“Yes,” she groaned again as he backed up between her legs and pulled her bunched up skirt off, then those ravaged panties, tossing both far from the bed as he looked down at her bare crotch, light brown hair matted but clean, that long, beautiful slit looking pink and fresh, its lips beckoning to him.
He touched the head of his cock to her pussy now, drawing a loud moan from her as her body went rigid, her thigh muscles flexed, her breath caught. Slowly he teased those pink lips open with his dark red tip, coating the entire length of her slit with his clean oil, now holding his cock there and then carefully reaching down and gathering their combined wetness on his fingertips.
“Taste us,” he whispered, bringing his fingers to her mouth even as he brought his face close to hers. “Taste us without shame, princess. You and me. Man and woman. Two lovers who are about to become one. Zaal and Francine. Sheikh and princess. King who is about to make you his queen. Taste us, princess.”
He touched his fingers to her lips, closing in for a kiss just as he did it, and now he slid his fingers into her mouth along with his tongue. God, he could feel how wild it drove her, just like it drove him wild, and she licked his fingers as he pushed his tongue deep into her mouth, and she licked and sucked again, without self-consciousness, without shame, little gurgles of pleasure coming from her as he rubbed his erection back and forth against her slit, feeling her open for him.
“Are you ready, Francine?” he asked. “Ready to become a woman?”
“Yes,” she muttered as she bucked her hips against his cock.
“Are you ready, my princess? Ready to become my queen?”
“Yes,” she groaned.
“Are you ready,” he said for the third time. “Ready for me to take your virginity?”
“Oh, my . . .” she whispered as her eyes rolled up in her head just as the Sheikh positioned his cock at the delta of her wet cunt. “Oh my. . . oh, my God . . . yes. Yes!”
“Are you sure, my little princess?” he teased as he pushed his cock in half an inch, just past her lips. “Ya Allah, you are so tight. Your little pussy is so damn tight, princess. Are you sure you can take me, all of me, all of me at once? Or maybe I should—”
“Yes,” she screamed, bucking her wide hips up against him as he held himself firm, not entering yet, clenching his teeth as he felt this flower open up beneath him, open wide, so goddamn wide.
“Then as I become your first,” he whispered against her cheek. “As I take your virginity, as my cock becomes the first to enter my princess’s unblemished pussy, I want you to come for me. For the first time, little princess. You will come for me. You will come for your king.”
And as her eyes rolled up in her head, and as those eyelids fluttered like shutters in a storm, the Sheikh pushed his cock in, firmly and with no hesitation, breaking that seal which was more real because it was in her mind. Yes, he pushed in, all the way in, all the goddamn way, deep inside, all the way into the warm, virgin space of his princess’s pink little cunt.
21
She came immediately, the orgasm coming in so hard and so goddamn clear that she screamed as her eyes flicked wide open, the onslaught of ecstasy so vivid that she could not see anything through those wide open globes, her vision completely eviscerated by where her climax was taking her, soaring like a bird who has flown its cage, roaring like a lioness breaking its chains, howling like a she-wolf that has escaped the trap. She thrashed beneath his heavy body as he pushed so deep into her that she could feel his girth pressed against every inner inch of her vagina, forcing open her feminine chambers, the walls of her cunt expanding for his cock like she had been designed for him, for this man who had stepped out of that cloud for her, who was in this dream with her, who was in her, all the way in her, all the goddamn way.
“Ya, Allah!” he roared as he pulled and pushed, thrust and pumped, his heavy body feeling warm and wonderful as it pressed against her soft skin, securing her to the mattress.
Oh, God, she thought as she felt the tears gather around her eyes. Oh God, no, she thought as she felt a flash of panic that those cold, lifeless tears were going to come again and ruin this moment.
The tears did come, but they were warm like a river in the summer, full of life like the floodwaters after the rain, tears of joy and release, sobs of delight and ecstasy, her orgasm opening up every part of her like that river smashing through its dam, the climax kicking down every goddamn gate, setting flame to every fortress, ripping away the barbed-wire barricades, showing her life and freedom, liberty and madness, passion and possibility. Showing her what it meant to be a woman, what it means for a woman to give herself to a man, give herself to her man, to her man alone, to this man. This man.
“Ya, Allah!” he cried again from above her, from inside her, from within her, and as the next wave of her infinite orgasm broke against her psychic shores, Fran felt Zaal seize up and thrust hard and hold, his jaw clenching and his eyes going wide as his body flexed as he looked down at her like she was his, like she was his princess, his girl, his woman. All his.
And then he came, came like a king leading his horses into battle, fording the raging river at the head of his army, sword drawn, green eyes blazing as he looked down at his princess who was now a queen, drawing strength from her as he poured his power into her depths, flooded her valleys with his seed, leading her into womanhood as surely as the riverflow leads to the boundless sea.
“Come for me,” she heard herself say through that wave of madness, not sure if the words were hers or his, not sure if the body pressing against her was hers or his, not sure if she was still coming or not, uncertain if that feeling was him exploding inside her or the universe itself exploding, creating itself over, rebirthing itself from its own womb, the neverending cycles of life swirling like a mist of clustered stars, like the universe was inside her, like she was the mother of it all, the woman who gave birth to it all, the princess of dreams, the queen of fantasy, her fantasy, his fantasy, the fantasy that was the world and everything in it, the dream that was the universe itself, a dream invented by a giggling child, a fantasy spawned by a secret sigh, her dream, yes her dream, finally, forever, the first time, the first beginning, the first climax.
22
They came together like those exploding stars, those prancing beasts, those crashing waves, and they came again as the moon moved across the night sky. And when the calm arrived they emerged from the dream with bodies locked tight, and Fran looked up at Zaal and smiled like it was the first smile of the morning even though she could hear the creatures of night still alert in the forests beyond their wooden palace of fantasy.
What to say, she wondered as she saw him smile, his green eyes lit up by her shining face. What to say now?
Say I love you, came the thought as Fran blinked and swallowed hard when she remembered the playful declarations of love, the iloveyous they had tossed out as lines in their stage-act.
Oh, God, did we really just say we loved each other, she thought as he kissed her forehead again, now her lips, grunting in satisfied exhaustion as he rested his head past hers, their cheeks touching, their fingers clasped tight together like it was a seal locking in that fantasy so it could solidify into reality, like their two bodies had formed a sort of cosmic pupa in which a divine metamorphosis was underway, where their words were creating their new world, transforming their very bodies as the silent changes took place.
They lay together for hours like that, eyes locked, fingers locked, everything locked but their hearts open, their souls free, the invisible parts of their bodies forging a connection that was new and original, a masterpiece of the universe’s playful creative.
“Do you know that if a man and woman stare into each other’s eyes for three minutes without speaking, they will fall in love?” Zaal said finally, breaking the silence just as Fran could see the deep orange of a new dawn breaking through those big glass windows beside the bed. “It is science, you know.”
She giggled, nodding very s
eriously as she held the eye contact with a steadiness that almost left her breathless. “Does the feeling go away after some time?” she whispered back, blinking and holding her gaze.
“I do not know,” he said. “But we had better not take the chance, yes? So come. Look at me, princess.” He narrowed his eyes and put on a very serious expression that made her giggle again. But she did what he asked—not because he asked, but because she wanted to do it, wanted to hang on to this feeling, this moment where two strangers had pretended they were in love and it felt so real that perhaps they could keep pretending for some time, keep the fantasy alive for some time, perhaps longer, just a little while longer . . .
“Princess? I thought I was a queen now?” she said, speaking quick as she tried to ignore where her thoughts were headed, to that place of insanity where this green-eyed stranger who had just made love to her was in love with her, just like she was in love with—
“Technically you will need to marry me to become a queen,” Zaal said, and in his voice she heard the same inflection that had betrayed itself in her own playful comment, the little vocal flinch that told her this man was feeling something that made no sense just like she was feeling something that made no sense.
She frowned and raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking me to marry you now? Is that another scientific experiment?”
“It is all science,” he said. “Even magic is science.”
“So are you a scientist or a magician then?” she asked as she took a breath and blinked at his wonderful smell, that musk of eucalyptus oil and tobacco spice.
“And are you a mouse in a cage or a rabbit in a hat?” he asked right back, his smile breaking, magnificent white against his dark red lips, his olive brown skin, that soft stubble that was picking up hints of the morning sun.
“Rabbit,” she whispered, suddenly feeling a chill that made her warm as she thought she might break into those tears again. “Your rabbit.”
She felt him shudder as she said it, and now her smile was gone because nothing seemed like a joke, not the way he was looking at her, not the way she felt when she met his gaze. She was suddenly aware of every inch of his body as it pressed up against hers, how his hard torso was smushing her soft boobs up between them, how his heavy right leg was draped over her hip as they lay on their sides, face to face, eye to eye, heart to heart. She could feel his long cock still thick and heavy as it hung lopsided between them, its length pressed up against her thigh. She could feel his semen inside her, and it did not bother her in the least, that practical part of her brain locked away, perhaps locked away forever, in a way that made no sense.
Or perhaps in this fantasy world it makes perfect sense, she thought in a moment of playful madness that once again made her breath catch and her heart jump as she caught Zaal looking at her in that strangely familiar way, like she always imagined a man would look at his true love, like how some man would look at her someday . . . the innocent dream of a girl, the fantasy of a virgin, perhaps the fantasy of every virgin, that the first to touch her will be the only to touch her, the first to have her will be the only to have her, the first she lets in will be the one she wants to have stay in, stay inside her.
Now she let those thoughts come, those thoughts of real life where she had just slept with a stranger, where he had come inside her. She thought about pregnancy and abortion, the thoughts coming and going so lazily it shocked Fran. She found herself able to think back to that teenage abortion, go over it without feeling those lifeless tears stream down her face, go over it with the coldness of a scientist, now wave it away like a magician. Poof! Gone! Just like that!
“Rabbit,” he said as he stroked her hair now, leaning in and kissing her gently on the lips before pulling back and smiling. “Then perhaps I am a magician, because I managed to pull you out of my hat, did I not?”
She closed one eye and twisted her mouth, cocking her head against the pillow. “Um, I don’t know if that metaphor works.”
He laughed. “Well, I only studied at Oxford, and so perhaps my English is not up to American standards.”
“Oh, no wonder,” she said very seriously before breaking into a smile. “What did you study at Oxford?”
“Are we asking questions now, rabbit?” he whispered. “Getting to know each other?”
She shrugged and nodded. “Sure. I guess now’s a good time to ask some questions. Like, um, who are you and why were you at the gun store?”
Zaal buried his face into the pillow and roared with muffled laughter, pulling back and laughing until Fran was laughing too, their naked bodies convulsing against one other as the Vermont sun rose past the rolling green hills, bathing the countryside in gold as those bleary-eyed creatures of fantasy finally rose from their seats and stumbled back to their hiding places as they allowed that silly fantasy called “reality” to sink back into the scene.
“Ya Allah, this is madness, is it not,” said Zaal as he kissed her forehead and ran his fingers through her hair.
Oh God, it’s crazy,” she said through their combined peals of disbelief. “But what’s even more messed up is that it’s a real question, Zaal! Who are you, and why were you at the gun store?”
Zaal took a breath and nodded, his eyes still warm but his expression hardening for a moment. “And the only thing more insane is the answer to that question, Francine.”
“Bring it,” she said without hesitation, nuzzling up against him. “Tell me your immigrant story, Mister Zaal Al-Kirwaan.”
“Sheikh Zaal Al-Kirwaan,” he said now as he took another breath. “The proper salutation is Sheikh, my princess who is now a queen. And like so many immigrant stories of myth, my tale begins with the line that yes, I was once a king in my homeland. I was once a king.”
23
“Once a king, always a king,” said Longbeard, folding his gnarled fingers into a little tent as he stared across the polished teakwood table at Baldbeard and Goatbeard, now glancing to his left at where Redbeard was scratching away at his henna-dyed stubble.
“True,” said Redbeard. “Zaal’s exile can be repealed by an absolute majority of the sixteen-person Regents Committee.”
“There is no imminent danger of that,” scoffed Baldbeard, one eyebrow raised as he looked at the specks of white dandruff falling like snowflakes from Redbeard’s incessant scratching. “Eleven of the Regents voted to exile the Sheikh. Even if the four of us were to be struck by lightning, it would change nothing for Zaal.”
“Without the four of us to lead the others, it is indeed possible that an absolute majority is reached far sooner than you might suppose,” Longbeard said quietly, looking at his own fingernails and then at Baldbeard. “If Sheikh Ishfaq insists on stepping down, then in less than a year there will be a new supreme leader, and by law an incoming Sheikh is permitted to replace one quarter of the Regents Committee with his own appointees. Four new members in one year, my fellow Regents. The danger is indeed imminent. It could well be the four of us that will soon be retired, well before our time, sadly.”
“That dimwitted Prince Yusuf,” said Redbeard, finally stopping his scratching and now looking at his greasy fingertips with some disdain before dusting the white specks off his hands and folding his arms across his chest, the smooth white satin of his traditional Arab tunic scrunching up like a frown. “There is little chance that Yusuf chooses to replace all four of us.”
Goatbeard shook his head and rocked forward in his camel-leather swivel chair. “Yusuf may be a dimwit, but Zaal is no fool. Sooner or later he will understand that the four of us are behind this game, that we engineered his exile. And then he will get to his cousin Yusuf, and eventually perhaps sway the recomposed Regents Committee as well. For all you know, within a few years Zaal could be Sheikh and the four of us will be counting grains of sand in our back gardens!”
“I told you I wanted the blasphemous bastard dead and buried,” growled Baldbeard now, his dark eyes gleaming like black coal as he leaned forward and laid his palms flat
against the smooth teakwood. “That is the penalty for touching another man’s woman, by Allah!”
“By Allah’s law, yes. But no longer by Kirwaani law, I should remind you,” Longbeard said.
“I do not need to be reminded!” Baldbeard shouted, pounding his fist on the table and staggering to his feet, drawing up his flowing white tunic and pacing the lavish Regents room, the gold leaf trim along the walls reflecting the flashing white of the satin as the man went back and forth. “None of us needs to be reminded of it! Each of us is all too aware that we cannot put the Sheikh to death for what he has done, for his violations, for the shame he has cast upon us, upon our families.” He stopped pacing and looked at each of the other three Regents. “The shame he has cast upon our wives.” He pointed at each of them now, one by one. “Your third wife. Your second wife. Your fourth wife.” A deep breath as that darkness shined in his eyes. “And my first wife.”
Goatbeard and Redbeard shifted uncomfortably, their faces tightening as they stared at their own hands, now at the table, finally up at Baldbeard.
“We said we would not speak of it,” Goatbeard said quietly. “If it comes to be known that our motives are so . . . so . . .”
“It cannot be spoken of,” said Redbeard, nodding once and looking back down at the table, brown face going redder than the henna-dye. “We have done all we can legally do to disgrace and displace the Sheikh.”
“I know, but I cannot ignore the fact that by Allah’s ancient laws Zaal should be put to death!” Baldbeard shouted.
“Those same ancient laws say that our wives should also be put to death, I should remind you,” Longbeard said with stoic calmness.
“I should remind you. I should remind you. I should remind you! Ya Allah, you are a goddamn parrot!” Baldbeard screamed. “Does it not burn you to the core that Zaal has tasted your wife, taken her like a whore of the harem, made her spread for him on the very bed that you—”
Untouched for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 6) Page 11
