Stockings for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 5)

by Annabelle Winters

  “What is that?”

  “It is indeed impatience that brings me here today, Father. Impatience, because I can wait no longer to live my life the way I want, the way I must, the way that I feel is right. In the open. Free. Liberated. And . . . and proud.”

  The old king frowned, raising an eyebrow as he sank back into his plush purple throne. “Mohammed, you have more wealth than even a computer can count. You are a prince of noble, ancient blood. You are a fine, honorable—”

  “I am gay,” Mo blurted out now, swallowing hard as he felt the perspiration break through in heavy beads on his forehead even as he forced a smile and held his back straight, his chin pointed high, his eyes focused and unwavering. “Father, I am gay.”

  20

  “That’s so gay,” said Clarissa, sneering at Grady as he looked at her from across the conference room table. “You called me into the office on Christmas to tell me this?”

  Grady took a breath and crossed his arms over his flabby chest. “First of all, you can’t say that anymore. It’s offensive. Secondly, dear Clarissa, you were already at the office.” Now he raised an eyebrow and matched his cousin’s sneer with one of his own. “And third, I didn’t know that Satanists celebrated Christmas.”

  Clarissa laughed now, sticking out her tongue and wriggling it side to side before extending it out, curling it up, and touching the tip of her own nose with it.

  Grady smiled. “I always said you’d make a great lesbian. All that tongue.”

  “Bend over and I’ll give you some of that tongue, you fat little faggot,” she whispered across the table, leaning forward on her arms and hissing at him, smiling at the way he recoiled with disgust.

  “OK, this is why you need to sell Rattlesnake while you’re still getting a good price,” said Grady, pushing his black leather swivel chair away from the shining tabletop that seemed to have a strangely shaped grease-stain—or some kind of stain—right smack in the center. “Because sooner or later you’re going to open your foul little mouth in front of the wrong person in the media, and—”

  “You used to like my foul little mouth, cousin,” Clarissa whispered with an exaggerated wink, pouting and leaning back in her chair, crossing her arms over her tight chest. “Does your wifey’s big fat piehole get you as—”

  “What the hell is WRONG with you, Clarissa?” Grady shouted now, standing up and raising his arms in disgust. “I mean, seriously, Clarissa. Yeah, you always had this side to you, but it used to be fun, light-hearted, healthy almost. But lately . . . I don’t know . . . it just seems . . . seems darker somehow. Is everything OK? I know you’re seeing some guy you won’t tell me about. This got something to do with him? Everything all right?”

  Clarissa looked away, now uncrossing her arms and standing up abruptly. When she looked back at Grady her blue eyes were steady, focused, cold and calm. “So you’ve sold your forty-percent stake in Rattlesnake.”

  Grady hesitated for a moment, his face still red from the outburst. Finally he shrugged and nodded and placed his hands on the backrest of the chair, nodding again. “Well, yeah. I thought we had decided we were both going to sell to this Arab group of investors. The price is very, very good. Frankly, they’re overpaying. The record industry isn’t getting better; it’s getting worse.”

  “Rattlesnake Records is on the rise,” said Clarissa, crossing those long arms over her chest again, flexing her tight little biceps as she looked down at the fresh tattoo on her left forearm, the Arabic letters in bold black ink.

  Grady shrugged again. “We’ve had a good year, yeah. But like I’ve said many times before, Clarissa, we got lucky that a couple of the younger artists we signed as nobodies got a few hits. And that’s my point. These younger country stars . . . they’re . . . well, they’re different. They’re not a bunch of rednecks who’re going to be cool with being signed to a label where the owners toss out gems like ‘fat little faggot’ and God-knows-what-else you have cooking in that twisted head of yours.”

  Clarissa laughed and shook her head. “And they’re gonna be fine with being signed to a country music label that’s owned by a bunch of Arabs? A bunch of MUSLIMS?”

  Grady was unfazed. “Actually, yeah. I talked to three of our top sellers several times before I even considered selling. After all, our artists are our assets, and that’s what the buyer is paying for. And yeah, they looked up this guy, the head of the investment fund . . . this Sheikh Akbar Salim.”

  Clarissa’s breath caught at the mention of his name, and she looked down at those Arabic letters and gritted her teeth before looking back at Grady. “And?”

  “And they were actually excited about it! Turns out this guy is super-progressive, has lived all over the world, invests in all kinds of high-profile, modern businesses, has trusts set up that support schools, colleges, hospitals . . . I mean, this guy is modern royalty, and these young country music kids are actually excited because it’s going to be really good publicity. And I agree! It just sounds newsworthy!” Grady was smiling now, his gray eyes lighting up. “A Muslim billionaire heading up a hip, modern American country-music label? If that isn’t newsworthy, I don’t know what is!”

  Clarissa stared at Grady, refusing to acknowledge what she knew was correct. She wasn’t dumb, and although she didn’t particularly care for the details of running a business, it didn’t mean she didn’t understand how a business was run, how marketing and publicity worked, how crucial being “newsworthy” was in today’s entertainment world. Indeed, that was part of the reason she wanted to marry that goddamn beast of a man Akbar! The two of them at the helm of Rattlesnake Records? They’d be the toast of modern American media! The Tennessee queen in her bitch-boots and rawhide, and the desert King in his robes and regalia!

  But that was just part of the reason, Clarissa knew. The other part was deeper, so deep she didn’t understand it herself, couldn’t understand what the man had brought out in her. She’d always embraced her kinky side—fuck, she actually LIKED being known as a slut back at Tennessee State, when she let the basketball team (starters only—just five guys . . .) run a train on her after they won that big game against Kentucky. And she wasn’t even a cheerleader!

  Still, that was eons ago, and this was different. HE was different. And she loved that he made her keep it a secret. At first she assumed it was because he was fucking a hundred different women all over the world, but after a year together she finally understood that through all the wildness, the whips and chains, the knots and clamps, the leather and latex . . . yes, through all of it Akbar was a one-woman man. Fuck, he had even refused a threesome when she offered to bring in a chick she had met in Memphis during Jazzfest! He was a one-woman man. The real fucking deal.

  The only problem, of course, Clarissa remembered as she felt her jaw go tight again, her buttcheeks clench along with her fists as that anxiety raged through her, that frustration of not being in control, the anger that was rising more and more often now as she was getting to the end of her rope. Yes, the only problem with this one-woman man was that he didn’t seem to be certain that she was the one woman for him. Or perhaps, as she sometimes feared—and it was a burning, wrenching, desperate fear—that he was already certain that she WASN’T the woman for him.

  Which was why she was playing this game, this game that scared even her, scared her because of how far she'd gone already, done something that was crazy even by her standards!

  Still, Akbar was no fucking innocent bystander in this game. Hell, he’d been back in Nashville for three weeks, and he hadn’t brought up marriage even once, wouldn’t talk about the business deal either, didn’t even thank her for the goddamn snake! And now it turns out he’d bought out Grady’s shares without telling her?!

  Oh, fuck me, Akbar, she thought. What the hell are you up to? What the hell are you doing? Did my Christmas Eve message not get through? Do you not understand that you’ve taken me past the point of no return? That you have such a hold on me, such a hold in me, on my body and
mind, my goddamn soul . . . such a hold that if I can’t have you, then I . . . I don’t know what I’ll do. You don’t open me up like this without closing me, without closing the deal, finishing what you started.

  Grady was still talking when Clarissa blinked away her rage, gasping as she realized she had been holding her breath so long she was lightheaded, now wondering when she had eaten last, when she had slept last, when she had fucked last.

  That last one she remembered clearly. Five nights ago at the Plaza downtown. Akbar had tied and gagged her, pushed that latex plug into her asshole, left her alone in the room for six hours straight without food or water, without even letting her pee! And then he burst in, naked and in one of those black hoods the terrorists wear, screaming in Arabic as he whipped her ass and threatened to kill her! Fuck, she came before he even touched her clit!

  Oh, that man! That sick, twisted, filthy, DELIGHTFUL man! Where are you, my love? My dirty desert king? My filthy Arabian secret? A man only I can understand, only I can love?

  “Yeah,” Grady was saying as he gathered his things and prepared to head out. “So this Sheikh actually sounds really, really modern and decent. Mindful of his Islamic traditions but very broadly educated, very respectful of other religions and cultures. Knowledgeable, charitable . . . hell, he’s a guy you’d take home to meet your mother!”

  “Sounds like it,” Clarissa said softly as she pictured the Sheikh, that “decent, honorable man” ripping off his black hood as she wailed from his stinging lashes, the Sheikh laughing like a madman as he rotated the thick latex plug in her ass, cursing as he spread her rear cheeks and licked her asshole, kissing her full on the lips before finally ramming his thick brown cock down her open throat as she pulled against her leather bindings. “I think you got it right, Grady. Just the kind of man you want to take to meet your mother.”

  21

  “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Easton! I am Akbar Salim! Very pleased to meet you. Please, sit down! I would have sent my car for you if Eleanor had allowed it! Merry Christmas!”

  “Well, Merry Christmas to you!” said Beth Easton, a surprised smile coming over her well-lined face even as she shot a questioning glance at her daughter, who was standing motionless next to the pink faux-leather booth at Thelma’s Diner. “Merry Christmas, Elle! You didn’t tell me you were bringing someone to Christmas breakfast!”

  “She did not know until this morning, Mrs. Easton,” said Akbar, smiling wide as he clasped his hands together and waited for the older woman to take a seat. “Consider me a surprise Christmas present.”

  “My daughter can speak for herself, thank you very much, Mr. Akbar,” said Beth, her smile tightening as she sat down carefully and stared right at Elle before glancing up at the Sheikh. “Akbar . . . that means something, right?”

  “It’s his name, Ma,” said Elle, sitting down across from her mother and making wide eyes at the tabletop. “And it’s—”

  “And I think Mr. Akbar can speak for himself too, yes?” Beth said. “You speak English, do you not, Mr. Akbar?”

  “A little,” said the Sheikh, his own smile tightening for a moment before his expression relaxed. “The word Akbar simply means great.”

  “Great!” said Beth, clasping her hands together and smiling at Elle. Now she looked back up at the Sheikh. “And so why do those Arabs say ‘something-something Akbar’ when they’re beheading American soldiers and hostages? They’re feeling great about killing good Americans? Executing good Christians? That’s what makes them great Arabs, great Muslims?”

  “Mom!” Elle shouted, covering her face for a moment and then lowering her voice. “You know better than that! Don’t act like you’re ignorant when you’re not! You know exactly what—”

  “It is all right,” said the Sheikh, smiling pleasantly and sliding into the booth right next to Beth Easton, putting his heavy arm around her as the older woman gasped and blinked up at him. “I am glad you are honest and direct about your feelings, your anger, your sense of what is right and wrong in this world. It is exactly the right thing to be talking about on this Christmas morning in the Land of the Free! Americans and Arabs! Christians and Muslims! Peace and violence! Good and evil!” Now he raised his arms and raised his voice, making every head in the cozy diner turn in amused surprise at this dark, handsome man with the booming voice and the exotic, almost regal accent. “Pour the Arabica coffee! Serve the Christmas cake! Inshallah and Amen! Let us begin!”

  And Elle just stared across the table in awed silence as this strange man with the knife-wound and the tattoo, this Middle-Eastern Sheikh who looked like a dark version of a Disney prince, this imposing, almost terrifying man who had pulled her into his bed last night, kissed her without asking, made her say things she never imagined she could say, made her feel things she didn’t know she could feel, made her come like—

  Oh, God, he’s sitting here now, across from me on Christmas morning, talking to my mom. Talking to my MOM!

  And Elle just excused herself and hurried to the restroom, not missing how neither the Sheikh nor Mom seemed to even notice, they were so involved in lively conversation about God-knows-what . . . or perhaps my-God-knows-more-than-your-God . . .

  The restroom was empty and Elle just locked herself in a stall and took several deep breaths, only now realizing that she was smiling . . . smiling the way a madwoman might smile, that half-crazed smile of disbelief at something that was so real that it didn’t seem real. Hell, it didn’t even seem like a fantasy! Because who the hell would fantasize about something like this! A man who made you feel so filthy a few hours ago is talking to your mom on Christmas morning! Does it get any sicker than that? Does it get any darker?

  And as Elle stepped out of the restroom and looked at her fingernails and saw the faint stain of his blood still on there, it occurred to her that maybe it does get darker. Question is, she asked herself. Do I want to stick around for that? Or maybe, like Akbar himself said, it’s too much for me. Too much, too soon.

  All of it is too much too soon, she told herself as she stopped at the back of the diner and watched her mom break into genuine, spontaneous laughter at something the Sheikh was saying, that man leaning in close with his deep, mesmerizing voice that she could almost feel from way back here. He glanced up at Elle quickly, just for an instant, his green eyes flashing with that strange familiarity, like they were two old lovers passing each other a knowing look in a crowded room, a look just for them, the two of them, him and her, Elle and Akbar . . .

  And for some reason Elle thought of the Sheikh’s tattoo as she finally made her way back to the table. The tattoo that said, “Allah exists in both the darkness and the light.”

  Darkness and light. Akbar and Elle. Him and her.

  “Merry Christmas,” she whispered to herself now as a feeling of dread mixed with an undeniable excitement raged through her when she realized that it was too goddamn late, too late already, too late to walk away. “Merry Christmas, and God help me find the light in him before he finds the darkness in me.”

  22

  “I like him,” said Beth Easton, taking a last sip of coffee before leaning back against the faux sheen of the pink booth. “Too bad he’s Muslim.”

  Elle glanced over at where the Sheikh had stepped outside to take a phone call that seemed to be important, since the caller had kept calling back until Akbar answered. His two bodyguards were standing outside with him, and now Elle wondered why those bodyguards hadn’t been standing outside the room last night when she went back up there. If the Sheikh were in real danger, they’d have been outside his goddamn room all night, wouldn’t they?

  She turned back to her mom now, her jaw clenching. “Too bad he’s Muslim? What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Watch your language, Elle,” Beth said sternly. “And I should ask you the same question.”

  “What question?” Elle said, frowning and crossing her arms over her chest, looking down at the beautifully ugly Christmas sweater she was weari
ng with blue jeans, the reds and greens of the sweater clashing horribly with the blue, she thought now.

  “The question you just asked me: What in the world is this supposed to mean? That question, Elle! I mean, you show up at Christmas breakfast with this strange man, a man I’ve never met, never even heard you mention! And . . . and . . . and yes.” Beth blinked and looked side to side before widening her eyes and leaning back again.

  “And yes? Yes what?” Elle said, feeling a headache come on as she glanced back at the Sheikh, who was still outside on the phone.

  “Yes, I want to know what’s going on with you and this man,” said Beth. “Are you sleeping with him?”

  “Mom! That’s none of your business!”

  “It certainly is. If it’s the Lord’s business, then it’s my business.”

  “Mom, that doesn’t even make sense! And when did you go off the deep end with this religion stuff?”

  “I’ve always had my faith! You know that!”

  Elle nodded, trying to stay calm. “Yeah, I know, Mom. I have too. You know that. But all this stuff about Muslims and whether your grown, adult daughter is having sex—”