Page 222 of Modern Romance March 2025 (5-8)

He needed to stop saying things like that—and inthatvoice. Talking was calming her down, cooling the blood that still thrummed in her ears, her temples, and he was undoing it. “The country grew from an historic port city that thrived in the late sixteen hundreds and early seventeen hundreds. Merchants from Asia, Africa and even Europe would sail to its shores, bringing with them myriad goods and stories, and exporting baskets of the most beautiful pearls—there’s a luminous, creamy color that’s unique to the region.”

“All right,” he said, after a moment.

“There’s stunning architecture that has been preserved there better than anywhere else in the Gulf—souks in their original settings and an enormous harbor. There’s a pearl festival every year to celebrate the origins of the nation. You don’t hear much about us internationally because we’ve been overshadowed by our neighbors and their skyscrapers. Dubai. Qatar. Bahrain, even.”

“Yes, I know.”

“That’s what he cares about,” she said. “The legacy. An appreciation of what their fathers sacrificed. Every single person that pitches to him tries to sell him a vision of the future, without stopping to appreciate the past. And if you can focus on that, you’ll stand out.”

The words hung between them for a moment in the small space; Desmond looked at her keenly.

“Legacy,” he echoed.

“It’s strangely fitting, isn’t it?” she asked, and forced a smile, forced her trembling limbs to still. Why was helookingat her like that? “Consider what you’re doing for your father. After all, this is all for him.”

A muscle worked in the long column of his throat.

“I suppose,” he said a little hoarsely, and the naked sorrow was so vivid on his face that she completely pushed aside all reservations and offered her hand. He hesitated for only a moment, then shifted closer to her and took it.

They sat in silence for a moment in the cocoon of heat and cushions, and the look on his face was twice as intense as it’d been in the shadows of the jazz club. That same hot, irresistible, dreadful impulse that had taken her over just one night ago was prickling at her senses now, overcoming decorum, good sense, propriety, good taste—all of it was quickly fading…

It was different from last night. Then, it had been lust. Indulgence. Fun.

Now she felt as if something in her was cracking open to warmth. To light.

To possibility.

And a desire to comfort a man that she’d somehow grown to care for immensely, in a very short period of time.

“Desmond,” she said, as a warning, a final attempt to curtail whatever this was. But it didn’t come out as sternly as she’d intended; instead, it was more like a sigh. And then Desmond’s face was so close to hers, and his eyes were so very gentle, and she was tipping her lips up for the kiss he was offering.

Again.

* * *

They kissed until the moment faded into something that no longer made sense. When they were both breathless and hot, Val pulled back slowly, swollen lips parted, and sank back against the cushions of the low sofa. Yes, he knew he didn’t deserve her, but she was here, and she wanted to comfort him. As long as he didn’t let it spark anything else…

Right?

Desire was hot in her eyes, mixed with an uncertainty that touched him. What was she uncertain about? Him? His desire for her? Allowing a man who was grieving his father to kiss her after a night of remembrance?

“Desmond…” she started to say, and he knew he had to stop this from getting any more emotionally intimate.

“Listen,” he said huskily, staring deep into her eyes so that she’d believe the lie. “I’m fine. It was a long time ago.”

“I know, but—”

Desmond’s response was to pull his sweater over his head, as much to hide his face as anything else. When he dropped it on the floor he saw that it’d worked. Her eyes were clouded with want and she shifted as if uncomfortable, pressing her knees together and fiddling with the belt on her robe. The movement drew his eyes to her body, where the thin material of the robe clung to her waist and hips. Her full breasts were especially prominent beneath the fabric. It brought to mind the way they hung heavy and hot when they were exposed, the way her nipples grew hard and long and almost unbearably sensitive when touched or sucked.

Had they really only had one night together? He felt like he knew her body so well already. He brushed a hand where the material gaped on her legs then ran it up the silken length of her thigh.

He remembered the intensity of the first time he’d touched her, and amid his growing arousal he felt a pinch of nostalgia. It was never going to be like this again, these two nights in London. They’d got so close, so fast. And now she was looking at him, with that heavy-lidded gaze, and if he didn’t know better—

He didn’t complete the thought, because Val rose to her knees on the sofa, leaned forward, and kissed him. Hesitantly at first, asking for permission, and when his hands slipped up almost automatically to grip her waist, her hips, she parted her lips and there it was again, that honeyed sweetness that he knew would nudge at the edges of his dreams for nights to come. Though it would never be better than it was in person. Her tongue slid against his and he tasted spice and mint. He pressed forward to kiss her harder but she pulled back a little and shook her head, her eyes glittering.

“No,” she said, and her voice was husky with want. “Let me, Desmond.Please.”

Damn, her voice sent fire straight down to his groin and he was hard, so hard. Her eyes flicked down to where he swelled against his trousers and her tongue skimmed her lower lip. Her hand followed and huffed out breath. “Val. Are you sure?”

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