Page 104 of The Moon's Fury
Silence descended, so heavy, it sucked the air from the room.
Then, she realized she was holding her breath.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said finally, his voice low in the dark room.
Her irritation bloomed into anger.What gave him the right to decide what was good for them or not?
“You can’t sleep on the floor with your shoulder aching. I can’t sleep on the bed with you grunting and groaning. We have a long day of travel tomorrow. Get. On. The. Bed,” she gritted out, fists clenching the bedsheets.
He was silent for so long, she nearly reached for the candle.
“Are you sure?” he finally asked.
“Yes! I promise your modesty is safe from me.”
The floor creaked as he rose, and a shaft of moonlight illuminated him as he neared.
Her breath caught.
Jamil was right.
This was a terrible, horrible idea.
When the fuck had he taken off his shirt?
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Soraya’smouthwasdrierthan the Alzahran desert, all vestiges of sleep washed away as her eyes drank in his muscular form. His tanned skin glowed in the moonlight, shadows outlining the deep ridges of his abdomen. His sleep trousers were low,so low, on his hips, and her helpless eyes followed the thin trail of hair until it disappeared into his waistband.
Her heart stuttered.
She dragged her gaze up—his well-defined chest was marked with a black tattoo on one pectoral, thick inky whorls spiraling outward, reaching just below his collarbone.
She gasped.
Her eyes fell on mottled, purple and blue skin. The large bruise spanned nearly his entire shoulder and likely continued farther down his back. Their eyes met, and she tore her gaze away.
His bright, emerald eyes were twinkling, lips curved up at the corners. When he grabbed a shirt and tugged it on with a wince, it became painfully clear that he’d remained still until she’d finished gawking him.
A furious blush warmed her cheeks, and she prayed he couldn’t see it. When he reached the bed, though, all traces of humor had vanished from his face, and he stood before her, quiet and intense. The mattress squeaked as she made space for him, and he lay down beside her.
She was acutely aware of every point of contact between them—the length of his arm against hers, the press of her hip against his side, the brush of his ankle against her leg as he settled.
Her heart raced at both his proximity and the indecent thoughts running through her mind. She tossed and turned, searching for a comfortable position, jostling him each time.
Moons, what had she been thinking?
She shifted again, and her elbow dug into his side.
“Sorry,” she muttered, twisting, trying to find an angle where she wasn’t touching him.
Jamil let out a frustrated sound. His large arm wrapped around her middle and tugged until her back was pressed flush to his chest. His warm breath fanned her skin, and the fine hair on her neck rose to attention.
“Jamil?” she whispered. His heavy arm was still thrown over her waist.
“It means nothing.” The sharp edge in his voice cut into her heart. “This position is comfortable, and we both need to sleep.”
How did he expect her to sleepnow?
