In Too Deep_ Husband Material & the Sheikh's Bargained Bride - Brenda Jackson [39]
At the periphery of her fogging awareness, she heard a whirring sound. It was only when Adham removed his hand and shifted his eyes to the source of disturbance that she realized what it had been. One of the paparazzi had managed to slip by the bodyguards.
Adham glared at him. The guy only grinned, taking more photos. Adham advanced on him and the thin, seedy-looking guy clambered back out of the stables.
Sabrina put her hand on Adham’s clenched forearm. “Aswad and Layl are Arabian?”
He looked back at her, the knowledge that she was trying to defuse the situation filling his eyes.
He let her have her wish, visibly relaxed, smiled. “All my ponies are purebred Arabian stallions and mares. You can tell by this.” He ran his hand lovingly down Layl’s head. The horse nuzzled him back in delight and affection. She knew exactly how he felt. “A refined, wedge-shaped head.” He grabbed her closer, pressing his length to her back, running his hands down her arms until he entwined their fingers before he raised her hands so they could caress each feature of Layl he mentioned.
“They also have a broad forehead, large eyes and nostrils, small muzzles, an arched neck and a high tail carriage. Most have a slight forehead bulge, what we call jibbah in Khumayrah.” He guided her fingertips in investigating the protrusion. “It’s an enlargement of their sinuses that helps them weather our desert climate. And with compact bodies and short backs, even small Arabians can carry heavy riders with ease. They’re known for stamina and courage. But I’ve never known a horse with half of Aswad’s and Layl’s endurance and fearlessness. I ride them in games at critical times. They play to win.”
By now she was feeling he’d explored every inch of her body. Then he made it even worse, turned her to him. “The season’s tournaments are played on six consecutive Saturdays and proceeds benefit charities. A match lasts about two hours, divided into six ‘chukkers,’ seven minutes each. During half time, spectators indulge in the social tradition of divot stomping, or evening out the ground for the players.”
His informative discourse clashed with the hunger in his eyes, the coveting in his touch. Her state was only ameliorated when he gave her space to breathe, to play with the horses.
Then he hugged her off the ground, pressing his lips to her neck. “How about we meet my biped friends now?”
She twisted around and looked up at him. The solitary dimple in his cheek had her heart revving like a car with its accelerator pedal floored.
“Only if you promise I can see your ponies again.” She sounded as if she’d been running a mile.
“I promise you anything you want, whenever you want it.” She wanted to cry out that she wanted only one thing—him. “Everyone must be at the VIP tent, and I’m certain they can’t wait to meet you. They’re a great group of people. My friends are, anyway. These tournaments are celebrity populated, and they can be a magnet for all kinds.”
She nodded. She knew only too well what kind of people were attracted to fame and fortune.
He hugged her to his side again, leading her out to the tent.
She searched for something to say. Preferably something intelligent this time. She’d been a swooning idiot in his arms so far, and a giddy child with his horses. “So, what makes a good polo player?”
His eyes crinkled with pleasure at her attempt to engage him. “The ability to ride like a desert raider, to hit the ball like a medieval knight and to work the game like a champion chess player all while someone is trying to beat your knees off.”
“Yikes!” He threw his head back at her alarm, letting out a guffaw of sheer amusement. She leaned deeper into his body, delighting in having his large, solid form pressing against her again. “Have you ever been injured?”
“Injuries are part of such an intense contact sport where the competition has always been dubbed ‘bruising.’”
Her heart pounded. “But that’s it, right? The