneath her, against her.

He kissed her as if he knew her as well as he claimed he did. As if it had been only moments since the last time he’d kissed her, instead of years. As if they had always been destined to come together like this, mouth to mouth, body to body, passion to passion.

As if they were meant for each other. As if he was, finally, the home she’d spent her whole life searching for.

It was that last, impossible thought that had her rearing back, her head caught fast in his large hand, to look into his silver eyes.

She hardly knew herself, much less him. Their history was lost in the mists of time, a teenage fantasy at best. This was all too real. Too much.

“You can’t …” she began, but she had no idea what to say. How could she tell him that kissing him made the world fall away? That she forgot who she was? That she wanted nothing more than to burrow into him, lose herself in him, and the very madness of that idea made her tremble with need?

Just like before.

“Kiss me,” he urged her, as if he knew all the things she could not say.

It was not until he closed the gap between them again, that fascinating mouth so hot against her own, so right, that she realized he had stopped speaking English yet again. And more to the point—so had she.

She tasted sweet, just like he remembered. Like ripe summer berries and the kick of woman beneath it. She went to his head like wine.

Adel wanted her, this untutored, disrespectful princess of his, more than he could remember wanting another. More than he wanted almost anything else. Her lush little body curled into his, against his, as if she too could not get close enough. As if she felt the same rush of desire that surged through him, making him want to forget himself in her.

Just as it should be. Just as it had been.