They’re not kids anymore.
Just when he starts to get his act together, Mansur wakes to an empty bed and a crying baby. His wife leaves him with their infant on the day he starts a new job. Uneasy and alone, he looks across the street to Faiza for help. As he relies on their long friendship, desires for the sexy firefighter reawaken within him.
Faiza can’t deny Mansur, even though she should. Her heart broke when he married another woman. She got herself together and moved on. Now, he is back in their childhood neighborhood and her life. She knows they’re just friends, but she can’t help longing for more.
Family and culture kept them apart when young, but Mansur won’t allow interference from anyone or anything. He is determined to make Faiza more than just a friend.
The Groom is a boy-next-door romance full of passion and a Muslim alpha who proves that he is no longer a little boy.
**NO cliffhanger, Guaranteed HEA.**
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Mansur’s stare pierced through her. She was ready to obey his wordless demand that she submitted to him, body and soul.
He kicked off his leather designer shoes, stalking toward her in socked feet, unbuttoning his shirt.
She took a deep breath and leaned on the nightstand while lifting a foot.
“No. Leave those on.” He turned her and dropped the lace cape on her shoulders to the ground. “I want to undress you.”
“The buttons are small.”
Tearing and the sound of tiny pearl buttons hitting the floor followed his snigger. She gasped. He shoved the fabric from her arms. The feel of his lips on her prickling neck and back sent her senses reeling. She reached around and found the thick bulge at the apex of his pants. Nice size, very nice. She turned her head, their lips touching. The dress dropped on the floor, covering the cape the same time his lips did hers. He passed a hand over her bare torso. She fell against him, burning all over and throbbing between her legs. Her intimate folds tingled with a hunger to feel him.
As if he knew, he shoved a hand in her panties and teased them with ardent strokes, masterful in his ability to stir her passion. She hooked his neck and jutted her crotch against his palm. “Ahh, right there, Man … Man.” He snatched out his hand. Her limbs shook in protest.
“Habibti—” the term of endearment trickled into her ear. “You don’t finish until I’m inside you.”
She stepped out of the surrounding puddle of her wedding clothes. “Well, then let’s get you there.” Jittery fingertips made it difficult to unclasp the front of her bra, but she did while backing up to the bed and offering him a sexy half-grin.
He crept to her, licking his slick finger and shifting his gaze between her face and jiggling cleavage. “Mmm. I like the way you taste. I want more.” He shoved her. She tumbled to the bed with a squeal. Her breasts broke free of their satin bra. He covered her body with his, cupping each one and kissing their hardening nipples. “You called me ‘Man.’ You were right. The boy you played with is not here. Your husband is. Your Man is.”
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