“I have you,” he whispered as he stayed inside her, stayed on top of her, stayed with her. “I have you, Hilda. So come to me. Come to me. Come.”
23
She came with the stillness of the forest in the morning, with the silence of an owl in flight, his voice just a whisper above her but loud as thunder, a thunder that shook her as she felt his seed pour into her wells, flow through her valleys, flood her canals.
“Oh, God,” she groaned as she felt her lips tremble while he kissed her like he owned her, kissed her like he knew her, kissed her like he loved her. “Oh, God, this can’t be real.”
Of course it isn’t real, she told herself as the full upward force of her orgasm hit, pulling her far from any glimpse of the real world, ripping away any semblance of order, wiping away the pathways of reason, blowing down the walls dividing sanity from madness, dream from hallucination, life from death.
She came again as he flexed inside her, delivering the last of his load, filling her so completely she thought she’d never be able to move again, spreading her so wide she was certain she’d never close up again, reaching inside her so deep she wondered how it was even possible.
It’s just a dream and so anything is possible, she told herself through her delirium as she tightened her legs around him and held him there, barely even realizing she was doing it as the head of her climax hit finally, closing her eyes for her with its warm fingers, sliding into her like tentacles of ecstasy, reaching places inside her that couldn’t possibly be reached except from within.
“I had the dream,” she heard herself say, her voice sounding muffled, like she was listening to herself from behind a curtain, a veil, the wall of a cocoon. “I had it too. This dream. I had this dream.”
And the last thing she saw before the crescendo of her climax claimed her was the Sheikh’s green eyes going wide in confusion, wide in disbelief, wide in . . . joy?
And then they collapsed together in silence, exhausted and exhilarated, the ceiling fan gently circling above her, that red-eyed cat nonchalantly prowling the perimeter like it had seen it all before.
24
“So I think we’ve already broken the major clause of our fake-marriage contract,” Hilda said to the Sheikh. She watched him reluctantly pull his trousers back on after finally realizing the front door was still unlocked and some stoned teenagers could walk in to the sight of a muscular brown beast having his way with the gypsy of the valley. “Usually that doesn’t happen until the last scene in a romance.”
Rahaan turned and looked at her, smiling as he buttoned his pants beneath his flat, rock-hard abs. He shrugged as he reached for his belt, his gaze taking in a last glimpse of her stiff red nipples before she pulled that now out-of-shape beige bra back down over her boobs.
“Then perhaps this is the last scene,” he said with another shrug. “The courtship is done, and we are man and wife. The end.”
She giggled and brushed away an obstinate strand of hair from her forehead. “Um, we’re not married yet! That was just the engagement! You can’t cheat the audience out of the wedding! What kind of a man are you?”
“Ruthless,” he said, deepening his voice and straightening his back. He stepped forward and reached for her breasts just as she pulled her black top down and slid her naked ass off the desk. “And efficient. The engagement was done an hour ago, and now our fake marriage is complete. We are pretend-husband and imaginary-wife as of this moment. But the ceremony will be in six months, so the audience will have to wait for the wedding, I am sorry to say. Yes, ruthless and efficient.” He grinned. “Also insatiable. Come here, my gypsy fake-wife. Let me—”
“Oh, God!” came a cry from the doorway, and Hilda pushed the Sheikh away in a panic before realizing that she had no pants and no goddamn panties. Quickly she stepped behind Rahaan’s broad body now, clutching his arms as she hid her shame and slowly peeked out from one side.
It was Di, red and ripe, lean and indignant, like somehow she was the one whose sense of decency and privacy had been violated.
“Turn around and step back outside,” said Rahaan smoothly, his voice calm but commanding. “You may come back later or wait outside if you wish, but—”
“This’ll only take a minute,” said Di, taking a step to her left and glancing at Hilda with a strange look that was part envy and part contempt. “Hello there, Hilda!”
“Leave!” said the Sheikh, and Hilda could feel him tense up as he moved his body to shield her from Di. “This is inappropriate and indecent, and you will damned well turn away and get the hell out before I—”
“What is it, Di?” Hilda finally said, feeling secure enough behind the Sheikh’s massive body that she thought to hell with it, just deal with this strange woman and get it over with. Di. Diamond. Whatever. What is it?
“New ring?” said Di, just as it occurred to Hilda that shit, her hands were still clutching the Sheikh from behind, so of course Di would see the diamond. “Didn’t know you two were that close yet. Congratulations. I’m sure Norm will be thrilled. But listen, Rahaan, I tried to email you the manuscript, but the address bounced and so maybe I got it wrong. Just give me your number and I’ll text you a link where you can download the book. Here, you can just type it into my phone. I hate taking dictation.”
“And I hate to repeat myself,” said Rahaan, his voice rising but still steady and even, like he was used to giving orders, used to being obeyed. “You will do what I say or—”
“Or what, Sheikh Rahaan,” Di said, her voice getting closer as Hilda wondered if this woman was seriously unhinged. What was that stuff she had said about people going schizo or straight-up insane? Takes one to know one, maybe . . .
“Or what, great king?” Di said again, her voice sounding different as Hilda listened from behind the Sheikh. “You can’t really move much, can you? And I am not a particularly movable person anyway. So it appears you are stuck between me and her, between a rock and a . . . a soft place.”
Hilda squeezed Rahaan’s tight, thick arms as she felt his temper rise. Enough, she thought. Whatever the hell was causing this weird tension was not going to get sorted out with a shirtless Arab manhandling an “immovable” white woman in broad daylight while a fortune teller displayed her goddamn pussy to the entire world.
“Just do it, Rahaan,” Hilda said. “Give her the damn number so we can all move. This is ridiculous. Ridiculous!”
“I am not known to be movable myself,” the Sheikh said slowly. “And I do not give out my private number. To hell with your book, and to hell with you. Now get out!”
“Fine,” said Di. “Then neither of you is getting the book. The file needs to be released by both me and Norm, with separate passwords that we don’t share with each other. So neither of you gets the book.”
“Who gives a damn about your—”
“I want the book,” Hilda shouted, clutching the Sheikh as she felt him move forward, dragging her along with him. “Rahaan, stop! Please! Listen, I want the book. I do. I told Norm I’d read it and offer my opinion, and it’s important to me that I follow through. Please, Rahaan. Do what she says.”
Hilda almost added “do it for me,” at the end, but she managed to stop herself. God, she thought, I can’t believe all three of us are still basically strangers to each other, and here we are fighting tooth-and-nail about some nonsensical crap, with emotions running through the goddamn roof! What is going on?! What the hell is going on?!
Emotions, came the thought as she listened to the Sheikh angrily punch in his phone number and toss Di’s phone down on the round table to their left.
“Nice crystal ball,” Di whispered as Hilda heard her grab the phone and walk out the door.
Emotions, Hilda thought again as Di’s own words came swirling back into view. Strong emotions can force jumps between parallel worlds, cause someone’s consciousness to get pulled into a new wor
ld that’s still in the present but a few degrees removed . . . like moving sideways through time.
Sideways through time, Hilda thought again as she heard the Sheikh’s phone vibrate in his trousers.
“She is right,” the Sheikh said as he went and locked the door behind Di. He turned and pointed at the round table, diverting his eyes as Hilda stumbled into her crumpled harem-pants, underwear be damned. “It is a nice crystal ball. Perhaps it will tell us what in bloody hell happens next.”
25
Di didn’t stop shivering until she got back to the hotel room, ran herself a hot bath, and slipped into it with a loud sigh. Norm was at the seminar’s afternoon sessions—thank God for small mercies. She couldn’t even think right now, let alone talk about how she’d behaved today. What. The. Hell.
“It’s just the fucking hormones,” she said out loud. “You’re almost forty and you’ve had three miscarriages in the last five years. This is probably your last shot at getting pregnant, and you’re freaking out. Don’t underestimate how hard this is. Just because you’ve been strong all your life doesn’t mean you can handle everything your biology and chemistry throws at you without missing a beat. You know that one of the effects of these fertility drugs is that it jacks up your sex drive. And you’re a scientist, so you know that a fertile woman is more attracted to musculature in a man. Just like a man can’t help being turned on by a specific waist-to-hip ratio in a healthy woman.”
Di took a breath as she smiled at the memory of Hilda trying desperately to hide her waist-to-hip ratio behind Rahaan’s musculature. God, what the hell was I thinking! That wasn’t me! Yes, I’m an aggressive woman—hell, Norm would’ve never had the balls to make a move if I hadn’t pretty much dragged him to our first date.
And where did that get you, she found herself thinking again as she took a breath and tried to the shake the image of her smart but soft-bellied, sweet but passive, cute but not handsome husband. Not like that man Rahaan. Oh, God, what a man! Should she have held out for a man like that instead of cashing in her chips on Norm?
You can still do it, came a whisper from some awful part of her mind, perhaps her body, perhaps both. You’re still attractive—hell, you’ve heard your students talk about how tight your ass looks in your black jeans. Both male and female students—which is a pretty good sign you’ve still got some pull, that you can still trade up from Norm.
But of course you can’t do that, she told herself as she reached for the plastic glass of white wine by the tub. No, you can’t even let yourself think that way. It would be wrong. So wrong.
Would it be wrong? Wasn’t it wrong for Norm to convince her he was on his way to becoming head of the Physics Department when they’d first started dating? Then they were married and suddenly it was, “Oops! I didn’t realize that academics was mostly politics, and now even my tenure is in doubt, let along any ambitions of being department head!” Wasn’t it wrong for Norm to put on forty pounds, most of it around his belly, while she ate goddamn arugula and spent her Saturdays doing planks and squats, keeping that ass tight. And for what? Sex had become a chore now, especially with the fertility stuff going on. And Norm didn’t even particularly want a kid, whereas it was all she could think about now. That seemed to be the missing piece. She had her career. She had her health. She was financially secure. Sorry, why was she still married to that underachiever?
Di poured herself another glass of wine and took a sip, smacking her lips as a gentle buzz crept into her head. She shouldn’t be drinking while trying to get pregnant, but what the hell. She’d just gotten tenure. And she’d turned in an epic performance of bizarro-land behavior with that magnificent Sheikh and the fortune teller with the fat ass. Yeah, maybe she’d been wound too tight.
“She does have nice tits though,” Di said out loud, draining the glass and pointing at the bathroom ceiling. She poured another and kept talking out loud, liking how her voice echoed off the walls in the tiny bathroom. “Yup. Nice rack. I’ll give her that. So I’ll forgive you that one slip-up, my king in waiting. I don't know what the story with that ring is, but it doesn't seem right. I’ve known men like you in the past, Rahaan. I looked you up. A billionaire king who’s never been married? And you’re probably in your late thirties, even though you look timeless with that smooth brown skin and that warrior’s body. That musculature, scientifically speaking.”
Musculature, she thought, giggling like a madwoman as she finished her third cup of wine and dunked her head beneath the warm water, coming up gasping and sputtering, still laughing.
“Oh, God, you’ve lost it,” she sobbed, not really crying but somehow still sobbing, gulping mouthfuls of air. She felt so strange, like it was more than just hormones or fertility pills or wine or stress or a marriage that felt boring and dead. It was deeper. Weirder. Older, she thought as she rolled up a towel and rested her head on the ledge of the tub, sighing and slowing down her breathing.
Timeless. Like musculature and birthing hips. Marriage and babies. Kings and queens. Princes and princesses.
And as her breathing slowed and her head buzzed, Di slipped into a dream, and she saw mountains and rivers, palaces and fountains, kings and queens, a prince and a princess, a princess marrying a prince . . . but not the prince she wanted. The wrong prince.
26
“Prince Alim sounds much better than Sheikh Alim,” pleaded the prince, who looked more like a boy than ever as Rahaan glanced up from the computer screen in his Manhattan office. “Sheikh Alim sounds so serious.”
“It is serious,” said the Sheikh, narrowing his eyes and pushing his chair back. “And it is time for you to get serious, my little brother.”
But am I being serious, the Sheikh wondered as he turned away from his squirming brother and towards the view of Central Park, the strip of green stretching north-south before him like the cultivated grounds of the Royal Palace of Kolah. Everything is in doubt now, even though it should be the other way around after what happened with Hilda in New Mexico.
In a way he could not blame the woman for backing off again, Rahaan thought as he watched his brother raise another objection, plead again, rub his beard that seemed to be growing a bit uneven around the cheeks. Yes, the sex was sublime, surreal, real. And perhaps that was why she pushed him away again after that woman Di broke the spell with her bizarre behavior.
The Sheikh tried to think back to that dream from two months ago, but the memories were hazy at best. Certainly he remembered Hilda quite clearly, her beautiful brown eyes looking at him through the faces of those ephemeral women: Hilda with him on some bumpy carriage ride; Hilda with him in a musty attic; Hilda with him as they rode through the forest, mountains in the distance. Certainly he could still feel the emotional imprint from those dreams, still see her brown eyes looking into his, still feel her body pressed against him, still feel her love as if it were real. But the details had faded away now . . . names, places, none of that remained. Just the feeling. Just the emotion.
Emotion is the connector, the Sheikh recalled as he thought back to the manuscript he’d read since returning from New Mexico alone two days ago, his own emotions in turmoil, his own mind in flux, his own world suddenly feeling strangely out of control. Out of his control, at least.
“It’s just too . . . too out of control,” Hilda had said right after she told him she couldn’t wear the ring, couldn’t make that deal, couldn’t commit to something like that after what happened between the two of them. “The idea of faking an engagement is laughable enough. But now that we’ve . . . now that we’ve . . .”
“Made love,” the Sheikh had said, his eyes hardening as he looked at her sweet face go all serious, her brown eyes flashing a firmness that told him she was every bit as stubborn and immovable as he. “You can say it, Hilda. We made love. Had sex. We damn well fu—”
“Stop!” she had said, covering her ears like she was a nun from the 1600s.
“I don’t know what we just did, Rahaan. But it wasn’t . . . it wasn’t . . . it wasn’t real!”
Rahaan had jerked his body back as she said it, his hands going to his hips as he snorted in disbelief. “It was not real? What does that even mean, pray tell? Are you implying that it simply did not happen?”
“No, of course I’m not saying that, Rahaan,” she whispered. “I just . . . I just don’t know what’s real anymore, OK? There’s just some craziness going on in my life that I need to figure out, and that’s not going to happen if I add more craziness to the mix. Do you understand?”
“I do not,” the Sheikh had said firmly. “Explain it. Putting aside the fact that you dismiss what we just shared as craziness, tell me what other craziness is going on. I will solve it for you. I will bring sanity to the rest of your life so you can step into this new craziness with me and make good on our deal—which you have already agreed to, by the way.”
Hilda had looked at the ring which was still on her finger, and she’d blinked hard and pulled at it. But it didn’t budge, didn’t move an inch, the diamond staying right there, stubborn and tight, obstinate and immovable like the two of them.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she shouted, pulling so hard the Sheikh had to grab her hand and stop her before she dislocated her finger. “OK, hold on. I’ve got some soap in the bathroom. I’ll get it off in a—”
But the Sheikh held her in place, smiling as he drew close to her. “I think it is a sign, Ms. Hilda Hogarth. That this deal is meant to be. A transaction written in the stars. A contract made in heaven.”
Stars for the Sheikh_A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel Page 10
