“No,” she said now, turning to him, blinking once and then holding her gaze steady even as the strangest sense of not guilt but excitement flowed through her when she saw what she could only describe as . . . as ELATION flash in his green eyes! What the hell?
The Sheikh didn’t say anything, holding her gaze for a long moment, then smoothly turning his head and looking out the window, into the cloudless night sky, the black so deep it almost had a sheen to it. He blinked now, and Elle could see him swallow, like perhaps he himself was surprised at his instinctive reaction.
“It’s all right,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “I can run out to a pharmacy when we stop in Paris.” She paused now, swallowing once and taking a breath. “Unless you’ve got . . .”
“Got what?” he snapped, his expression hardening as he whipped his head in her direction. “The morning-after pill? On board my plane?” He tilted his head back and laughed, but not because he found anything funny. “Of course, Nurse Easton! A year’s supply in the medical cooler at the back! Every brand! Every flavor! Chewables as well!” He shook his head now, his jaw tightening, his eyes narrow with accusation, voice thick with indignation. “Ya, Allah! What kind of a man do you think I am?”
Elle paused before exhaling, her mouth twisting up, eyebrows going wonky, one eye closing as she looked at him. “Um, you really want me to answer that?”
A flash of darkness crossed his face, but then those green eyes twinkled and his full lips curled up in a half-smile, the beginnings of a cocky, knowing grin. “Yes, Nurse Eleanor. I do want you to answer that. But keep in mind . . .” and now he leaned forward on the teakwood table separating them. “Yes, keep in mind that your answer will also by implication answer another question. The question of what kind of woman you are, my sweet Nurse Easton, my innocent angel of light.”
Elle giggled now even though she knew he was right, that those two questions were inseparable after what happened last night, inseparable like two sides of a coin, like day and night, inside and outside, darkness and light, one implying the other, the shadow of one side highlighting the glow of the other side.
“Why do you keep calling me that? Angel of light. It feels weird,” Elle said, hugging herself for a moment as she felt that wonderful tingle that chilled her and warmed her at the same time, that feeling she had gotten when they first met, when they stood there in that hospital lobby and talked about comic books and carnivals, trivialities and triflings, words that carried no weight as sentences but were heavy with emotion, laden with meaning, sparkling with life, with . . . with love?
“Because you are like an angel of light, my sweet healer!” the Sheikh said now, spreading those muscular arms again, his broadness overwhelming in the narrow body of the plane, his wingspan almost stretching across its entire width. “Gentle, innocent, trusting . . .”
“Clearly not that innocent,” Elle said, looking down at her hands and then blinking and glancing back up. “As for trusting . . .”
“Well, you are here, are you not? On my airplane, in international airspace, where the only laws are my laws.”
Elle smiled and glanced up at the ceiling for a moment. “What about Allah’s laws? You’re not just a prince but a god now?”
The Sheikh leaned forward, and she could smell his clean, earthy musk as his voice went low. “Well, you WERE saying ohgod, ohgod, ohgod an awful lot last night . . .” he whispered.
“Because you were about to rape me,” she blurted out even as the word shocked her to the core, chilled her to the bone, warmed her suddenly, now heated her, heated her up, ohgod so hot suddenly, so hot . . . ohgod how . . . why . . .
“Was I?” he asked, not batting an eyelid as his eyes narrowed, those emerald eyes turning a darker shade of green even as he focused his gaze square on her, his jaw setting tight, that half-smile fixed and unwavering.
“Yes,” she whispered even as she felt that secret wetness steal its way into her clean panties, a wetness that she didn’t understand, bringing with it a heat that mortified her, a need that made her feel dirty, filthy, so filthy, ohgod no, ohgod what was happening, ohgod go away you filthy woman, leave me alone, ohgod I’m not that woman, I’m not that woman, I’m not, I’m not, I . . .
“I forced myself on you last night, did I not, my sweet angel,” he said now, unbuckling his seatbelt and slowly rising from that smooth white leather throne even as Elle swallowed hard and shifted in her seat, the arousal surging so hard she couldn’t fight it, couldn’t deny it, couldn’t resist it, didn’t want to resist it, didn’t want to resist him, didn’t want to resist herself, resist what was happening to her, what she was becoming, what was awakening in her, possessing her, claiming her . . .
“Yes,” she whispered as the Sheikh towered over her now, the scent of his body heavy in the air, almond oil and brown sage, his powerful frame stretching as he breathed deep and reached down, snapping off her seatbelt and grasping her by both wrists, pulling her to her feet with a controlled urgency that was so overwhelming she shuddered and gasped as she stood.
He dragged her away from behind the table now, pulling her over to the far side of the private cabin, pushing her up against the cushioned wall, her cheek flat against the dark red velvet, her arms pinned to her sides, this man’s heavy body pressed hard against her curves, his erection pushing against her bottom, his hardness unmistakable even through their clothes.
“Please don’t,” she heard herself say, and the words came out with a shocking lightness, and as Elle heard herself speak she felt herself getting pulled into the fantasy, this fantasy, this most secret of all fantasies, darkest of all fantasies, and she could almost see the emotions roll through her like visions in the night sky behind that red velvet wall, and her emotions were solid objects flying through space, looking in the window and grinning at her, gesturing to her, calling to her . . . the face of guilt smiling at her arousal, the lips of shock laughing at her words, the fingers of fear pointing at what she was turning into, the tentacles of terror teasing her with the feeling of her self-image being stripped away even as her body yearned to be stripped naked, pushed against this wall, and taken hard while she whispered, “Please don’t. Ohgod, please don’t”
26
“Stop or I’ll scream,” she moaned as he pinned her arms tight against her sides, pushed himself against her shuddering body, ground his erection against her bottom, growled as he sniffed her hair, grunted as he smelled her need, his arousal rising as he sensed that she was slipping into this fantasy with shocking ease, an ease that meant only one thing.
She trusted him.
Ya, Allah, she trusts me, does she not? Trusts me in a way I think even she does not understand yet! And it terrifies me, he thought now as he felt himself shudder with the arousal roaring through his tensed-up frame, making every muscle flex, putting every fiber of his being on full alert, making him feel alive in the way only the animals must feel when they run free and wild under cover of night, taking their prey, taking their mates, the fight and the fuck combining in one dark union, darkness with its underbelly of light, brightness with a sheen of black . . .
Yes, it terrifies me because I have never had a woman give herself so completely to me, give herself in a way that makes it clear she is not submitting to my power but instead giving me the gift of her trust, a gift that a woman can only give to one man, a gift a man will only get from one woman. And by God, when that gift is offered, the man had damn well be ready for it, he had damn well be worthy of it, worthy of her trust, worthy of him being given the chance to take this woman to that place where man and woman can only reach together, that place where dark and light are one, where joy and sorrow are one, tragedy and victory are the same, capture and release are equally liberating, space and time are two of a hundred dimensions . . . the dimensions of love, sex, God, lust . . . and trust.
And am I worthy of her trust, he wondered as he reached for her hair with his left hand.
It is too late to ask that
question, he told himself as he yanked her head back and ravished her neck, licking her as she shuddered, biting her as she moaned.
Because she has answered for you, Akbar, he reminded himself as she tried to push against the wall with her free hand, push him away with an urgency that only made his own need rise, his need to possess, dominate, own, love . . . love?
Yes, love, the answer came like her body spoke the word, like his body spoke the word, like the silence spoke the word, like the darkness spoke the word, like the light spoke it, spoke it to him, to them, to the angels watching them, to the demons taunting them, the fairies frolicking round, the pixies prancing with glee, the trolls tumbling off toadstools, black toadstools, covered in fungus, mushrooms with crooked smiles, magpies with twisted beaks, ravens and doves playing poker under moonlight, crows shaving carrots with their claws, hawks inspecting diamonds for flaws, looking back up through their unblinking monocle-lenses and nodding with approval because there were no flaws in this diamond, no flaws at all, everything perfect and insane, terrifying and calm, nothing but their bodies and their lust and their need and their love and their trust and his word, and her word, words of fantasy more real than life, fantasy perfect and flawless, delicately balancing on the razor-edge of reality and dream, the knife-edge of darkness and light, the bleeding edge of violence and play . . .
“Stop or I’ll scream,” she whispered through lips red-black under the yellow light, and in her brown eyes he could see a glimmer of that wonderful black, that glint of the woman inside, that hint that she was allowing herself to wake up, stepping into his world, growing into that woman who could stand by his side, balance his darkness because she could balance her own darkness, bring out his light because she was all light, all bright, all . . . all his.
All his.
27
“Stop or I’ll scream,” she whispered as she felt him grab her breast through her sweater, his thick fingers finding her nipple and pinching hard through the wool, the pain shooting through her as her dark red nub went stiff and hard, the other nipple puckering in sympathy, her panties feeling so tight, so warm, so goddamn wet that she thought she had peed herself, and it felt filthy and wonderful, erotic and holy, dirty and divine.
“You will scream for Mama, little girl?” he muttered as he let go of her breast and pushed her harder against the wall and reached down with that meaty paw and placed his hand on her crotch, fingers slowly sliding tight, pushing her panties into her slit through her jeans as the wet cloth rode up in her buttocks from behind with the pressure. “Scream that a bad man has come through your window, come to you in the night, pulled you out of your warm bed, pushed you against the cold wall as you felt his heat, smelled his need, sensed his power, feared his darkness? Yes, little Eleanor?”
“Yes,” she groaned as he RIPPED open the top button of her jeans, sliding his hand down the front of her crotch, down into her warm panties, her wet panties, his fingers driving through the matted brown curls, middle finger lined up along her wet crack, thumb searching for her clit, finding it immediately, circling and tapping, flicking her stiff little bean, making her moan, making her shiver, making her hunch up and gasp. “Yes, I’ll scream. I’ll wake up the goddamn neighborhood. They’ll come for you.”
“No one will hear, little girl,” he rasped. “And even if they do, none can stop me. It is too late, my angel. The demon has come for you now. Just relax and give in. Surrender and submit. Do not make me hurt you, little girl. Surrender and submit. You are powerless. Helpless. A rabbit being taken by a bear, a mouse cornered by the wolf, a doe facing the tiger claw. Surrender and submit, little Eleanor.”
“Never,” she gasped through gritted teeth even as she felt his finger slide down, parting her secret lips, now curling up inside her cunt as his thumb circled her throbbing clit. “You’ll never have me, you animal, you villain, you goddamn brute.”
“I already have you, my bunny, my mouse, my tender little doe. See how wet you are for me, how your little panties are soaked with your juices, sticky with your need. Surrender and submit, and I won’t tell anyone how wet you were for me, how your tight little pussy dripped with your secret desire, betrayed your darkest needs. See how wet you are, my angel.”
The Sheikh drew his hand out of her panties now, bringing it to her face as he held her against that plush velvet wall, coating her cheek with her own wetness now, bringing his fingers to her lips as she clamped her mouth tight, spitting and struggling as he forced his fingers into her mouth.
“You’re a liar. I’m not wet for you. I’m not wet at all. You’re lying. You’re a goddamn liar,” she gurgled as she spat once more. “And here’s what happens to liars.” Now she opened her mouth and let his fingers in and then just BIT down, bit down HARD, and he ROARED in pain as she felt her teeth sink into his flesh, and she could taste blood now, fresh blood, his blood.
“You goddamn bitch,” he growled as he pulled his fingers out of her mouth, grabbed her by the hair, and then SLAPPED her across the face, sending her FLYING into that white leather chair.
She KICKED out with both feet as he leapt at her, getting him hard in the chest but barely slowing him down. The Sheikh’s face was red with rage, peaked with arousal, wild with desire, and she could feel it too, the fear and the adrenaline combining to take her somewhere that felt so goddamn dark, so terrifyingly real, so fucking WONDERFUL that she LAUGHED like a madwoman as he grabbed her by the throat, now the back of her neck, his bloody fingers leaving streaks of thick red on the white leather, and Akbar YANKED her up by her hair, SLAPPED her across the face once more, and then pushed her face-down on that teakwood table.
“Let me GO, you asshole!” she screamed as the pain roared through her system, the blood rushing to her face, her cheek throbbing as she felt him pin her legs against the edge of the table, one hand holding her face down while the other hand ripped her jeans clean down the zipper, fingers now grabbing those jeans from behind, YANKING them down over her bottom.
Her panties slid out of where they had ridden deep into her rear crack, and they came down with her jeans, exposing her bare bottom as Elle gasped with real fright, shivered with real fear, blinked with real disbelief . . . disbelief that through all of it, through the pain and the fear, the panic and the madness, it was the arousal that was most real, the arousal that was the only thing real, so real that there was nothing else for a moment, no him, no her, nothing but . . . nothing but IT.
“It’s a fantasy,” she gurgled as he spanked her naked ass, bit her bare bottoms, whipped her wide rear.
“He’ll stop if I ask him,” she muttered as he parted her rear cheeks and licked her asshole wet, licked it deep, licked it in a way that made her shiver, made her squirm, made her . . . made her spread.
And suddenly she realized she wasn’t in control, not because he wouldn’t stop if she said it, but because she couldn’t say it at all! And it hit her that ohmygod controlling this man is not why I am afraid right now, aroused right now, ALIVE right now . . . no, the greatest horror of this is that I do not think I can control MYSELF!
Now she felt her body relax, and it was like a door inside her opened now, and as she felt that arousal take over in the most fundamental, visceral way, Elle realized that submission was not about submitting to the man but about submitting to the woman, the woman inside the woman, the woman inside all women, every woman alive or dead, virgin or harlot, slut or saint, nun or witch, baby-girl or bitch.
“That’s my girl,” he panted now, as she spread her shuddering thighs for him, arched down her back, stuck out her big bottom, allowed him to spread her so wide she could feel her goddamn slit open up beneath her parted legs. “Spread for me, Eleanor. Spread for your Arabian stud, you good Catholic girl. Spread for the darkness, my angel of light. Surrender and let me take you. Let me take you there. To that place we can only get to together, as one.”
“Oh, fuck,” she shuddered as the Sheikh parted the lips of her pussy with two fingers, leaning in and
blowing warm air into her open cunt, giving her the filthiest feeling of emptiness, a yearning to be filled that threatened to tear her apart. “Oh, my God, Akbar!”
“Are you ready, my little angel?” he whispered from down between her legs, and she could hear him undo his heavy belt buckle as he blew into her open pussy once again, the warm draft making her clit stiffen tight, her vagina clenching like a gaping mouth as he kept it open with those two fingers. “Are you ready to give me what I want? To let me take what is mine? To surrender to my need?” He paused for a moment, his next words coming along with one more hot breath against her glistening slit. “To surrender to YOUR need?”
And as she felt that other woman stretch and smile inside her, Elle felt herself smile too, and for a moment she felt like laughing, felt like skipping with joy, like the world was full of light and overflowing with beauty and everything was love and all of it was play. And she looked for that woman again, that other woman, that woman in black-and-white, that woman she was sure was still with her, had always been with her, Margot and her lover, Elle and her lover, Mother and her lover, darkness and light, darkness and—
Then that woman came into view, and she was saying something, speaking without sound, smiling without light, staring without focus, and was it real, Elle wondered in a panic as she felt the Sheikh unbuckle and unzip behind her, felt him guide his rock-hard cock to the emptiness between her legs, felt her arousal twist and turn, growing red fangs and black tentacles, and the woman was Margot again, and Margot was trapped by those tentacles of arousal, poisoned by those fangs of need, and the world was darkness now, and instead of skipping through fields she was being dragged through the desert, and instead of joy there was tragedy, instead of laughter there were tears, instead of hope there was dread, instead of light there was that darkness . . .
Stockings for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 5) Page 10
