Jason gritted his teeth and took a step forward, but he was shaking in his boots and he broke eye contact and then quickly backed up until he was against the front door, eyelids fluttering, nostrils flaring desperately like he was hyperventilating. He groped for the doorknob, opening it and shaking his head.
“Shit, Fran. You need help, and I hope to God you get it. I’ll tell Macy to reach out, but I’m fucking gone. I’m not the guy to help you, and shit, you know what, I’m actually glad—”
Jason’s voice was getting stronger as he got the door open, his face hardening a bit as he swallowed and pointed at her. But Fran wasn’t listening, Fran couldn’t hear shit, Fran couldn’t hear anything but the blood pounding in her ears, couldn’t feel anything but the desperate sense that everything was broken, that there was no hope, no point, no sense in pretending that she was something more than a damaged creature of the desert, a shameful rag of a woman, a sick, twisted girl who had let four boys touch her and then changed her mind when it got too much too soon . . . changed her mind but not her body. Because she came, didn’t she? Little innocent Frannie came for the first time that day, her body screaming out the truth that if she came then she must have liked it, must have wanted it, must have fucking deserved it.
“Fuck it,” she muttered as she fought back the tears and tried to calm the madness that was rolling through her brain in a way that made her so dizzy she couldn’t think straight, could barely see straight.
And as if by some primal urge that she wasn’t sure was survival instinct or a death wish, a cry for help or an answer from the universe, a glimmer of hope or the beginning of despair, the first whisper of madness or the last gasp of sanity . . . yes, as if driven by some force that was part magnetism part gravity, the force from a galaxy collapsing and a star being born, Fran stumbled to her car, half sobbing half giggling, and with those green eyes of the forest watching over her, she drove through the night and to that castle in the clouds, that palace in the pines, that Sheikh in the shadows.
11
The Sheikh glanced out at the shadows lining the long, overgrown driveway that led to the house from the main public road almost a mile away. There were lampposts in place all along, but he needed to get new bulbs for at least two of them that he could see were out. He looked at his watch and then smiled when he realized it had only been three minutes since he had last checked the time. It truly was incredible how time slowed down or sped up depending on the mood.
And what was the mood, the Sheikh wondered as he turned back towards the sparsely furnished house, that bed looming large and in high relief, perhaps a little too prominent for what promised to be a dinner party that would perhaps need to be handled rather delicately . . . delicately because by Allah, he thought he was starting to like this woman who had already surprised him with how her shyness had given way to courage that bordered on recklessness!
Now Zaal frowned as he heard the distant screech of tires, and he got to the front porch in long, quick strides, stopping and placing his hands on his hips as he narrowed his gaze and watched the twin headlights of Fran’s Toyota truck wind their way down the driveway haphazardly.
Immediately Zaal could sense the tension in the air around him, feel it in every breath he took even before the truck got close enough for him to see inside. Ya Allah, she was alone, he realized now as she pulled up close, stepping out and slamming the door shut and walking briskly towards the house without looking directly at him.
The Sheikh’s frown cut deeper as he watched Fran approach. She was still in the same damn clothes as the afternoon, which struck him as strange. Not that he cared—indeed, he thought the combination of that denim skirt and that oversized t-shirt was amusingly American and surprisingly sexy. No, it just seemed off, like there was no way this woman would not have changed her clothes before coming over unless there was something wrong.
Well of course there is something wrong, you damned fool, Zaal told himself as Fran cut through the slightly overgrown front lawn, trampling a cluster of slumbering dandelions as she got closer to the front porch. You should have known there was something wrong the moment she telephoned you and said she had changed her mind and was coming over.
But there is something more, something else, like something has just happened. Why is she alone? Why was she driving like that? Why has she not even bothered to change?
She was walking up the stairs now, and for the first time he could see her face clearly, how her jaw was set tight like an angry child might do, a child who has just decided that it is her against the world and so to hell with the world, with what the world thinks, perhaps to hell with what even she thinks!
She looked at him now, a manic coldness in her brown eyes, those eyes that had seemed so soft and warm in the light of day but were now set like dark stone in the yellow glow of the solitary porch light. The Sheikh had seen that look before, seen it in the dark eyes of those conservative Arab women when they finally opened up to him, began to trust him, started to understand that they could safely be the women of their own fantasies when they were with him, that he would keep their secrets, that no one would ever know that these married women lowered their veils for him, raised their hijabs for him, spread for him, screamed for him.
But though the look in this American woman’s eyes reminded him of that, it was still not the same look. No, the Sheikh realized just as Francine began to walk up the wooden stairs, her jaw still tight but her lower lip trembling ever so slightly, that tiny flinch telling the Sheikh everything he needed to know, his own instincts kicking into gear as his body tensed up.
No, he thought as he watched her make eye contact and lock onto him like she had dissociated herself from what she had already decided she was going to do. No, this woman is not doing this because she is opening up. She is doing this because she is shutting down, withdrawing deeper into her cave, like she has decided she is so far gone that there is no point in even trying to step out of the depths of her prison. Because what good will it be to sniff a freedom you cannot have, taste a dish you can never swallow, listen to a tune you can never sing?
You can turn her away or you can take her in, came the whisper from his instincts as Francine stepped up to his level, her lower lip trembling again as if she was doing everything she could to not break down and shatter into a million pieces.
You can give her what she wants and take what you want, came the thought now as he felt his own heat rise from the smell of her feminine musk that came through that thin t-shirt, from beneath that knee-high skirt that was creased and crooked, half-ridden up her thighs, adding to her manic look, that open-haired madness that seemed to surround her right now, signaling that she had not necessarily lost control but simply did not want control anymore because it seemed pointless.
You can give her what she wants and get your release at the same time, he thought as he realized that she was going to step right up to him with those red lips warm and open but those brown eyes so cold they might as well be closed. Yes, you can give her what she wants, hard and quick. Or you can control yourself for a moment, trust your instincts and experience, and instead take the time to give her what she needs. You can give her what she needs, Zaal. Perhaps you are the only one who can give her what she needs, and perhaps she understands that even if she cannot express it.
And now the Sheikh felt his cock harden as she slammed her soft body into his broad frame, and he knew he had to decide now, that what he chose to do with this woman would somehow determine the course of her life and his life, as mad as that seemed.
What do I do, he wondered as he felt his cock yearn to simply take her right now, right here, finish it fast and hard, take the release he needed, the release she was offering.
But instead the Sheikh swallowed hard and shook his head, and he looked down at her with warmth and gentleness even as he grasped her firmly by the arms and held her back, stopping her lips from touching his.
“Let us go slow,” he said as he felt her breat
h catch, her body tense up as she pulled against his grasp, her mouth opening up and closing as she blinked once, blinked again, a glimmer in those big brown eyes of hers now, like something inside her was indeed reaching out to him, an instinct in her that she could not put into words, an instinct that had brought her here, like she knew that what was broken in her could never be fixed by one person alone, that it takes two, man and woman together, this man and this woman together, this man and this woman.
And as if the instinct that was coming alive in her was touching something in him, telling him that he had chosen correctly, like the universe approved, the Sheikh felt a strange calm descend over him even though his arousal surged hard and heavy.
“Slow,” he whispered, the words coming from he knew not where, a place of instinct and inspiration, where fantasies are born and reality goes to die. “I will go slow because I know it is your first time. It is your first time, is it not? It is your first time, yes? Yes, my untouched, innocent, virgin American girl?”
And as she blinked one more time and looked up at him, the Sheikh saw a flash of shock in her eyes, a desperate kind of shock that was the beginnings of hope, the glimmer of warmth, a hint of that innocence he knew lay beneath all of this, a whisper that she was not damaged beyond repair even though she thought she was, that she was not closed off forever, not for him, that this tightly coiled little flower would open up for him if he did it right, if he gave her what she needed, if he became what she needed, if he was the man she needed, the only kind of man she needed. Her true love, her first love, the man of every girl’s first fantasy.
He saw all that in her eyes, and with his eyes he told her what she needed to know, he told her that she was his, only his, always his, his for the first time, his for all of time.
Then he kissed her. He kissed her like it was the first time. By God, he kissed her.
12
Fran couldn’t even remember his name as she felt him kiss her, his lips smothering hers with a delicate but firm warmth even as his grip tightened around her upper arms, squeezing as she pressed against him and opened her mouth and gasped. She gasped again as he pulled back and looked at her with those green eyes that she couldn’t put a name to, and now she felt a deep tremor start within her, like she was going into shock, shock at what was happening, at what she was doing here, at who she was, at who he was.
“Who are you?” she whispered as she looked up at him, feeling herself go limp in his arms for a moment as the words caught in her throat. “Who are you?”
“I am the man you have chosen,” he whispered against her neck as he pulled her close, so close she could smell him, that aroma of eucalyptus and tobacco, that mix of magic and mystery, that hint of happiness and hope. “And I am the man who has chosen you.”
She almost giggled as she felt that shock retreat and leave her breathless in his arms, her body feeling light as a feather in his strong embrace, her skin cool and fresh as she glanced up at his darkly handsome face, the yellow light from above casting shadows that made it really seem like a dream, a dream of long ago, but also a dream of something that had never happened, that feeling of déjà vu when you know it can’t be déjà vu because this hasn’t happened yet, is happening for the first time, the very first time.
“Why did you say that?” she whispered as she saw him smile, his perfect teeth giving a strange sense of order to the chaos of swirling emotion and soaring electricity, suddenly making her feel safe, like everything was all right, that delightful feeling of knowing that you are dreaming and so you are in complete control and nothing bad can happen. “What you said just now. About—”
“No,” he said firmly, his eyes locking in on hers, lips hinting at a warm smile. “Stop thinking, and stop talking. You cannot trust your brain right now, and you cannot even trust your emotions.”
“What can I trust then?” she asked.
“Me. You will trust me.”
She blinked up at him, her smooth round face twisting up for a moment as she felt her thoughts race back and forth, fantasies fighting with fears, each pulling at the other, pulling her apart at the seams, telling her she was no longer just insane but dangerously so, that she was standing here in a stranger’s arms, in a stranger’s embrace, nothing but dark shadows and tall trees all around, no one to hear if she screamed, no one to help if she said no, no one to trust but herself and him. And she sure as hell didn’t trust herself, which left only him to trust. Only him.
“Do you want to step through that door with me, Francine?” he asked now, taking a step back, his strong hands still gripping her upper arms but in a way that seemed to say he would let go if she asked. “Do you want to trust me and step through that door with me, Francine? Do you want to trust me?”
Such a strange question, she thought for a moment as she felt herself take a step forward. Do I want to trust him? What does that mean? I don’t even know him! But God, I’m here, aren’t I? I’m here on my own. I came here on my own. And now I’m with him. No longer on my own.
Another step now, and the Sheikh took another step too, and they were at the threshold to his front door, those trees on the edges of the dark forest swaying lazily in the night breeze, that solitary lightbulb swinging like a pendulum, lulling her back into that comfortable dream, the dream where she was in control of everything that happened, so much in control that she could let go and let loose, let it out and let him in, perhaps even trust him. Or at least want to trust him.
“I want to trust you,” she said, cocking her head and blinking like she was hearing things, losing her mind, someone else talking through her. “I think I do. I mean—”
“Then that is all you need to know. That you want to trust me. That is all you need to know, all you need to do. The rest is up to me. Once you decide that you want to trust me, it becomes my responsibility to follow through, to live up to your desire to trust me, to earn the trust you want to give. That is how bonds are formed, how chemicals combine, how the universe was created. Give and take, call and response, trust and proof. You take the chance to trust me, and I will prove that you were right to trust me. It is the way of man and woman, Francine. It has always been that way.” The Sheikh smiled now, his voice low and firm. He took another step towards the open door and she took another step along with him. “Soon you will be in my house, in my arms, under my protection, under my care. If you give me the gift of your trust, I will show you what trust really means. I will show you why you came here with your jaw set tight and your lips trembling, why you are standing here on the threshold of a stranger’s porch, in his arms, logic and reason telling you that this is madness, that it must be madness that brought you here even though somewhere inside you know it makes perfect sense, that it will make perfect sense, that we will make perfect sense. I will show you what it means to be touched, touched for the first time, touched the way a woman is meant to be touched, the way you were meant to be touched. It will start with trust and it will end with trust. And all you need to do is say that you want to trust me. That is all, Francine. Say yes, I want to trust you. I want to trust you. Say it, and your life as a woman starts fresh tonight, fresh and new, innocent and unbroken, pure and untouched.”
God, does he know, Fran wondered as she listened to what he was saying, for a moment her brain butting in with a dire warning that he was manipulating her, that he had read that article and knew she was damaged and broken, twisted and torn, a used-up woman, her femininity soiled and scarred, spoiled and marred, compromised and corroded, rotten and eroded.
But she could not deny that it was she who had come to him, it was she who was here on his doorstep, that although she wanted to deny it, the truth was that she had chosen to be here, chosen to shut out that silent scream that haunted her dreams, that told her that sexual pleasure was a closed door for her, that she was a sick, twisted girl who had climaxed for the first time while being raped, who had climaxed for the only time while being raped, that there was no cure, no comfort, that there was no
man who could love her if he knew, no man who would touch her if he knew, no man who would treat her as anything more than a slut if she let him in, let him close, let him see, see who she really was.
Now Fran glanced past the Sheikh and saw that bed against the far end of the warm, well-lit open space of this man’s home, the bed that seemed so large and inviting, safe and clean. It was not a bed to which a man takes a whore, she thought. It was not a bed to which a man takes a harlot, she decided. It was a bed to which a man takes his lover, it seemed to her.
Oh, God, what’s happening, Fran thought as she looked back into his eyes, suddenly understanding what that question meant, that the question was a choice so subtle and so profound, a question being asked by the silent signposts of a psychic crossroads, a cosmic intersection, one way leading back to the darkness, one way promising the light of freedom. But which way was which? What was up and what was down? God, she was being asked to trust a man she did not know, about to step into an unknown world that could swallow her whole, break what little was still unbroken, destroy what was still undamaged. In a way this choice was everything, was it not, little Frannie? Wasn’t it, little untouched Frannie?
For a moment the fear and panic threatened to rise up and take her, but then a whisper of warm air came through like a cosmic giggle, suddenly flipping everything on its head, that breeze saying hey, this isn’t that complicated, and hey, it’s actually the simplest goddamn thing in the entire universe: Do you want to be with this man or not? Even a goddamn squirrel with a brain the size of a peanut makes that decision in the blink of an eye! Every animal in God’s colorful universe is born with the instinct to make that choice, the right choice: The choice of a mate.
Had Fran learned nothing from those animals she had devoted her life to healing? Was she blind to what they were all whispering to her through the trees, every puppy, kitten, every she-wolf, grizzly mama, giraffe, emu, waddling duck, hens that cluck? The birds and beasts whispering that she should trust what she felt when she first met this man, trust whatever madness made her pick up that bright yellow giraffe-telephone, trust the insanity that made her run from one man who felt wrong to the arms of another who felt right, who felt so right, so goddamn right!
Untouched for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 6) Page 7
