“We do not need to know one another.” His gaze moved over her face. “This is a political marriage, a treaty of sorts. You will have your duties, and outside of them, your own life. You will carry on much as you did before.”
Her heart stammered inside her chest. “Except for the whole having sex together thing?” She pushed, her eyes holding his, a silent challenge in them.
His expression shifted to one of distaste. “Yes.”
Great. He was as reluctant to go to bed with her as she was with him. Only Sophia knew that deep down, her reluctance had a more troubling root, that there was far more to her hesitation.
Hadn’t she always found him compelling? Hadn’t she found one look from him could make her knees tremble? Her pulse race? Her reaction to him had terrified her, so she’d done her best to stay away from him, avoiding him assiduously whenever he was due to be at the palace. “It’s nice for you and your brother to have time together,” she’d teased Addan, when he’d tried to include her in their lunches. “Besides, I have reading to do.”
“Always reading,” Addan had teased back, kissing the tip of her nose before turning back to Malik, who had been watching the interaction with that same look of steely disapproval on his features he always held.
“With Addan’s death, the need for an heir became more pressing. We cannot afford to wait. I am the end of this family’s line – we must have a child, and fast.”
Her stomach looped in on itself. “I know that.” It was a whisper. A soft plea.
“You hate the idea of it, don’t you?” he asked, grimly, his eyes sweeping over her. “You hate the idea of sleeping with the brother of the man you loved?”
Her eyes fell closed, her heart stuttering.
She had loved Addan. She had loved him, depended on him, adored him. Not in a romantic way, though. Theirs had been a friendship, first and foremost – deeper than any she’d ever known.
She didn’t have a chance to answer – there was a knock on the door a moment later and Malik straightened, taking a step back from her. “Come,” he spoke in English for her benefit, despite the fact she’d been fluent in Abu Fayan for years.
A servant entered, bowing low. “Majesty, Sharafaha, it is time.”
“One minute,” Malik dismissed, turning back to face Sophia.
“You were engaged to Addan,” he said, when the door was closed once more, leaving them in privacy. “And though I am about to pledge myself to you, to declare myself your husband, and you my wife, let us both say, in this room, that I will always consider you his.” His eyes bore into hers, hot and yet somehow making her cold all over.
“We will have sex tonight, but it will never be the love making you and he enjoyed.” He expelled harshly, his expression showing true disgust. “I regret the necessity of this. If only you and he had been married, we would never have been forced into this marriage.” He turned his back on her, looking towards the windows. “The idea of taking you from him, even now in death…”
The words were strange, discordant, and her heart ached. She’d been so focused on her own grief and adjustments that she hadn’t even thought about how this must have been for Malik. And though she hardly knew him, she was a compassionate and empathetic person, and she moved towards him, coming to stand in front of him, more conscious than usual of the difference in their size.
“We didn’t…”
He jerked his head towards her.
“We never slept together,” she said quietly, dropping her gaze and missing the way Malik’s expression shifted, tightened, darkened. “Our relationship wasn’t… I loved him very much, Malik, but we hadn’t… been physically intimate.”
A hiss escaped from between his teeth and he gripped her face with both hands, staring at her as though he’d never seen her before. “I don’t believe you.”
She frowned. “Why would I lie?”
“I cannot say. But I saw you together. I heard the way he spoke about you. You and he were an item for years.” The words were imbued with harsh anger. “There is no way you had not been to bed…”
She sighed quietly. “We were getting married. We knew that from a young age. It seemed right to wait…”
He swore in his own tongue, and then a harsh laugh escaped him, humourless, laced with pain. “So he was denied even this?” He shook his head angrily, and took a step away from her and his whole body was tight with feelings and they were echoing inside of her. He spun around to face her. “You are a virgin.”
It was a statement, so she didn’t answer.
“This,” he spoke slowly, enunciating the word carefully, “is not how it is supposed to be.”
The tower was beautiful. An ancient section of the palace carved from marble, it stood high above the earth like a beacon, an ancient monolith, reaching for the azure sky. There were no lifts. Hundreds of steps – carved from stone – led to the top, with a dip in the centre of each, from centuries of use. And at the very pinnacle of the tower, an enormous room, sparsely furnished, except for an enormous bed at its centre.
A carved, timber door led to a bathroom, with a large bath – almost like a small swimming pool – a shower big enough to accommodate two, and all the amenities.
“There are clothes in there, for you,” his voice came from across the room. She turned, almost guiltily, to see him watching her. He’d removed his ceremonial robe, leaving him in just loose white pants.
His bare chest wanted to drag her eyes downwards but she resisted the temptation, even when her mouth went dry and her pulse shot into overdrive.
“So we’re locked in here for how long?” She asked, though she knew.
“When darkness falls, tomorrow, a bell will toll, and we will be released,” he muttered, and she would have laughed for how absurd all of this was – for how little pleasure her husband obviously took in the idea of going to bed with his wife.
And she understood – he didn’t want her. She’d seen the women he ordinarily dated. Women who were glamorous and exotic, incredibly sophisticated. Sophia was nothing like that, nothing like them.
Neither of them had chosen this, but here they were: husband and wife.
“I suppose we should just get it over with then?”
At this, she had the feeling he was holding back a laugh. “Do you now?”
“We have to sleep together; I get it. You need a little Sheikh or Sheikha to groom in your own image. And I married you knowing that. So?”
Another laugh. “My young, innocent wife,” he murmured, prowling across the tiled floor, shaking his head. “I thought you were concerned by the fact we aren’t acquainted?” He stood so close she could feel the heat of his body and breathe in his woody, alpine scent. So close her knees were shaking and she had to push aside the horrible wave of guilt towards Addan. She wished she could summon more resistance, more cool disdain, for what was about to happen. She wished her pulse wasn’t a firestorm within her soul.
Contradictory feelings scored deep into her heart.
But she had married Malik, and she knew Addan would have wanted this. Duty had bound him, deepest of all; his country had been his true love. He would be pleased she was using what she knew of Abu Faya and her training for this position. She’d been raised to be Sheikha, and she was simply fulfilling her destiny.
In a strange, uneasy world, Addan would have wanted this.
“We don’t need to know one another,” she pointed out, lifting a hand up to the wedding outfit. The henna ink was all over the backs of her hands, leaving intricate patterns that had captivated her as the illustrations had been rendered.
“True,” he said, watching as she pushed the sleeves down. But before she could slide it over her breasts, he shook his head.
“Let me.”
Her tummy knotted. “Why?”
“A groom should have the honour of undressing his bride,” he said, simply, moving behind her and standing so close his powerful thighs brushed the backs of her legs and bottom. His hands came to h
er bare shoulders, and she sucked in a large gulp of air as he ran his fingers over her flesh, exploring, investigating, familiarizing himself.
She bit down on her lower lip, aware a groan was making its way from the pit of her stomach to the tip of her tongue, and wanting to contain it as long as possible. He ran his hands lower, to the tops of her arms, before connecting with the lace of the fabric and sliding it lower and lower, slowly, so, so, slowly, so the dress shifted downwards, over her breasts and back, revealing her to the room, if not to him. And she was grateful he was behind her, so she could take a moment to get used to this, to brace for the fact he was going to see her naked.
He moved his hands to her waist, holding the dress there, leaving it, as his fingers feathered over her skin, brushing the smooth, creamy flesh. She held her breath as his fingers crept upwards slowly – so slowly – until they brushed the underside of her breasts and she could no longer stave off the groan. It escaped low and hungry. His head dropped lower, his breath fanning the sensitive flesh at the side of her neck as his hands lifted higher, brushing over her breasts so lightly she pushed forward, needing more.
She thought she heard him laugh, but perhaps she’d imagined it, because when she leaned back, pressing against him, surrendering to what he was doing to her completely, she felt his rock hard body behind her – all of him, so hard, so incredibly hard that her cheeks flushed pink. And now his hands weren’t slow, nor gentle. They cupped her breasts, feeling their weight in his hands and he spoke to her, low and soft, in words that were familiar yet not, words that were close to Abu Fayan but must have been a dialect for she didn’t know them; words that sounded magical and breathed magic all around her.
When his fingers curled around her nipples, squeezing them, she let out a cry of surprise, hoarse and low at the same time, and then her body was writhing and she wanted more of this, more of him plucking at her nipples, pulling at their sensitive tips, flicking them with his insistent fingers. She pushed her body backwards and one hand dropped lower, to the dress, and inside it, gliding down her flat stomach to the flimsy lace thong she’d been dressed in that morning.
Per Abu Fayan traditions, she’d been waxed bare, and his fingers glided over the flesh of her womanhood, parting her seam as his other hand continued to torment her nipple. He brushed her sex until he found the sensitive cluster of nerves at her clitoris and he moved faster, and now his tongue lashed her neck and she whimpered, her body quivering and shaking for a completely different reason.
Pleasure built inside of her like some kind of wave; a wave she’d never before surfed and yet it had no care for her lack of experience, it was grabbing her and dragging her along the surface, so she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. She tilted her head back and now his teeth clipped the skin at her neck, just enough to make her cry out and then he was sucking, while his fingers plucked her nipple again and again and his hand drove her higher and higher and she was – in that moment – incoherent, and completely his, just as she’d vowed in the ceremony.
“Look at yourself,” he muttered, turning her slightly, angling her so she could see their reflection in the mirror, placed in the corner of the room.
Her instinct was to look away, but he growled. “Watch yourself come, watch what your husband can do to you.”
And then, she couldn’t look away, she was mesmerized, as his dark head dipped forward and he chose another place on her shoulder and began to suck and she saw he’d marked her flesh, marked her with a pale, pink circle from his ministrations, and he was doing so again, and a rush of pleasure fired inside of her at this – at being marked. It wasn’t worthy of her and in a calmer moment, she might push the idea away but in this mad slice of time, high in a tower above Abu Faya, she felt it all.
She felt the depravity of having sex with someone she didn’t know, of having married a stranger. Worse, a man she actively despised! And she gave herself over to it.
He moved his hand lower, then drove a finger inside of her and she bucked backwards as stars filled her eyes at this unfamiliar invasion. He lifted his head, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror, and he spoke low and huskily in the strange, ancient dialect and with a finger inside of her and his hand moving over her breasts, he held her tight, he watched her, as her very first orgasm drew her onto the top of the wave and tumbled her deep, deep under the surface…
Her innocence was startlingly obvious, even if he hadn’t known as many women as he had. The way she trembled and shook, the wide-eyed look of surprise as her orgasm wrapped around her, he felt her inexperience in every single minute change of expression, every husky exhalation, every movement.
He stared at her, his eyes devouring her reflection as wave after wave of pleasure had her face crumpled and her body vibrating in his arms.
Malik loved sex.
He’d loved it for as long as he could remember.
And because he’d never had the pressure of carrying on the royal lineage, he’d been happy – and free – to sleep with whomever he wanted. Addan had turned a blind eye to his younger brother’s ways, even when Malik knew how little Addan approved.
Malik loved sex. But sleeping with this woman, the woman his brother had loved?
It tore through him, he was sickened by the very idea – worse, he was sickened by how much he wanted her.
Sex is just sex, he told himself, staring at her pale, near-naked body – so American, so different to his caramel complexion, skin that had been ordained for this desert country’s climate.
This woman was like satin and moonlight, the petal of a fragile, cream-coloured rose. Her hair was the colour of the beaches of Tharani, all gold and glossy with silver strands flecked through. Her nipples were pale pink, so sweet, giving new meaning to the idea of strawberries and cream. They were hard too, begging for his touch. Her body was covered in goose bumps. He stared down at her, telling himself she was Addan’s, she would always be Addan’s, except in this one way.
Her body had to be his.
It was unavoidable.
This was just sex.
He’d had enough meaningless sex to be able to add this – to add her – to the catalogue. Addan had never slept with her – no one had. They were married, and within moments, he would possess her completely.
He could absolve himself of any guilt here, and yet he didn’t. Guilt was there, possessing him, controlling him, tormenting him. She was Addan’s.
Sophia’s lips parted and her body shifted, the shock-waves of her first orgasm making her moan a little.
There was nothing for it – they would sleep together until she was pregnant and then he would go back to pretending he could ignore her.
Chapter Two
HE HATED HIMSELF, BUT he pushed that aside, telling himself he needed to do this, telling himself they both knew why this was important. He watched as slowly, her breathing returned to normal, as the muscles spasming around his finger calmed; he watched as her eyes went from the fevered wildness of a moment ago to a look of confusion, and then the dawning of embarrassment, and he refused to let her feel that.
“You are my wife,” he growled, as much for his own benefit as hers. “This is natural. Normal. Expected.”
The fine column of her throat shifted as she swallowed convulsively and he pulled his hands from her body, just for a moment, just so he could move his grip to her hips, where the fine, lace dress sat firm. He held her gaze in the mirror, challenging her to look away before he pushed the dress lower, over the swell of her neat buttocks, and down her legs. He crouched, then, and pressed a kiss to the curve of one perfect butt cheek. She pushed her head back, and he heard his name in her throat, like it was trapped there, and his body tensed.
This should have been Addan. She should have been Addan’s.
He flattened his mouth, reminding himself this was just sex, that she was just a woman who’d been trained for the role of his bride, and that included this.
He guided the dress to her ankles until she stepped out of i
t and then he stood, swiftly, and lifted her, carrying her to the bed; there was no sense in prolonging this, in taking his time with the seduction.
He’d get her out of his system, that was all he needed to do. To get this over with so he could begin moving on. She was his wife, and sex was going to be a part of their relationship. It was a simple transaction; it wasn’t a betrayal of Addan.
He stared down at her naked body, her beautiful naked body, her face flushed with pleasure, pupils huge, lips parted, and his gut churned, because he was enjoying this so much more than he should.
“My country needs an heir,” he said, simply, pushing his pants down.
Her eyes dragged down his body and he watched her, looking at him, and her cheeks blushed more, and her lips closed, as she stared at his erect cock and he hated that he was going to be her first, even when he loved that he was.
“I am sorry,” he heard himself say, as his hands moved back to her supple skin, parting her legs, and he moved his body over her.
“What for?” She asked quietly, her American accent thicker now than usual.
“If it weren’t for the necessity of a child, this could be… left. We would not have to rush…”
At that, her eyes flared wide. “I don’t think I see any point in delaying the inevitable. Do you?”
His expression hardened. “No.”
And so, they were back to how this had all began, with her bare challenge to get this over. To just do it.
He ground his teeth, looking at her face, watching her, wondering at her lack of fear, when before their wedding she’d been quivering all over.
“You will tell me if it hurts,” he said, with uncharacteristic gentleness.
“You’d better believe it.”
He bit back a laugh, his hands finding her thighs and spreading them wider, and the tip of his cock nudged at her womanhood. She grabbed her breath in her lungs and held it there.
He told himself to be gentle. He told himself to go slowly, to savour this, but his body was fighting him, desperate to take her, desperate to drive his hard length into her sweet core, to rid her of her innocence, to meld his body to hers. He was desperate for her in a way that disgusted him, and angered him.
Sheikhs: Rich, powerful desert kings and the women who bring them to their knees... Page 102
