Sheikhs: Rich, powerful desert kings and the women who bring them to their knees...

by Clare Connelly

  “Don’t prolong,” she said, anxious now, and he saw in her eyes the fear at what was about to happen. His disgust grew. His disgust at this arrangement, at the marriage that was necessitated by his country’s political needs, at his brother’s death, at his brother’s betrothal, and at this woman. This innocent foreigner who was to carry in her body the heir to his country. Plenty of women had begged him to sleep with them, had cried out his name, screamed it into the air, their voices husky with passion, sometimes, two women at once, fawning over his body, driving him wild as he prepared to return that favour.

  None had looked at him with a sense of reluctant anger, a stoic determination, and told him to get on with it.

  He expelled a breath. He was overthinking this. It was Addan.

  The fact his brother had loved her, and lost her – and all he deserved in life.

  A year had passed – the respectful period of mourning had been observed.

  He braced his arms on either side of her head, his powerful body above hers, and stared down into her beautiful face. Eyes that seemed to show everything she felt, that had seemed to sparkle with acerbic amusement when she teased Addan were now laced with pride and determination.

  It rankled.

  “Just do it,” she demanded, lifting her hips up, and he heard what she didn’t say. Get it over with.

  Male pride and ego flared in his gut.

  No woman had ever treated his love-making with such clear contempt, and suddenly, he was fired by a desire to exceed every expectation she had, to show her just what it felt like to lose her mind to sex.

  He could offer her nothing else – no love, no companionship, no comparison to what she and Addan had known.

  But he could give her pleasure. He dropped his head to hers, his mouth so close to hers he felt her warm breath snatching from her.

  “I’m going to make you scream my name, sharafaha,” he ground out, tipping his cock over her seam. She moaned softly, her eyes still flecked with anxiety. “Again,” he nudged her thighs further apart. “And again,” he pushed his arousal deeper, and her moan grew louder. “And again.”

  Then, he thrust into her hard and fast, kissing her mouth, swallowing her little gasp of surprise at his possession, absorbing her cry, tasting the brief shock of pain, waiting for it to pass before he pulled out of her and drove himself back in.

  She was very still beneath him, her small, fragile body completely unused to this invasion. “Don’t stop.” It was a whisper. A hoarse plea that surprised them both.

  What surprised him more though was how much he liked hearing her say that. He was ashamed by how much he wanted her to beg him.

  “Don’t stop, who?” he murmured against her ear, dropping his mouth to her breast, rubbing his stubbled jaw over her sensitive flesh before rolling a delectable nipple in his mouth, his tongue tracing the erect tip, feeling every little dip in her skin, tormenting her with the lightness of his touch. He pulled himself from her, just enough for her to whimper in complaint, and lift her hips off the bed.

  His laugh was deep in his throat. He held himself above her, his power going straight to his head, and his rock-hard arousal.

  But she stayed quiet, and when he lifted his eyes, looking towards her face, she was glaring at him with pink-faced indignant silence.

  “Tell me what you want,” he challenged. It wasn’t just male ego; this came from deeper with him – the part of him that needed reassurance that this was okay, that she wanted this, that having sex with him wasn’t just an act of servitude and obligation.

  She glared at him wordlessly, as though the very last thing she intended to do was verbalize her own needs.

  He laughed under his breath, then thrust into her, his eyes watching her response, reveling in her obvious relief as his body possessed hers. Her responsiveness though was something he hadn’t prepared for.

  “You’re so damned wet,” he groaned, his hands balling in her hair, holding her steady. His eyes bore into hers, hard, tight, demanding. Anyone who knew Malik would have recognized the cold blade of his resolve. Malik was not a man who backed down from anything, as his adversaries had discovered again and again.

  “I want you to beg me,” he said, simply, his eyes locked to hers.

  “Why?” It was a whisper, barely audible.

  His expression tightened, his gaze dropped to her lips. “I have no wish to force you to sleep with me,” he said, finally, his eyes holding hers. Something passed through her features, a look of comprehension and pity, a pity that made him want to scream, because he’d had enough pity, he’d seen enough sorrow and empathy to last a lifetime.

  “You think you’re forcing me?”

  Her eyes glared back at him. Neither spoke. They simply stared, an intensity in their expressions that was full of flame and defiance.

  But Sophia was unlike any woman he’d ever met. Her eyes held his as she lifted her hips, and he didn’t pull away, so she drew him into her tight core, and before he could pull out, she wrapped her legs around his hips, holding him there, so deep, so completely buried in her that his head was spinning.

  “We have to do this,” she said, simply, and once again he felt a surge of determination to remove any idea of duty and obligation from her thoughts. In his mind, he swore every curse he knew, in every language, and then he moved his arousal slowly, small movements, in and out, each one just a gentle thrust, but with a building intensity. Her eyes, still locked to his, morphed, showing surprise, and something akin to confusion, as pleasure and heat overtook her body.

  “It is okay, Sharafaha,” he promised, in his own language. “Feel this. Feel it all.”

  Her nails clawed his back, her cry animalistic as her muscles squeezed him, her whole body giving way as pleasure exploded through her. She came hard, her orgasm like an earthquake, tearing her apart.

  “Oh, god,” she moaned, and he stilled, momentarily, fighting an urge to demand she use his name. There’d be time for that. Time to make her beg for him by name, to make her cry his name at the top of her lungs.

  He winced as she scratched her hands down his back, undoubtedly scoring marks on his golden flesh.

  She was whimpering, pleasure making her voice shrill.

  He didn’t give her any time to recover.

  He thrust into her again, pushing up so he could see the effect on her dainty features, his body tensing with his own needs, which he fought to control. Because he didn’t want this to be over.

  He rolled onto his back, surprising her, his powerful hands holding her hips, keeping her locked to him, and he lifted her on his length, up and down, driving deeper inside of her, finding new places to pleasure her. She cried out again, not his name, something almost incomprehensible. He shifted a hand to her clit, stroking her and she jerked her head down, her eyes locking to his with a look of such intense passion and need that his own breath burned in his lungs.

  Hell, she was gorgeous.

  Beneath that innocent veneer, the cool dislike with which she’d always treated him – and he her – there was a wildcat, a woman driven by madness and desire.

  He lifted his hands, catching her hair, pulling her head down at the same time he lifted up, kissing her hard, his lips almost punishing on hers, and then he sat up completely, driving himself into her, holding her body tight to his, kissing her, his tongue dueling with hers before dropping to her breasts, biting one nipple first before moving to the other, his fingers lifting and flicking it, rolling it between his forefinger and thumb while his dick drove into her again and again.

  She was whimpering on his lap, her head thrown back, her eyes staring heavenward exposing her beautiful throat. His gaze chased sideways, to where he’d caused her flesh to show a pale pink circle, and a rush of power and desire ran through him.

  “Please,” she cried out, and he wondered if she knew what she was asking for, and how badly he wanted to give it to her? Only he wanted more. He wanted…

  He shifted his hips, dislodging her,
his eyes unknowingly fierce when they met hers.

  “Stand up,” he grunted.

  Her face showed confusion but she did as he said, scrambling to her feet. He followed swiftly behind, catching her hips and spinning her around, pushing her forwards a little, until her hands were braced on the old timber table above which a tremendous historic mirror hang.

  “Watch this. Watch me, watch you.” He held her eyes in the mirror as he thrust into her from behind, burying himself so deep inside her, moving his fingers to her front and pleasuring her while he took possession of her again and again and again, thrusting into her until she was crying out with sheer animalistic desire, with the torrent of her sensations and needs.

  He stared at her as she began to tip over the edge, as she gave herself over to this completely, and now, he was powerless to stop his own release. He held her hips, driving deep inside her, keeping her arse backed right up to him, and he tipped his seed into her, all of himself, over and over, until he was spent, and she was weak with the shock of her own orgasms.

  He clamped a hand around her waist possessively, holding her upright and preventing her from falling forward at the same time, and his eyes locked to hers, challenging her to hold his gaze, challenging her to look away.

  She didn’t. She stared right back at him, so he saw the awakening that washed over her features, and inside of him, some kind of beast roared.

  He had done that to her. He had shown her body what it was capable of and there was still so much more to learn –there was still so much he would teach her.

  From the ruins of this situation, from the necessity of their marriage, at least there was this.

  Sophia felt as though her cells were pulling her in a thousand directions.

  Her senses – every single last one of them – was shimmering inside of her, sparkling and alert, electrified, intensified, startling her with the forcefulness of this sense of pleasure.

  There was no escaping her desire.

  She stared at Malik, a man she’d always disliked and feared in equal measure, and felt only… need.

  She didn’t want him to pull out of her; she didn’t want her body to lose this closeness and proximity. She wanted… more.

  So much more.

  Her own desperate hunger for him made her cheeks colour and now, she dropped her gaze, even when she had told herself she wouldn’t be the first to look away.

  They were in the eye of the storm, though. And it had been a storm – a storm of complete desire, of madness and insanity, and it had been more amazing than she could find any kind of words for – it had blown her away, utterly and completely. She was lost and found, all at once.

  But the calm came, and suddenly her nakedness, their closeness, the passion that was still splitting her breath into tiny little explosions of air, made her self-conscious. With a small sigh, she shifted her body away from his, the desertion of his body from hers like a physical blow. She didn’t show that, though. With great effort, she kept her expression neutral, her eyes as cool as she could make them.

  “There,” she murmured, the word only slightly shaky as she stood with the appearance of confidence. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  She arched a brow and then turned her back, strolling to the wardrobe and grabbing a robe. She wrapped it around her body, cinching it at the waist.

  When she stepped back into the bedroom, he’d pulled his pants back on, but they sat low on his hips, and her eyes were drawn to his broadly muscled chest, his tanned, sculpted body, and her throat was dry suddenly.

  Addan had been eleven months older, but he had always said Malik should have been born first. Malik, Addan had insisted, was far more suited to rule. With his cold-hearted ruthlessness, his black and white morality, a strength and determination that were forged from some kind of ancient, kingly fibre, deep inside of him.

  She looked at him now and wondered how there could ever have been a world in which he wasn’t king?

  And if he had been, all along?

  This marriage would never have happened.

  She would never have agreed to this betrothal, no matter how much it had meant to her father and his.

  No.

  This had all been about Addan.

  Her heart lurched and stupid, hot tears filled her eyes. She spun away from him, but not fast enough. She saw the tightening of his jaw, the solidifying of all his features, as he skimmed her face, his eyes absorbing every detail of her response.

  “I hurt you?” The words surprised her. Her stomach squeezed because beneath his graveled demand, she heard abhorrence.

  He hated the idea of having caused her pain.

  She swallowed, shaking her head. “No. Not at all.”

  His hands on her shoulders were demanding, but gentle. He spun her around and simply stared at her, assessing her. “You are crying.”

  The noise that escaped her lips was a cross between a laugh and a sob. “Am I?”

  A thumb wiped beneath her left eye. “Why?”

  She swept her eyes shut for a second, her lashes forming two dark fans against her pale skin.

  “It’s him, isn’t it?”

  The words were laced with iron.

  There was no point – and no reason – to deny it.

  “Yes.” She bit down on her lower lip, her eyes still closed. “I just… miss him.”

  Silence. A tense silence, a silence that sent barbs of wire down her spine.

  “As soon as you have conceived my child, we will not need to see each other again. At least, not often.”

  And he stepped away from her, pacing across the room.

  She blinked her eyes open, her gaze landing on his back. She hadn’t meant that. She hadn’t meant anything. Only her heart was heavy for the man she’d lost, the marriage she’d been supposed to make.

  And the power of what she’d shared with her intended fiancé’s brother filled her with a sense of shame. Because she’d enjoyed it. Hell, she’d wanted to bottle up the moment and taste it every single day for the rest of her life, to relive that sense of pleasure from now until kingdom come.

  Guilt tore through her.

  She didn’t want to want Malik.

  She didn’t want to desire him.

  It should have been Addan.

  She didn’t say anything – she didn’t offer a word of solace or reassurance. Nor did she seek any from her husband. She turned away from him, her legs not feeling quite steady, picked a book off the shelf and settled herself in an armchair to read. Or, at least, to pretend to.

  Chapter Three

  “SHARAFAHA, I DREAMED OF YOU again last night. I dreamed you were here, and I was with you, and we were swimming in the Ocean of Alindor. I dreamed you swam all the way to the bottom and lifted a tiara off the floor, like some kind of ancient Queen, but when you put it on your head, it turned into gold dust and spread through your hair. I guess you could say I miss you! Give Arabella my love and hurry home. Our kingdom awaits. Yours, Rex.”

  Sophia woke with a start, a heavy sense of disorientation in her gut, followed by that same feeling of blinding grief and realization that had almost strangled her every morning for the last year.

  It was the last letter Addan had sent her – signed ‘Rex’, her pet name for him. She’d read all his letters so many times they were burned into her brain now – which was quite the accomplishment, given there were hundreds of the things.

  But how else could she keep Addan alive, than to invoke his words at every opportunity she got?

  While he lived, she’d stored them carelessly, tossed into a drawer in her room. Now, with the knowledge that the collection was complete, that no more would be added to its number, she’d had a box made. Gold and pearl, for grief and royalty, it was lined in purple velvet, and had a padlock at its centre. She wore the key on a small chain around her wrist – it was dainty and delicate and to the untrained eye would pass simply as a charm bracelet of sorts.

  Wearing it made her feel close to Addan
– wearing it was a way back to him.

  She sat up straighter, her heart racing, her body feeling oddly alive, strangely heavy and light, and she blinked her eyes into the unfamiliar room. She reached for the key automatically, her fingertips stroking it lightly.

  A noise beside her had her gaze shifting and then, it all came flooding back. Memories assaulted her from every direction and a small moan flew from her lips before she could stop it, a sound of remembered pleasure, and of disbelief at how completely entranced she’d been to this sensation, this need.

  She couldn’t tell if Malik was naked or not, but his chest was exposed, a pale sheet wrapped over his waist. While he slept, she stared, unashamedly devouring his naked body with her eyes, hungrily chasing his flesh, drinking the sight of him up and committing it to her mind.

  But looking was dangerous, because it flushed memories through her blood, reminding her of how his chest had felt pressed to her naked breasts, reminding her how his body had felt – heavy and strong above hers.

  Looking was problematic because every second she allowed herself to stare was a second that heated her body and filled her with temptation. Looking was making her want to touch, to reach out and run a finger over his chest, to drop her mouth to his chest and kiss a trail from one of his nipples to the other, then all the way down to his navel and further down… her eyes moved in that direction and her breath hissed out of her.

  The sheet was tented, pushed up as proof of his arousal, even in sleep, impossible to ignore. She clasped her fingers into her palms in an effort not to touch him.

  In vain. And unnecessarily.

  Because he moved – and quickly – pushing the sheet aside in the same movement that had him kneeling and then straddling her, his kiss pushing her back to the bed, pinning her to the mattress. His hand spread her thighs and then he pushed inside of her, wordlessly, fast, hungrily. She made not a noise, but the storm raged through her, a storm that was alive with a thousand lightning bolts, a storm that transformed her bloodstream and made heat and desire incinerate her cells.