The Sheikh grinned and shook his head. “Fine. But what about your reaction to all of that? I take responsibility for my own actions, yes. But you must take responsibility for yours.”
“And what were my actions?” Lora whispered, realizing that her arousal had been creeping steadily upwards even as she felt the Sheikh’s hardness mount until the tip of his cock was up past her belly-button, he was so damned erect.
“To deny what you felt with that first kiss,” the Sheikh whispered as he touched his lips to hers for a moment and then drew back. “To react to that denial by rushing into a marriage you knew was wrong,” he whispered as he kissed her again. “And then, when you heard I paid off Mark so he’d walk out of your life, you walked out of my life because you were . . .”
“Because I was what?” Lora said, backing up against the wall and glancing down at him, gasping when she saw his glistening shaft standing ramrod-straight under the soft yellow light of her shower stall. The water dripped in heavy beads down his muscled chest and abdomen, and his thick black hair was wet and slicked back, his heavy stubble dark and matted.
He kissed her again, the kiss almost unconscious as she responded and then backed away. “Because you were afraid of what it meant. You were not sure what I paid for, not sure if you owed me something.”
Lora blinked. He was right and she knew it, but she didn’t give a damn right now. This felt natural, the two of them naked and wet, with steam curling in the air around them, soft light and shadows highlighting her curves and his contours. Suddenly all those thoughts of that money and what Amir was actually buying with it seemed frivolous, meaningless, almost laughable. It was like her body knew what it wanted, and this was it. He was it. The father of her child. The man of her dreams. Now all she had to do was allow herself to dream that dream again, even after she’d been through a hell of a marriage.
“And what did you pay for?” she asked, slowly reaching down and tracing her finger along his shaft, gasping as she felt him shudder and watched him get so erect she wondered if he’d explode just from the delicate roll of her fingers. “What do I owe you?”
“Do not tease me, woman,” the Sheikh growled, his body hardening as he slid his hand behind her neck and slowly grasped her hair from behind. “I am trying to have a conversation here.”
“Oh, really. So talk,” she whispered, her tongue darting out as she felt a devilish energy whip through her. She tightened her grasp on his cock, holding him firmly and smiling wide. The air was warm and comfortable, and she felt secure in her familiar bathroom, hidden away from the world, from judgment—perhaps even from her own judgment.
What if, she thought as she slowly began to jerk the Sheikh’s thick foreskin back and forth as he arched his neck back and groaned in pleasure. What if I just open myself up to that fear, that childish fear that I’m a whore for everything I’ve done with Amir, everything from that first kiss, that night in Johaar, the millions he paid to Mark to buy my freedom, and the fact that I’m carrying his illegitimate child. What if I just embrace it, face that fear. If I’m so damned terrified of being a whore, then maybe I should just say to hell with it and embrace it. Perhaps Carmen was right. Perhaps every woman really is both whore and princess, harlot and queen, saint and seductress.
So she smiled that devilish smile once more, and then Lora Langhorne, that modest librarian with her head in the clouds, went down on her knees in the bathroom stall and lined up the head of the Sheikh’s massive cock with her trembling lips.
Then she gently massaged his heavy balls, stroked his long, glistening brown shaft with her red-painted fingernails, and took him into her mouth. All the way. All the damned way.
25
The Sheikh had to reach out and slam his palms against the tiled walls of the bathroom or else his knees would have buckled from the sublime feeling of her warm mouth enveloping his throbbing cock. He’d never been this aroused by a woman—perhaps not even this aroused by this woman—and he groaned shamelessly as he looked down on her head bobbing back and forth as she sucked him.
“Ya Allah,” he groaned, holding onto the wall with one hand while grasping her head with the other, caressing her long brown tresses as he watched her from above. “By God, who are you, woman?”
She sucked him once more and then pulled out, a long trail of saliva connecting her lower lip to his shining masthead. Then she looked up at him, getting up off her knees and into a squat, her thick thighs spreading out wide to support her weight. He could see her breasts perfectly from above, round and heavy, creamy white with dark red nipples as big as saucers, and the sight of her cushioned mound visible past her cleavage was so erotic that the Sheikh almost choked as he tried to speak.
“Who are you?” he muttered again as she smiled up at him, her brown eyes narrowed, her lips looking red and full, delicious like that apple in the Garden of Eden.
“Your whore,” she whispered up at him, and as she said the words she reached between her open legs and touched herself, dragging her fingers lengthwise along her slit, gathering her own wetness. She held her fingers up for him to see, and then she coated his erection with her juices, rubbing him with long strokes as she massaged his hanging balls from beneath. “Tonight I’m your whore, Amir.”
And then suddenly he was coming, out of nowhere and everywhere, an orgasm so powerful the Sheikh almost blacked out on his feet as the blood rushed down to bring him to a climactic hardness that was unlike anything he’d experienced. He swayed on his feet as he felt his balls deliver his load, tightening at the caress of her warm palm as he jerked his hard body back and forth, pouring his warm semen onto her creamy white breasts as she milked him back and forth with her other hand, all the while looking up into his eyes, her legs still spread in that erotic squat that would be burned into his memory forever.
“Min ‘ant ya amra’atan!” he muttered as she jerked him to full climax, massaging his balls all the way through in a way that sent waves of hot ecstasy through the Sheikh, rocking him back and forth as he finished on her perfect breasts. “Min ‘anat.”
“Oh God, Amir,” she whispered, glancing down at her sticky breasts and then up at his throbbing cock, finally into his eyes as he pushed out the last of his load and then went to his knees in front of her. “Come here.”
He grunted as he leaned forward on his knees, pulling her into him, and Lora laughed as she put her arms around him and rested her head on his shoulder. Suddenly she was that modest librarian again, he thought. A whore one moment, a lady the next. Ya Allah, and it felt so genuine, so natural, so real. Who was this woman? Perhaps even she did not know who she truly was, yes?
“I’m getting you all wet and sticky,” she whispered against his neck as her breasts pressed against his bare chest.
“I can see that. No matter, because now I will be getting you all wet and sticky, Miss Langhorne. I just need a minute to recover from what you just did to me.”
She giggled, and he could feel the delighted embarrassment in the way her body shook against his. He pulled her closer, his hands sliding beneath her naked rump, parting her cheeks as he slid his fingers along her rear crack, making her gasp and draw her head back.
He kissed her lips as he kneaded her buttocks with his strong hands, and soon she was kissing him back with fury and abandon, moaning and gasping as he brought one hand around to her front and began to rub her mound, pushing against her clit and labia with his knuckles until he could feel her wetness coating his hand down to the wrist.
“There we go, my queen,” he whispered as he spread her lips with his fingers. “There we go.”
“Why do you keep calling me that?” she whispered as she broke from his kiss to take a breath of air. “Your queen?”
“Use your imagination,” he grunted. “Why do you think I am here? To fuck you, claim my child, and then disappear?” He felt her flinch at his language, and he grinned as he slid his midd
le finger into her, resting his thumb on her clit. “Or am I here to claim you? To claim my woman. To claim my queen. To claim my . . . whore.”
And he curled his middle finger up against the front wall of her vagina as he said it, tapping her clit and pushing his tongue into her mouth all at the same time. And then she came, with a moan and a shudder, her wetness pouring out of her onto his palm like a slowly flooding river, her body tensing up as the Sheikh slid a second finger into her cunt and drove back and forth until she was a writhing mess of woman, thrashing against his hard body as he held her through her climax.
“There we go,” he said again as she collapsed against him, her soft body still jerking from the death throes of her orgasm. “Let it out, Lora. Let it out, and let me in.”
26
“Let it out, and let me in.”
The Sheikh’s words barely registered as Lora convulsed through her climax, gasping and whimpering as the orgasm whipped its way through her like a serpent on the move. What he’d said right before he made her come still resonated in her head: “I’m here to claim my queen. To claim my woman. To claim my . . . whore.”
And she’d come just as he said that last word. She almost choked when she realized it, but she swallowed those rising sensations of guilt and self-consciousness and soon she was smiling as the Sheikh cradled her in his arms, the two of them intertwined on the bathroom floor.
He understands me, doesn’t he, she thought as she felt his fingers play with her hair. He understands what I need, the part of me that he needs to awaken. And I feel it waking up. That’s why my body reacted to that fantasy of being a whore: being his whore. That’s the part of my feminine that I’ve been denying in all these years of fairytale dreams and visions of being some princess in a white gown. Every woman has that private fantasy of taking off that pure white gown and putting on some red lipstick, being spread from behind and taken hard against the wall by the right man. Every woman wants to be a whore for the right man. Just for him. Only for him.
“Let it out,” he’d said to her. “And let me in.”
She nodded as those words finally sunk in, acknowledging what this night was about, what this moment was about, what this union was about. It was about reconciling everything, wasn’t it. The two of them. The two sides of herself. And perhaps the fact that she was going to be a mother of two soon.
“What about Marissa?” she asked suddenly as her thoughts jumped to those rumors. She almost smiled as she felt the jealousy surge through her, and she let the feelings come without trying to reject them. “I read that you were about to—”
“You were about to have an abortion, and I was about to marry a woman I hate,” the Sheikh said, drawing back and looking at her. “If that is not a symptom of both of us denying something within ourselves—perhaps punishing something within ourselves—then I do not know what is.” He paused and took a breath. “But when it came down to that final moment,” he asked quietly, “do you believe you would have gone through with it?”
Lora frowned as she studied his face. Then she shook her head and glanced down. “No,” she whispered, looking back up into his green eyes. “Would you?”
The Sheikh grinned, raising his eyebrows as if he’d just considered the madness of what he’d been thinking of doing. He shook his head as he broke the eye contact, and Lora frowned again as she saw him flinch.
“What?” she asked. “What aren’t you telling me? What is it about Marissa?”
The Sheikh laughed. “Ya Allah, there is nothing about Marissa. She is a shallow, immature, caricature of a human being. Being with her is like being with a cardboard cutout of a woman.” He laughed again, shaking his head. “In fact, perhaps that is why I was close to taking her back. I thought marrying her would be like not being married at all. I do not think she would even care if I got sex on the side as and when I wanted, so long as I kept it out of the gossip columns.”
Lora blinked as she looked up at him. God, he was serious, wasn’t he. “How can you say that? I thought you ended the engagement with her because she cheated on you!”
The Sheikh turned to her. He shook his head as he placed his hand on the round of her belly. “I left Marissa because she made a decision I could not live with. For a reason I could not live with. It was a betrayal worse than sleeping with another man. I might have even forgiven her for simple infidelity, but not this.”
“A woman has the right to choose, you know,” Lora said hesitantly, not sure if she was defending Marissa or herself.
“Fair enough. And I have the right to choose my woman.”
“Fair enough,” Lora said. “And you were about to choose Marissa until you found out I was pregnant. So where does that leave me? How can I trust that you came back for me and not for . . .”
“You were the one who left Johaar, I should remind you,” the Sheikh snapped, and Lora could see the fire in his green eyes. She’d hurt him, she suddenly realized, and the realization made her heart jump. If she’d hurt him, it meant he cared. It meant he was vulnerable. It meant . . . oh, God, what kind of a woman was she, to actually be thrilled that she had the capacity to hurt someone?!
“I left because . . . because I couldn’t . . . I mean, my marriage had just ended, Amir!”
“A marriage you should never have gotten into to begin with!” the Sheikh thundered.
“Who the hell are you to tell me what I should and shouldn’t have done?!” Lora countered, not sure why she was raising her voice at him. Here she was naked and in his arms, and they were fighting? Really? Over what?
“I am in effect your husband and protector, by the tradition of Sheikh’s Privilege. The father of your son, Damascus. And of our unborn child. As such, I will happily tell you what you should and should not do, today, tomorrow, and for the rest of our damned lives!”
Lora almost fainted against him when she heard him say the words husband and father so casually but still with meaning, with deep meaning, the deepest meaning. She wanted to argue, to yell something at him, to counter with something—anything! But she was close to breaking point, where her mind was ready to give in to the madness and just say to hell with it. It was strange and twisted, but she was involved with this man and in a way she’d been involved with him for three years now. She’d pushed herself away and he’d pulled her back. And now he was here, naked and pressed against her, talking about being her husband and the father of both Damascus and their unborn child.
“How can you mean that?” she said, her voice trembling as her body shivered against his. “How can you say that so casually? How can I ever—”
“You are cold,” said the Sheikh, reaching up and grabbing one of the thick white towels from the rack outside the shower. “Come.”
He pulled her to her feet and wrapped the heavy cotton towel around her, reaching for another towel, which he draped over her head. He led her out to her bedroom, and though it was Lora’s bedroom in Lora’s house, she felt like the Sheikh was in charge, leading her to his own chambers, taking control.
“Sit,” he commanded, pointing at the bed, which was horribly unmade but looked warm and soft in a way that it never had in all those years Mark had been in it.
She obeyed, parking her naked bottom down on the sheets and drawing her legs up into her. The Sheikh got on the bed behind her, kneeling against her back as he dried her hair with the towel. Neither of them spoke, and Lora felt herself relax as she focused on her breathing and the sensation of her long brown tresses being gently pulled and dab-dried. It was the smallest thing, but it seemed deeply symbolic, like the Sheikh was answering her question about being her protector, her husband, her king . . . the man who warmed her when she was cold.
Soon she felt herself warming, and a moment later she realized the heat wasn’t just from the sheets and towels. It was coming from inside, from inside both of them.
Then she felt him shift against her f
rom behind, and she gasped when she felt his hardness rise against her back as he whipped the damp towel across the room and leaned over her, kissing her dry, mussed-up hair, his long arms reaching down past her shoulders and massaging her breasts until her nipples rose to stiff peaks.
And Lora realized there was nothing more to talk about right now. Marissa, Mark, Damascus, abortions, unborn children, Sheikh’s Privilege . . . it was too much to talk about. That was why they’d suddenly been barking at each other with raised voices and hollow accusations about doubt and trust. This conversation, this relationship, this union had started with the draw of their bodies in that first kiss, and it would only be furthered by the draw of their bodies.
So she leaned back against him, lifting her arms up and letting the second towel fall away, gasping as she felt him press her breasts so hard it hurt. Then she leaned forward onto her elbows and raised her bottoms for him, every fiber in her shuddering as she felt him spread her from behind, his finger sliding beneath her as he pushed his face between her rear globes.
Lora felt his tongue circle her clean, freshly showered rim, and her eyes flicked open before glazing over from the sensation of being touched where she’d never let Mark even get close. It felt filthy, but somehow it was what she knew was needed right now. She needed to open every part of her body to him, and she knew he felt it too.
She heard herself whimper softly as the Sheikh licked her rear pucker and then slid his tongue into her hole even as he pushed two fingers into her slit from beneath. “Oh, God, Amir,” she muttered, almost choking on her own words. “That feels so . . . so . . . oh, my God!”
“I am going to take you from behind,” the Sheikh whispered from behind her, and Lora could hear the authority in his voice. It turned her on in a way that almost made her come immediately, and it was all she could do to simply take a breath and nod as her hair hung down over her face. “Then I am going to take you back to my Palace and marry you. You will give birth to our child. You will have many more children. In between all of that, I will take you when I want, how I want, as often as I want. This is my decision, and it is final. After tonight there will be no doubt what you are to me. You are everything to me! Everything and everyone! My wife, my queen, the mother of my children, and my goddamn whore when I want it. Is that clear?”
Privilege for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 12) Page 13
