by Marian Tee
All I could think about - and had been able to think about for the past ninety minutes - was my fucking panties, and how fucking wet they still were, because of how the sheikh had made me fucking cum, just by having his cock slide forward and back between the cheeks of my ass.
Honestly, I don't think this was love.
Love surely can't be this just...just plain fucking dirty, right?
Rather, this crazy sexual chemistry between us was just that, two people wanting to fuck each other's brains out, and maybe...maybe I should just forget about that three-day reprieve and just have his cock start plowing my pussy?
It's not like I had any romantic dreams about true love, anyway. Even though I had liked Johnny...
Oh.
Johnny.
I started twirling my pen in a bid to quell my anxiety. I had never fancied myself in love with Johnny, but I had found him cute from the very beginning. I had also fancied myself attracted to him for years, and there had been more than a few times I had masturbated to the thought of him.
He had been the only guy I had allowed myself to become close to, and yet the moment the sheikh had entered the picture...
I couldn't even remember the last time I had thought of Johnny.
I guess, it was back when I had that phone call, and I had learned about him and Dahlia hooking up? While the speed in which he had thrown me over for my twin still hurt my pride, I realized uneasily that my heart was no longer aching at the thought of those two together.
And the reason for that was...
I must be a gold-digger at heart?
Land, seated on my right, shot me an odd look. "What did you say?"
Oh.
Shit.
Had I said that out loud?
I quickly shook my head. "Nothing."
"I heard it, too," T.G. piped in from my left. "Is this about the sheikh?"
Seven, who was seated in front of me, turned around at hearing the other girl's words. "What's this about a sheikh?"
I glared at all three of them. "There is no fucking sheikh—-"
"Girls!"
The four of us quickly and rather guiltily turned our gazes back to the board, and Professor L shook her head in visible amusement. "Just give me ten more minutes of your time, and as soon as we're done with the lecture, we can talk about Story's sheikh."
"Professor L!" I groaned out loud, but the sound was easily drowned out by the other girls' cheers.
Teachers weren't supposed to encourage classroom gossip, dammit, but then again, when did Professor L ever do what was expected?
Despite her unquenchable air of innocence and rather adorably dorky way of tripping over anything and everything, it was no secret that the sweet-looking professor still held the title of the world's most notorious gold-digger.
It was all a huge misunderstanding, really, and IMHO? The only ones who persisted in thinking of the professor that way were just secretly jealous of her fairytale-like life. Her Greek billionaire husband wasn't just hot, he actually penned an entire fucking book just to declare his love for her. Also, she had the cutest little girl as a daughter, and one so smart I wouldn't be surprised if she'd one day become the President of the United States of America.
But anyway, my point was, someone who had gone through as much shit as Professor L did should've come out of it a lot tougher and more cynical, but nope. She was, like, the sweetest thing ever, and that was probably why the other girls and I had found ourselves trusting her with our secrets.
People in school thought that the B.G. Club stood for Book Girls (and, technically, that was the name we had officially registered as well), but actually what it really meant was Bullied Girls. All four of us, and the professor, too, had been victims of bullying for all sorts of reasons, and it was what bonded us together. It was what made us trust each other without question, and so when - ten minutes later - Professor L cleared her throat, beamed, and then said in dramatic fashion, "Once upon a time..."
The other girls started snickering while I slowly bent down to knock my head against my desk.
It was the only thing I could do, since it wasn't like I could be a bitch to the woman solely responsible for making university life safe and fun for me and the other girls.
"There was a mysterious sheikh who did business with my husband."
"So he's filthy rich, too?" T.G. wanted to know.
"This sheikh, my husband tells me, has valid reasons for keeping his identity a secret, and that's why I was never told his name."
The other girls' gazes quickly swung in my direction, and all three of them gasped when they saw me grimace.
"So...you don't know his name either?" Seven asked incredulously.
"It doesn't matter if I don't," I muttered. "Asshole works just as fine, anyway."
The professor winced. "Story!"
I grudgingly apologized, having forgotten the professor's insistence on keeping the language PG-13 while in class.
The questions came in at rapid-fire fashion after that, and I found myself struggling to keep the lies to a minimum. I told them about a mutual "friend" (a.k.a. the law firm) setting the two of us up in a blind date, and how it was this whirlwind romance since I was now living in an apartment the sheikh owned.
While the other girls looked a little stunned at the speed in which things progressed between the sheikh and me, the professor, on the other hand, was looking at me with stars in her eyes.
"It was love at first sight, wasn't it?"
"Let's just say we have this really strong connection between us." Like hate. "But I'm not sure if it's love or something like that. There's just so much about him I don't know..." I looked at Professor L hopefully, asking, "Can't you tell me more about him, Professor?"
"I'm sorry, Story. But I've only met him a few times, and honestly, in all those meetings, he had been an absolute gentleman, nothing like the, um, A-word you call him."
"Seriously?"
"Maybe he just likes teasing you? You know how boys are with the girls they like."
"Boys being the operative word," I pointed out.
"You know what I mean."
"So he never acted arrogant or cocky or condescending..."
The professor appeared shocked. "The sheikh? No. Never. If anything, he's an absolute charmer and a gentleman in every way."
Then...did that mean he was only an asshole with me?
And if he were, was that because he didn't think I was worthy of his respect?
Hey Dad.
I tried calling you this morning, but you weren't picking up. Sorry I've been out of touch lately. We're working on this huge project at B.G. Club, and it has us super busy. That's basically the only new thing that's changed. What about you? Have you finally gone on Tinder like I asked? Text me when you get this. Love ya.
Message sent at 1453h to Dad
Chapter Eleven
It's really like what the sheikh said. I'm not the kind of girl who'd take things lying down, so the moment I was done with class, I was off in a flash and spending precious money on a cab ride just to get to the apartment as quickly as I could.
Although the sheikh had given me the security code for his apartment from Day 1, it was my first time to enter his place, and I was surprised at how different our units looked. I had thought my single-level apartment rather grand, but the sheikh's digs effortlessly put mine to shame.
His unit was split into two levels, with the second-floor hallway overlooking the high-ceilinged living room, and rather than multiple balconies, he just had one that wrapped around his side of the building...along with his very own pool.
Also, everywhere I looked, there were touches of real, 24-effing-karat gold, and the sheer opulence of my surroundings had me shaking my head. Honestly, I gotta wonder: perhaps the professor and her husband were just as clueless as I am, and maybe the sheikh was really a mob boss in disguise?
I mean, I knew there were more than a handful of sheikhs that numbered among the world's wealth
iest, but they were either a) old as Gandalf or b) easily recognizable heads of state, like the Ramilian king and his royal quartet of smoking-hot vassals.
But since the sheikh was neither...
"Asshole?" I called out rather nervously, and my trepidation grew when only silence answered me back. Shit. What if I was right? What if he did have something to do with organized crime, and someone had ordered a hit on him or something?
Shit, shit, shit.
Before I could think twice about what I was doing, I was already pulling out one of the kitchen knives and stealthily making my way up the steps. Be a ninja, Teller, I chanted to myself even as my heart started hammering. Gotta walk like a Ninja, or failing that, then, um, maybe Pink Panther at least?
The first door I opened was locked while the second door I tried turned out to be a game room and was completely unoccupied. That left me with the lone door at the end of the hallway, which then turned out to be the master's bedroom.
Big as fuck, same touches of gold, and carpeted. The lights and the A/C were on, and the balcony appeared empty. I hovered in the doorway, wondering if I should call out again, when I finally noticed the faint sound of water running in the background.
Shit.
What if someone had snuck up on him and did a Norman Bates on the sheikh while he was in the shower?
I took a deep breath, silently prayed the Our Father in five seconds flat, and then I slowly and carefully turned the knob...
"Story?"
The sheikh was standing by the sink, his handsome face revealing a rare look of bemusement. His large, muscular body was dripping wet and almost completely naked save for the black towel wrapped around his waist.
He was staring at the knife I had in my hand, while I was staring at the gun he held in his.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
His tone instantly made me defensive, and my chin immediately jutted up. "I called out, and no one answered, so I thought something might have happened, and—-"
"Instead of calling 911," he interrupted, "you opted to try rescuing me with a kitchen knife?"
Shit.
I could feel my cheeks burning as the gross extent of my stupidity hit me, and since the only defense I could think of was that I had actually been so fucking worried about the sheikh that I had ended up acting on impulse...
I saw the smirk that was unfolding over the sheikh's lips, and my cheeks grew hotter. I could already see in the gleam in his eyes that he had come to the same pathetic conclusion as I did, and I had to fight against the urge to stab him with the knife I was still holding up in the air.
"Fuck you."
But the asshole only brushed the insult off with another smirk. This piece of sheikh was so damn cocky it seemed as if every time I dropped an F-bomb, he was hearing something else like 'you're hot' or something equally delusional.
"Your concern for my well-being is touching, habibti."
"I repeat: Fuck. You."
"I will, my Story. Just say when."
I couldn't answer this time, distracted as I was with the way the sheikh seemed too damn efficient as he put the safety back on before tucking the gun away in a secret compartment behind the hairdryer holder.
When he turned to face me again, he took one look at my face, and his expression turned pained.
"You still think I'm the Mafia?"
"You can't blame me," I defended myself right away. "You're so damn secretive, what else am I supposed to think?"
"That I enjoy my privacy?"
"Plus," I added triumphantly, "you have a gun."
"So does the majority of the American population," he derided, "but I don't see you suspecting anyone else for being involved in syndicated crime." He glanced at my kitchen knife and shook his head. "Give me that before you hurt yourself."
I made a face even though I was secretly grateful to hand it over. I had been feeling a little silly, holding on to it.
After placing the knife on the marble counter top, the sheikh glanced back at me, a thoughtful look on his handsome face.
I remembered right away what I was there for, and I found myself glaring back at him...until my gaze absently clashed with his rock-hard abs.
Shit.
I knew I wasn't supposed to stare, but those damn abs were a killer, and they had my fingers literally itching to run over them, just to see if there was the slightest ounce of fat I could find. I doubted it, to be honest, but it wouldn't hurt to check—-
Ah!
The sheikh had suddenly yanked me close, and I bit back a cry as he forced my palm to come into contact with the hot, smooth skin of his six-pack.
My eyes flew up to him, and a corner of his lip turned up. "Staring didn't seem to be enough for you," the sheikh purred.
"Fuck...y-y-yoooou." I ended up half-gasping, half-moaning the word out when the sheikh forced my hand to start moving over my abs. Gaaaah. My gaze dropped to where my fingers were doing what it had been dying to do, and I barely managed to keep myself from trembling at every inch of satin-smooth hardness that I managed to touch.
The sheikh noticed right away when I pressed my legs closed. "You're getting wet again..."
Coming from him, those words were nothing out of the ordinary. They were pretty tame, actually, when compared to the other shitty stuff that he could say. But what made this time different was what I knew now - what the professor had revealed to me - and when combined with the silky mockery I heard in his voice...
I pushed him off as hard as I could while wrenching my hand out of his hold, and it was humiliating, the way he had obviously found my resistance so completely unexpected that I was able to free myself in a snap.
The sheikh's dark eyes narrowed at me. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
Not the type to beat around the bush, I didn't back down from giving it to him straight. "I was talking to the professor this morning," I said tightly, "and imagine my surprise when she described you as an 'absolute charmer'."
The sheikh raised a brow. "And I suppose you made sure to correct her opinion, is that it?"
"She also described you as a gentleman in every way," I went on doggedly, "and obviously, that got me wondering..."
"If your teacher happens to be a poor judge of character?"
"If you're only nice to her...or you're only an asshole with me?"
The sheikh blinked.
"Which is it then?" I demanded.
The sheikh's gaze glinted. "Do you really not know what the answer is?"
An asshole just to me then, I thought, and a part of me had already sort of expected this.
But what I didn't expect?
I heard the sheikh curse, and it was only then that I realized my tears had once again trailed silently down my cheeks without me being aware of it.
Fuck!
What the hell was it with these stupid eye ducts that they only seemed to like flexing their stealthy ways when the sheikh was around?
"Story—-"
The stunned sound of his voice sickened me. His cockiness and overall assholery I could handle, but that fucking note of pity?
Damn him.
More tears flowed, and I ran out of the room without another word, aghast at the way I was acting. I had always despised the way Dahlia constantly used tears as a weapon, and yet here I was, practically doing the same fucking—-
Shit!
The sheikh had caught just as I was about to reach the stairs, his fingers cupping my elbow as he whirled me around to face him again. "I'm sorry, habibti—-"
"Fuck you!" I tried shoving him off, but he was immovable as a wall.
"It was not my intention to make you cry—-"
"You're wrong," I yelled. "I'm not crying!" But since I had also ended sobbing the words out, I could only wish the floor would swallow me up then and there. God. This was so fucking humiliating, and at that moment all I wanted was just to go and not see his face for a thousand years. I tried kicking him and pummeling his chest with m
y fists in an effort to free myself, but this only had the sheikh hauling me into his arms.
"Let go!"
But this only made him press my face close to his chest, and as he tucked the top of my head under his chin, I heard him say, "Will you let me explain about my answer earlier?"
I tried shaking my head, but the sheikh once again pushed my head back down to his chest.
"Let me rephrase that. I am to explain, and you are to listen."
"Fumpph dew."
That was supposed to be an F-bomb for the piece of sheikh, but with my face smashed against his bare chest, the sound came out all warbled.
"I lead the kind of life that almost always requires me to put on a mask, habibti. The mask changes, depending on who I'm with. But in most cases—-" A curious note of self-mockery entered the sheikh's voice. "I'm what you would no doubt describe as a 'smooth bastard'. I would never make the mistake of - how do you Americans say it? Putting the foot in one's mouth?"
I nodded against his chest.
"And if I were to say or do something that would ruffle certain feathers, it would likely be intentional. But other than that?"
His arms loosened, and I automatically stepped back so I could meet his gaze.
"For almost every second of my life, all of my words and actions are calculated to deliberate. And for the most part, I have learned to live with this because I know it is necessary, for someone in my position—-" He saw me open my mouth and rolled his eyes. "For the last time, Ms. Teller - no. I am not involved in any organized crime. What is it with this obsession of yours?"
"I watched 365 DNI on Netflix?" I saw the sheikh frown and said hurriedly, "Never mind that. Just continue with your explanation."
"Do I need to explain more?"
He didn't, actually.
But...
"I think I'd rather hear you say—-"
"What makes you different?"
I nodded.
"You remember, when I spoke of our circumstances as a gift of fate?"
