The Sheikh smiled and shrugged, then shook his head. “We have left the land of lawyers and due process, my dear Wendy.” He pointed dramatically at the roof of the plane. “The only laws now are those that come from above.”
“You mean gravity?” Wendy said, almost giggling.
The Sheikh cocked his head. “Gravity comes from below, yes?”
“Nope. Gravity is generated by the movement of the planets around the sun. And by the mutual attraction between heavenly bodies.”
“Mutual attraction between heavenly b—” the Sheikh said before stopping abruptly, blinking as he raised his gaze from her chest, her hips, up to the ceiling.
An awkward tension loomed now, threatening to swallow them both, and then the Sheikh just shook his head and LAUGHED out loud, and Wendy could not help but join him, her own laughter ringing out, a laughter that brought with it a strange sort of relief, like long overdue rain, and suddenly the weird tension that had been enveloping the two of them dissipated, and the Sheikh looked firmly into Wendy’s eyes and shook his head in wonder as his face settled into a smile.
“You feel it too, don’t you?” he said softly, reaching out across the table that separated them, reaching out and touching Wendy’s hand, touching her on that broken knuckle again, right where he had first touched her.
“Yes,” she said, the word coming out quietly, with an intensity that shocked her to the core, shook her to the core, warmed her to the core. What is happening, she wondered in unbridled terror as she felt the electricity of raw attraction whip through her. How can this be happening? What am I doing here? How in the world am I in this bizarre, impossible situation, jetting across the world with a man I barely know, the RULER of some country I’ve never heard of, under some pretext that is ridiculous at best, dangerous at worst?! How?!
But the question didn’t matter, and as Wendy felt the Sheikh’s warm hand tighten around hers, as she felt herself being pulled to him, as she felt her breath catch in her throat, as she felt the heat of the Sheikh’s breath on her open lips as he drew close, she realized that the real question was why does this seem like the most natural thing in the world?
And then the Sheikh kissed her, and there were no more questions. No more questions at all.
13
“I was eight years old when Cindy was born. Our mom died two years later.”
“Father?” said the Sheikh.
Wendy shook her head. “Never knew him. Mom said we weren’t missing much, but I would have liked to have decided that for myself.”
Zahain shrugged and took a sip of steaming Arabic coffee from an ornate silver cup. “My misfortune may have been to have known my father only too well,” he said. “But go on. So you were ten when your mother died. Who took care of you?”
“I did,” Wendy said, sipping from her cup and then wincing. “Yuck! No sugar?”
“Absolutely no sugar,” the Sheikh said. “I do not permit it. It is a drug, you know.”
“Turn this plane around immediately,” Wendy said, deadpan.
The Sheikh laughed, his coffee almost spilling on his white shirt. “I shall not,” he said. “You are my prisoner.”
“Right. I almost forgot,” Wendy said, her own smile bursting through as she thought about that kiss that came from nowhere.
It had just been the one kiss, but now she understood that if a picture is worth a thousand words, then a kiss is worth a million. The situation was so strange, so surreal, so insane that Wendy now understood that the kiss HAD to happen, because it was the only way to make sense of something that defied logic, defied reason, violated the laws of common sense. And what’s more powerful than logic, reason, and common sense put together?
“Love!” came the silent, unspoken answer, and now she felt that tingle once again as she watched the Sheikh smile with a fullness that threatened to overwhelm her. In the distance she could hear a part of her saying, “Don’t get ahead of yourself here, Wendy. This guy could turn out to be a psycho with a torture chamber that he’s been designing for years. You haven’t stayed in control of yourself for so long just to give it up so easily, to a man you barely know.”
But as their plane whipped through the open skies, Wendy did feel that the regular world and its silly rules and customs were literally behind her, beneath her even. So she had just kissed a man who was technically blackmailing her or kidnapping her (she wasn’t sure which), and now she was telling him things she hadn’t even told her best friends over the years. And she was calm and smiling through all of it. Somehow it made perfect sense while in the red velvet couch-seat of a silver private jet flying thirty-thousand feet above the Earth.
The pilot’s voice crackled over the recessed speakers built into the walls, and the Sheikh looked at Wendy now, eyebrows raised.
“London or Paris?” he said, as if it was perfectly clear what the hell he was talking about.
“What the hell are you talking about,” said Wendy, her smile changing form slightly as she leaned over towards the window and caught sight of land below them. “Is that Europe below us?”
The Sheikh nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Ireland, I presume.” He picked up a white telephone and looked at Wendy expectantly. “So which will it be? London or Paris?”
Now it struck her. “Oh, we need to stop and refuel, don’t we,” she said calmly, like she was a seasoned world-traveler when in fact she had never been farther than Canada up north and Pennsylvania out east.
“No,” the Sheikh said. “I am stopping to pick up some sugar for my prisoner. So which will it be: London or Paris?”
Paris, Paris, Paris! she thought.
“Whichever. I don’t know,” she said, trying to act nonchalant as she wondered if he was serious.
The Sheikh looked thoughtful for a moment. “Well,” he said, “I think one of my cousins is using my house in London at the moment, so I think we stop in Paris. Yes?”
“Yes,” Wendy said quietly. House? Just the two of us? Paris? PARIS?!
The Sheikh smiled as he spoke into the telephone—rapid-fire Arabic that Wendy couldn’t quite understand. He put the phone down, still smiling. “I have arranged for the sugar, my lady. Mountains of it.”
Wendy nodded, glancing into his eyes and then out the window, as that feeling of being in a dream came back to her in a rush.
Zahain winked. “That is a joke. We have plenty of sugar on board. I am a billionaire, you know.”
14
Yes, you probably are a billionaire, Wendy thought as she looked up at the three-story stone house nestled into a cul-de-sac on the Rue D’Clarq, just a stone’s throw from the River Seine. The house was old-world charm, easily a hundred years old, its stone exterior left unfinished and unpainted, showing the scars of revolution and war, of all the men and women who may have passed through those doors, lived and breathed within those walls, laughed and cried, loved and made love.
The green Bentley dropped them off and silently pulled away, leaving the Sheikh and the waitress standing on the cobblestone entryway, the gray stone pillars of the façade looking strangely inviting.
The heavy wooden door swung open as they approached, revealing a middle-aged couple, woman and man, French from the look of it. They both smiled at once, apparently genuinely pleased to see the Sheikh. Zahain smiled and began to chatter in fluent French as Wendy stepped into the house and looked around.
The lights were dim but the place felt warm and homely, even though the walls were exposed stone, dark like how Wendy imagined a castle might be. The living room was tremendous, but surprisingly sparse and understated compared to the lavishness of the Sheikh’s private jet.
The Sheikh followed Wendy’s gaze up to the rafters of the high-ceilinged room, and after nodding at the housekeeper couple, touched Wendy’s arm gently and began to walk towards the far side of the chamber, where a magnificent wooden staircase wound its way up to the higher floors.
“You just buy this place?” Wendy asked as she walked beside Za
hain, taking in the few pieces of furniture, most of which appeared to be antique, perhaps as old as the house.
“Fifteen years ago. So no. Why do you say that?”
“Just thought you hadn’t got around to furnishing it.”
“It is furnished,” Zahain said, pointing at a solitary wooden chair. “See. There is a chair.”
Wendy smiled. “No. I meant . . . I mean, based on the interior of the plane, I’m just surprised that—”
“Ya, Allah, that plane! Please! It is all Samir. That is his style. Gaudy and tacky and over-the-top, yes? But I don’t say anything because I barely travel out of Farrar these days. The jet is basically Samir’s for now. It will be returning to the United States to fetch him soon after dropping us off.”
The Sheikh went quiet as they began to slowly climb the stairs, the two of them matching step for step, their combined footsteps sounding synchronized, in rhythm, perfectly timed, like it was just one person on those old wooden stairs.
“You barely leave Farrar? Busy? I suppose it could take some effort to run a country.”
Zahain laughed as they got to the first floor and stepped away from the stairs, the two of them still walking as one, each’s hand brushing against the other’s as they moved down the hallway together.
“Hardly. Farrar basically runs itself,” the Sheikh said. “We pump the oil. We sell the oil. We count our money. We are not much bigger than a city-state—just the one large city and a few smaller towns. Every citizen gets a stipend, and they are more or less free to pursue the activities that please them.” He smiled and shrugged. “So long as it does not conflict with our interpretation of Islamic Sharia law, of course.”
They stood outside a large wooden door now, and Wendy could feel her heart pounding in her chest, the heat rising in her entire body. The turtleneck felt very warm suddenly, even though it was cotton and not wool. She could feel a trickle of perspiration roll down the curve of her lower back, and she shivered unconsciously, feeling a chill even as the heat ratcheted up inside her.
“You are cold, Wendy?” the Sheikh whispered now, slipping his arm around her waist without waiting for a reply, without waiting for an invitation, without waiting at all.
Wendy shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. A part of her wanted to step away, break from the Sheikh’s touch, step away before she couldn’t step away . . . before she wouldn’t step away.
“The house is old,” Zahain whispered, his grip tightening around her waist, his strength drawing her in, into him. “High ceilings. Long hallways. It can get drafty inside, even during the summer.”
He pushed the heavy wooden door and it opened without a sound, and the Sheikh drew her inside, inside the room, and it was a bedroom, a lovely old bedroom with a four-poster wood-frame bed and clean white sheets, soft fluffy pillows, a thick comforter that looked heavy and warm. There was nothing else in the room, not even a chair or a nightstand. Just the bed. That beautiful old bed.
“Furniture,” Wendy said weakly, her voice husky and low as she allowed the Sheikh to lead her into the room, lead her all the way to the bed, which had already been turned down, it seemed.
The Sheikh’s arm was tight around her waist, and now Zahain took a quick step and he was suddenly in front of Wendy as she stood with her back to the bed. Both hands on the small of her back now, both eyes looking down into hers. No sound except for their breathing, slow and heavy, heavy with anticipation, perhaps even fear, fear of what was unfolding, fear of what it meant, of what it could mean.
“Oh, God, this is crazy,” Wendy whispered as she looked up at Zahain, her lips trembling, her eyelids fluttering as she felt his hands slide down her sides, his touch firm on her wide hips, tracing out the strong curves, now circling around to her heavy bottom, his fingers tightening as his large hands cradled her round buttocks, and now she felt his hardness rise against her front, and it was rising fast, oh, God, so fast, hardening so quick, growing and pushing against her front, coaxing out the first hint of her secret wetness, and she felt herself opening up, opening up above and below, above and below, above and below, and he kissed her now, kissed her now, kissed her now, his warm lips gently enveloping hers, his clean tongue delicately teasing its way inside her mouth.
“Zahain, this is crazy,” she said again, gasping for breath as the Sheikh kissed her again, firmly, with the most delicate sort of urgency, the most gentle sort of power, and now she kissed him back as she felt herself continue to open up, like a flower unfolding, her heat spiraling upwards with dizzying pace, her wetness making its way out of her like a river slowly beginning its journey downhill.
“I cannot stop,” Zahain muttered, his voice sounding muffled and wet as he kissed her furiously once more, his tongue pushing its way back inside her open mouth, their warm, clean saliva mixing as Wendy panted and pushed against his hardness. “I cannot stop, but I will stop if you say it.”
But Wendy was done talking, and the real world melted away as she felt Zahain’s hands push their way down the back of her jeans, his fingers finding their way into her panties, his fingertips on her bare buttocks now, caressing, caressing, caressing and now clawing as her heat raged to melting point, and he cupped his hands below her heavy bottom and lifted her with ease, carried her with a grace that took her breath away, took her swiftly to that beautiful old bed, that bed which was the only thing in the room, perhaps the only thing in the world right now.
“This is crazy,” she muttered again, this time to just herself, perhaps not even to herself, and she gasped again as she found herself flat on her back on that bed, her body sinking into the clean white sheets like she had landed on a cloud, and now the sound of a stiff zipper being undone, the feeling of her jeans being pulled off, and her jeans were gone suddenly, her legs raised up and apart, a gentle draft blowing against her cool bare skin for just a moment, and now he was kissing her feet, touching her legs, caressing the softness of her inner thighs, now kissing her all the way up and down her smooth legs, her hips, his lips circling round to the front, his tongue teasing the sharp V of her damp panties, and she shuddered as she felt his fingers spread her legs, his fingertips sliding under the moist corners of the underside of her panties, her underwear coming off now, slowly, slowly, slowly, tenderly, carefully, her clean smell coming up to her as she shuddered and moaned, trembled and groaned.
Zahain’s breath was hot and hard against her sex, and she could feel him inhale deep, taking in her musk like an animal, and a part of her was ashamed but she let that shame go and now she arched her back and spread wide as Zahain muttered the name of his god in Arabic, called out to the heavens in ecstasy, and finally whispered her name as he slowly pushed his tongue into her.
She came quickly, the orgasm rolling in like a distant sandstorm, building slowly on the horizon but coming in deceptively hard, its hot fury ripping through anything that dare stand in its way, and she came again as the Sheikh’s stiff tongue curled up inside her, his open mouth teasing the warm lips of her sex, and when the third crescendo of her climax hit she clawed at his thick black hair and arched up into him and called his name as that final wave of ecstasy came crashing down, tearing her down with it, and suddenly all was quiet, all was still, all was perfect.
Just perfect.
15
She could not speak. She was ashamed one moment, elated the next. She was embarrassed for a second, liberated the next. She was hot and then she shivered with cold. She wanted to laugh and then she wanted to cry. She wanted to run and then she wanted to hold on tight. Hold on tight forever.
She looked down at Zahain. He lay against her, his head against her breast, an arm carefully placed across her waist. She still had her black turtleneck on, and Zahain had pulled the sheets over her bare legs and thighs soon after she had finished. In a way he had been a perfect gentleman about it, Wendy thought as she reached down and ran her fingers through Zahain’s thick black hair. Yes, she saw how his breath caught in his throat when he glanced at her
bare thighs, her naked sex, the way her hips quivered as she finished. But when she was done he covered her and lay with her until she caught her breath. He was hard and full in his pants, she could tell. He was still hard and full in his pants, she knew. He must have wanted to push himself in and finish, and in that state I would have let him push himself in and finish. But he controlled his passion, held his ground, showed his mastery over his own power, his mastery over her.
Now he looked up at Wendy as she felt her breathing slowly get heavier. She ran her fingers through his hair with increasing intensity now, gently pulling at the stiff curls as she felt the Sheikh move over her body, press up against her skin, his lips brushing past the swell of her breast as she looked down at him.
They had still not broken the silence, and now he kissed her beneath her left ear as she exhaled and shivered, and he ran the back of his hand against her breast, and though his touch was gentle she could feel it even through her turtleneck and bra.
She turned her face to him and received his kiss, and as their open lips met Zahain’s fingers traced out the contour of her nipple, gently plucking at it through the cloth as Wendy almost choked with ecstasy. She could feel his hardness against her hips now, and she reached down for him as he teased her nipple which was now stiff and tight, drawn up into a point as he gently plucked and pulled at it.
She found his hardness now, her fingers circling his girth through his trousers, and she gripped him tight, feeling his entire body tense up at her touch, and he was pinching her nipples now, one and then the other, pinching hard through her top and bra, his breathing heavy and hot as he kissed her with force and intensity, passion and intent.
They still did not speak, and she unzipped him now, carefully slipping her hand inside, her breath catching as she felt his heat, the heat that had been building for some time now. Oh, God, she thought as she felt the warm wetness of his silk underwear, and she exhaled hard and inhaled with fury as she found the front opening of his underwear and slid her hand inside.
Curves for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 1) Page 5
