By Penny Jordan
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Additional resources for A Royal Bride At The Sheikh's Command (Harlequin Large Print Presents)
She had to get out of here before he came back. She was dressed now and, with no reason to stay and any number not to do so, why was she delaying? Go, go now, she urged herself, before he comes back and humiliates you even more. Even more? Could there be any deeper humiliation than those words he had said to her as the final surges of her pleasure had subsided. ‘Right,’ he had told her tersely, as he had withdrawn from her and got up off the bed. ’ What she had wanted! He had wanted it—her—too, hadn’t he?
Your flesh is the colour of almond milk brushed with sunset and gold. It demands the homage of a man’s touch and it seeks to enslave him. ’ Natalia could barely focus on his poetic words. She was on fire with the intensity of her own aching need. She reached up and placed her hands either side of his face, drawing him down towards her body, driven by her longing to feel his mouth against her flesh, and already ready to cry out with disappointment when he refused her. And then to her disbelief he did something she had never in her wildest dreams imagined any man doing.
That was ridiculous. She just wasn’t that kind of person. Perhaps now wasn’t the time to tell him that she was the one responsible for creating the massage in the first place, Natalia admitted, even if his attitude towards her had put her on her mettle. She knew without vanity that she was an excellent masseuse—it was a gift and an instinct she had known she possessed virtually from childhood, this power to soothe and heal with the touch of her hands. Had she been doing this in her own spa she would have been talking with her clients, drawing them out about themselves whilst she assessed which of her own specially blended oils would suit their needs best.
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