Page 18 of Her Irresistible Sheik (Al-Sintra Family #9)

Nahla waited, camera cradled in her hands, her heart beating faster than it should. Photographing someone—truly capturing them—was intimate. Raw. It peeled something back, whether the subject realized it or not.

And this man—this maddening, magnetic man—was already under her skin.

So as she held his gaze, silently begging and silently dreading his answer, her breath caught.

“Why not?” he finally said.

A giddy thrill rushed through her, like electricity up her spine. She tried to contain it, but her smile was impossible to smother. “Thank you,” she said, aiming for calm professionalism. Her voice still came out a little breathless.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked, wariness flickering in his eyes as he glanced around the very unprofessional, very pink-accented room.

Nahla turned, eyeing the too-dainty décor, the polished floors, the ornate floral drapes. This wasn’t going to work. “The lighting is bad. And the furniture looks like it came from a rococo tea party,” she muttered, half to herself.

Then she glanced at the dark windows and frowned. “And it’s nighttime? When did that happen?”

Mikail crossed his arms, one brow raised. “You missed an entire meal and a very expansive sunset.”

“I get absorbed,” she admitted with a grin, which of course, made that sparkle appear. Mikail tensed.

She didn’t notice.

“I’ll be right back,” she called, vanishing into the bedroom. A moment later, she emerged carrying a folded white bedsheet and several binder clips. “This’ll have to do.”

He watched her drag chairs, angle lamps, and hang the sheet on a curtain rod like a woman possessed. Occasionally, she mumbled about shadows, bounce light, and something called “tonal coherence.” He caught none of it. He was too busy watching the way her hips moved when she adjusted the tripod.

Finally, she stepped back and sighed, satisfied. “There. Studio Nahla.”

“You finished moving furniture yet?” he asked from his spot where he was leaning against a marble pillar, arms still crossed, watching her with amusement and far too much interest.

“Almost. Don’t worry,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “No one’s died during one of my sessions. Yet.”

“That’s… reassuring.”

“Stand right here,” she instructed, pointing to a spot in front of the draping white bedsheet like she was directing traffic.

“You want me to pose in front of your bed linens?”

“They’re clean ,” she said with mock offense. “And I have a vision.”

Mikail moved into place, stiff as granite. “I feel like I’m about to be sacrificed.”

“You are,” she muttered, adjusting the lens. “To art.”

She took the first few shots, then frowned. “You look like a man about to deliver a eulogy. Relax your jaw.”

“This is relaxed,” he grumbled.

Nahla pulled the camera away from her face, startled by his response. But at the look in his dark eyes, she realized that he was serious. Did the man never relax?

Pursing her lips, she studied him. “Okay. Let’s try something else.

” She stepped closer and tipped his chin up; her fingers brushed his skin and a shock of heat raced through her.

They both froze. His eyes darkened and her heart thudded against her ribs.

“Sorry,” she whispered. “I should have asked permission to touch you.”

“Permission granted,” he replied, his voice deeper and that heat in his eyes turned to inferno levels.

But she swallowed and pulled her fingers away as she stepped back once again. “Tell me about your sisters.”

That startled him. “What?”

“Talk to me,” she said softly, lifting the camera again. “It helps.”

He cleared his throat. “They’re both married. One lives in Al-Rashid, the other in Amarra. Between them, I have four nieces and two nephews.”

She clicked the shutter again, angling slightly to the right. “And their names?”

He rattled them off, slowly, but his shoulders started to relax. The corners of his mouth twitched. “Samira’s daughter calls me ‘Uncle Grump.’ Apparently, I’m not ‘fun’ enough.”

Nahla laughed. “Did you ever prank your sisters when you were younger?”

“Why would I?” Mikail asked, frowning slightly. His confusion was genuine.

At her surprised expression, he sighed. “I was already in boarding school when my first sister was born. And I was in college by the time the youngest came into the world. I wasn’t there for the pranks and sibling chaos.”

Nahla lowered the camera for a moment, chewing on her lip. “Zayn was really good at pranks.” She adjusted a light, then lifted the camera again. “When we were younger, he got this horrifyingly realistic tarantula toy. I mean, full-on hairy legs, glassy eyes, the works.”

Mikail’s interest sharpened. “Go on.”

Nahla smiled, capturing the slight lift of his right eyebrow. “One night, he tucked it under my blanket. I found it just as I was crawling into bed. I screamed so loud, I think I cracked a window.”

His hands twitched at his sides. “How old were you?”

“Seven.” She didn’t pause her picture taking, but the memory lit up her face. “The guards stormed in, weapons drawn, thinking we were under siege. Meanwhile, Zayn was doubled over laughing in the hallway, completely useless from how hard he was laughing.”

“You’re kidding ,” Mikail growled, his protectiveness flaring irrationally. The image of a little Nahla terrified in her princess bed made his jaw tighten. “I should have words with your brother.”

“Too late. I got him back.” She gestured to a chair. “Have a seat. This part’s more symmetrical.”

He obeyed, unable to resist her command—or her smile. “How’d you get your revenge?”

“I didn’t tell our parents, so Zayn thought he’d won. But I snuck into his room and shoved the spider into his bed the next night.” She snapped a shot and grinned. “He screamed so loud, his voice cracked.”

Mikail laughed, leaning slightly into the light.

“But it didn’t stop there. The spider eventually turned up in my closet, half hidden in the shadows. He got me again with that one, and I was so mad. So I shoved it into his sock drawer. He retaliated by planting it in my overnight bag. I returned the favor by burying it in his sweater stack.”

“Sounds like psychological warfare.”

“Exactly.” She stepped to the side and took another picture. “So I escalated.”

His brows lifted. “Oh?”

“I sewed it into the inside of his favorite pair of jeans.”

There was a pause. Then Mikail burst out laughing, deep and genuine. “You sewed it in?!”

“I did. Took me forty-five minutes and three band-aids because I kept stabbing my finger with the needle.” She lowered the camera and shrugged.

“And lack of sewing experience.” Her grin widened.

“But totally worth it. He pulled on those jeans and nearly passed out from terror when his leg brushed something hairy.”

“That’s diabolical,” Mikail said, his voice thick with amusement. “I’m impressed.”

She stopped taking pictures and looked down slightly, shaking her head in mock regret. “I had to retire from the spider wars after that. No topping it.”

They both laughed for a moment. Nahla’s fingers adjusted the lens one last time, took a few more, then she lowered the camera. “I think I’ve got what I need.”

Mikail stood, still smiling. “That was… surprisingly enjoyable.”

“Thank you for sharing your awkward modeling debut,” she teased, offering him a very professional bow.

He stepped closer, his presence suddenly heavier. “And thank you for sharing the spider saga with me. I needed that laugh.”

The mood in the room shifted. The playfulness simmered into something quieter. Deeper.

Awkwardly, Nahla cleared her throat and gestured to the laptop. “Now I’ll download the shots and edit.”

“That’s where the magic happens, isn’t it?”

She shrugged, brushing a lock of hair off her cheek. “Some of it. Hopefully the shots are good to begin with. Lighting, angle, emotion…those matter too.”

He didn’t say anything right away. When she looked back at him, she found his gaze locked on her—dark and focused, like he was seeing her in a way no one ever had.

“Your talent is impressive, Nahla,” he said simply. No flourish. No exaggeration.

And yet, her chest ached with how much that single sentence meant.

“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.

Then her eyes drifted—just a little—to his mouth. It wasn’t intentional. But it was inevitable.

She’d spent a year wondering about that mouth. Hating it. Craving it. And now…now that she’d seen the man behind it, the contradictions and complications…

She was still wondering.

Before she could tear her gaze away, she felt his hand at the back of her head—gentle, firm, warm. Her eyes snapped up to his, and her breath caught.

There it was. The heat. The hunger.

He wanted to kiss her. And God help her, she wanted that too.

When his hand guided her closer, Nahla let herself be drawn in—helpless against the magnetic pull.

But he stopped.

A breath away.

Her lips tingled, waiting. Every nerve in her body stood on edge, humming with anticipation. Was he going to stop? Was he teasing her?

Then he didn’t stop.

His hand shifted slightly, urging her forward again—and she went willingly, heart hammering in her chest.

She’d expected something sweet. Tentative. Maybe just a brush of lips.

But Mikail didn’t do anything halfway.

His kiss was hungry and unrelenting. Firm. Unapologetic. A slow claiming that made her knees weak.

When she hesitated, stunned by the sudden heat of his mouth, he nipped gently at her lower lip. She gasped in surprise—then his tongue slid past her defenses. The touch was soft, sensual, devastating.

For a split second, she pulled back, staring up at him with wide, stunned eyes. Had she imagined that rush of sensation?

No.

She leaned back in, seeking him this time. Needing more.

And he gave it.

The kiss deepened. It wasn’t gentle—it was consuming. Her fingers curled into his shirt. Her heart raced. She wanted more, closer, deeper—

Abruptly, he pulled back.

Not all the way.

His hand stayed, slipping through her hair, trailing across the curve of her neck like he couldn’t quite let go. His touch left a trail of heat. Her breath came in uneven gasps.

“Damn it,” Mikail whispered hoarsely, the words low and guttural.

Then, too quickly, his hand was gone.

So was his warmth.

And so was he.

He stepped back abruptly, shoving his hands into his pockets like they might betray him again. His jaw was tight. His eyes unreadable.

He looked like he wanted to speak. Maybe to apologize. Maybe to say something that would make sense of the moment.

But he didn’t.

He gave her one curt nod—and walked out.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Nahla stood there in stunned silence, staring at the empty space he’d left behind. Her fingers rose to her lips, still tingling from the kiss. Even now, if she closed her eyes, she could replay every second of it.

And she did.

Once. Twice. A dozen times.

Each memory left her more breathless than the last.

It had been a beautiful kiss. A powerful one.

So why had he run?

Had she pushed too hard? Was she too eager? Too forward? Was she just a momentary indulgence in his life where control and composure ruled everything?

She turned to the monitor where his image stared back at her. Regal. Stoic. Commanding.

But the pictures didn’t make anything clearer.

The clock caught her eye—nearly 1 a.m. The day had vanished while she’d been wrapped in editing, dinner, and…him.

She powered everything down. She couldn’t look at his face on the screen any longer.

Her crime novel lay where she’d left it earlier, just one chapter in. She picked it up, desperate for a distraction.

But the idea of going to bed was no longer an option.

No. Not a chance.

If she slept, she’d dream of him again—just like every other night since arriving here. And tonight…she didn’t think she could take it. Not after that kiss.

Instead, she tiptoed down the hall and curled up in the library, folding herself into one of the big chairs beneath the window. She tucked her feet under her, wrapped herself in a throw blanket, and opened the book.

If she stayed awake, she couldn’t dream.

That was the plan.

Unfortunately, her thoughts were already spiraling.

What if he hadn’t felt the same spark? What if kissing her had been obligation—or worse, mere curiosity? Had she ruined everything by leaning in? By hoping for more?

She wasn’t supposed to fall for him. She was here for protection. That’s all. This wasn’t her home, or her future.

She’d promised herself not to get too close.

So why did it hurt?

Nahla laid her head down on a pillow and blinked rapidly, trying to clear the moisture stinging her eyes.