Her hand froze midmotion. “What are you doing, Rafiq?”

“Nothing.” Not presently.

She released a shuddering breath. “We said no touching.”

He inched his palm higher. “You said no kissing.”

“Rule two, no touching.”

Despite her assertions, he did not bother to lift his hand, and she did not bother to shove it away. “Yet you have been touching me.”

“As a physician.”

“And I have reacted as any man reacts to a woman’s touch.”

“For that reason, I should go now.”

Rafiq predicted she would stand and leave, but she remained positioned next to him, both hands still resting lightly on his shoulders. He straightened, bringing their faces close, their gazes connecting immediately. He saw the indecision in her eyes, as well as a spark of need.

And then Maysa did something Rafiq did not expect—she broke her first rule.

Three

She had taken complete leave of her senses, but at the moment Maysa didn’t care. She only concerned herself with the play of Rafiq’s mouth against hers and the impressions he made with the gentle glide of his tongue.

At some point—and she had no idea how or when—he had shifted toward her and she had moved fully into his arms. A nagging voice demanded she stop before she could not, but she disregarded the caution. For once she wanted to be softly kissed, without undue force. Willingly kissed. She wanted to remember how it felt to be a desirable woman, not simply an object of brutal lust.

Yet all the reasons why she shouldn’t be doing this kept crowding her mind. She could be only a means to an end for Rafiq. A source of comfort. A temporary diversion. She was also keeping a secret from him. A secret that could ultimately destroy him emotionally, and her reputation literally.

Still, when he cupped her breast, she focused on the sensations, not solid rationale. He traced her nipple with a fingertip, causing her to shift restlessly against the building heat. But when he left her mouth to feather kisses down the column of her throat, sliding the dress’s strap down her shoulder, a barrage of bitter memories prompted her to automatically tense.

Rafiq reacted to her sudden change in mood by abruptly rising from the sofa, leaving Maysa alone steeped in self-consciousness. He walked away, his hands laced behind his neck, and stopped in the middle of the terrace, keeping his back to her.

“I’m sorry,” Maysa muttered as she readjusted her clothing. “I have no idea what has come over me. We shouldn’t be doing this.” She’d begun to wonder if she could do it, even if she wanted to.

Rafiq dropped his arms to his sides and faced her again. “I am not sorry, yet I am convinced this will keep happening between us.”

So was Maysa, unless she revealed the absolute truth behind her reluctance. She wasn’t willing to do that. “We’ll simply need to avoid situations such as this. Following dinner each evening, I will return to my quarters, and you will return to yours. We will keep our distance during the day, as well.”

He shifted his weight slightly. “And I will lie awake all night, imagining how it would be to touch you with my hands and my mouth in ways I never did when we were younger. I will dream about how it would feel to be buried deep inside you. And each time I see you, I will want the reality.”

The heat returned, prompting Maysa to cross her legs. “Then perhaps it would be best if you found another place for your respite.”

“I care not to be anywhere else.”

Truthfully, she didn’t want him to leave, either. “Then I suppose you will be forced to rely solely on your imagination.”

“Or we could both choose not to fight our desire. No one would know if we became lovers again.”

How very easy it would be to agree. How very foolish if she did. “I would know, Rafiq. Nothing could ever exist between us beyond temporary physical pleasure. You are the king, and I am a woman who most believe is unfit to keep company with you, let alone be your lover.”

He rubbed a palm over his nape. “Again, we could be discreet. We could enjoy each other during the time we have.”

The fact he didn’t say she wasn’t unsuitable was as effective as a frigid shower. Maysa stood, hands fisted at her sides, nails digging into her palms. “I have already been one man’s whore, Rafiq. I will not be another’s.”

“I am prisoner to tradition and acceptable mores, Maysa, as are you. Yet that does not mean I would view you as my sharmuta.”

“Yet that is exactly what I would be to you, a woman not fit to be your queen, yet expected to do your bidding in bed. Answer your every need, yet receive nothing in return, as it was with Boutrous. That would make me your mistress.”