Page 71 of To Tango, with Desire

AMIRA

And then it was over.

The ceremony and reception had been like a fairytale. Zane had spared no expense in creating what could only be described as a dream wedding. From the decorations to the catering, he’d enlisted the very best of everything, and I kept having to pinch myself to make sure I was awake.

It was only when we pulled up to his mansion that it all became real. I was married.

Zane insisted that we spend our first night together as husband and wife in our home. I declined his offer to carry me over the threshold, instead opting to hold his hand as we made our way inside.

“Welcome home.”

Standing in the hall was Zane’s right-hand man and house manager. Ahmed was a soft-spoken man in his sixties, skinny as a beanpole and impeccably dressed. He knew everything that Zane needed and saw to it with speed that was impressive. Above all else, he had kind eyes. In fact, the few people I’d met in Zane’s employ all shared that same quality.

Ahmed approached. “Congratulations to you, on your wedding, Miss Amira. Mabrouk.”

His gentle manner made me feel at home. “Thanks so much, Ahmed.”

“Is there anything you require to drink or eat?”

“No, please don’t trouble yourself.”

“I told you to take tonight off,” Zane’s reproach was lighthearted.

Ahmed merely grinned.

“Go on home. We’ll lock up.”

Ahmed bowed slightly before grabbing his coat. Zane didn’t believe in having a staff at hand every day, but he made sure to pay them handsomely for their loyalty. He arranged for his driver to take Ahmed home before turning to me.

“How are you feeling?”

“Tired.”

We made our way upstairs and my heart squeezed when I caught sight of the bed.

“I’m surprised you didn’t snap those heels with all your dancing.”

I turned to him. “I could barely drag you off the dance floor.”

“I have many skills.”

He’d meant it in jest, but my body reacted. He looked so damn handsome in his black suit. His top button was undone, his hair a little mussed, and I wanted him with a little too much intensity. But I had made a decision, an arrangement. Something that would protect me from getting blinded by sex, by his charisma.

If I was honest with myself, getting to know him these past few months had been unexpectedly good.

“Do you want me to go down and get some refreshments? Champagne? Food?”

I shook my head, slipping off my shoes. “No . . . but I could use some help with the buttons?”

His eyes darkened. “My pleasure.”

I turned and ended up facing the mirror on the far side of the room. The layout had changed since our renovations. I was now the proud owner of a massive walk-in closet, the space eating into what was another adjoining room. We’d changed the colors, updated some furniture, and made the sitting area and bedroom a little more feminine. To my surprise, Zane had approved every choice. He’d said he wasn’t threatened by dusky pinks. That he was comfortable with his masculinity and wanted me to be equally comfortable in my home.

It had been startling to hear him say it after a lifetime of living with my macho dad. His self-assurance was a big turn-on.

I watched as he began undressing me. Not the time to be turned on by your husband. Not when there was a sex ban in place.

Zane took his time, and with every brush of his fingers on my bare skin, my heart rate increased. It shouldn’t be seductive, it shouldn’t feel like foreplay, but when he glanced up, our eyes meeting in the reflection, my resolve wavered.