Surrogate for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 7)

by Annabelle Winters

  “Or some crazy chick who comes all the way down here to buy that pill and then wimps out and instead reaches for this awful-tasting iced-tea,” Gracie muttered as she took a swig of the nasty green stuff that desperately needed sugar to make it palatable.

  She smiled at the man and walked away, realizing now that she couldn’t go back there and ask for the pill. Not now that she had spoken to the man and he had seen her face so clearly! This wasn’t her neighborhood store—it was a pharmacy inside the giant supermarket in the suburbs of Tulsa—but still, what if this guy had a niece or nephew in her school, and what if that kid someday showed him a picture of “Gracie the Ruler,” and what if that day happened tomorrow or next week? Then all the kids would know, and they were just ten years old but for sure they’d take that wooden ruler down and put up a pair of ripped panties on the wall, “Gracie the Slut” scrawled across it in whore-red lipstick.

  Gracie almost spat iced-tea into an old man’s cart as she laughed at her own paranoia. Yeah, she cared about her reputation. Yes, she was a role model to the young girls in her class, and it would absolutely be mortifying if everyone at school—staff included—knew what she’d done behind the curtains on Saturday night, pushed up against the wall. But that wasn’t the reason she had walked past the pharmacy counter and was now sipping this disgusting green tea. Nope. Gracie had known she wasn’t going to buy that damned morning-after pill. She just wasn’t going to do it. She couldn’t. It was like a sickness rose up in her if she even thought about it, a sickness that only subsided when she told herself she wouldn’t do it. It was like her body was rejecting the suggestion at a fundamental, visceral, primal level. Straight-up physical communication. Like the body had overruled the brain. Logic and common sense versus instinct and hunches. Guess what wins?

  Gracie tossed the half-drunk bottle into the recycling as she strode out of the store, opening up her hair and letting the afternoon breeze have at it. God, she felt great suddenly, didn’t she? Shockingly great, considering the roller coaster of elation and despair last night, that magnificent high of the most exciting, mind-blowing sex she could imagine followed by facing the sickening fear that all he wanted from her was . . .

  Actually, what did he want, she asked herself for the millionth time as she touched her round belly unconsciously and squinted as she wondered where the hell she had parked her little red Honda. After all, there had clearly been a connection between them. A spark. A tingle that reminded her of high-school love, so fresh and exciting, so overwhelming and exciting. And then they were flirting, weren’t they? Yes. Hell, yes. They were most certainly flirting, and he was most certainly hitting on her in a way that seemed like he wanted more than just—

  But what did you want, she forced herself to ask now as she tightened her jaw and reminded herself of what she always tried to convey to the older girls in school when discussions about boys came up. It’s about what you want. If you don’t want to go out with him, then don’t do it. Doesn’t matter if he gets annoyed. All the more reason not to go out with him! What do you want? That’s the only question that matters to the strong, confident, feminist of today’s America.

  And what did I want, Gracie wondered as she finally saw her Honda hatchback cowering behind a mammoth black truck. Did I want more than just sex? Sure. Of course. That’s what any woman wants, yes? That’s the dream, isn’t it? A boyfriend, a fiancé, a husband. A courtship, an engagement, a wedding. A baby.

  Now that sickening emptiness roared in suddenly, hitting her like a gut-punch, making her seize up as she reached her car. She slammed her palms down on the back glass of the hatchback, telling herself to grow the hell up, that she was an adult woman in post-feminist America, that she had indulged in a night of wild sex, that the man hadn’t promised her anything, hadn’t said he would call her the next day, hadn’t said much more than his name and how he was going to “kidnap her for the evening.”

  She laughed as she thought back to those old stories of Arabian kings kidnapping white women and forcing them to bear half-breed children who would rise to inherit desert kingdoms, lead armies into battle, hold court with the commoners, continue royal bloodlines, blah blah blah, yak yak yak. Madness. Silliness. Nonsense. But funny, yeah? And God, he did say he was Sheikh Dhomaar, yeah? How do you spell that, anyway? Dough-mar? Doh-more?

  Now after spending the previous night refusing to let herself do it, Gracie finally pulled out her phone and searched for his name, trying all kinds of variations on the spelling, ignoring the feeling that it was lame and stalkerish. After all, if a guy did that it would be totally psycho-stalker stuff, right?

  She smiled as she ran her fingers through her hair, steeling herself for what she knew had to be the truth. But still her smile tightened when she saw his photograph pop up. And slowly the smile faded. Slowly the steely resolve wavered. And finally the phone was tossed into the front seat as Gracie fought back tears that were not of disappointment but of anger. Contempt. Not for him, but for herself. Rage directed inwards. Contempt for her own lameness to even start to believe that this guy could have been the real thing, that she could really meet an exciting, charismatic, handsome man in a crowded room, melt under his confident advances, flutter her eyelids at his smooth Arabian accent, clench her fat butt when he touched her without asking, spread her chubby thighs for him when he pushed his hardness between her legs before she could even pronounce his goddamn name.

  And she must have known the truth the moment she saw him, yes? She must have known it, and she let him have her anyway, Gracie thought as she angrily grabbed her phone and tapped the screen to close the photograph that looked like it had been taken for Vogue magazine.

  She missed with her trembling finger and tapped it again. But now instead of closing the browser she zoomed in on the photograph, and she was forced to confront her own stupidity and gooey-eyed lameness when she saw the close up of Sheikh Dhomaar of Mizra on a red carpet with his wife, the slim, elegant, hijab-clad Queen Zareena.

  10

  Queen Zareena folded the smooth black satin of her hijab before placing it on the wooden dresser of the hotel suite for Alma her attendant to put away in the morning.

  By now Grace Garner would know that Dhom is married and so it was nothing more than one night of indulgence, Zareena thought, smiling as she stood up straight, all alone in just her beige panties. She hadn’t worn a bra—a habit from her teenage years, when it was the only form of rebellion she could get away with as far as her clothing choices went. Of course, now the habit of wearing the traditional hijab was ingrained in her and she loved that she didn’t need to worry about what to wear. She had stuck with the no-bra habit as well—though now it wasn’t an act of secret rebellion as much as it simply felt more comfortable. Granted, she had the chest-proportions of an eleven-year-old girl, which made it a bit easier, she thought with a sigh as she pinched her tight brown nipples and allowed a thin smile to break.

  Not like the magnificent curves of that American schoolteacher, Zareena thought as she tried to shut down the images she had seen of Gracie Garner over the past six months. Those large, wide hips. Beautiful round buttocks. Heavy breasts that made Zareena fantasize about what Grace’s nipples would look like, feel like, taste like . . .

  Enough, the queen told herself as she felt a gentle wetness seep into those beige cotton panties. You have fantasized about this woman enough, and now it is your turn to show some self-mastery. Already Alma complains that you close your eyes and drift into your own mind too much when she is with you in the darkness. It is not fair to Alma. You must respect her loyalty and sacrifice. Yes, she is bound to serve her queen like any of the palace attendants, but she keeps the queen’s secrets in a way none other could.

  Perhaps one last time, Zareena thought now as she heard Alma quietly step into the master bedroom of the suite, standing at the door behind Zareena, waiting to be summoned to the bed. One last fantasy with Grace Garner, a
woman I have never met, a woman who will be carrying my soon-to-be-adopted child, Mizra’s future ruler. Yes, one more time I can have her in my fantasy. After all, my husband had the pleasure of having her in the flesh. And we both deserve the indulgence, do we not? We have both paid the price for keeping that side of our lives secret, for committing to keep the needs of our flesh private forever, behind closed doors, behind thick curtains, behind the veil of our sexless marriage.

  Yes, we have both paid the price, my dear Dhom, Zareena thought as she felt herself clench inside those panties as she smelled Alma’s need in the dry air-conditioned air of the room.

  Zareena turned now, pointing at the bed as Alma’s gaunt brown face lit up at being summoned by her queen, her consort, her lover, her goddess. And as Alma crawled onto the bed and stuck her slim bottom up the air, Zareena smiled and reached for the camel-hide whip that she always carried with her personal effects.

  Ya Allah, she thought as she stroked Alma’s smooth brown skin with the rough tassels of the rawhide whip. We have both paid the price of secrecy in the way our private needs have escalated over the years, the way our fantasies have expanded as we got older, got bolder. And now both Dhom and I are twisted and turned, bruised and burned, our needs only suitable for the most private of stages, the most willing of partners.

  We have paid the price, she thought one last time before raising her arm and bringing the whip down with blinding speed, striking the first lash as Alma screamed under the yellow light.

  And soon Alma cried out again, again and again as the queen whipped her raw, whipped her ripe, whipped her red. Then finally, with a feminine growl Zareena tossed the whip aside, pushed Alma onto her back, and straddled her face as she pulled those beige panties aside. Now the queen closed her eyes, allowed her mind to wander. Soon she was grinding ferociously on Alma’s face, rubbing and moaning, finally smiling as she felt Alma’s long, stiff tongue slide into her.

  And as the queen’s eyes fluttered and closed, she allowed the image of that American woman to float in, those creamy white breasts, wonderfully heavy thighs, magnificent buttocks, pretty round face twisted in a grimace of ecstasy at the hands of Queen Zareena. And those unseen, oft-imagined nipples.

  “Yes, you can have me,” Grace whispered in Zareena’s dream as the queen wailed her way to the first climax of what promised to be a long evening for Alma. “You can taste me, suck me, savor me. You can have me.”

  11

  “You can have me too if you like, great Sheikh,” whispered the red-leather-clad madam of the private club that might as well have had Dhom’s name on a golden plaque near the soundproofed rooms of its spacious basement. “The girls have missed you. But not as much as I, my Lord.”

  She bowed her head and glanced up at the Sheikh as he stood before her in the lavish, leather-and-velvet outfitted reception area of the underground club. Dhom knew this woman well—indeed, he knew every inch of her, inside and outside, every nook and cranny, every crack and crevasse. Of course, much of that was from when both he and she were younger—though he still dragged her into his padded playroom once in a while to give her a taste of those younger days, perhaps to remind her that his needs had escalated beyond the point of what her aging body could safely handle.

  “This is not the time for you,” Dhom said as he forced a smile and glanced around the empty club, which had been cleared at a moment’s notice when Dhom called to say he would be arriving. Indeed, amongst the high-rollers that might have protested at being denied entry, none came close to how high the Sheikh rolled, how hard the Sheikh rolled. “Today my needs are too great for you, my tender mistress of the night. I fear I will break you.”

  “Oh, Dhom, you know how I crave to be broken by you again,” she cooed as she strolled out from behind her smooth black desk and sauntered over to where the Sheikh stood a few feet away.

  She wore a red leather bodysuit, low-cut with a push-up black corset, black fishnet hugging her thighs that had once been a lot fuller. She looked thin and frail, the Sheikh thought as he smiled and obliged her with a rough nipple-pinch as she undid the drawstring of her corset and offered him her bare breasts.

  His cock moved as the woman gasped and tried to reach for his erection. But he grabbed her hand and pushed her away. She stumbled in her heels, and the Sheikh quickly reached out and caught her so she wouldn’t fall. Ya Allah, he needed to be careful today! Too much energy that he could not understand, let alone control!

  All that talk about pair bonding and the male instinct to protect the female—especially the female carrying his seed. By God, if Zareena’s “hunch” was correct, then this American woman would conceive from their encounter that night! Perhaps the conception had already occurred! His seed already taking its place in her fertile womb!

  That is what Zareena believes, yes? he thought. That my incomprehensible need to be with Grace, to go to this woman I do not know, to have her again, take her again, love her again, claim her again, keep her safe, let her know she is mine to protect . . . all of it is the wisdom of instinct? Instinct that is further enhanced by a subconscious knowledge that she will indeed bear my child? This feeling of being drawn to Grace is just that? Dumb instinct? Or is it divine wisdom? Are they the same? Yah, Allah, Zareena had turned me inside out with her babble!

  Dhomaar exhaled and waited until the madam had regained her balance and tucked away her turgid, silicone-enhanced boobs before he turned and slowly walked along the perimeter of the anteroom. Along the black-painted walls were closed doors, each of them leading to a different setup, a different woman, a different fantasy. Behind this door lay silver chains and golden handcuffs. This next room had a replica of the medieval rack. A third room contained expertly fashioned wooden stocks, where the Sheikh knew a woman was already imprisoned, her head and arms locked in smooth wood, buttocks sticking up, legs spread in helpless submission.

  Dhom had always had a fascination for the imprisoned woman, a woman bound and waiting, in a cell or dungeon, at his mercy, at his disposal. It was sick, he knew. Twisted, he acknowledged. Perhaps it was a natural reaction to the bonds which duty and responsibility had placed upon his own hands, his own body, his own life. Perhaps because he had sacrificed a normal marriage and sex-life to satisfy the medieval laws of his kingdom, he felt this sick need to fantasize about being that medieval Arab Sheikh, with white women imprisoned in his dungeons, tied and spread, proud western women ready to be tamed into submission, taught a lesson!

  Taught a lesson, he repeated in his head as he smirked at the memory of telling Grace Garner the schoolteacher that he too was a teacher! What would he have said if she had asked what his specialty was? Would he have told her the truth? Told her his fantasy? Told her how he taught women to step into his private fantasy? To make it their own fantasy? To learn to enjoy being helpless and bound in the great medieval king’s dungeons?

  And now his mind whipped back to the memory of Grace in his arms last night, his body hardening, his green eyes glazing over as his cock pushed against the front of his trousers. Dhomaar glanced at the madam, who was making no secret of where she was looking, licking her lips at the grotesquely awesome peak in the Sheikh’s trousers.

  The Sheikh turned away from her, slowly running his hand along the black-painted wall as he walked the perimeter of the room. “I cannot,” he muttered as he lowered his arm and clenched his fist. “I cannot follow this plan of ours, Zareena. I am sorry. The urge is too strong. The need is too great. Perhaps I am risking everything, but I am not a mystic who can find the beauty in denying his need. I am not a sage who can laugh as he turns away from what his body wants.” His jaw went tight now, green eyes still glazed over but attaining a strange focus—perhaps the same sort of otherworldly focus that had been in operation in that crowded ballroom, the trancelike focus that had drawn the Sheikh to this curvy schoolteacher in her red dress even though he did not know her at all, did not know beforehand wh
at she looked like but somehow already knew what she . . . smelled like, tasted like, felt like?!

  Ya Allah, he thought now as he turned absentmindedly and stared at the frowning madam without really seeing her. By God, not only was I drawn to Grace when I saw her, but I was perhaps drawn to her before I saw her, was I not? Because not only did Zareena not tell me how to find her in a crowd, but I never even thought to ask Zareena! And so could it be . . . could it be that I already knew?!

  I already knew, the Sheikh thought as his body firmed up and a startling sense of clarity took over. Ya Allah, I already knew!

  And now exhilaration roared through the Sheikh as he grinned like a madman and ran towards the dark stairs leading back up to the light. “Bill me for all the women, and then double it,” he called to the bewildered, frowning madam as he took the stairs two at a time, whipping out his phone and informing his men to wake up the co-pilot and force-feed him some coffee.

  By God, this is real, he thought as he strode to his limo and got in. Perhaps this semen retention thing has indeed turned me into a mystic, taken me to enlightenment!

  “Clarity indeed,” he muttered as he watched the neon-lit streets of downtown Las Vegas whip by as the limo headed for the airport. “I am learning something about myself.”

  He grinned again as he wondered if Grace would be expecting him or not, whether she would turn him away or receive him, if she would open up for him again or shut him down after his perfectly executed disappearing act last night. A disappearing act which was the only thing which was an act! Everything else was real, by God!

  “Ana sawf mmil' lakum,” he muttered finally as the airport pulled into view. Now his smile changed form, his cock pushing to full-mast in his trousers as the realization of what he was going to do sunk in. “Have you also reached this enlightenment, my curvy teacher from Tulsa?” he said out loud. “No matter. I will take you there if you have not. I will take you there again and again. Again and forever.” He looked at his platinum watch with the thirteen recessed diamonds, seeing the reflection of his own green eyes sparkling in its face. “Sunday already. Well, Ms. Grace Garner. I suppose it will have to be Sunday school.”