Wedlocked: Banished Sheikh, Untouched Queen

Oil lamps and candles lit the room; the vast low bed was decorated with sheer organza. The qanoon was still being played in the main area of the tent, breaking the silence of the desert, its soft seductive notes meant to ease her passage to his arms.

He was on the bed—naked, she was sure, beneath the silken sheet that covered his lower half. He was just as impressive out of uniform. His broad chest and long muscular arms would make light work for the palace tailor, for his masculinity did not need enhancing. There were dark scars around his wrist. At first, in the candlelight, Layla thought he had been hennaed too, but, no, they were scars. But it was not her place to notice, so instead she looked up at him, watched as his arrogant, haughty face softened a touch as she walked towards him.

She wished for a moment that she was his lover, not his wife.

The oil was making her nightgown cling to her body as she climbed in bed beside him.

‘Don’t be nervous.’

‘I’m not,’ Layla said, except she was shivering.

He kissed her. She felt his lips press on hers and his tongue slide in, and she tried to kiss him back, her mouth moving, copying his.

As a princess there had been no kisses, no anything, and she ached for more experience, felt embarrassed by her innocence. She couldn’t enjoy his kiss, could only feel the long, solid length of his manhood pressing into her thigh, and the size of him made her dizzy. She prayed that he would oil her.

She lifted her nightdress.

‘There is no rush…’ He pulled his head back; he wanted to keep kissing her, for her to relax, for her to at least try and enjoy this royal duty.

‘I would prefer it to be over,’ came her stilted voice.

So would he, then, Xavian thought—while wondering if it would be poor form to summon a mistress on his honeymoon.

He loved sex. Too much was never enough for Xavian, and he was always ready. But this hard-nosed businesswoman, who had come to his bed for such a clinical mating, was nothing like the lush female he had fed and prepared. Frankly, if that was her wish, he wanted it over too!

He was considerate. He dipped his fingers in the gold dish by the bed and smeared her tender pink flesh. Feeling the sweet warmth, he hardened further, his finger gliding past her pearl, his duty done,

Layla saw what had already appeared ominously large grow some more, and her throat was tight. She could feel his hand down there, and she saw him, so hard and erect she almost felt sick. He saw her looking, saw that mix of terror and fascination, and his finger lingered, pressed her pretty place and stroked it for a moment, felt the hard nub of her clitoris and stroked it some more.

She wanted to close her legs, didn’t want him touching her. It felt wrong and it just heightened her nervousness—this sex, this touching, this sharing that he would later do with someone else!

‘Now you will oil me.’ He liked stroking her, liked the feel of her moisture meeting his fingers, and she could feel the small, insistent pads of pressure that made her stomach flurry as she dipped her shaking fingers in the bowl.

Baja hadn’t warned her of this, hadn’t warned her that her fingers should be silky and oily too. She didn’t want to touch him there, but perhaps it would help her later. She made herself do it, her fingers tentative, a quick sheen of oil on his long length, and averted her eyes from his gargoylic impressive proportions. But involuntarily her gaze returned. It felt so different from how it looked—which was hard and angry. But the skin beneath her fingers was soft, like rich velvet.

‘More…’

Still he was stroking her. Her stomach felt heavy, her thighs did too, and she didn’t like it—didn’t like these strange feelings. She wanted her more familiar control, so she ended this pointless diversion—she was at her most fertile; the wedding had been arranged around her cycle. The way she responded to him unnerved her— the unfamiliar reaction of her senses, the strange weakening that he wrought in her mind. It was time to be brave, time for it to be over, time to reclaim her head.

‘Now.’ She moved his hand from her private place and lay down. ‘Do it now.’

Xavian was tired of her games. He had felt her unfurl for a second, yet she refused to relent, to enjoy his caress.

He had hoped for more from a wife, but had expected less.

Shame, though, because she was beautiful—her body full and ripe, her hair dark. And those lips could kiss if they would just learn; that body could know pleasure if she would only allow it.

‘Take off your nightgown…’ Xavian said, because he needed something to help him along. She did as she was told and it certainly helped that she was so good-looking, Xavian thought, as he lowered himself on to her and she duly parted her legs—and all help was gratefully received as he did his duty with this beautiful plank of wood.

Xavian was nervous.

For the first time ever with a woman there was just a beat of trepidation as he nudged her entrance without the familiar barrier. He pictured her body to keep himself hard, and lowered his head for a moment to suck on her breast, to taste her ripe flesh for his own benefit. Yet still as he tried to coax a response from her, there was none.

Layla, now the moment had come, was terrified. She could not show him that, of course—could never show anyone her private fears. She was Queen: always in control, always assured.

He could feel the tears on her face as his cheek pressed next to hers. He was nudging at her entrance, and really he knew she wanted it over, that despite her silent tears this had to be done, and he was angry.