He lifted her chin and bent. Their mouths brushed. Once, twice.Oh God,Xavier thought. Emotions so powerful, so intense, suddenly immobilized him, while his heart galloped at a pace it had never endured before.
He held her face, staring.
As she began to unwind the kaffiyeh slowly, he was mesmerized. Something he could not fathom, perhaps was even afraid to understand, pulled at him from deep inside. She pulled the headdress off of her head. Her red hair was unbound. She lifted up her tresses, allowing them to spill over her shoulders, back, and bound breasts.
He took a step back, releasing her. He had to. It was either that or strangle from lack of air.
She shrugged off her tunic. Images were flashing through his mind, images from the recurring dream. He saw them racing through Tripoli, past burning houses and mosques, racing for their lives, hand in hand.
He shoved his thoughts aside. She was unwinding the strips of linen binding her breasts, and he stared helplessly. He heard himself say, “You are so very beautiful.”
She stood bare-breasted before him. “I am in love with you, Xavier.”
He looked up, into her eyes, startled. He did not believe her, did he? Yet he could not look away. He was shaking.
She stood uncertainly, her red hair curling over her broad shoulders and full breasts, her nipples erect.
He touched her shoulder. She inhaled. His hand drifted down her arm, then over her breast.
She swayed toward him.
And he moved. Like lightning. He seized her; she clung. Their mouths met, opened, fused. Her bare breasts were crushed against his equally bare chest.
Xavier heard himself moan as he thrust his tongue deep into her mouth. His hands slid greedily up and down her back, and then inside of her pants, cupping her buttocks. She cried out, pressing against his loins. Xavier managed to tear his mouth from hers, panting harshly, shaking uncontrollably. Vera, Alexandra. Vera … It was hard to distinguish which woman he held in his arms.
He took her mouth again. This time lifting her up high and hard against his body. From behind, he explored the hot, wet juncture between her legs. And then he could not stand it.
Together they dropped to their knees. Xavier was tearing down her trousers. He palmed her as he tossed the pants aside; she arched wildly against him. She was sobbing.
He spread her thighs, embracing her hips, burying his face against the folds of her sex. He had to know her this way, had to taste what he had dreamed about so often. He parted her with his thumbs. His tongue swept over her, raking her, exploring her, again and again.
She pumped against his face, clawing his head, crying his name. Her knees buckled uselessly.
As she subsided he ripped off his own pants and moved on top of her. As his arms closed around her, he had the most distressing thought—that nothing had ever felt this right. He entered her.
Slowly, using incredible restraint.
She gasped.
Their eyes collided. Connected. Held. “Oh, God,” he breathed as he filled her, pressing against her, inside of her.
“Xavier,” she said, her eyes suspiciously wet. Her palms cupped his face.
The moment he began to move, his control snapped. Xavier closed his eyes and gave himself over to the rawest side of man’s nature. He pounded into her. Hot and hard.
Aware of her moving beneath him, with him, smoothly, perfectly—as if they had been lovers before.
And Xavier knifed into her, crying out her name.
She also cried out, one heartbeat later.
He could not believe what had just happened. He was in shock.
As he pulled on his thin trousers, he kept his back to her. She was very dangerous. Not because she was a spy. But because he lost all control with her. All control, all common sense, all reason.
In fact, he still mistrusted himself intensely—as far as she was concerned.
“That was wonderful,” she said hoarsely. But with a question mark.
