Texas Knight: Desert Dream

by Cat Shinier

  Shamar has a few phone calls to make, and I have time to check my cell phone. Susan has texted me, asking how things are and how I feel. I text right back:

  * * *

  ‘Hi Susy, I feel like I am in a dream. I am totally in love. Everything is wonderful. I hope you are well. How are the exams going?’

  * * *

  She answers immediately.

  * * *

  ‘Hi there, sounds great, enjoy him and enjoy yourself. Exams are hard. Need a vacation, too! ‘

  * * *

  Her words make me smile because that is exactly what I have decided. I want to enjoy everything while I can. Who knows what is yet to come and where this all is leading to. I look at Shamar, and I know that it has affected him, too. Right now, I feel like I am in the middle of a dream, and I don’t want to ruin the remaining days with thoughts of what could happen in the future. I just hope that our paths will not separate.

  * * *

  I am barefoot and standing in front of the huge panoramic window gazing at the silhouette of the dark desert. Like yesterday evening, the stars are glittering like diamonds. I put my cell phone aside and go looking for Shamar. He’s on the phone in the other room in front of his laptop, looking impatient and cranky.

  “Raoul, I need the papers. What did he say?” He listens, then replies again. “Until when? Okay, tomorrow morning. That’s fine. Talk to you then.”

  “What happened?” I ask after he’s hung up.

  “We were talking about a new drilling project in the Gulf of Mexico. I asked for a second expert analysis, and it has not arrived yet. At the end of the month, we will have to make a number of decisions and by then I hope to have seen that expertise.”

  I step up and stand behind him and start to massage his neck. He leans his head back and looks at me.

  “Are you tired, darling?” I nod. And it’s true. The lack of sleep of the last few days, the sun, the wine and the dinner is all catching up with me. I am ready to hit the sack.

  “Come on, then,” he says. “Let’s go to bed.” He closes his laptop and takes my hand. Together we walk to the bedroom. I slip on my night gown and lie down in bed next to him.

  We are on our sides, and he is behind me. Gently Shamar caresses my arm and kisses the back of my neck. The nightgown has slipped up and now his penis is right behind my crack. His penis does not seem to be very tired. It arches against me, and so I rub myself against him, totally anticipating that we will follow my invitation.

  He kisses my ear and whispers: “Not tonight, darling. You have to rest. We have lots more time for that.”

  He is right, but I would have been in the mood anyway. I cuddle up against him, and a short while later I hear him breathing, which shows me that he has already fallen fast asleep. I listen to his breath and moments later I have fallen asleep, too.

  Chapter Eleven

  The next morning Shamar is awake before I am. I am awakened by his caresses, and when I open my eyes, I am looking right into those dark eyes of his. What a gorgeous sight early in the morning. “Coffee or tea?” he wants to know. “Coffee with lots of milk,” I mumble sleepily. Instead of getting up to get the coffee, Shamar’s fondling intensifies.

  We make love. It is a slow and tender kind of love-making that makes my heart overflow with love for him. This time Shamar drives me to orgasms that turn my legs into rubber. Shamar has two orgasms, too – once on my stomach and the other time with a condom. I thought that men only had one orgasm. But Shamar seems to be different.

  He remains hard after he has ejaculated on my stomach. Watching him have an orgasm that way makes my inner muscles contract and jump for joy.

  Only one week ago I was a virgin and today I already feel like a femme fatale. That is how fast things change. Shamar is on the phone ordering breakfast for us while I linger in bed in post-coital lethargy. And just when I am about to get up and take a shower Shamar walks in with a huge tray with breakfast and sets it down in front of me.

  It is a sumptuous breakfast with all sorts of things to choose from. Coffee, hot milk, honey, fresh croissants, fresh pita bread, eggs, jam, tea and fresh orange juice. We sit across from each other with the tray between us and take all the time in the world to have breakfast. Afterwards I head for the shower, and while I am busy, Shamar opens his computer again. I am wrapped in the hotel’s robe when I walk back into the room and catch him on the phone again. The data he was waiting for has arrived. The print out is on the desk, right in front of him.

  “May I?” I ask quietly, in order not to disturb him on the phone. He nods, so I sit down across from him on the couch and start to read the expert opinion he has been waiting on. It is long and detailed and has to do with the area where the drilling is to take place. Shamar is trying to secure the rights. There are specifications that have to do with the thickness and composition of the strata. And from what I can see, the drilling has reached a layer of salt, and the recommendation is to stop the drilling. The papers include various graphics.

  Shamar has finished talking on the phone and is watching me read. Then get gets up, kisses me on the back of my neck and walks into the shower. While he is taking a shower, I continue reading the report. The water stops and Shamar returns with a towel wrapped around himself. He’s so gorgeous. When I see him, I think to myself that I would love to lick every single drop of water on him.

  “But you aren’t dressed yet, darling,” he says while he looks at me with an amused look on his face, using his second towel to dry off his wet hair.

  Wow, I forgot to get dressed reading the report. I put the papers aside and get up.

  “I forgot. Sorry. Shamar, I’ll be dressed in no time,” and I run back into the bedroom to put on my white dress. Shamar steps up behind me to close the zipper. The sensation his fingers create is a very pleasant kind of tingling.

  He is wearing dark pants and a polo shirt, and after a short glance into the mirror I step into my sandals and am ready for what Shamar has planned for the day.

  Shamar grabs the phone and instructs someone to fetch the car. When we arrive outside, the electronic car is waiting for us to take us back to the hotel lobby, where a large black van-like rover with dark tinted windows is waiting for us right in front of the entrance.

  Shamar walks up to the car and opens the back door on the passenger side, and I climb in and scoot over to the other side of the seat to make room for him. A man wearing a chauffeur’s uniform is sitting behind the wheel, and he turns around to greet me. It’s Ahmad, the driver who picked me up at the airport.

  “Your driver?” I ask Shamar, and he kisses me on my cheek and answers, “Ahmad is one of my uncle’s drivers. When I am here, he works for me, for security reasons.”

  “Why?” I want to know. “Is it so dangerous here?”

  He glances at me from the side with a grave expression and answers.

  “Luna, people like me are constantly in danger of being abducted, or attacked. This risk is minimized when one changes staff as rarely as possible. That is why I use Ahmad, who has been working for my uncle for years.”

  Aha, I think to myself, not entirely comfortable with his answer.

  “Does that mean that Matthew is also one of your uncle’s employees?” I add.

  He shakes his head.

  “No, darling, Matthew flew here with me. He is in charge of the household in Woodlands. Matthew and his wife take care of things there.”

  “So Matthew is married?”

  “Yes, sure, why not. His wife helps him and cooks for us. The two are perfect together.”

  “Must be a pretty big house if you need that many people working for you.” I have a hard time imagining how one person needs that many people. On the other hand, I cannot see Shamar doing things like shopping and marketing, or working in the garden or cooking for himself. I feel a bit intimidated by the fact that Shamar is so rich. I had forgotten that part while we were all by ourselves in the hotel. I honestly don’t care how much money he has, howe
ver. I am interested in him.

  “Hey there,” he whispers and puts his finger under my chin. “Everything okay?”

  I look up at him. “Yes, sure, I was just thinking that I completely forgot who it was I was dealing with and how wealthy you are.”

  He kisses my forehead, and I enjoy the touch of his warm lips. I breathe in the fragrance of his skin lotion and think what a pleasant combination it is.

  “And now you don’t like me anymore?” he teases me.

  “Oh, come on. But this is not about money. You have a real luxury problem. I was not really aware of that, and I was in complete denial about your money. I was busy doing other things.”

  I grin at him, and he takes my hand so that we can hold hands.

  We have driven for about half an hour when we arrive at a large, green meadow covered in the type of grass that grows on golf courses. Ahmad stops at the entrance for us to get out. And immediately I remember the heat and the force of the sun shining down on us. While Ahmad drives away with the car Shamar and I walk towards the open area, where a large group of people has assembled. Shamar is greeted by various men, some of whom are wearing the traditional garb. I would have liked to touch Shamar to reconnect with him in a physical way, but the people in their long robes make me pull back my outstretched hand.

  I sigh and decide to make the best of it. At least I am with Shamar and have not been excluded from the event. I look around. A large green meadow that is about 300 x 160 yards is surrounded by short brown wooden bollards. The polo field is painted in white on the short grass, with a middle line and several lines on each side. The two shorter sides have a white line that borders them in which two woven poles represent a goal. I hear horses from the direction of the left goal. Slowly we all move towards the opposite side of the playing field where there is a promenade with a light roof that protects the spectators from the sun. Two waiters are running around between the tables that are covered by sun umbrellas, serving people drinks. Shamar explains the game to me.

  “There are two teams, and each team has four players. There are two referees and one superior referee who also ride horses, like the players. There are between four and eight time units which each last seven minutes in total. After every goal, the teams line up in the middle of the field according to their playing position. Every time there is a goal the direction of the game changes.”

  “How about the horses? Don’t they get hurt?”

  “The horses are protected. Anything that could hurt the animals is not allowed. Also, the horses cannot be used in two consecutive time units, which is why each player has two horses. And every time there is a situation that could endanger an animal the game is interrupted.”

  We are standing beneath one of the sun umbrellas, and I am sipping some of the water that one of the waiters has brought. I see one of the players running across the field in our direction, before he comes to a halt in front of us. First he greets me cordially, then he embraces Shamar. The two of them seem to know each other, speaking in Arabic, excluding me from their conversation. Then the player turns to me and introduces himself.

  “Hello, I am sorry not to have introduced myself immediately. My name is Moustafa. Shamar and I were at boarding school in England together. It is always a pleasure to see each other here.”

  I reach for his hand. “Moustafa, nice to meet you. My name is Luna-Marie Buchholz, I am from Germany and have never seen a polo game played on a horse.”

  Moustafa and Shamar both laugh.

  “I have just asked my old friend here to sub for a player of our team who hurt his shoulder. But I am sure that Shamar does not want to leave you alone here.”

  I look at Shamar, surprised. “You play, too?”

  “Yes, I’ve played this game for many years.” His gaze scans the green meadow before it returns to us.

  “That is the understatement of the year,” Moustafa grins. “Every team that has Shamar playing for it is lucky. His handicap is 6 or 7. So how about it? Are you going to participate?”

  Shamar looks at me, and I don’t want him to do without something he loves. And I also have the impression that I will do just fine on my own.

  “Just go,” I say and smile at him. “I will watch from here. Just do me a favor and watch out for yourself.”

  The joy I see in his face when I say that shows me that that was the answer he was hoping for. He takes my hand, squeezes it and leads it up to his lips. The public display of his affection gives me a jolt. I am so happy.

  “Every goal will be for you,” he whispers to me before Moustafa pulls him away. Both men wave at me and walk away across the field in the direction that Moustafa had approached us from. The game is supposed to start in 15 minutes, so I take my water and go and look for a shady place on the bleachers. Two other women sit down next to me, looking at me curiously, but they do not say anything to me. It doesn’t bother me because I am excited and waiting for the game to begin.

  And then there is a signal, and eleven riders come out to the field on their horses. Three of them are referees. One of them joins the players on the field, the other two move along the length of the playing field.

  The players ride along the sideline to greet the members of the audience. I keep trying to pick which of the riders is Shamar, but I am not sure. I don’t think I have found him. But Player No. 1 of the white team looks somewhat taller than the others.

  And it does turn out to be Shamar. He’s discovered me sitting on the bleachers. He lifts his hand to his forehead to greet me. He looks so hot. I greet him back and smile at him. The impulse to jump up and shout “he’s mine,” and point towards him fills me, but of course I don’t do that.

  Shamar looks so elegant sitting on the horse. You can tell he’s been a horseback rider all his life. He is completely at ease controlling the speed of the horse and the direction he wants the animal to move in as he holds the bat in his right hand. Shamar is in his element. He turns the animal and moves in the saddle, and I have a marvelous time watching him. His horse is a rich chestnut, and the horse’s mane and tail are braided which makes it seem as if the horse is unhappy. Or at least, not free.

  All of the animals are wearing protective gear on their legs, so that they are not hurt when the riders move as fast as Shamar is moving right now, driving the ball at a breakneck speed and surging ahead.

  The player no. 4 of the opposite team is trying to push him away but is not succeeding. With a strong thrust, he manages to get the ball into the opponent’s goal. Unlike the cheering you hear during football matches in Germany, the reactions here seem restrained. Before the riders get into position in the middle of the field, Shamar guides his horse past the bleachers and smiles at me. This time a second rider joins him. That must be Moustafa, who is no. 3. Like Shamar, he greets me, and I wave back.

  The game picks up speed and has to be interrupted twice. After the first-time unit, Shamar changes horses and is now riding a horse that is somewhat lighter in color. After the time unit, Shamar is in distress because he is pushed aside by a different rider. I am biting my lip, I am so nervous. My heart leaps as Shamar is almost lifted from his saddle and then again, when one of the bats is swung dangerously close to his head.

  The time unit is complete, and Shamar has won an additional three points for his team and me. The horses are substituted, and now he’s riding the darker horse again. Another three units are played, and Shamar is once again among the other players and wins three more points. Then I hear the signal that the game is over.

  Shamar’s team wins by a margin of seven points. Shout-outs of members of the audience can be heard, and the players thank their audience. They ride by the bleachers greeting the audience before they leave the field. While the audience moves down to the playing field slowly, I remain seated, preferring to watch everyone from my position.

  I order some more fresh water for Shamar and myself from the waiter, who is passing by. And while I do I see Shamar running across the field. He has changed an
d is wearing the clothes that he wore when we drove here.

  As soon as he approaches the side of the playing field in front of the bleachers he is surrounded by people who pat his shoulder and congratulate him. He laughs and smiles, but I can tell that he is looking for me. He keeps glancing around and does not stop until he discovers me. He exchanges a few words with various people and then walks toward me. He shakes people’s hands to the right and the left, but while doing so continues to move in my direction. In the meantime, the waiter has brought the drinks I have ordered.

  When Shamar reaches me, I hand him the water. “Congratulations, Shamar. I didn’t realize that you were such a renowned polo player.” He grins, and I could swear that he looks like he is about to kiss me. “Seems like I am pretty desirable,” he says, and the hidden meaning is obvious.

  “Correct,” I say, without looking away.

  “Did you like it?”

  I reach for the glass of water.

  “Very impressive, the way you move with the horse and the way the team plays together. Still, sometimes I was afraid that you were going to get hurt. Isn’t it a dangerous kind of sport?”

  “You can get hurt anywhere, darling, not just here. Of course, it does happen. But it is not that dramatic.”

  “Where are the other players?” I ask.

  “They’re in the locker room. They’re showering and changing, and they’ll be right back.”

  “Didn’t you shower?”

  “Do you mind? I wanted to come out and join you as quickly as possible after deserting you for the game.”