No, she is not stopping me, and regardless I do not think I can stop, I am so drawn to her, the Sheikh thought as he slid the strap of Wendy’s gown off her left shoulder, pulling down the thin silk in one swift motion, almost swooning with desire as her breasts came into full view, those large, dark-red nipples already drawn up into hard bumps from the way he had been pinching and pulling at them through her gown.
He took her left nipple into his mouth, his cock stiffening almost immediately as he felt the tight point against his tongue, and he flicked at her nib with his tongue, sucking hard as Wendy arched her back, pushing her breasts up into his face. Now to the other breast the Sheikh went, releasing her left nipple, and it popped up as he took his mouth off it, the large round areola wet and glistening, shining like one of those domes of the Royal Palace.
Zahain groaned as he felt Wendy reach for his cock through his trousers now, and he shuddered as she teased out the outline of his erection against the cloth.
“Oh, God, Wendy,” he muttered, raising his face from her right breast for a moment, his mouth open wide in a silent cry of ecstasy as she finally closed her fist around his cock, sending his erection to full-mast, making him harder than he thought possible.
He looked down at her heaving chest as she pulled on his erection through his trousers. Her breasts looked exquisite to him, the large white globes moving as he grinded on top on her, her pert nipples hanging off to either side in perfect symmetry, the tips like tight red buttons, wet and shining with his saliva.
He went up on his knees now, gasping and breathing heavy as he watched Wendy lean forward and slowly unzip him. Her mouth was hanging open, her eyes almost glazed over, and the Sheikh knew that she was in the same trance as he was, that dreamlike state brought on by their shared passion, their mutual desire, a physical connection that seemed to come from somewhere else, an energy that simply flowed through their bodies as they lay together, loved together . . . had a child together?
Now the Sheikh’s head began to spin as he watched Wendy unbuckle his belt. Everything is going in reverse, he thought as he caressed her smooth face while she smiled up at him, her fingers slowly slipping into his pants, her fist curling around his cock which was pushing hard against his silk underwear.
It is all backwards, but perhaps that is how destiny works, he thought. Maybe it is that unconscious knowledge that we are bound by fate that is making something so ridiculous seem like exactly the right thing to be happening.
The Sheikh straightened up now, pulling off his gray t-shirt and tossing it across the room. He looked down at Wendy as she lay before him, her upper back still against the headboard, nightgown pulled down beneath her breasts and bunched up over her stomach, and he slid his hands beneath the bottom of her gown, bringing forth a deep moan from her as he touched the front of her underwear, firmly caressing her sex through the cloth which was soaked in a way that got him even harder, so hard his hands were shaking as he pulled those panties down, slowly, savoring every moment as he pulled them off her and tossed them away.
And he stood up now, on the bed, letting his trousers drop, pushing his underwear down as she looked up at him, into his eyes, then down to where his cock stood straight out, full and heavy, thick and brown, and she beckoned to him now, called up to him, summoned him.
“Hurry,” said Wendy, the waitress from Wisconsin, the woman he was falling for, the woman who would bear his child, he was certain. His woman. Perhaps even his queen.
His queen.
21
Her first orgasm came so quick that it completely blindsided her, took her by absolute surprise, the shuddering climax rolling in almost as soon as the Sheikh pushed himself into her.
He had stood there on the bed, naked as the day he was born, his lean, brown body towering above her in the most magnificent of ways, his thick cock looking tremendous as it stood at full attention, incredibly erect, its thick red tip oozing a fresh bead of his natural lubricant.
She lay there below him, breasts exposed, nipples glistening, that nightgown crumpled around her stomach, her wet panties long gone, the smell of her sex heavy in the air. She should have felt vulnerable but she felt safe. She should have been tense but she was at peace. She should have said, “No! This is insane! We can’t!” but instead she said, “Come to me, Zahain. Come to me.”
And he did, bending down and positioning himself at the top of her slit, teasing her open as she moaned below him. He entered her slowly, like he had done the first time, and it still felt like a first time in a way, she thought as her mouth opened wide in a silent scream as she felt his girth stretch her once more, his hardness pushing against her hidden walls, his heat feeling so primal within her depths.
And that’s when it came, the first one, silent and earth-shattering, an earthquake from deep within her shuddering body, and Zahain felt it, she knew, because he held himself still as she came, his hardness all the way inside her, the curve of his erection touching all the right places, and he stayed motionless on top of her for many minutes, still inside her, still fully hard, until her shivers subsided and she was able to look up at him through tear-filled eyes and nod out a yes, go on. Oh, please go on.
He flooded her almost nine minutes later, his back tensing up as he cried out in Arabic, his orgasm sending him into a convulsion that brought Wendy close to a new climax as she watched his eyelids flutter in ecstasy, his cock flexing inside her, his seed blasting against the back wall of her vagina, filling her like he had done the other night in Paris.
“If we’re going to have a child together, then we’d better be damned sure I get you pregnant.”
The words went through her head again as Wendy gasped and gurgled as the Sheikh hit the peak of his climax, her own orgasm rolling in now, a slow build that rose and rose and finally CRASHED down through her like a wave breaking on the shore, and those words sounded again as she came, as both of them came, as she spread wide and bucked her hips, as he pushed deeper, his heavy balls slapping against her soft skin as he grunted all the way to the end.
Oh, God, it’s all happening backwards, she thought in a daze as Zahain collapsed on top of her, his body soaked in clean perspiration, his chest heaving from the effort. She pulled him into her as she felt him slowly soften inside her as she wrapped her legs around him, and she stared up at the powder-blue sandstone of this incredible bedroom in the Royal Palace of Farrar.
And now she was sure, even though there was no way she could be sure. Yes, she was sure that even though it was insane, terrifying, unimaginable, and perhaps just plain wrong, she was going to be pregnant. Pregnant with the Sheikh’s child.
The thought hit her like a ton of sandstone bricks, and the world spun around now, faster and faster as the Sheikh lay on top of her, his breathing the only sound she could hear, and everything spun around faster, faster, FASTER, and now she was out, her last thought repeating itself like a broken record in a surreal dream:
I’m going to have the Sheikh’s baby.
I’m going to have the Sheikh’s baby.
I’m going to have the Sheikh’s baby.
Now what?
Now what?
Now what?
OHMYGOD, NOW WHAT?!
22
Now what, the Sheikh asked himself as he puffed gently on a hookah. He was alone in his chambers beneath the goldleaf-covered grand dome of the Royal Palace. This had been his father’s chambers, and his grandfather’s as well. In fact this hookah had been passed down through the generations of Farrar’s royal family—though Zahain had long since given up tobacco and now only puffed on a blend of aromatic herbs.
Now what, Zahain asked himself again as he watched the smoke gather in the air above him before slowly disappearing into the far reaches of the enormous dome whose hand-crafted ceiling was barely visible because it was so high above the silk-and-linen couches of this lounge area.
One more puff from his father’s hookah and Zahain thought back to one of the last conversations t
he older Sheikh had had with Zahain, all those years ago, when it was clear that the old Sheikh did not have much time left, when it was clear that, like it or not, Zahain would have to assume the caliphate. It was a long-forgotten—or perhaps long-repressed—conversation that had been playing on Zahain’s mind recently, the past few months, as Samir got close to graduation, as Zahain got close to thinking about what came next, thinking about what now:
“Soon you will have to rise beyond your narrow view of life, Zahain,” the old Sheikh had said. “Soon you will have to realize that to be the director of Allah’s will on Earth is one of the greatest privileges granted to a mortal man. The welfare of our people will be in your hands, and the greatest sin you can commit would be to fail in your responsibility. I have allowed you your transgressions, said nothing of your exploits in England and Europe and God-knows-where. I have looked the other way when told of your use of alcohol and drugs, both of which are forbidden by Islam. I have done that not because I did not care. I did it because I believe every man must make his choices and find his own path. I believe in your inner strength, Zahain. I saw it in you as a child, when you stood your ground and fought every battle to the bitter end, no matter who the opponent. No one could get young Zahain to do anything he did not want to do. Not your mother, not your tutors, not even your father, the all-powerful Sheikh! And so I believe you will find it in yourself to rise up and be what you were born to be.”
“But I was not born to be Sheikh,” Zahain had said at the time, wincing as he tried to remember what mixture of drugs and alcohol he had taken the night before on the flight back from that four-day rager in Ibiza, Spain. “Samir is the son of the First Mother. It is his destiny to be Sheikh of Farrar. My job is to simply keep his seat warm, is it not? A caretaker. Night watchman. A few years at most, until Samir is of age.”
The old Sheikh had coughed and sputtered as he tried to sit up and turn towards Zahain, and perhaps the old man would have struck Zahain hard across the face if he still had the strength. “Samir will never be of age! He will be a child his entire life, no matter how many years are placed upon his head. Some of it is my fault, some of it is his mother’s fault, and some blame falls to that woman Aya—indeed, we coddled and indulged the child too much; far more than with you. Ya, Allah, sometimes it is a curse to have a child so late!”
Zahain had shrugged at the time, wondering when this conversation would be over so he could take a few Aspirin and pass out for about nine hours straight. After all, he was off to Amsterdam the next morning for a private party on the world’s largest houseboat.
“Perhaps it is a curse to have a child at all,” Zahain had muttered next, thankfully the words coming out half-slurred and incomprehensible to the old Sheikh, who was still coughing hard as an attendant tried to get him to drink some salted lime-water.
Finally the old Sheikh continued:
“Of course, with Samir it is more than just the way he was raised. I believe there is something eternal, unchanging, unique in every man, and this essential quality shines out clearly in a child. It can get clouded and dulled over the years, but it can never be destroyed or defeated. Just like I saw strength in you, Zahain, I see weakness in Samir. It saddens me to say this about my child, a boy whom I love very much. But this is not about a father’s love for his son. It is about a king’s love for his people. That, my dear Zahain, is the greatest love of all, and every other form of love must yield to it. So yes, Zahain. I know that tradition and law dictates that Samir is the rightful Sheikh, and there is little that I or the Royal Council can do to change what is written into not just law but scripture as well. But the Council feels just as I do, and they will make sure that you remain Sheikh until Samir is twenty-one, which is five years longer than the old tradition of sixteen being the age of ascendancy.”
Zahain had almost groaned out loud at this as he rubbed his eyes, but he held his tongue and nodded. Whatever it took to get through this conversation, he had thought at the time, a thought that shamed him now as he looked back on it.
“All right,” Zahain had said, a sense of resignation in his voice. “Until Samir is twenty-one. I will do my best.”
The old Sheikh had nodded, leaning to his right, hunching over to get closer to Zahain. “Yes, I know. And I have faith in you even though you may not recognize your own strength yet. And it is tearing at my very soul to know that Samir will eventually inherit our wonderful land of Farrar. I wake up with night terrors imagining the policies he might put into place, the policies of a spoiled child, short-sighted and selfish, perhaps even insane and dangerous. But perhaps that is Allah’s will. Who can question it? Perhaps every nation needs to go through hardship just so it can face the purifying challenge of returning to splendor. And that is why there is one thing you must do before you step down and allow Samir to become Sheikh. There is one thing, and it must be done, Zahain. It must be done by you. It can only be done by you.”
“Of course, Father,” Zahain had said, and now he had started to listen as the old Sheikh’s words seemed to awaken something in him, something dormant, perhaps still years away from truly awakening, but nonetheless something that existed. “What is it, Father? What is it that I must do as Sheikh?”
“You must father a child while you are still Sheikh, Zahain,” the old Sheikh rasped. “Because if you father a child while you are still Sheikh, your child will be the rightful heir, no matter how many children Samir might have. Your child will be the first born child of the Sheikh of Farrar, and so after Samir’s reign is complete, it will be your child who rises next. That gives me faith that no matter what damage Samir might cause, the long term future of Farrar will still come back to your line, Zahain. Your seed. A seed of strength and wisdom. The best of me. The best of your mother. The very best.”
Zahain had been struck into silence at what he was hearing. Was his father actually revealing a loophole in the law? A way to prevent Samir’s children from ever having a claim to the throne? Was this the madness of an old man? Or was this the wisdom of a great ruler who put the welfare of his people above everything else, even his family, perhaps even his God!
For years Zahain had assumed it was the former—just the paranoia of an old man. After all, Samir was still a child then. Perhaps he would grow up just fine. And Zahain was not particularly enthralled with the idea of being Sheikh. His money and charisma gave him enough power and freedom, and the work of a ruler sounded mundane and annoying.
But the old Sheikh had been proven right when it came to Samir: little Samir was a manchild at twenty-one, a spoiled brat in designer clothes, a loose cannon with no one to answer to. Zahain had been a loose cannon in his own ways, but he had always chased a good time: parties, sex, and enjoyment. There was a darker side to Samir that could not be ignored, Zahain knew. If anyone could bring the peaceful state of Farrar to the brink of chaos, perhaps even war, it would be that little terror Samir.
Yes, the old man had been right about Samir. And only now, over the past few months when Zahain had observed just how far gone little Samir was, did he think seriously about the last piece of advice the old Sheikh had given him:
“But Zahain,” he had said, his voice fading as an attendant motioned to Zahain that the old Sheikh needed to rest. “Remember the oldest truth of life: that it takes two to create one. Man and woman. And so, Zahain, when the time comes, you must choose the woman carefully. Choose her carefully. And what I mean by carefully is this: Disregard everything that tradition and culture and Arab society tells you. It does not matter what race she is, what color, what size, shape, or religion. Do not consider her education, family history, career, or ambitions. Simply listen to what your inner core tells you. Trust your body, your heart, your primal intelligence. It will not fail you. It will guide you as surely as the North Star has guided travelers across the endless sands in the darkest of nights, every night for a hundred thousand years. Trust your instincts, and they will lead you to the woman who has the combination of strength and
wisdom to bear your child.”
Zahain had nodded then, and he nodded now as he felt a rush of emotion rip through him as he lay alone in his chambers, the smoke from that old hookah still swirling in the air above him.
“And the woman will feel it too, Zahain,” the old Sheikh had said, smiling then in a way that reminded young Zahain that the old man knew a thing or two about the ways of women. “She may not understand it, and you might not understand it either, but it will feel right, it will feel real, it will feel like . . . like destiny.”
“Destiny,” Zahain had repeated, almost scoffing with sarcasm but holding back.
The old Sheikh nodded, then finally lay his head back down. “Yes. Trust me, you will not laugh at me when it happens. Because when it happens it will feel like things are happening backwards.”
“Backwards?” Zahain had said, scratching the back of his aching head.
“Yes, backwards. In reverse. Like things that should happen last are happening first. And that is the surest sign that destiny is at play. Because when fate has decided that an event is bound to occur, all of time moves to make that event the center, the fulcrum. So sometimes the events that lead up to your destiny may seem to occur out of sequence, for reasons that do not seem strong enough. But that is just a misunderstanding of how the universe works, of how time works, of how destiny works. It is destiny that PULLS you towards it. Fate itself is the reason something is happening. It is the strongest of reasons, and sometimes it is the only reason you need. So when you meet this woman, Zahain, do not hesitate. Do not fight what your body, your soul, your very being is telling you to do. Step forward and do it.”
Zahain had frowned hard when he heard this, almost breaking into a surprised laugh when he realized what his old father was saying. He was basically telling him that when he meets this woman, whoever the hell she turns out to be, the first thing Zahain should do is . . . what . . . knock her up? Ya, Allah, Father! You have truly lost a grip! Peace be with you, but I think it is best I nod my head and forget that we ever had this conversation.
Curves for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 1) Page 8
