Not once, he thought now as he gently pushed his face between the magnificent globes of her smooth breasts, twin domes white and clean, stiff nipples gleaming like pink minarets in the sun. He breathed deep, deep once again, taking in the warm musk of this woman, her smell invading his senses, almost overwhelming him with a warmth so undeniable, a passion so electric, a need so raw that he almost choked as he tried to tell himself again that this wasn’t real, that it was just a game, a game they were both playing, a stage they were sharing together. Just an act. Do not lose yourself so completely. Keep at least one eye open lest you be lost. Enjoy it, revel in it, play the part to the full so she can play her part to the full as well. But do not forget it is an act, Zaal.
Yes, an act, and so let us go on with the show, no matter how fearfully real it seems, how terrifying true it feels. On with the show, great Sheikh!
“Do you love me,” the Sheikh whispered as he kissed her round belly, smiling against her skin as he felt her tense up like she was ticklish, now relax as he held her down and licked her belly button, slowly moving to where her denim skirt was bunched up around her waist. “I cannot be your first if you do not love me. The first time for a girl must be with someone who loves her, someone whom she loves. I have told you that I love you, Francine. I have spoken my heart and now it is up to you whether we proceed. Now you must decide if you love me. So tell me, tell me truly, Francine.” He glanced up along the length of her smooth body, past her round belly, between the hills of her bosom, to her pretty round face glowing in the splintered light of the crystal chandelier above that grand old bed. “Tell me you love me, Francine. Say the words. Say it now.”
16
“I love you,” came the words, and Fran wanted to feel horror but she felt delight, wanted to sense panic but there was nothing but passion, wanted to feel like a liar but she felt like a lover, like a girl in love, a woman in love, true love, real love, first love, impossible love.
“I love you,” she said again, almost frowning as a part of her waited for the feeling that told her she was faking it, that she was pretending just like he was, speaking her lines just like the show demanded, submitting to the fantasy and nothing more.
But that feeling of warmth only got stronger, that sense of security only got deeper, the thought that this is a fantasy only got pushed further away, far away, long gone now, gone like smoke in the night, an overwhelming sense of vividness rolling in so fast she almost gasped in shock, a vividness that came with explosions of color, splinters of sound, flashes of light like she had stepped into an alternate reality that was somehow more real than the real world, where colors were so vivid they could dance and sing, where pixies and gnomes pushed shopping carts of rainbows and stardust, chattering with each other as they loaded the sparkling booty into chariots pulled by laughing unicorns and big yellow duckies with smiles the size of her smile, of Fran’s smile, a smile of innocence, a smile that trembled with excitement as the man she said she loved kissed her smooth round belly, squeezed her perky little schoolgirl tits, and now slowly, carefully, gently moved lower and closer, lower along her trembling, snow-white body, closer to her tight little panties, her tight little pussy, untouched and new, like a rainbow after the first rain of summer, a flowerbud chosen to be the first blossom of spring.
And as the man of her fantasy, the man who had whispered I love you, this exotic man who had stepped out of that cloud on the hill . . . yes, as he tenderly kissed the soft, secret space of her inner thighs, his tongue carefully teasing its way closer to her schoolgirl slit, little Frannie spread her teenage thighs and giggled with those creatures of fantasy, delivering her lines as that rapt cosmic audience gasped and clutched each others’ ephemeral hands in the comforting darkness of the universe’s theater.
“Yes, I love you,” she muttered as he slowly pulled aside her panties and slid his warm tongue into her tight slit. “I love you, and I want you to be my first.”
17
She thought she might come but she didn’t, and the gasps that escaped her trembling lips soon shortened into little whimpers of stifled ecstasy as he teased her slit without pushing his tongue in all the way, without penetrating her deep. She was so wet she couldn’t tell if it was her own juices or his saliva that coated her slit, slowly dripping onto the heavy linens of the majestic bed as he kissed her teenage twat, smacking his lips as she giggled and shivered before sinking back into that whimpering oblivion of ecstasy.
“You taste so sweet,” he whispered from between her legs as she writhed and tried not to buck her hips up into his face. He held her hips down firmly as she sighed and nodded, her eyelids gently closing and opening like a butterfly drying its dew-laden wings. “So clean,” he muttered as he ran the flat of his warm tongue along the length of her pussy, now sliding his hands around her wide hips, grasping her round bottoms firmly and pulling her asscheeks apart as he allowed her to push into his face for just a moment as he held his tongue flat against her opening.
“Oh, God!” she cried as she felt her slit widen as the shaft of his tongue lined up exactly with her opening, pushing her pink nether lips apart, making her feel a yearning that almost brought her to tears. “Oh, God, I can’t . . . I can’t even . . . oh, God!”
Now she swore she was going to come but no, that climax stayed back, crouching in the shadows like a scared rabbit, tortured by the fear of stepping out from its burrow which had been its hiding place for so long that the darkness felt like light and the thought of light was terrifying.
Fran felt him squeeze her heavy bottoms as she bucked into him, his tongue flat and not entering her as she squirmed and gurgled, for a moment not sure if she was coming now or what, suddenly wondering if she’d even know if she was coming.
“Do you want to come for me,” he whispered now, releasing her buttocks and pushing her hips back down into the bed, holding her down firm as he breathed gently against her glistening slit as she writhed and whimpered.
A strange fear rose up in her as she nodded and sputtered, not sure if she was saying yes or no, not sure if she could answer him. Oh, God, what if I can’t come for him, she wondered as those twin horses of guilt and shame reared their dark heads and whinnied, neighed, bucked and snorted, like they were laughing at her, taunting her, crying for her, pulling her now, pulling her closer, closer, their muscular haunches gleaming in the silver moonlight of her fantasy, the steam from their breath betraying the effort they were making to pull against their reins, break free from their loads, shed the guilt, trample the shame, run free like beasts of pure white, of magnificent light.
“I don’t know . . . I don’t know if I . . . if I can,” she gasped as her eyes flicked wide open, the light of the chandelier above the bed blinding her, each candlestick bulb burning like a million suns, shooting spears of harsh starlight at her, like she was now that actress who had made the mistake of staring directly into the spotlight instead of beyond it. “Oh God, I don’t know—”
“Hush, my princess,” he whispered as he petted her hips, caressed her curves, gently kneaded the sides of her buttocks, now kissing her between her legs, on the inside of her thighs, keeping that arousal going even as he comforted her. “I should not have asked. It is my fault. Do not worry, princess. You do not need to know anything. Leave it to me. Just focus on your body and my touch, on my touch and my voice. Nothing else matters. Nothing else exists. Nothing else is real except this, Francine. Yes?”
Fran’s face twisted as a shuddering sigh escaped her lips, and now she felt that comfort take over again, that comfort within which she could feel the arousal swirl around itself, coil around itself like a kitten in a basket, big innocent eyes more curious than scared. That trembling smile was back now, her butterfly-eyelids flapping in the safe air of this wooden palace, within the four protective pillars of this royal bed, this royal bed on which a girl was becoming a woman, a princess was becoming a queen.
18
“I will take you there, my princess,” the She
ikh rumbled against the delicate hairs of her mound as he inhaled deep, drinking in the intoxicating aroma of her feminine. His own arousal was so fierce that every muscle in his body was flexed to the full, every fiber stretched to breaking point, every ounce of his will power being used in the Herculean effort it took to not rip this woman’s panties off and take her hard and fast, raw and deep, from in front and behind, top and bottom, against the headboard and against the wall, on the floorboards and over the furniture, biting and growling as he pumped into her magnificent cunt, spanked her tremendous ass, pinched her brilliant boobs so hard she screamed his name to the goddamn heavens as he unloaded into her, pouring his hot seed into her depths like a beast at the peak of heat.
But the Sheikh held on, this woman’s vulnerability adding the vital ingredient that held him back, stopped the animal from taking its mate with the fury of the forest, the wildness of the woods. The time would come with this woman, something inside told him. But this was not the time. Not this time. Not the first time.
“You are very wet now, princess,” he whispered to her as he slowly brought his hands around to her front and carefully kneaded her tender pubic area with his thumbs. “You are so wet for me that I can tell how much you love me. You love me, do you not, princess?”
“Yes,” she moaned without hesitation.
“You trust me, do you not, princess?”
“Yes,” she whimpered, the word coming through like she meant it.
“Say you love me, princess,” he whispered as he brought both thumbs towards the top of her slit, parting the lips of her cunt and holding her slit open as he breathed clean warm air upon her wetness, glancing at the little hood, that dainty little hood from under which her clit was peeking, stiff and pink, warm and wet.
“I love you,” she muttered as he felt her shiver under his touch, shudder under his grip, shake as he slowly placed a thumb on that hood and raised it. “Oh, shit, yes, I love you.”
“I love you too, princess,” he muttered as he touched her clit with the tip of his tongue, pulling back when he felt her tense up, now doing it again until she could take it, until she was rotating her wide hips, grinding her ass into the swirling bedclothes.
The Sheikh smiled as he sensed her arousal spiral upwards even as his cock felt so full he thought he might explode in his pants. Now he breathed deep again and took in the warm musk of her cunt, a scent that almost drove him to delirium as he struggled to stay in control of the desire she was unleashing in him.
Ya Allah, I cannot hold back much longer, he thought as he flicked her clit with his tongue as her whimpers grew louder, her pants came heavier, her gasps short and quick like a mare before the race. He kept going on her clit, now licking her slit again as he reached down with one hand and feverishly undid his heavy brass belt buckle, unbuttoned and unzipped, beads of perspiration forming on his brow as he pushed his fitted trousers down past his muscular hips while making sure to keep licking her pussy, flicking her little bean, keeping her close to the edge as he prepared to take her over it.
The Sheikh was used to making a woman climax orally at first, especially a woman who he thought might have had trouble coming during intercourse with previous lovers. Of course, Zaal had no idea what Francine’s sexual history was like—he was operating on instinct, on what he was picking up from her, on what his body was telling him to do.
And his body was telling him this woman truly was inexperienced, he thought with a flash of wonder even as his cock flexed at the thought. Not because she did not seem to know what to do—indeed, the Sheikh had been with women who had borne several children and still had no idea what to do in bed, no clue what they liked or didn’t, no real sense of what made them come. For so many women a climax during sex was like a lottery—sometimes it happened but mostly it didn’t. But this woman was not only acting like she didn’t know how to climax with a man, but by Allah, she was acting like she did not know if she could climax at all!
Come for me, he wanted to whisper as he felt her arousal surge when he licked her clit as hard as he dared while pushing his fingertips into her cunt, just past her lips, not deep enough to take away the thrill of what was coming next, but certainly deep enough that he sensed how it fueled her arousal, took her closer to the edge, so close that for any other woman his simple command would be enough. For any other woman, but not this one. Not this princess.
19
“Perhaps if I had been born a princess I would be exempt from this neverending madness!”
Cousin Yusuf stared at the document that a purple-turbaned attendant had just handed to him. Now Yusuf looked up at the dumbfounded attendant, who perhaps was going into shock at being asked a question that he was most certainly not authorized to answer.
“Are the Regents still in session?” Yusuf asked, glancing back down at the freshly signed document with the Arabic letterhead that said Islamic Kingdom of Kirwaan, Regents Committee Official Business. It was a summons to attend yet another maddening Regents Committee session, another of many, given that in less than a year Yusuf would be asked to take over as supreme Sheikh of Kirwaan.
Of course, the work of the Sheikh was not so hard these days, not since the discovery of oil reserves forty years ago. Indeed, the tiny kingdom of Kirwaan was now so oil-rich that it was mostly on auto-pilot, with absolutely zero poverty and unemployment. Ya Allah, the only crimes these days were adultery, it seemed! And most of the time even that was simply resolved quietly, thanks to the age-old tradition of keeping one’s skeletons in the closet, making sure the camel bones stayed rolled tight within the proverbial carpet.
Still, being appointed Minister of Education by the Regents two years ago was bad enough. Imagine being Minister of Everything! He would rather dive head-first off the Great Minaret that rose to the clouds above the southern wing of the Royal Palace of Kirwaan! As it was it had puzzled him when the Regents had specifically asked him to be the Minister of Education—after all, Yusuf had never been the brightest bulb in the chandelier. He had not studied at Oxford or Cambridge, nor at the great Islamic universities of the Emirates. He had barely made it through the tutored sessions that princes and princesses attended in the open-air southern wing of the Palace, more than once begging his father to exempt him from further classes. After all, he could read and write in Arabic and English, and he counted well enough to say that he knew some mathematics too. Was that not enough for a prince who would never need to work a day in his life, never have to command an army in battle, never have to do much more than see who he could bribe to get an advance high-definition DVD of the next Game of Thrones season?
Yusuf smiled as he folded the paper and walked towards the Regents meeting rooms in the eastern wing of the palace, but behind the smile he could feel an uneasiness build. Something was not right, and although Yusuf couldn’t quite put his finger on it, he could not help thinking back to that holy mess with the new schools that the Regents had asked Yusuf to set up, the schools that Zaal had shut down, all of it ultimately leading to this, to Zaal in exile and Yusuf doomed to attend committee meetings for the rest of his days!
“There are four older students missing,” Zaal had told Yusuf after the schools had been shut down and Zaal had asked for a list of all registered students so he could ensure they were back with their families.
“What do you mean missing?” Yusuf had asked.
“I mean they have not been home in the two weeks since the schools were shut down, Yusuf. Where are they?”
“How am I to know, Zaal?” Yusuf had said, genuinely perplexed. “These boys . . . they are how old, you say?”
“Eighteen. Young men, all four of them. Young men who just a month ago were waving swords and shouting slogans like it was the day of reckoning at our peaceful borders! Do you understand what I am saying, Yusuf?” Zaal had said, his jaw clenched, those green eyes like emerald flame as Yusuf took a step away from his fiery cousin, the Sheikh-in-waiting.
“You are saying . . . . what, exactly,
Cousin Zaal? Perhaps I do not understand fully.”
“Ya Allah, they have played you, my innocent cousin! Played you like a violin! Played us both!”
“Who? What? Zaal, I do not know what—”
“The Regents, Yusuf! Those fidgety dinosaurs with their bearded manes and long noses buried in books written thousands of years ago!”
Yusuf had frowned and swallowed hard as he wondered if Zaal was perhaps losing his mind. “Played me? I do not know what you mean, Zaal. Are you saying the Regents want to . . . want to do what? Turn our young men into violent extremists? Into . . . into terrorists?! Na, na, na, Cousin. You have been abroad in the west too long. I deal with the bearded ones more often, and though I agree they are conservative and orthodox, I have not heard even one suggestion that condones violence of any kind, especially in the name of Islam! Even those curved swords are barely real! They are blunt and brittle, and could be broken in two by a child! I discussed this extensively with them before signing off on the financing for the schools. I would not start a school for terrorists, Zaal. I am not so stupid.”
“That is their genius,” Zaal had muttered as he shook his head and waved Yusuf away in exasperation. “They simply set up the conditions for something to happen, and then sit back and watch and see what happens. Like Gods on Mount Olympus, they toy with the rules and see if something catches fire! That is their amusement! It is what gets them out of their sexless beds every morning!”
“But what is their goal, Zaal? It makes no sense! The Regents have never expressed any ill will towards our neighbors or even the countries in the West. Kirwaan is a nation of peace, and we are known for keeping to ourselves and minding our own business. But we are still an Islamic Republic with many bordering countries, and perhaps someday the oil will indeed run out, making us vulnerable again. I truly believe the Regents were genuinely trying to instill some national pride and lay the foundation for a military. It is the right of every nation to have a standing army, yes? Not that these children with toy swords is the equivalent of Westpoint, but—”
Untouched for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 6) Page 9
