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

by Annabelle Winters

  But someway, somehow, through it all, above it all, beyond it all, there was that arousal again, and it was the same arousal that Elle had seen in the light of a moment ago, and it was twisting like a snake in water, its belly glistening gold, its back shining black, and Elle suddenly couldn’t understand which side of the snake was shining gold and which side was burning black, and she couldn’t tell whether those tentacles were choking her or caressing her, and she couldn’t tell if she was crying or laughing, sobbing or giggling, if her eyes were open or closed, if her lips were moving or not . . .

  And now she felt him enter her, hard and strong, from beyond and beneath, and her mouth opened wide in a silent scream, the scream of seagulls bursting through a cloud, the scream of the wind against a sail, the scream of an arrow in flight, the scream of an eagle at height, the scream of a schoolgirl at play, the scream of a bat blinded by the day . . .

  Now he was in her, God he was in her, and slowly she could see the brightness at the edges of the dark as he thrust, feel the hope at the borders of dread as he pushed, sense the freedom in the clink of chains as he grunted, hear the laughter in wails of grief as he flexed, smell the roses in the red of the battlefield as he drove hard, drove deep, drove strong.

  And she saw the two of them in the dark reflection of the window in front of her, saw his glistening body rise and fall behind her, watched him strain and call as he pushed into her, and she was smiling, and he was smiling, and suddenly the sun was rising in her dream again, the light was shining in her night, those tentacles of darkness were petals of the flower, that snake was a giggling earthworm with the face of a cherub, she was skipping again, Margot was smiling again, those demons were holding hands with those angels, those pixies were playing in a band, the trolls were telling limericks to leprechauns, fairies were high-fiving fleas, whores were kissing nuns, priests were suckling on pigs, that cherubic worm was spitting blood, those demons were choking those angels . . .

  It went back and forth as he went back and forth, as they went back and forth, as the universe went back and forth, and as her orgasm danced into view Elle swore she could see the infinite dance of the universe in her mind, feel the back-and-forth of opposites in each thrust from the man behind her, the man inside her, the man taking her, tasting her, fucking her, loving her . . .

  And that back-and-forth WAS the universe, Elle realized as the Sheikh groaned and seized up behind her, pulled her hair and pinched her breast, pressed down on the curve of her back as he strained to control the explosion that she could feel building in his heavy balls that were slapping against her in time with the rhythm of the universe, the rhythm that lived in every creature, every feature, every rock, every hole, every person, every soul . . . the rhythm that was God by another name, that was Goddess by another name, that was the eternal divine by every name . . .

  Now as the Sheikh finally tensed up full and stretched his arms out wide as he came, she saw his reflection in the hazy mirror before them, and she saw that tattoo on his arm, and the Arabic letters burned black and bright in reflection, just like that cross burned with holy light against her breast.

  “God exists in both darkness and light,” came the whisper, came the scream, came the words, came the dream. “The darkness and the light.”

  And as her universe exploded in blinding black light, she felt him explode inside her like an underwater volcano, the blast silent and deadly, sending out a force field that could be seen before it was felt, a quiet shockwave that sent a tremor through her from below as her body braced to receive his power, swallow his seed, lay bare for his load . . .

  And suddenly it was there, that delayed explosion, that surge of his seed, that volcano that flooded her valleys, choked her canals, destroyed her dams, filling her completely, tearing down everything in its path, opening her up and closing her at the same time, taking everything from her and returning it tenfold, his power feeding off her grace, his darkness flowing into her light, flowing into her, into her.

  And then she came. Oh, fuck she came.

  28

  Beth Carson pushed those thick blue ear-plugs deeper into her ears as she turned on her side and sighed, tears flowing from her eyes, those eyes that had seen so much . . . seen so much, but more importantly, refused to see so much more.

  She thought back to that day when she was a sophomore in college, about to drop out and marry a roguish military man, follow him to Germany, live on the U.S. Army base, see Europe, see the whole damn world, yield to that spirit of adventure that burned bright in young Elizabeth Easton from smalltown Tennessee.

  He was true love, she knew then. Shoot, she knew it now! Still! And she knew it not because she knew him that well, but because she knew herself, because she saw what that military man could bring out in her, that side of her that she could never allow to rise up by her own choice. It had to be brought out, pulled out, yanked out, spanked out, torn out . . . fucked out.

  And now Beth cried out into the pillow as she tried to stop those thoughts, tried to erase those memories, those memories of what good little Elizabeth Easton became when she was behind closed doors with him, when he took her in ways that felt so wrong, so filthy, so evil, so . . . so beautiful!

  Then the call came that day, a call from his brother, the straight-laced brother who wore glasses and at sixteen already knew he wanted to be in the insurance business.

  “Training accident,” he told Beth over that old-style rotary telephone as she stood there, awkward and alone, in her parents’ pinewood-paneled hallway, blue frock and black shoes with a belt and a bow, nineteen and broken, already knowing that she had lost her true love, a love that she was certain only came around once.

  She swore she’d never marry, never let another touch her, never let another take her, never let that part of her rise up again, that part of her that had brought on this punishment. For a year she seriously considered joining the Church, but she knew she was tainted, infected, those memories still too strong in her mind to leave her in peace, those memories that came as dreams sometimes, dreams where he came to her, black wings carrying him through the air, clawed fingers pushing up her nightie, long red tongue sliding into her panties . . . and she’d awake in a sweat, wet and hot, stiff and throbbing, nipples hard and panties soaked, the orgasm too far along to stop, too intense to resist, too dark to fight.

  She did marry eventually, that straight-laced brother who grew up to be a reasonably successful insurance man, who was a good provider and a good father and a good man. Yes, a good, decent man, so good and decent that it only made Beth more guilty for the woman she was, the woman she’d been, the woman who still emerged in the dark of night sometimes. And so she fell back on that year of studying the Bible, of digging into her Catholic roots, and she built a good and decent life with a good and decent man, and they raised a good and decent daughter who was smart and gentle and compassionate, who healed people with her hands and her smile, who had become the woman that Beth wanted to be, in a way, in every way . . .

  Now Beth grimaced again as she allowed that last thought to linger, and she forced away the sickness that came with the private admission, that secret confession, that acknowledgment that if losing her true love was the price she had to pay for those experiences, then perhaps it was worth it, that if she had a chance to do it over, then perhaps she’d do it the same way . . . even if she knew those moments wouldn’t last, even if she knew that God would demand a steep price for her violations, for her sins, for her filth, that beautiful, pure filth which in some sick way led back to God . . . but only if it was done right. With the right man.

  And that’s why I can’t let Eleanor go down that path without some guarantee, without some insurance, she thought, smiling now as it occurred to her that maybe she had learned a thing or two after being an insurance man’s wife for so long!

  Yes, insurance, my sweet Elle, she thought as that faraway thumping and slamming finally came to an abrupt halt, the silence almost more uncomfortable tha
n the unholy sounds that had seemed to be coming through the metal walls of the silent jet. Something to balance out the darkness in him, the darkness he brings out in you, the dark places you can both go together, perhaps only together, that place Adam could not get to without Eve, where Eve dare not enter without Adam, that place that is neither heaven nor hell but a realm that is uniquely human, a place where flesh and spirit are one, where love and sex are one, where lust is both good and evil at once, where darkness and light join together in a union as holy as it is unholy.

  But oh, Elle, your own light, bright as it may be, is not enough to balance it out, my little healer, Beth thought as she finally took out those ear plugs and sat up and stared at the hint of red sunrise in the east. You need the light of the Lord at your back. You need His light joining with your little flame to balance out the darkness. You need God’s angels by your side to make sure those demons don’t get too close.

  Because those demons will get close, my sweet Elle. They will get close.

  29

  “Um, you’re a little close for comfort, honey,” said Tammy as she looked up at the tall blonde with the puffy lips and the dark eyeliner and the pink pushup-bra that was clearly visible under the loose black sweater as the woman leaned over the counter and tried to look at the computer screen. “Back up now. There’s a good girl.”

  “I’m not your dog,” said Clarissa, straightening up for a moment before taking a breath and leaning even farther past the counter, her snakeskin boots rising up off the floor, tight bottom sticking up as Tammy tried not to look.

  “Oh, no? Whose dog are you then, honey?” said Tammy sweetly, glancing at the black leather choker around Clarissa’s thin white neck. “Now back up or I will call someone to put a leash on you. God!”

  “I know he’s here, Butch,” Clarissa said now, finally stepping away from the counter and looking at her phone for the hundredth time that day. Akbar’s phone had been ringing, so it was clearly on. The bastard just wasn’t answering. Fair enough. She did have him STABBED two nights ago . . . “Just give me the fucking room number.”

  “You know I can’t give you the room number,” Tammy snorted, pushing her chair back from the desk and looking up at Clarissa. “Hell, I can’t even tell you if he’s still at the hospital.”

  Clarissa frowned for a moment, studying Tammy’s expression. Then she shook her head in disbelief. “He’s checked out? Already?”

  Tammy held a straight face, her light eyes narrowing for a moment as she tried to hold back a smile. “I didn’t say that. I didn’t say anything.”

  Clarissa smiled now, winking at Tammy before quickly glancing around the empty hospital lobby. Then she smiled and lifted her sweater, giving Tammy a full view of that pink push-up and cleavage, the belly-button ring, the edge of that snake-tattoo that clearly extended well below her flat stomach.

  “For your troubles, love,” Clarissa whispered, licking her painted lips as Tammy rocked back in her chair and laughed. “Seeya, Butch.”

  She walked into the street, pulling her loose sweater close as she hugged herself for a moment. What was Akbar up to? He wasn’t at the hotel—her buddy at the desk there said he hadn’t been back since Christmas Eve. One of his bodyguards had showed up yesterday, on Christmas morning for a bit. But that made sense—he’d probably swung by to pick up fresh clothes for the Sheikh.

  The group hadn’t checked out of the hotel, but Clarissa knew the Sheikh well enough to know that didn’t mean anything. Akbar often just kept paying for the suite even when he wasn’t in town. It was just easier than checking in and out.

  “My time and peace of mind is more important than a few hundred dollars a day,” he would say when she asked him—back when she didn’t know him well—why he paid for a vacant presidential suite when he was gone for three months.

  “So get an apartment,” she had said a few months later, when they were already fucking and the Sheikh’s men had to deal with a number of complaints—some of them directly to the police—from hotel guests who simply assumed someone was being murdered in the room next door.

  Eventually the Sheikh had booked up the entire top floor of the boutique hotel, which not only reduced the complaints but gave them more options for their little games. Different rooms with different views, different furniture arrangements, fancy fixtures . . . lamps and vases that could be smashed and replaced, those hotel paintings that could be slashed and tossed, mirrors that could be smashed without remorse . . . oh, the beauty of fucking in front of a shattered mirror!

  “That is why I do not like to get an apartment,” the Sheikh had said after the two of them had wrecked an entire room before he wrecked her against the broken hotel room window, which had a hole in it the size of a television yet, a hole matched by how much her pussy had to stretch to take him in all the way . . .

  “Ya, Allah,” she whispered as she felt herself get a little wet inside, out there on the street, just a day after Christmas. “Where are you, my dark Arabian stallion? Your mare needs you.” She dialed his number again, talking out loud as it rang. “Come on, Akbar. You can’t possibly be mad. I waited three weeks for your answer. I was good. I didn’t push. I wanted to see if you’d step up and take my offer, step up and take me just like you’ve taken me so hard this past year. I know you want Rattlesnake Records as part of your grand quest to elevate the perception of Islam and Arabs, to make Americans see that you guys can be modern and progressive and . . . and like country music, I guess. And I know you want me, Akbar. So what’s the holdup?”

  Still no answer, and she wasn’t going to leave another voicemail, so Clarissa hung up and spat onto the sidewalk in frustration, almost hitting someone’s kid as the mom glared at her and the dad just shrugged and blinked as he tried not to look down her sweater.

  “Fuck!” she shouted. “Goddamn fuck shit FUCK!”

  “Excuse me, do you mind?” said an older woman in a floral dress and thick leggings. “Do you know you’re standing outside a church?”

  “FUCK your church,” she screeched as she walked away, boot-heels clicking, hips swinging, buttocks swishing. Now she turned her head halfway and winked at the white-haired woman. “And fuck you too, while I’m at it.”

  “Burn in hell,” whispered the woman through gritted teeth, and Clarissa just tilted her head back and laughed.

  “That’s the spirit,” she shouted, pumping her fist and then sticking her middle finger up in the air as she turned the corner. “Let it out, you frustrated bitch.”

  But she was the frustrated bitch, and she fucking knew it. This man had gotten to her, gotten under her skin, brought out something sickeningly bad in her . . . just like he was so goddamn close to bringing out the worst in her.

  And now her phone beeped with a new email, and she looked down and saw a Google news alert she had set for the Sheikh. The publicity girl at Rattlesnake had shown her how to do it—PR folks did it to stay on top of breaking news about the stars they managed—and Clarissa had set one up for “Sheikh Akbar Salim Nihaara” a few months ago, along with alerts for “Clarissa Rollins Rattlesnake Records” and a few other choice phrases. She’d get an alert every time the Sheikh’s name was mentioned in a news article on the web, and now Clarissa stopped dead in her tracks and feverishly clicked on the link and began to read.

  She snickered now as she read the article about Akbar’s gay brother being thrown in some dungeon by his own fucking father. Yeah, good luck getting the world to think you guys are anything more than savages of the desert, my love, she thought as the laughter came in shrill peals even as relief washed over her, relief that now there was a perfectly reasonable explanation why Akbar was too preoccupied to take her calls.

  “All right,” she muttered as she slipped the phone into her back pocket and smiled sweetly at a homeless guy who wanted money and not a smile. “All right, my desert savage, go fix your fucked-up family, and then come back to the civilized world and let’s start our own family.”

  And a
s she whispered the words, Clarissa once again felt that annoying tingle that had been showing up more and more, a desire that had never been particularly strong amongst all the other desires, the other needs, the other urges.

  She’d begged him to come inside her, swearing she was on the pill, eventually taking the pill in front of him as often as possible, so he wouldn’t think she was trying to trap him. But he never did. Always in a condom. And the condom always flushed down almost immediately. No chance to trap him even if she wanted!

  Not that she wanted to do it that way, Clarissa admitted to herself as she headed back to the Rattlesnake offices—which were closed but she had nothing else going on anyway, no one else to see, nothing else to fill the void, this void that somehow seemed to grow larger as the obsession with the Sheikh twisted her up and turned her around in ways that were as terrifying as thrilling.

  Three days, she thought as she walked into the deserted lobby of the record label’s offices in downtown Nashville, the security guard barely glancing up from his phone as she slid past. I’ll give you three days, Akbar. Then I’m coming out there. Three days should be enough to sort out your little family drama and get back to me. Three days, Akbar. Because I sure as fuck don’t want to spend New Year’s Eve in your shitty little desert.

  30

  Three days, Elle thought as she looked down at the city of Paris, the river Seine looking like a trickle, the Eiffel Tower the size of a pin. I’ve got another day. Little more. At least a day. I’m fine if I take the pill within the next day.

  She had slept through the entire Paris layover, a dreamless sleep of such depth and calm that she felt like a new woman when she awoke to the sound of the pilot muttering something in Arabic over the speakers in the hallway outside her private cabin.

  “Shit,” she had muttered, pushing up the window shade and saying “shit” again when she saw the French landscape getting smaller and farther away as the jet climbed up past the thick gray clouds.