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

by Clare Connelly

  الظلام ضوء الولادات

  She frowned, translating the words into her native English. “Darkness births light?”

  His chest stilled as his breath caught in his lungs. “You speak and read Abu Fayan with ease.”

  It wasn’t praise, so much as an observation.

  Her smile was lopsided, and only the work of an instant. “I’ve lived here a long time.”

  “Yes.”

  Her eyes lifted to his. “When did you get it done?”

  “A while ago.”

  She swallowed, emotions balling inside her. “After Addan?”

  There was something in his eyes when he turned to face her. “No.” Something stony and cold. Something like rejection.

  “When?” She persisted.

  His expression tightened, if that was even possible. “Why do you think any one particular event led to my tattoo?”

  Another smile flitted across her face. She lifted the loofah and began to rub his shoulders, moving slowly even when it was obviously a torment for him, even when their mutual desire was pulsing between them, demanding indulgence.

  “It’s not a picture of an anchor or an eagle,” she quipped. “It’s a profound statement. Of course it was inspired by something.”

  He was quiet, and she wondered if he was going to answer. Then, as she moved around to his back, sponging his flesh there, marveling at his firmly muscled skin, he spoke. “After my father’s death.”

  She sighed. “It was devastating.”

  “He’d been sick a while,” Malik murmured.

  “Yes,” Sophia swept her eyes shut, remembering what that sickness looks like. “But that doesn’t make it any easier.” Her fingers curved to his hips and around to his front. He stilled as the loofah brushed the ridges of his abdomen, low down, curving close to his powerful erection.

  His hand curved over hers, holding it for a moment, and her breath jammed in her throat. “You were a child when your father died?”

  She nodded, but he couldn’t see her, so Sophia cleared her throat. “Yes.” She moved around to his front, their eyes locking. “And darkness was everywhere.” She sponged his shoulder, memories of that time heavy in her mind.

  “It was very sudden, with your father,” he murmured, lifting a hand and stroking her hair, the gesture surprising her.

  “It was.” Her lips pulled into a small grimace. “Mercifully so.” His hand dropped to her shoulder. “I was only a child but I remember feeling like the walls of my world had crashed down on me, like I’d never be the same again. He was so dynamic; so incredibly special.” She sighed softly. “I couldn’t understand how someone could simply cease to exist.”

  “I have felt the same each time I have lost someone I loved.” He focused on a point over her shoulder, his expression grim. “With my father, he was such a force of energy.”

  “That’s the perfect way to describe him.”

  Malik’s eyes dropped to hers, and something fired in her belly – desire and need, certainty and a billion questions that bubbled just beneath the surface.

  “When he was young,” Malik murmured, “the country was very different. There had been civil war in his lifetime, and he’d seen the ravages of that on our country. He was a skilled statesman and a clever politician.”

  “And a wonderful man,” she added, her expression wistful as she blinked away from Malik, smoothing the loofah over his flat, toned belly. “I adored your father.”

  “I know.”

  There was something in those words, something that spoke almost of disapproval. “You were like a daughter to him.”

  “He used to call me Amyrat Saghira.”

  “Did he?” The question came from deep inside of him, the words flecked with disapproval.

  She blinked, wondering at the strength of his response.

  “As a child, I just thought they were pretty words. They used to chase each other around my head like an incantation of a dance.” She smiled distractedly. “But then, as I got older, I understood.” She placed the loofah on the shelf, her hands bare. “What he wanted, what my father wanted…”

  “And that was for you to marry into this family, to become a part of Abu Faya?”

  She nodded slowly, a frown creasing her brow. “Yes.”

  “And what did you want, Sophia?”

  It was one of the first times he’d used her name, instead of the title Sharafaha. It did something strange to her body, making her spine tingle and her knees weak. He said it softly, with an emphasis on the first syllable, like “soff-eah.”

  She liked it, more than she wanted to.

  “I loved this country from the first time I visited,” she said quietly. “But it was Addan who made it feel like another home.”

  Something flickered in his gaze, emotions that were dark and forbearing, yet she barely registered them.

  “I felt like I lost everything when dad died. My mother became distant and Bella went to live in Spain with her godparents. I went from having this incredible family to being quite alone.”

  “Except for Addan?” Malik murmured, the question cold.

  “Yes.” She bit down on her lower lip. “I don’t know why he was so kind to me.”

  “Don’t you?” The question was layered with unspoken answers.

  She frowned. “It felt like we’d met before.”

  A muscle jerked in Malik’s jaw. He reached behind Sophia then, shutting off the water. “Enough.”

  She blinked. “Enough?”

  “I do not wish to speak of Addan with you, Sophia.”

  Sophia’s heart turned over and regret filled her. Of course he didn’t. Malik had lost his mother, father and now his brother – he knew so much of loss. Why would he want to speak about it, and in that moment? “I’m…”

  Before she could finish her sentence, he scooped her up out of the shower and hoisted her over his shoulder, carrying her through the bathroom. He grabbed a towel as they passed, wrapping it over her bare back, and then placed her feet on the floor. She looked around.

  His bedroom.

  “You have not been sleeping here.”

  She shook her head slowly. “It didn’t feel right.”

  “Why not? You are my wife. You don’t think your place is here, with me?”

  She shrugged her slender shoulders. “You haven’t been here.”

  He rubbed the towel over her flesh, drying her, and he wasn’t gentle – nothing had ever felt better, though. Her breasts were so sensitive, between her legs was warm and wet. She stifled a moan as he brushed the towel there.

  “Whether I am here or not, you should be.”

  She opened her mouth to fight him but he kissed her, a dazzling kiss of pure possession, of absolute need and fire. He kissed her with all the flame in his body and she surrendered to it and him immediately, an ancient, desperate need firing her senses, filling her with an absolute fever pitch of lust.

  Her hands ran over his body, reaching his arousal and cupping his hard length, feeling his strength in her hands.

  “You are my wife.”

  The words were discordant, and seemed to come to her from a long way away. Sophia, always a fighter, responded with light sarcasm.

  “No kidding. I was there when we married.”

  The words caused his expression to tighten, if anything. He moved his body, guiding her back to the bed. She fell onto it unceremoniously and his own frame, so large and powerful, was on top of hers. His hands caught her wrists in them, lifting them above her head, pinning them to the mattress easily. He parted her thighs and thrust into her, deep, hard, so she arched her back, welcoming him and this.

  Every movement of his body was a beating of a drum, a call that her spirit answered, a primal, physical need she couldn’t help but respond to. Six nights since they’d made love and her body was craving his.

  She whimpered as he moved deeper, and then his mouth dropped from her lips to her breasts, his tongue swirling her nipples, sucking one pe
ach aureole deep into his mouth rolling it with his tongue, flicking it before pressing his teeth into her sensitive softness, before transferring to the other breast. His fingers tormented the nipple he’d first kissed, plucking it, rolling it between his forefinger and thumb until she was moaning and whimpering, pleasure thick in her voice.

  She lifted her legs, wrapping them behind his back but he caught them at the ankles, pushing them over his shoulders and straightening, staring down at her, his eyes watchful as his body drove hers to the point of explosion.

  It was fast and satisfying. Just as soon as she tumbled over the abyss, delight and euphoria erupting from her, he followed after, his own guttural cry in his native tongue, deep and rumbling.

  Their panting, torn breaths split the room afterwards. She lay beneath him, her body weakened and strengthened, her mind spinning.

  “Well,” she said, to break the silence, as he stayed where he was, his powerful frame atop hers, his head dipped so she couldn’t make out his expression. “You’re back.”

  But something had shifted. It was as though there’d been a terrible dark storm building between them, and sleeping together had burst it open, breaking rain upon the earth and now there was just relief.

  Her fingers trailed the length of his back, lightly, and she felt his body pull in response. Her power was intoxicating.

  “How was your trip?” The words were husky, coated with desire.

  “Long. And not satisfying.” He pushed up so his eyes could stare into the depths of hers and something inside Sophia squeezed.

  “Where were you?”

  “The plains to the west.”

  It was a cryptic, unsatisfying response.

  “Yes, I gathered,” she murmured, surprised to feel a sardonic smile tilting her lips. “But with the Lakani people? Or the Shaman?”

  At that, his eyes flared a little wider and she felt as though he was contemplating ignoring her question, not answering her. With a hint of reluctance, her said, “The Jakari.”

  “Ah. Laith is the ruler of that tribe, isn’t he?”

  Malik’s expression tightened with disapproval. Only for an instant, but enough for Sophia to see it. “Yes.”

  “And something’s happened now?”

  He didn’t answer.

  Sophia sighed. “Addan used to talk to me, Malik.” She lifted a hand and stroked his cheek thoughtfully, feeling the ridges of his facial structure and the stubble of his hair through her fingertips. “I think if you were to do the same, you’d find I could be helpful.”

  His laugh was spontaneous. A gruff sound of disagreement. “You?” He captured her hand in his and laced his fingers through it, holding it to her side. He pushed up a little higher, so he could see her better. “And tell me, my American, virgin wife,” he brought his mouth to her nipple, flicking it with his tongue, tracing the dark aureole so her breath caught in her throat. “What do you think you could teach me about my own people?” He moved to her other breast, inflicting the same delightful torment on her sensitive nerve endings there. “What insight do you have to offer?”

  Hurt flexed inside her but she pushed it aside. Sophia had always been a fighter and despite the torrent of sensation he was raining down on her, she fought his words now. “I think you’d be surprised.”

  His eyes showed his disagreement.

  He dragged his lips higher, to the flesh of her décolletage, his tongue flicking the pulse point there. She moaned softly, but wouldn’t be derailed.

  “Why?” The word was uneven. “Is it so impossible to think I might have a perspective to offer that could be of value to you?”

  “You have many things to offer me,” he said, moving his hips so she could feel that he was hard again. But his words were unwelcome. His words made her feel that this was somehow cheap and two-dimensional. Like sex was simply sex, and beyond that, he wanted nothing from her.

  “Are you saying you want me to be the kind of wife who’s waiting for you in bed at the end of the day but doesn’t otherwise bother you?”

  His lips twisted but his only other response was to thrust his hips once more. “You say that as though it is not what you want.”

  “It’s not.”

  She pressed her palms to his chest, her expression serious enough to still him. He held himself above her, watching her, his own features carefully muted of any feeling.

  “I’m your wife.” She expelled the words slowly, carefully, trying to rein her temper in. She’d learned as a child that her quickness to anger was only a benefit if she could control that anger, if she could mete it out slowly rather than letting it explode in one violent surge of passion, but she was furious. From when she’d been a very young child, and her own family had been ripped apart, she swore she’d have a perfect marriage, a real family, all of her own one day. One that would never fall apart. “We’re supposed to be a team. Do you think you need to do all this on your own?”

  He stared at her for several long seconds, and she was conscious of his possession of her body, conscious of how badly she wanted to pause this conversation and feel what he could give her, feel that pleasure and euphoric release.

  “You are my wife,” he said, finally, and now he rolled his hips once more and she had to bite down – hard – on her lip to stop from moaning. “But that does not mean I want, nor invite, your counsel.”

  How could she feel such heat and want when he was cutting her down so mercilessly?

  “But Addan valued…”

  “Do not speak to me of my brother!” The words were fierce and she startled, surprised by his anger but also by the depth of his hurt. She felt it ravaging him and she understood. “Not while we are doing this.” He stared at her as he thrust inside her and her chest exploded with feelings.

  Because he was right and yet none of this felt wrong, none of it felt like a betrayal of the man they’d both loved and lost.

  “I have no interest in competing with him,” he said, bringing his mouth to hers, his mouth warm against her own, his tongue sliding inside, clashing with hers. He moved faster and deeper, his arousal possessing every single part of her, tormenting her with the perfection of his possession.

  She arched her back, needing more, wanting all of him, and yet he held himself still, pushing up on his elbows to see her once more.

  “You are my wife.” The words rang through the room, and they made no sense and complete sense all at once.

  “Yes. And I want that to be more than just sex.”

  His eyes locked to hers and then he rolled them easily, pulling her to his chest, holding her hips as he thrust into her, his eyes fixated on her breasts as she moved up and down his length.

  “You cannot change what we are, sharafaha,” he said, and she blotted the words out, because she was riding a wave that demanded all her attention, all her focus. She dug her nails into his shoulders, bringing her body down against his, so her sensitive nipples scraped against his hair-roughened chest.

  “You think?”

  And she moved now, her own body lifting faster, taking him deeper, so that when she exploded it was with Malik in her grip, Malik falling apart with her, his hoarse cry spilling into the room as his body emptied into hers.

  She lay on top of him, spent, exhausted and strangely sad, despite the incredible euphoria she’d just experienced.

  Malik held her for a moment, their breath equally frantic and heavy, and then he rolled her onto her back, pushing himself up onto his elbow to look down at her.

  “I think we married under duress,” he said quietly, roaming her face with his indolent gaze. “And that our relationship is not what yours was with Addan.”

  “But it can be more than this –,”

  He pressed a finger to her lips, silencing her.

  “It will never be more than sex.” The words were fired with intent and determination. “I have no interest in becoming your friend and confidante, of pretending to be what Addan was to you. Do not make the mistake of imagining you ca
n replace my brother so easily.”

  His words were like bullets against her heart and a burst of anger jackknifed out of her chest. She was surprised by his callousness, angered by the way he spoke of her relationship and Addan.

  “Don’t you think I know that?” She sat up, her fury contained in every line of her body. “Don’t you think I’ve always known that? Where he was a man of honour and kindness, gentle and thoughtful, compassionate and cerebral, you are the barbarian equivalent, all brawn and no Goddamned heart! You will never be even a tenth of the man he was. I didn’t ask for any of this and I’m doing my level best to be everything this country needs. And all I’m asking in exchange is respect and some common decency.”

  She glared at him angrily, hurt making her lash out. “I’ve hated you for as long as I’ve known you but for Addan, I concealed that. And now we’re married and I want to do what I’ve been trained for – I want to be a part of this country.”

  He was very still, not reacting to her tirade, not showing – at first – that he’d even heard her words.

  “Then you must get pregnant and give my country an heir. As soon as we have our royal bloodline assured, you can go back to hating me from the other side of the palace. And believe me when I say that day can’t come soon enough.”

  He only slept an hour, and it was a fitful sleep. His dreams were broken. Full of the desert and the eagles he travelled with, his brother and their last trip together.

  And he dreamt of his wife. Her soft, naked body, pliable and sweet and so hungry for him. So hungry she couldn’t resist him even when she loved Addan, when she wished he had lived and she was married to him now.

  He saw her earnest expression, asking him about the desert tribes, and he felt that same swell of resentment he’d felt that afternoon.

  He heard the words she’d thrown at him.

  Where he was a man of honour and kindness, gentle and thoughtful, compassionate and cerebral, you are the barbarian equivalent, all brawn and no Goddamned heart! You will never be even a tenth of the man he was.

  Her words drummed through his soul with a violence that surprised him. Not the thoughts – they were no surprise. But his reaction to them! Hearing someone speak your misgivings aloud, having someone confirm for you what you know to be the absolute truth – it sat inside him like a rock and a blade, so that, after an hour of fitful tossing and turning he gave up on sleep, dressed, and went to his office to brood and be generally discontent.