His Pregnant Prisoner

Part 9

Nakayla tied the sash on the plush thigh-length robe and walked into the sitting area of her suite. With another plush towel, she rubbed the wetness out of her hair. She would have lingered another hour in the marble tub, playing and luxuriating in the innumerable jets and settings, if she wasn't scared she would turn into a prune. "That marble tub is decadent, Rita."

"I'm glad something in my palace gives you pleasure, Nakayla."

Husky, honeyed—his tone sent waves of sensation rollicking over her already tingly flesh. Her knees wobbled. She pulled her towel off her face, her cheeks tightening with heat.

Uncurling himself from the velvet armchair, Karim cut a direct path toward her, his gaze traveling over her with a thoroughness that instantly put her on edge. Flaring with shock, Rita's gaze volleyed between them.

"Leave us, Rita." He threw the command without turning his thoroughly disconcerting gaze from Nakayla.

"I have nothing to say to you that Rita can't—"

"I have," he said, stopping a few inches from her. Rita had already gathered her things and quietly exited the room.

His hair still wet, he smelled so good that her stomach did a funny flip.

In a light brown V-neck T-shirt and tight blue jeans, he looked sexy and approachable. Like delicious dark chocolate that she wanted to sink her teeth into. The shirt exposed the strong column of his throat, hugged the hard contours of his chest and muscled abdomen.

Her throat dry, Nakayla tucked her hands at her sides and tugged her gaze up.

His tawny gaze glinted with incinerating warmth, a hint of mockery in the grooves around his mouth. It swept over her with invasive familiarity, lingering far too long over the opening in her robe.

Her pulse went haywire, a new kind of oxygen deprivation drying her mouth now.

She tugged at the sash holding it together, the soft silk burning against her overheated skin. His hand shot out to her cheek in a quick movement, too fast for her hazy senses to grasp. Every cell in her being pushed her into leaning into his touch and she resisted it. Just.

When he touched her, his movements were gentle, tracing the circles she sported under her eyes. "You look awful." He said this in a tone that spoke of regret. As if it hadn't been in his power to not hurt her. As if he hadn't made that choice himself.

She stepped back. "Thanks for noticing, Your Highness, and for deigning to see me," she drawled. "I should curtsy, but seeing that you had me locked up here for two days, I'm not in the mood. Instruct your staff to release me. I want to leave, at once."

A frown twisted his brows and then smoothed down. Her hands instantly went to her midriff and that incisive gaze followed. She pretended to secure the knot of her robe, her fingers shaking. Heat flushed her from within when he moved closer again, triggering every nerve into a hyper-aware state, stealing rational thought.

"Stop that," she said softly, suddenly wishing the dark stranger from that afternoon back. She wanted to be angry with him, she was, yet her body seemed disjointed from her mind.

He raised his hands like shields, a butter-won't-melt expression on his face. "Stop what?""Looking at me like that," she croaked.

"It gives me pleasure to look at you."

She rolled her eyes, hoping that he couldn't hear the thudding of her heart. "I fell for that line six weeks ago. Fool me once—"

His finger on her lips cut her off. She trembled all over, the simple contact breathing a firestorm of need all over. "Choosing that gown and the jewelry was the most pleasure I've had in six weeks."