“You did it anyway.” It is not question.
“Yes,” I answer. “I did it for you.”
Hunter is quiet for a long time, staring at me. I hand him the bottle of pills Hussein gave me before he left.
“Take them,” I say. “It is done. Not taking them would be stupid.”
He takes one with a swallow of water. I look down at my hands, still covered in blood.
“Hunter, I…thank you. For saving me from Abdul.”
“I had to stop it. I heard him hit you. I heard you scream. I had to…” he shakes his head and trails off, rage contorting his face. “Are you okay? Did he—did he hurt you?”
He is worried about me? After getting shot, he is concerned for me? I shake my head. “No. A few slaps. I am fine.”
Hunter reaches out to wipe away something from the side of my face. “You’re bleeding.”
I wipe the blood away. “Nothing. It is nothing. Stop worrying about me.”
He does not look at me when he speaks next. “I can’t stop worrying about you.”
I have no answer for that.
I turn away and take a long, frigid shower, scrub my body and my hair furiously until my skin stings from the soap, until every inch of me is cleansed, purified. I am shivering from the icy water when I am done.
Night falls. I lie down in my bed, turn on my side. Hunter’s eyes meet mine, his face silver in the dim starlight. We do not speak. I remember the warm comfort of lying in Hunter’s arms and wish I could feel it again. I am so cold. So afraid.
I should not tempt myself.
I watch Hunter sleep for too long, trying keep myself in my own bed by force of will.
It is not working.
TWELVE
HUNTER
Something soft gently nestles against my uninjured side, rousing me from a light sleep. I breathe in, smell clean hair, soap, woman scent. Rania. My arm curls around her. God, she’s in my bed. She’s tempting me so badly, but she doesn’t realize it, I don’t think.
The last thing I care about right now is the pain shooting through me. All I want is to roll over and pin Rania to the floor and kiss her until she can’t breathe, explore her luscious body with my fingers and my mouth.
I can’t. Not after what she just went through. I try to content myself with just holding her. She’s warm and soft. She makes a sound in her sleep, a low contented sound in the back of her throat, and then moves closer to me, burrowing in as if she can’t get close enough. My eyes open and I’m watching her sleep, watching the moonlight shed a silver glow across her skin.
Her shirt is bunched up just beneath her br**sts, and her habitual miniskirt is rucked up by her hips. So much skin on display. I draw as deep a breath as my healing ribs will allow, summoning my self-control.
Fuck.
My hand betrays me, steals from her shoulder down her back to skim across the exposed flesh above her skirt. It’s a fairly innocent stolen touch, just her back, but it has me hard, needing more. Needing flesh, warmth, touch.
She moves again, one long leg sliding up and over to cover one of mine. Goddammit. Now her skirt is so bunched out of place that her ass is fully exposed. I squeeze my eyes shut, working at self-control. Self-control. Hands to yourself, ass**le.
I’m weak. I just can’t help myself. She’s so f**king gorgeous and—despite her profession—oddly innocent. It’s clear she’s never known love, never known affection. She’s never had a lover, never had a boyfriend. I doubt she’s ever had an orgasm.
Why the f**k am I thinking about Rania orgasming? Not helping. Not helping. Dammit. Now that image is stuck in my head: Rania above me, hair like a golden halo, brown eyes bright, gleaming with pleasure, sweat beading between her glorious br**sts, hands braced on her thighs as she rides me, head thrown back now and moaning, true helpless moans of pure pleasure.
I squeeze my eyes shut and open them, fix them on her hair to banish the image.
My hand is cupping her thigh just above the knee, on the back of her leg. Upward, now. Her skin is like satin, pure warmth, pure softness. She moans sweetly and wiggles into me as I touch her leg, move farther up her leg to the crease just beneath the swelling bubble of her ass.
Oh, lord. Oh, god. Why am I torturing myself like this? I’m such an ass**le, fondling this girl in her sleep.
I close my eyes, hunting for the will to act the gentleman rather than the lecherous bastard.
I’m suddenly aware of her breathing. It’s not the soft soughing in and out, rhythmic and deep. I glance down warily, and sure enough, her eyes are open, bright in the moonlight.
She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t move away or shrink from my touch. She’s frozen, staring up at me, barely breathing. Like any second she might bolt.
I’m reminded of nothing so much as being in the woods on a cold, still January morning just after dawn, a fresh blanket of snow silencing everything, a huge doe stepping gracefully into the clearing and looking right at me, wide eyes assessing, watching. Rania’s gaze on me is that moment, when the deer’s nostrils twitch and her ears flick, and then she’s gone, bounding off into the forest.
My hand is still on her thigh, just beneath her ass. I can see the gears turning in her head. I don’t know what to do. Should I move my hand? Is she mad at me? Does she like it? Should I kiss her?
Time stalls, and moments pass in taffy-slow stretching spans, her chest swelling against my side as she sucks in a shuddering breath, her eyes locked on mine, her skin hot under my hand. She seems to come to some decision, for the fright in her eyes, the wariness, evaporates. Changes. Now her fear is different. She’s not afraid of me. I know that much. She’s afraid of what’s happening. Perhaps, what’s about to happen.
Am I afraid of this, too?
Hell, yes.
I know there’s no going back now. This moment, our locked gazes and her soft, delicate, strong body cradled in my arms…this moment is printed indelibly on my heart. If nothing else happens, I’ll always remember this.
Rania slips her hand up from between our bodies to touch my cheek. I slide my palm down her thigh, stop at her knee, and then begin the hesitant drift back up. As my hand nears her ass, her eyes widen and her breathing grows shallow. I stop where I had before, just beneath the curve. She lifts her chin, never taking her eyes off me; it’s a dare, a defiant, permitting gesture. Go ahead, the chin lift says, touch me. I dare you.
She’s daring herself, not me.
I take a deep breath, gathering my courage, and skim my palm oh so slowly up the taut swell of her ass, cupping the cheek. I can feel her heart pounding furiously in her chest. She’s terrified.