To Die For

I watch Hunter sleep for too long, trying keep myself in my own bed by force of will.

It is not working.

CHAPTER 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. G.o.d, 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 s.h.i.+rt is bunched up just beneath her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, 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.

f.u.c.k.

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. G.o.ddammit. Now her skirt is so bunched out of place that her a.s.s is fully exposed. I squeeze my eyes shut, working at self-control. Self-control. Hands to yourself, a.s.shole.

I'm weak. I just can't help myself. She's so f.u.c.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 o.r.g.a.s.m.

Why the f.u.c.k am I thinking about Rania o.r.g.a.s.ming? 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s, 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 a.s.s.

Oh, lord. Oh, G.o.d. Why am I torturing myself like this? I'm such an a.s.shole, fondling this girl in her sleep.

I close my eyes, hunting for the will to act the gentleman rather than the lecherous b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

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 a.s.sessing, 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 a.s.s. 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 pa.s.s 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?

h.e.l.l, 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 a.s.s, 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 a.s.s, cupping the cheek. I can feel her heart pounding furiously in her chest. She's terrified.

"Rania, I-"

She cuts me off by pressing her fingers to my lips. Her fingers trail down my chin, my throat, my chest, my stomach, halting at the fly of my BDU pants. I realize once again she's trying to go about this how she thinks I expect it. It can't go that way. This should be about her. I take her fingers in mine and move them away, place her palm on my cheek. Her brow wrinkles in confusion.

I want her to feel pleasure. To experience a moment of happiness that she hasn't paid for through sacrifice. She opens her mouth to speak, and I cover her lips with mine, a quick, innocent kiss to quiet her. She whimpers in her throat when our lips meet. She moves to kiss me again and I lean away with a grin, shaking my head. Now her expression is openly baffled. I laugh, a silent shaking of my shoulders, and then move back in to kiss her. She moans softly and writhes closer to me.

I deepen the kiss, taste her tongue with mine, and feel the tightly closed bloom that is my hurt and broken heart open a little at the eagerness with which she returns my kiss. She's discovering this for the first time, the upwelling joy of a kiss, the way your heart expands and swells at the touch of lips to lips, the strange tang of tongues tangling.

I begin to slowly explore her skin now. She's lost in the kiss. She makes a noise in the back of her throat when my palm skims across her a.s.s, cupping one firm globe and then arcing across to the other. Her hips press her a.s.s back into my hand, a subtle, almost imperceptible motion, but enough of an encouragement. She likes my touch. I slip my hand up her back, underneath the s.h.i.+rt, circling her back, her shoulders, tracing her spine, and then back down to her a.s.s. Her body is tensed, taut with nerves. We kiss languorously, and I make a circuit of her body, soothing and exciting her all at once. She grows used to my touch and her tension ebbs.

I break the kiss, cup her face with my hand, brus.h.i.+ng her cheekbone with my thumb. I kiss her again, but this time I put all my nascent emotions into it, all my fear, my desire, my need, my...how much I care about her. That's as far as I'll let myself go, even in my own thoughts.

She felt it all in the kiss. When I pull away, her eyes are wet, her chin quivering.

"What are you doing to me, Hunter?" Her voice cracks, whispered Arabic that I barely hear, have to work to understand.

I only smile at her. My heart is beating furiously, antic.i.p.ating what I'm about to do.

"Trust me?" I ask in Arabic.

She hesitates, searches my eyes with hers, then nods.

I push her gently so she's lying on her back, and then I lift up on an elbow.

I kiss her, and when she relaxes and leans up to deepen the kiss, I rest my hand on her knee, hesitate, and then slide slowly upward along the impossibly silky skin of her thigh, inching nearer and nearer to her core.

She pulls away from the kiss, eyes probing me. Fear is rampant in her gaze. I've stopped, waiting for her to decide what she wants.

RANIA.

This is a new kind of terror. It is fused with excitement, antic.i.p.ation. His hand on my flesh is frightening, but glorious. He touches me so gently, so carefully. He waits until I am sure I want him to continue, and then, when he touches me in a new way, he opens my eyes to a new world of sensation.

I did not know my body or my soul could feel these things. My heart is at once afraid and ready. I feel it opening, like an unused muscle stretching.

Why will he not allow me to touch him? I thought that is what men like. That is what he expects, yes? Now I do not know. Every time I think he is going to have s.e.x with me, he stops it. He does not let me touch him. We kiss, and I can sense he wants me. He looks at me. He likes the way my body looks. But he has not touched me s.e.xually until now.

I have never, ever been touched this way. My clients...they grope me. They pay me to let them touch me. They do not ask permission. They are not gentle. They touch to possess my body.

Hunter, he is touching to make me feel something. He does nothing unless he is sure I allow him to.

I could not help myself from getting in bed with him. I was nearly asleep, but unable to fall over the edge. His arm was flung out to the side, as if inviting me to nestle into the hollow. I crawled across the square of silver moonlight and curled into his arm. Instinctively, his arm tightened around me, pulled me closer. For those brief, blessed moments, I felt safe. I knew he would protect me. He suffered pain and injury to protect me. He took a bullet for me. In his arms, I knew I was safe.

I fell asleep and knew nothing, no dreams, no memories. Only Hunter's arms and his smell and his strength.

I woke up gradually. I knew from the coolness of the air and the silence that it was still night. I felt something rough yet gentle sliding along my back. Hunter, touching me. It was a comforting touch, not a s.e.xual touch. As if he merely wanted to know what I felt like. I wondered sleepily if he wanted me closer the way I want to be ever nearer to him. I want his touch.

My fear is not that he will hurt me. I know by this point that he will not. My fear is that once I let him touch me, once I let him do what he wants, that he will not want me any longer. He will go away, and leave me alone again. He will expect me to be the wh.o.r.e for him, to be Sabah for him, rather than Rania.

I am afraid of how much I want him to keep touching me. It is a strange, unnaturally powerful desire. I do not want things. I have what I need to stay alive, and that is all. The only thing I have ever wanted is to not have to sell my body anymore.

Hunter cannot give me this. No one can. I will be a wh.o.r.e until I am too old and too ugly for men to want me, and then I will starve to death as I should have so many years ago.

I am frozen, unable to respond, unable to stop his exploring hands.

My leg is draped over his, casually intimate. I want to draw it back to myself, gather my feet beneath me and run into the night, away from this desire burning through my body and soul like fire consuming paper.

Soon, my will to resist will be ash in the wind.

Allah help me, he is caressing my leg now. Just above the knee, still innocent enough, but growing more daring and familiar with every centimeter his palm glides higher.

I have to fight myself to retain the lie of being asleep. Breathe in; breathe out; slow and steady, deep breaths. Perhaps I will be able to merely lie here and let him touch me. I do not have to return his affection. I can resist. My desire does not have to dictate my actions.

Oh, I am a fool to think thus. Now his hand is resting frightfully, tantalizingly close to my backside. The edge of his hand is brus.h.i.+ng the underside of my left b.u.t.tock, and Allah, Allah, I want him to move it higher. I want him to touch me intimately, s.e.xually. I do. I must admit the truth to myself, if only to myself.

I must also admit that I am afraid, for so many, many reasons.

I should not let him. I should not let myself. But I am going to, am I not?

There is no point in pretending any longer, is there?

No, indeed not.

I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, cursing myself for being a thousand times a fool. Then I open them and look up at him. His profile is so handsome, so strong. His hair is thick, black as deepest shadows, and getting a bit long, curling around his neck and sweeping across his brow. He is not looking at me; his eyes are closed, squeezed tight, as mine were. He, too, is struggling for control, I think.

We are both fighting this, battling ourselves. He looks down now, meets my eyes, and I know I have lost my battle to resist this American warrior. His eyes are s.h.i.+ning in the moonlight, the blue washed into silvery orbs, his tanned skin like marble.

I have not prayed in years. I have called on Allah, blasphemously perhaps, in moments of pain or fear. But not since I was a girl did I speak to Allah as an ent.i.ty or G.o.d who might care, or hear. I do now.

Allah, the all-merciful and all-compa.s.sionate, hear me now. Protect me from myself. Protect Hunter from the foolishness of what I am about to do. You see that I am weak, Allah. You see, and if you care, be here now.

I feel childish, foolish, for praying in this moment. I am helpless to stop myself now, for I feel the decision in my body, in my heart. My mind, my reason and logic, they tell me I am a fool, a weak little girl to be lying in this man's arms, to be letting him touch me so with such familiarity Even more so to be considering the intent that is swirling in the fire of my blood.

All this time, Hunter's eyes are fixed on me, watching me. I know if I were to make clear I did not want his hand on me, he would respect that wish. I nearly ask him to stop touching me, simply to test my theory, but in the end I do not need to. I know.

I have not been breathing, and my lungs protest. The decision to throw myself off the edge into the abyss of desire flows through me like flood waters through a wadi, and I suck in a stuttering breath, searing my burning lungs with cooling air.

I snake my hand out from between our bodies and up to touch his stubbly cheek. His hand slides down my leg, the wrong direction, and then back up, and I feel my breathing grow shallow, panicked panting. He stops at the outward bell of my b.u.t.tocks again, once more waiting for me to demur. I lift my chin slightly, a silent gesture of permission. Or perhaps daring him to touch me.

No, that is not it. I am daring myself. Let him touch me, the lift says. He does. My heart hammers madly as his hand burns a hot trail over my bottom, cupping and caressing. I could weep from the pressure of pleasure his touch causes.

"Rania, I-" he begins.

I touch my fingers to his lips, silencing him. I do not want words, in any language. I want the language of touch. He would argue, he would discuss, he would try to convince me why, convince himself why not. I care for none of that any longer. I know what he wants, and I know what I want.

I run my fingers down the front of his body to the b.u.t.tons of his camouflage pants. I am afraid of this moment. So much fear of so many things. It is nothing I have not done a thousand, thousand times since I first allowed Malik to have his way with me in exchange for food. But...this is different. I want Hunter's comfort, I want his touch, and this is the only way I know to make sure he does not push me away. I must give him what he wants.

I steel my resolve, feeling the hardness forming in my stomach. It is the hardness of doing what I must. Yes, this is different, this is to get something I want rather than something I need, but...

Enough.

I move to undo the first b.u.t.ton, but my fingers are imprisoned by Hunter's. His eyes are probing me, looking into me. His fingers tangle with mine and move them away from his privates, back up his body, placing my hand on his cheek once more.

I do not understand. I thought this was what he wanted? To be touched? To achieve release?

I said I did not want words, but I feel my mouth opening to ask him what he wants from me. Instead, he kisses me. I want to cry, but I cannot. This pleasure is pain. His lips on mine are hot and wet and hungry, devouring my mouth as if he were starving. His hand cups my bottom and explores it. I cannot help the moan that slips up from my throat. It is a sound of desperation.

How does he know what I want? Can he read my mind? My fear is gone, evaporated by the heat of his kiss. All I know is his body hard against mine, his mouth searching mine, his hand on my flesh, inciting such fiery desire that I will be soon consumed by it.

He pulls back to look at me, but that is not what I want. More kisses. More. I need him. Allah, help me, I need him. I do not know what to do, what is happening. All I know is his mouth on mine is more happiness than I have ever known, and I do not want it to ever, ever stop.

I move to kiss him, but he pulls away, teasing me. What is this new game? I dislike it. I want his lips. He laughs at me, amused by something I cannot understand. Then he kisses me again, to quiet the questions he must see bubbling up.

I drown in his kisses. It is like nothing so much as falling, surrounded by him. Enveloped by him. I moan again, and I feel his body respond. He wants me. I know what the desire of a man feels like. He does nothing to alleviate his desire. He only touches me, slips up my back, down my leg, caresses my bottom, one side and then the other, so tenderly. His touch calms my worry, buries my panic beneath the fires of l.u.s.t and something else, something softer and more potent than mere desire.

We pull apart again, and his eyes, oh, Allah, they contain so much. I cannot put names to the emotions I see in his eyes. I dare not. That would be to invite even further heartbreak. He is playing a game with me. He will get what he wants, and that will be it. He is a man. Men are all the same. It will come down to s.e.x. Perhaps he will not pay me, but expect it for free. Which makes me all the more the fool, does it not? I cannot resist the magnetic pull he has over me, the magic he is using to control my desires, my actions.

His kiss, this meeting of lips, it contains all that I saw in his eyes. It is...too much. A sun bursts in my heart, lighting my body on fire, burning away the high walls erected to protect my heart.

I weep now, for my heart, which will be broken. I am lying to myself. I know better. I cry because I have never felt such vulnerable tenderness directed toward me in all my life as Hunter expressed in that one kiss. First he is hungry for me, l.u.s.ting as a man for a woman, then he is kissing me as if he...as if he feels- No. I cannot allow such errant foolishness any place in my heart.

But I cry, because I know what I felt from him, even if I cannot and dare not allow it to be named.

"What are you doing to me, Hunter?" My whispered words are meant for myself, but he hears them, comprehends them.

He gazes at me, and then I see resolution firming in his eyes. Yes. Now it will come.

But his words stop me.

"Trust me?" His accent is awful, his p.r.o.nunciation butchering the simple syllables, but I understand his meaning.

Do I? Should I?

I do not know what he is going to do. Nothing about this man is what I expect. I am nodding my a.s.sent even though I am unsure of anything, everything.

Fear again blazes through me, and he is not kissing me to lessen its burn. He pushes my shoulder so I am lying on my back. His eyes betray nothing but hesitant tenderness, quiet desire. My heart is beating swiftly as he levers himself up onto his side, supporting himself on one arm. I do not know how he is able to lay like he is, leaning on an elbow, but he is. I can see the strain at the corners of his eyes, but he seems to simply push away the pain and focus on me.