Dark Sins and Desert Sands by Stephanie Draven Page B

stared, he turned so that his broad back was exposed to her, and now her breath caught in her throat. Scars knotted across his spine. The pale marks twisted together, snaking across his flesh like serpents coiling for a strike.
    Layla’s hand went over her mouth to stifle a gasp.
    “You still think I did this to myself?” he asked.
    For a moment—just a moment—she could envision his wounds, bleeding and raw. She thought she heard his throaty cry of pain and shook her head to dislodge the terrible sound. Was it possible that he was telling the truth? Could she be responsible in some way for the agony written large upon his flesh? Layla shook her head. No, it wasn’t possible. She may not have all her memories, but it wasn’t in her to hurt anyone. She was a healer. A healer .
    “Convinced that I’m telling the truth yet, or do you need to see more?” His hands went to the front of his jeans, and he snapped the button open. “’Cause I’ve got plenty to show you.”
    “Don’t,” Layla said, reaching out to stop him. Their fingers tangled, right there at the front of his pants. Embarrassment flared even hotter at her cheeks and she tried to yank back. He pressed her fingers against the fabric, so that the rough teeth of the zipper scratchedher skin. He was close to her now, and the scent of him filled her nostrils. The potent evidence of his masculinity at eye level was overwhelming and the reality of her situation hit her all at once. She’d been abducted by a stranger off the street and was now holed up with him inside a hotel room. Worse, he was looking down at her like some djinn about to devour her.
    “Unzip me,” he said.
    Her mouth went dry. She couldn’t say what made her do it. Maybe he was in her head, compelling her obedience. Maybe she was too afraid of him to refuse. Or maybe it was the heated sensation that curled in her belly. She pressed the flat of one palm against his thigh, French manicured nails splayed over the denim. Then she tugged gingerly on his zipper with the other hand. It was obscene to watch herself do this. Curiosity mingled with humiliation.
    For one brief and wildly insane moment, she wondered what it would be like to touch him. Both shame and titillation shook her to her core as he slipped the waistband over his hips and exposed his boxer briefs and, just below the hem…the marred flesh of his thighs. A row of puckered burn marks trailed down his leg. Someone had taken a hot poker, or a cigarette, and pressed the burning end into his skin, over and over again. The sight seared into her, as if she’d been the one burned. “I did this to you?”
    “No,” he said, his voice low. “But you worked with the people who did.”
    It couldn’t be true. If it was true, it made her sick. It made her even more of a stranger to herself than she already was. So how could it be that she was also feeling something warm, something petal-soft and exquisite?Something like she imagined arousal was supposed to feel. No sooner did it begin to blossom inside her than it was crushed under the weight of recollection. “You’re Rayhan Stavrakis.”
    “That’s right.”
    She couldn’t make sense of her memories, but she was astounded to be remembering anything. “Greek… Arab…Syrian?”
    “American,” Ray growled. “Not that it matters.”
    “I’m sorry,” Layla whispered, staring at his scars. The words were so completely inadequate that she nearly choked on them. “I don’t remember much, but I’m so sorry.”
    “Yeah? Well, now you’re gonna make it up to me.”
     
    Well, wasn’t Layla Bahset just full of surprises? Ray watched the blush intensify on her upturned cheeks, and though she’d completely misread his intentions, her reaction made him hard. Very hard. He remembered what she’d said to him when he’d entered her sleeping mind. “Make me want something,” she had pleaded. “Make my pulse quicken with excitement. Make me sigh with longing. Make my body weak