Small? It is the size of chocolate malt ball!
He looks around the tray and finds a ginormous diamond. Like the size of one of those cream filled chocolate Easter eggs. “What if we took this one and had it cut to your liking?”
“You could feed a small, third world country for ten years on a diamond that size,” I quip.
He laughs. I love making him laugh. He kisses me long and hard before turning to face the jeweler. Handing the diamond over, he says, “We will take this one. But in a princess cut and on a gold band. Line the band with diamonds, all the way around.”
My jaw hits the floor. I should be used to the extravagant manner in which he spoils me, but I’m not. “Abdul,” I say. “That is too much. Please, the smaller diamond.”
“And introduce you to my family with a small diamond on your finger?” he says with a raised brow. “They will think we are on the verge of bankruptcy.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want that, would we?” I say.
We decide on a matching gold wedding band that will be encrusted with rubies, emeralds, and more diamonds. Abdul reaches into his wallet and pulls out a credit card and hands it to the clerk. And just like that, my diamond engagement ring is ordered. I don’t have the guts to ask how much it’s costing him. Apparently, the price of anything doesn’t matter. Especially when it comes to me.
Chapter 3
On our fifth night in Paris, I lay basking in the afterglow of our love-making. Abdul stuffed my hot woman grotto like a baker stuffs a cannoli. It was magnificent. At this point, if I had a dollar for every orgasm I experience with my fiancé, my sheik, I could afford a few name brand purses on my own!
I hear Abdul’s voice coming from the living room of our lavishly appointed hotel suite. It’s three in the morning and I can tell he is on the phone. With my curiosity high, I slide from the silk sheet covered bed and pad barefoot to the door. It’s open just a crack, enough for me to see him sitting at the ornately carved desk. His back is to me.
He’s speaking in English.
“Increase those emails,” he says. “At least ten per day per identity. We must keep ourselves in front of the customers at all times.”
I think back to all the emails I used to get on a daily basis from my favorite knock off purse designers. I didn’t mind one or two, but ten? That seemed a little exorbitant to me.
“Yes,” Abdul says.
I strain my ears to listen for more.
“Well, it isn’t called Surround and Suffocate for no reason,” he says with a chuckle.
I’d never heard that term before. Worry settles in over my heart. It sounds awful, but what can I do? I can’t very well tell my gloriously handsome sheik how to run his business. Even if it did sound like a despicable way to do it. Besides, if I say anything, I run the risk of losing everything. His beauty, his twelve-inch wiener, the way he makes love to me multiple times a day, and yes, even the extravagant lifestyle are too important to me now. I can’t give all that up.
Quietly, I tiptoe back to bed. The silk sheets feel cool against my skin. I’ve only known him six days now, but it feels like a lifetime. He is everything to me and I’m not about to give him up.
The following morning, I wake up to Abdul’s thick, powerful, and wondrous dick inside me. I will never tire of waking up this way. Never.
After several orgasms — which is the norm whenever we make love — he pulls me into his strong arms and caresses my cheek. “Your ring will be delivered this morning. Tonight, we leave for Al Zahil,” he tells me.
I’m naked and resemble a chicken that’s just been plucked with all the bumps of excitement exploding over them. Al Zahil!
“I can’t wait!” I exclaim excitedly. “Is that where we will be married?” I ask.
“Yes, that is where we will be married.”
Something is off in his voice. I can feel it. I prop myself up onto one elbow. “What is wrong?”
He thinks long and hard before answering. “I need to prepare you for a few things,” he says.
“Such as?” Worry is creeping up my back.
“While I am sure most of my family will come to love you as much as I do, there might be some who will be jealous.”
Jealous? Of me? “Why?”
“Because you are a foreigner. You are blonde and blue eyed and majestic to look upon.”
I haven’t given that a moment’s thought.
“My father, he has many wives, but all of them are from the Middle East,” he begins. “But he was known to indulge outside our country from time to time. That is how Gamble and I are cousins. My father and Gamble’s mother were intimate and quite in love. But father did not feel he could marry her and take her to our country.”
Is Abdul taking a huge risk by marrying me? My heart cracks and bleeds. “I will not be the cause of problems between your parents and you,” I tell him. “I’d rather go back to New York and never see you again than to have that happen.” As much as I love him, I can’t do that to him. I can’t be the wedge between him and his family.
He is quiet for a long moment. “My mother died when I was ten. My father’s other wives raised me.”
My heart breaks for him. I can’t imagine losing my mother at such a young age. He’s mentioned that twice now — his father’s wives. I think it a rather archaic tradition but say nothing. I am only grateful they were there to help raise him. To love him and take care of him.
“Will your father object to me?” I ask, holding my breath while I wait for him to answer.
“No.”
I have the sense there is something he is not telling me, so I ask him. “What is it?”
He lets out a heavy sigh. “My father will not object to you. My mothers will not object to you…”
“But?”
He clears his throat and for the first time since we’ve met, he refuses to look me in the eye.
“Abdul?” I’m beginning to get the sensation that I will not like whatever it is he can’t tell me.
Finally, he turns to look at me. Even though I am dreading what he is about to say, I cannot help but want him. I love him beyond sense. I would forgive him anything.
“My wives will object to you.”
I cannot have heard him correctly. Wives? Wives? WIVES?
As in more than one?
For a long moment, I can’t breathe. I keep running that word, wives over and over in my mind.
I have not only been having the best sex of my life with a married man, I am also engaged to one! I’m angry. Furious. Bewildered. Confused. Hurt.
I scurry from the bed, ready to pack my things. Except I don’t have any. Yes, I have boxes and thousand dollar suitcases filled with everything he has purchased for me this past week. But the only things from my former life that I brought with me were the clothes on my back, my $50 knock-off purse, and my passport. (Out of habit, I carried my passport in my wallet no matter where I went, on the off chance that I might need it as extra identification.)
I pace around the room, trying to make sense of what he’s just told me, trying to figure out what I should do next. “How many?” I ask him, unable yet to look at him. I’m too angry.
“I have nine wives.”
“NINE?” I scream at him. “You have nine fucking wives? Didn’t you think that was an important thing to tell me before you fucked me?” I picked up a crystal lamp from the dresser, fully prepared to lodge it like a missile.
Before I can turn around, he wraps those big, strong arms around me. “Please, Maisy, do not be angry with me. This is how it is done where I am from.”
I hate him. I love him. And I can’t make sense of it all. Tears stream down my cheeks. I’m sobbing relentlessly, feeling more betrayed than I have ever felt. This is worse than when my best friend, Cassandra Bumtoggen cheated me out of homecoming queen by sleeping with the quarterback. “Well, where I come from, a guy has one wife. One!”
He wraps his arms around me tighter. I don’t doubt for a minute that he loves
me. His love was never in question. But do I love him enough to put up with nine wives?
I feel his hot breath against my neck as he tries to console me. I know that if I turn around and look at him, those brown eyes of his will make me do something I normally would not do.
“Please, Maisy. I want you to be my wife. I love you. That has not changed.”
I know that. I’ve just been thinking that very thing.
“We can still have a very happy life together, you and I. We can raise our child together, in Al Zahil.”
Our child.
There is a very strong possibility that I am in fact pregnant with his baby. Our baby. The one I thought had been made with all the love in the world. The one I wanted to give him more than anything else.
“Our child,” he began, “will be loved. He will be raised with his brothers and sisters and will never want for anything. He will have the best education, the best of everything, as will you.”
Brothers and sisters. I wasn’t stupid enough to believe he didn’t already have children with his other wives. “How many children do you already have?”
“Twenty-nine,” he replies.
My head spins at the number. Twenty-nine children.
“I have another due in a few weeks. And one more due in a few months.”
Oh, my God! Can it get any worse? Can I feel any dumber?
“I suppose you love all your wives and children as much as you love me.”
Abdul chuckles slightly. “I do love all of my wives and children, that, I will not deny. Each has a very special place in my heart.”
“And where do I fit into your heart, Abdul?”
He spins me around and takes my chin between his slender fingers, forcing me to look at him. “You have a most special place in my heart, Maisy. I do not think I will ever take another wife after you. My life, it now feels complete, now that I have found you.”
He draws me close and I let those words sink in. Complete. I make him feel complete.
I feel myself begin to grow weak, his breath on my cheek, his warm arms wrapped around me like a cocoon. I can’t help how I feel. I love him. That fact will never change.
But do I love him enough to be his tenth wife?
Abdul gives me no time to think about that. He scoops me up into his arms and lays me on the bed. I allow it, because for unknown reasons, reasons that make not a damned bit of sense to me, I still want him.
He trails kisses from my forehead to my abdomen and back up again. I do not resist. I can’t. The moment his skin touches mine, I lose all common sense. Common sense would tell me to run far and fast. But it flees the moment his fingers caress the taught peaks of my breasts. They’re as hard as grandma Betsie’s fudge. (She never could make fudge.)
His lips take over the wonderful assault of my breasts. He twirls his tongue around my areola before taking the tip into his mouth. My breasts have always been the buttons that turn me on.
His fingers find my other love button: the one between my legs. It quivers like a bowl of jelly. I need him. I want him. I love him.
Pressing those deft fingers into my secret vault of love, he teases and twists and stretches me out to get me ready for the key that opens that vault.
With his hot, bumpy tongue, he continues to make me hot. A moment later, he is hovering over me, ready to plunge that thick, glorious, magical key into the lock.
And it opens for him. Only for him.
He eases his cock inside me, slowly, precisely, and deftly. I hiss, like the radiator on a ’57 Buick. I run my hands up and down his back, my nails gently scraping his skin.
He moves into me slowly at first, allowing me to get used to his turgid girth. Moments later, he rolls onto his back and brings me with him.
“Ride me, Maisy!” he commands. “I am your camel and you are my rider. Ride me Maisy, like the camels at the Cairo races!”
I grind my hips, hovering over him because his cock is simply too big to fit all the way inside me. I have to hold onto the headboard, my feet flat on the bed. I feel his hands as they grab my hips, urging me to go faster and faster.
“I’m coming!” I cry out.
And he comes with me.
“Maisy!” he cries.
“Abdul!” I cry back at him.
The surge courses over me like waves crashing over a dingy lost as sea. Powerful, beautiful, electric. “My sheik!” I cry over and over. “My sheik!”
I fall asleep in his arms, dreaming about our future together.
I can’t leave him. I love him too much.
And if that means sharing him with his other nine wives, I am willing to do that.
We will raise our many children together, Abdul and I. We will live happily in Al Zahil. I just know it!
I also know somehow, instinctively I suppose, that I am already carrying our love child. I guess you could call it women’s intuition. I can picture our beautiful baby in my mind. He will have dark hair and dark eyes, like his father.
I also know that I will give this man as many children as he wants.
Because I love him and he loves me. And that is all that matters.
About the Author
Pinky Haversnatch lives on her own private tropical island just outside of Albuquerque. When she isn’t raising prize winning chickens and ROOSTERS, she enjoys putting her drama degree and time on Broadway to use by putting on plays with her husband and eleven children for local residents. All of which are met with resounding applause. She will gladly tell you how she gave up her successful acting career to write and raise her children.
With more than 500 billion copies sold around the universe, her books have been translated into 38 different languages, including Klingon. Which is quite a feat, as Pinky will tell you, even if you don’t ask.
Also by Pinky Haversnatch
The Kah Key Billionaire - A Kah Key Club Series Novella
The Stuffed Sausage Series:
Pregnant By My Boss’s Cousin, the Billionaire Shiek
Coming soon as part of the Stuffed Sausage Series:
The Secret Baby I Had With My Cowboy Lover in New York
The Babymaking Machine Former Bad Boy Cop Turned Nice Guy Who Is Still A Little Too Cocky
The Cocky Sausage Stuffer
The Cocky Cannoli Stuffer
The Cocky Artichoke Stuffer
Pregnant By My Boss's Cousin, The Billionaire Sheik Page 3
