Page 21 of Her Irresistible Sheik (Al-Sintra Family #9)

Nahla sighed in her sleep, curling her fingers into a tight ball so she could pretend she’d actually touched Mikail’s scruffy cheek.

What a lovely dream, she thought drowsily, clinging to it. Warmth, comfort, safety—his hand over hers, the soft rasp of stubble beneath her fingertips. She didn’t want to wake up. Not yet.

A noise stirred her—a subtle shift in the air, a step on the hardwood floor.

Then…a presence.

Her eyelids fluttered open. She blinked once, twice. And immediately regretted it.

She was staring at Mikail’s groin.

Her breath hitched.

Wow!

She jerked upright and cleared her throat, forcing her gaze upward in a panic. And there he was.

Mikail. In the flesh. Not a dream. Still too tall. Still too intense. Still watching her like she was a puzzle he couldn’t solve.

She opened her mouth, but no words came out. Had she really…? Had she touched his cheek? Had he really pulled her fingers to his face and promised—what was it? Not to run again?

Or had that been part of the dream too?

His expression gave nothing away. He looked composed. Guarded. Commanding.

Definitely not the same man who had knelt beside her like a prayer.

“Why are you sleeping in the library?” he asked.

Or rather, demanded. His voice wasn’t cruel, but it wasn’t gentle either.

Gruff. Blunt. Abrupt. The same tone he used when issuing orders to his staff.

It soothed her in a way it shouldn’t—by giving her permission to dismiss the tender fantasy version of him that had whispered to her in sleep.

Of course it had been a dream.

This man didn’t whisper. He barked. He scowled. He clenched his jaw so tight she was surprised he didn’t crack molars.

Still, her stomach fluttered with confusion.

“I…” she began, then trailed off. Her mouth was dry, and her brain felt woolly. Her back ached, her hair was a mess, and she was sure she had pillow creases pressed into one cheek.

She swept her hair away from her face and tried again. “Um…”

He raised a brow but said nothing.

Nahla slowly stood, wincing as her spine protested. Clearly, she’d fallen asleep here for a reason, but she couldn’t remember what that reason was. Just that she hadn’t wanted to sleep in her bed. Or maybe she had come in here for a book? No…she’d brought the book. Hadn’t she?

Wait—had she fallen asleep after Mikail kissed her?

Had he actually kissed her?

Or had she kissed him?

Or— had any of it actually happened ?

The memory of his lips—firm, unyielding, thorough—lingered in her senses, vivid enough to blur the lines between dream and reality.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, his tone suddenly softer.

Her stomach answered for her, growling audibly.

She blushed, then nodded. “Yes,” she murmured. “Very.”

But at the same time, she became acutely aware of her rumpled appearance, the sleep in her eyes,—oh good grief, no!

A shower. Clean clothes. Maybe some mascara to make her eyes look less like smudged shadows. A brush. Lip gloss. Dignity.

And yet—when she glanced at Mikail again, she froze.

He looked… tired. Not rumpled, not undone—but tired in a way that settled in the lines around his eyes. There were faint shadows beneath them that hadn’t been there yesterday. And something in his expression—guarded as it was—looked like he’d wrestled with more than just paperwork overnight.

Guilt twisted inside her.

Had she taken up too much of his time last night? Talking. Photographing him. Making him stand in that ridiculous makeshift studio?

Had he stayed awake afterward, worrying about her safety?

Nahla stepped back slightly, trying to regain her balance and clarity. “I’m very hungry,” she repeated, a bit more formally. “But I don’t want to take up your time this morning. I’m sure you have more important things to do.”

“Nonsense,” he said without hesitation. He reached for her hand and tucked it into the crook of his elbow, his grip firm and unapologetic. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

His fingers pressed gently over hers. “And I doubt you had dinner last night.”

“No,” she admitted, too disoriented to argue. But her brain was still trying to replay their kiss. The warmth, the hunger, the way her heart had thundered in her chest.

Yet now, he was so… composed. There was no flicker of recognition in his expression. No acknowledgement of a kiss, a whisper, or a midnight confession.

So, it had been a dream. Right?

“How long will it take you to edit the photos from last night?” he asked as they entered the sunshine filled breakfast room.

She sat down, glancing around to get her bearings. The lemon-yellow walls glowed with morning light. Outside, birds chirped merrily in the garden beyond the open doors.

“Um…not long,” she said vaguely, still half-certain she was going to wake up again at any moment.

And yet… over the next hour and a half, she forgot to question. The more they talked, the more she relaxed. Mikail was funny, sharp, thoughtful. He listened when she spoke. He challenged her, teased her, respected her opinions.

And as she sipped her coffee and nibbled at buttery pastries, she realized something even more unsettling than dream-kisses or late-night whispers.

She liked being with him.

So when one of his aides stepped into the room to interrupt them, informing Mikail of an urgent issue, the pang she felt wasn’t confusion anymore.

It was disappointment.

The kind that lingers long after the dream fades.