“No,” he said, and now his voice was low, deep, confident, commanding, and he felt so certain of this that it scared him. “You are not going anywhere.”
“Sorry?” she said, her pitch rising slightly as Akbar grabbed her arm and sat up in bed. “OK, listen, I—”
“Shut up,” Akbar growled. “Shut up and come here. Come to me. Come to me, my woman.”
And he tightened his grip and pulled her close, his arousal rising with that fever, his heat unleashing that animal in a way it had never been unleashed. And she yelped in shock, pulled at his grip in vain, her eyes going wide when she felt herself being lifted off her feet and thrown into the broad hospital bed as Akbar whipped his body around and pinned her beneath him so quick that she just gasped as the air got pushed out of her lungs with dizzying force.
And then he kissed her. He kissed her hard, he kissed her fast, he kissed her urgent, he kissed her desperate.
By God, he kissed her.
9
“Stop,” she gurgled into his mouth as he smothered her with his heat, crushed her with his weight. “Are you crazy? What are you—”
But he kissed her again, harder but somehow with more gentleness, and his right hand slid behind her head and his fingers grasped a fistful of hair and gripped tight, holding her head in place.
“Yatun 'iilaa huna, ya aimra'a,” he growled into her neck as he bit at her skin like an animal, now licked her cheeks, kissed her again as he pulled at her hair, his grip so tight it hurt, his weight so overwhelming she felt powerless, defenseless, violated . . . liberated?
A part of her said, “Scream for help, you fool!” but she stayed silent.
A part of her said, “He’s raping you, you moron!” but she didn’t budge.
A part of her said, “Don’t let yourself become a victim!” but she just smiled.
She smiled like she was crazy herself, like his fever was infecting her as well, and now Elle thought back to why she walked back up here, waited until the bodyguards left the room, and then slipped into the room without knocking, standing just inside the doorway and watching this man, seeing him toss and turn in his fever, his bare torso glistening with fresh perspiration, her own heat rising in the most unusual way even as Margot’s cross felt heavy around her neck, like someone or something was pulling at it, pulling her with it, pulling her to him.
And now she was with him, this dark Sheikh with a knife-wound and a tattoo, hard muscle and those green eyes. She was with him, beside him, beneath him. And she was kissing him. Oh, God, she was kissing him!
Her right hand clawed at his thick black hair and she opened her mouth and let him in, gasping as his thick tongue snaked its way into her warm mouth, her own tongue whipping against his like two serpents fighting one moment and mating the next, the ancient dance of opposites, of violence and sex, darkness and light.
“Yatun ya aimra'a,” the Sheikh muttered as he grabbed her wrist and pried her fingers from his hair and pinned that arm down above her head, now pinning her other arm as he drew his body down along hers, pushing his face into the swell of her breasts, licking at the smooth creamy skin of her chest exposed through the v-neck of her pink top, now pushing his tongue down the top of her cleavage as he grunted and growled and then suddenly, without warning, raised his head and looked at her with those green eyes.
“I am mad with desire,” he whispered, his voice urgent and hoarse. “And I do not want to stop. But I will stop if you say it now.”
Elle’s arms were still pinned above her head, and the Sheikh’s weight made it impossible to even move her legs, let alone kick at him. But she hadn’t been struggling, she knew. It made her sick to think about why she hadn’t been struggling, why she hadn’t been screaming for help while she kicked and beat at him, but it was a sickness that somehow had a place in her, a place in this, a role in this. In this arousal.
And it was arousal, she knew. The arousal she had felt emerging as she undressed him, cleaned his wound, took in his smell, felt his presence as they spoke, saw how he trusted her as she touched him. The arousal that took her back up to the third floor after going all the way down and not being able to face Tammy and those damn cat videos. The arousal that was making her hot beneath those stockings, wet beneath those stockings, ready beneath those stockings. The arousal that had shut down all those pitiful voices that said this was wrong, that he was wrong, that she was wrong.
Leave us alone, that arousal replied to those squealing voices of protest. It is YOU who are wrong, the arousal whispered. I am right, I am powerful, and I am taking her with me. I am taking her with me.
“You are mad with fever,” she whispered now, her own voice sounding strange because it was so calm, so full, carrying an emotional depth that couldn’t possibly be justified by the situation, two strangers in a bed together! “And I fear if you don’t stop, you’re going to die.”
“I fear that if I do stop I will die,” he said now, and suddenly that smile broke full, and now SHE was smiling, and now they were BOTH smiling, laughing, grinning, kissing again, kissing again, harder, faster, the urgency rising, the desperation raging, the arousal accelerating, pushing them, pulling them, driving them . . .
And the Sheikh let go of her hands and pulled his body back and WHIPPED off her top, yanking it off past her head as Elle’s hair pulled at its roots and flopped all over her forehead and face, and she could feel the thick strands of her own hair in her mouth as he kissed her again, with brutal force as his powerful hands closed on her breasts, easily grasping her fullness, squeezing now, squeezing so damned hard she arched her back up and groaned into his mouth, those serpent tongues of theirs lashing one another in the dark red crevasses of their open mouths.
“Mad with fever,” she whispered again as she felt his stubble move against the soft skin of her chest as the Sheikh went down along her body again, his strong fingers plucking at her nipples through her blue bra, drawing her dark red nubs up into stiff points like goddamn arrowheads, like bullets standing on end, two blunt spears stood up and ready for a battle slow and brutal.
And as the Sheikh lifted her bra-cups and released her breasts, taking her left nipple into his hot mouth and sucking with all his force while pinching down HARD on the right nipple, Elle cried out in pain and ecstasy as she moved beneath him, pushed her curves up into him, cried out again as her mussed-up hair let in glimpses of the room, splinters of light, flickering images that felt jerky and fragmented, like the whole room was in motion, the medical supply cabinet rattling in the corner, the overhead lights shuddering in their shades, the bed itself clattering like it was an old stretcher from the 1940s being held in place in one of those boxy ambulances as it careened its way through the battlefield, bullets zipping by, bombs bursting in the distance . . .
“Mi sei mancato, il mio amore,” she heard him mutter as he sucked her nipples, slapped her breasts, licked her cleavage, kissed her belly. “Mio amore.”
“What?” Elle said through the haze of ecstasy, the mist of arousal, the fog of war. “Is that . . . is that Italian?”
“Mi sei mancato, il mio amore,” he said, and his voice sounded strange, different, faraway, old. And she craned her neck to look down at this dark-haired man, gasping as she caught sight of his sharp, darkly handsome features highlighted between her naked breasts that were gleaming wet with his clean saliva.
Are you here Margot, she found herself asking through that haze as she closed her eyes and shuddered as the Sheikh reached for the waistband of her scrubs and began to pull down her pants, kissing her tummy now, his tongue teasing the tops of her blue cotton panties, his lips kissing her mound through the wet cloth as he pulled her pants down past her wide hips, drawing himself back so he could get them all the way off.
And as she felt her pants getting pulled off past her feet, the Sheikh wrestling her shoes off along the way, Elle opened her eyes and looked down and saw him on his knees before her at the foot of the bed, his hands gripping her ankles, slowly spreadin
g her legs.
“Ya, Allah,” he whispered as he took a shuddering breath, his erection almost grotesquely large as it pushed against the crotch of those trousers. “Stockings. You are wearing stockings.”
10
“Show me,” the Sheikh ordered as he stepped down off the bed, pulling her by the ankles until she was forced to sit upright, legs dangling off that bed as she looked up at him and blinked.
“What?” she said. “No. What?”
“Stand. Come. Stand with me,” he said, stepping to the bed and cupping her sweet round face in his large hands, now leaning down and kissing her gently on the lips even as she felt his erection graze her naked breasts through the smooth cloth of his trousers. “Stand with me, Eleanor.”
She stood, slowly, for a moment feeling exposed in just her dumpy blue panties and those thigh-high white compression stockings that gave her those embarrassing muffin-tops where the top elastic cut into her heavy thighs. But the Sheikh pulled her close, his large body pressing against hers, making her feel small against him, safe against him, secure against him . . . loved against him?
Now he was kissing her again, gently this time, his hands caressing her sides, now sliding around and cupping her bottom, squeezing her rear globes, massaging and pressing with wonderful force, and his hands felt like they belonged there, just like his mouth felt like it belonged on her mouth, his body on her body.
Elle moaned softly as she moved her hips against him, opening her mouth to receive his kisses, shivering as she felt his warm hands slide down past the waistband of her panties, his strong fingers pulling apart the globes of her ass, his thumbs tracing their way along her rear crack as he rubbed his hardness against her mound, his hips pushing her legs apart.
The breathless desperation of how they began transformed into a slow, intense rhythm as they kissed each other in a way that sent that feeling of familiarity through Elle once again, and she could feel that cross smooth and cool against her naked skin, she could feel Margot around her, perhaps inside her, that strange feeling of the interplay of opposites coming through again, of yearning and having, of loving and losing, of tragedy and joy, laughter and tears, night and day, man and woman, him and her.
Him and her.
11
Who is she, the Sheikh wondered as he kissed her again, his body tensing up as he felt her soft body press against his tensed-up muscles, sensed her arousal rising to match his, felt her wetness soaking her panties even from below and behind, coating his fingers in the most sensual way as he ran his hands along her bare bottom, the underside of her crotch, his knuckles pushing out the cloth of her underwear as he pressed and pinched. Who is she and what is she doing to me?
The soaring, desperate arousal that demanded an immediate release has transformed into something else, Akbar realized as he slowly took a breath and kissed her again, reveling in her clean taste, her delicate aroma, her gentle warmth. He could feel his erection grow harder, larger, painfully bigger as he ground his hips into her crotch, his grip on her soft, magnificent buttocks pulling her into him with gentle power.
Yes, it has transformed into something else, something I have never experienced, Akbar thought as he felt everything slow down to the point where he was acutely aware of her tight pink nipples against his bare chest, the gentle swish of his peaked silk underwear against the wet front of her cotton panties, the subtle aroma of her feminine musk that was rising up to him from her crotch as he slowly took her panties down past her hips, lowering himself as he did it, like her sex was beckoning him, summoning him, controlling him.
Ya, Allah, she is controlling me even though she does not know it, he realized as he felt himself go down to his knees as he pulled her panties down her legs, letting them rest stretched against her smooth calves as he shuddered from the fullness of her aroma, the clean, warm smell of her cunt.
He kissed her naked crotch now, gently pushing his tongue through the delicate clump of brown curls, marveling at how this woman’s physical presence was having a calming effect on him that was taking his arousal to a place so different from where any other woman had taken him, had even come close to taking him! So gentle, so clean, so pure. Like she is drawing that sickness away from me, cleaning out the filth in my soul, healing me in a way that is uniquely her own.
And as Akbar slowly felt her secret lips open up for his tongue, tasted her sweet wetness, inhaled her feminine smell, he felt something open up inside him as well, a secret doorway it felt like, an entryway, a passageway. And the Sheikh could feel her presence enter him through that psychic opening even as his tongue entered her through that physical opening, and she was twisting her way inside him even as he curled his tongue up inside her, penetrating him like he was penetrating her, tasting him like he was tasting her.
“Oh, God,” she muttered from above him, and the Sheikh could feel her hands in his hair, tugging at his black locks, pulling and pushing, like she wanted to pull his head away one moment and push him deeper into her the next. “Oh, God, what are you doing? What am I doing?”
“We are doing what we were born to do,” he whispered into her depths as he drew back for a feverish breath, a breath that brought a fresh wave of her scent to him, his arousal spinning upwards again in a way that seemed like a warning, like another transformation was imminent, that something inside her was awakening as he curled that tongue up against the front wall of her vagina.
Yes, something was waking up in her. He could feel it, smell it, taste it. The way she shuddered, the way her fingers were clawing at his hair, the way her little protests were getting softer and more distant, like she was accepting her arousal now, allowing herself to open up. And as he felt her wetness flow down his lips, Akbar knew that it was his turn now, that it was his turn to lead this dance, that the calming effect that took him by surprise was going to give way to the fury of his need, that his darkness was twisting its way into her now, searching for something dormant in her, like a serpent seeking its mate.
Elle whimpered now as Akbar flicked his tongue back and forth, withdrawing from her pussy and licking her with the flat of his tongue in long, lengthwise strokes, circling the hood of her clit, now gently teasing that stiff little nub out of its hiding place as her whimpers turned into moans and finally a choking, guttural seizing that tensed up her buttocks in a way that told him she was ready. Ready for him to lead. Ready for him to command her.
Ready to obey.
“Now spread,” he growled into her pubic curls as he clamped down on her buttocks, digging his fingers into her flesh with all his force, feeling her tense up again and push herself against his face. “Spread for me, Nurse Eleanor. Spread your stockings for me, Nurse Eleanor Easton. Yes, spread your stockings for me, you naughty little nurse. Spread.”
And with a shivering moan and no words she spread her heavy thighs, those dark lips opening up before him, her buttocks tensing up again and then relaxing as the Sheikh pulled her asscheeks apart, placed his thumb firmly on her rear pucker, and then plunged his tongue deep into her cunt.
12
She came immediately, the orgasm rising up and taking her like a beast of the night takes its prey, silent in the approach but frenzied in the moment, the sudden combination of his voice, his words, his breath on her clit, his thumb touching her asshole feeling so unexpected, so filthy, so goddamn shocking that when the Sheikh drove his tongue back into her pussy, dragging its stiff tip against her sensitive inner walls, it was too much, just too goddamn much.
And as if sound was only just catching up with feeling, Elle let out a slow, droning wail as she felt that orgasm incredibly get stronger, like it wasn’t going to end, had only just barely begun, like that beast was toying with her before taking her full, like it was eating her alive as she screamed for release, and it was two orgasms now, three beasts now, four serpents suddenly, a five-headed dragon, six screaming ravens, seven howling apes, nine laughing hyenas, eleven bleeding doves, and a partridge in a pear tree . . .
&
nbsp; And her eyes suddenly flicked wide as her mouth opened in a silent scream and the room was gone and everything was gone and it was that mist again, that haze again, that fog again . . . and through the mists of space and time Elle saw a woman in black-and-white, and the woman was laughing with joy, twisting with glee, giggling with delight . . . and now that woman looked right at Elle as that climax hit full, as that climax hit hard, as that climax hit deadly, and that woman was Margot, and that woman was Elle, and that woman was her mother, and that woman was the holy mother, and that woman was every woman and no woman, every sister and every wife, every nun and every harlot . . .
And then suddenly it was Margot again, one eye looking left and the other looking right, tragedy to her left, eternal joy to her right, and now her eyes turned towards Elle, and Margot smiled now, and Elle could see herself reflected in Margot’s eyes, and Margot was reaching out to Elle, yearning in her eyes, longing in her look, and Elle thought she was choking, suffocating, dying . . . and then Elle realized she was laughing, screaming, being born . . . and she was a baby, an old woman, an animal, a tree, a tree with lights and stars, angels and demons, little gift-wrapped boxes that had legs and arms and little mouths that were chattering away, and Elle felt herself begin to slip away, fade away, drift away . . .
And as that climax finally broke her, just before she passed out in the Sheikh’s arms, Elle felt that cross burning against her naked breast, and she saw Margot turn away from her and whisper to the Sheikh, whisper through the ages:
“Buon Natale, il mio amore. Merry Christmas, my love.”
13
“He was killed on Christmas Eve. They fired on his ambulance even though medical vehicles were given safe passage. Margot found out when one of the other soldiers replied to one of the many letters she sent after months of not hearing from him.”
“Oh, God, that’s horrible,” sixteen-year-old Elle had said, clutching that cross tight as her mother snuggled up close. Then Elle frowned and looked up at her mother. “Wait, is that why . . .”
Stockings for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 5) Page 5
