“Impossible,” said the old Sheikh, blinking and then staring wide-eyed at Beth Easton. “My son would not convert. You cannot know this. Perhaps he has said it to you to ease your mind, just like you are saying that your daughter has converted as a lie that you think will ease my mind, perhaps stop me from preventing this marriage.”
“I do not lie,” lied Beth, crossing her fingers behind her back. “And I am certainly not lying about this. I baptized your son myself, with holy water from the Trinity Church of Nashville, Tennessee. There will need to be more formal proceedings in the coming months, but for now this will suffice. Your son is now as much Christian as my daughter is Muslim after her conversion just now. And so now my daughter will be marrying a Christian, and your son will be marrying a Muslim. Inshallah and Amen!”
The old Sheikh closed his eyes tight, his jaw clenching as he pulled frantically on his beard. Beth could tell that this man was controlling his rage, perhaps controlling an impulse to have her “seized” and thrown into the catacombs or whatever! She closed her eyes and prayed, hoping to every God she could name that she had been right and this man was less of a loose cannon than he appeared, that he couldn’t have ruled a country for fifty years and made his citizens wealthy while avoiding war and conflict if he were indeed a madman who threw out death sentences and ordered people to be hung because he was having a bad day. No, this man overreacted because this was family, and holy cow Beth knew family-drama better than anyone. This man acted this way because he was just another dad who couldn’t always handle the emotions that came with being a parent. And that was something that was as universal as air and sunlight, like how it was the same stars that shined on Arabia and America, the same moon that smiled over Nihaara and Nashville. This man was just a father who needed some time. And please, God, she thought, let this have been enough time for him to realize that the love of a parent for a child will eventually win out, whether you want it to or not.
“Well, if that is true, then how do you feel about your Christian daughter converting to Islam, the religion that is reviled in America, the faith that those faithless terrorists claim as their own even though my pet rock has more faith than they do?” said the old Sheikh now, showing that he indeed could control himself when he wanted to, bring his reason to bear, try and turn this conversation around by playing on Beth Easton’s prejudices, on her own beliefs and desires.
Beth took a breath and swallowed hard. She had prepared for this, and she prayed one last time that when she spoke, it was with the authenticity that she knew was in her, through all those religious convictions, beliefs that she loved and cherished but would never be more important than her love for that little girl, that angel of light.
“Elle will find her way to God with Akbar,” she whispered now as a lump formed in her throat. “The true God. The all-encompassing Goddess. That place a man and woman can only get to together, a realm that is by nature a union, a joining, a combination, a marriage that goes beyond this world and into the next, transcending all thoughts of religion or creed, heaven or hell.”
The Sheikh was quiet, his eyes narrowed, his gaze fixed, and Beth wondered if he even understood what she was saying. Now she wondered if even SHE understood what she was saying, but then she remembered that if the understanding eluded her, it was because she was trying to apprehend it with the woefully inadequate faculties of logic and reason, things that had no value in that secret world that Beth had glimpsed all those years ago, still glimpsed in her dreams, now glimpsed in that speck of healthy darkness she saw in her daughter’s brown eyes when Elle looked at Akbar.
“A marriage,” the old Sheikh said now, something in his voice making Beth think she had broken through, at least a little bit.
Now the old Sheikh sighed and pressed that button on his Lay-Z Boy throne and stood up off the seat. He turned now, slowly walking to a seating area that overlooked the open veranda, where that stubborn little moon still smiled faintly even though the sun was heating up, waking up that enchanted land of Nihaara that was being rocked with family-drama, fathers and mothers, kings and queens, religion and chaos.
“Come,” he said, gesturing to an attendant and then beckoning to Beth. “Let us have tea as the sun rises over my kingdom.” He turned for a moment, smiling at her before looking out over his land. “My kingdom which will soon pass into the able hands of Akbar, whether he is Christian or Muslim. Yes, Christian or Muslim, he is my son. My son. Your son-in-law. Come, Elizabeth. If we are to be family, then let me tell you one or two of our family secrets. Have I showed you my pet rock? Its name is Elvis.”
50
“So how long did you think you could keep this from me?”
“How long did YOU think YOU could keep this from ME?”
“My mom BAPTIZED you on the freakin’ airplane?!”
“My cleric converted you without my approval?!”
“Inshallah,” said Elle with a giggle, now stepping away from the bars and slowly raising the bottom of her black tunic.
“Amen,” said the Sheikh, standing up to full height as his breath caught from the way that black cloth rose up past her knees, her thighs, revealing the fresh white, the creamy white, the pure white of her stockings.
“Allah hu Akbar,” she whispered as she pulled that hijab up past her head, revealing all, all her light, all her might, all her glow, so goddamn bright.
“I am your Akbar,” he growled, reaching through the bars and clawing at the air as she stayed just out of reach, tossing that black hijab to the side, opening up her hair, now snapping off her bra and letting her boobs hang free, slipping off her panties that were useless because they were so damned wet right now.
“Come here,” he ordered again through the bars as his cock rose to full mast at the sight of Elle standing straight and beautiful, white stockings shining in the darkness, hair aflame with red light from the walls, eyes burning with desire, on fire with fantasy.
“No,” she whispered, feeling her arousal soar when she saw how he glanced with raw hunger at her naked body which felt divine and beautiful right now, her breasts feeling full like those of the Goddess, her nipples proud and pert, her dark triangle front and center, like Venus herself was shining down her power, her confidence, her gift that can only be enjoyed in the flesh, in the place between body and spirit, that holiest of places.
“No,” Elle whispered again as she strolled past his cage, just out of reach of his brutish arms, his thick fingers that clawed at the ether as he yearned for her. “You’re a prisoner. Behind bars. A bad man. A wicked man. You can’t have me.”
“Oh, this is not the time, woman,” he groaned as she watched his cock go so hard that a part of her wanted to rush to him, to slam into those iron rods, take his dark rod all the way in, right goddamn now. “Do not tease me, you witch. You do not know what you will awaken.”
Elle felt her own wetness flow from her slit now, and she felt those forces of playful darkness take her closer to the beast’s cage, his outstretched paws, closer now, almost there, just out of reach of the prisoner, the condemned man, the scoundrel with those green eyes that wanted one last taste of woman, like that would make his fate worth it.
And just as she got there she saw his hands disappear for a moment, and then in a flash they were back through the bars, but now they were holding that long, leather belt of his, and as Elle gasped in shock the Sheikh pulled the belt around her throat and yanked her close, slamming her against the bars as that beast inside him roared, and he turned her round and her back was to his cage now, that belt around her throat like the tentacles of her arousal, and it surged in her, that arousal, that need, that dark desire, and she felt his breath at her neck, smelled his scent in the air, felt his cock slide silently through the bars from below, its swollen head searching for her beckoning slit, its heavy glistening shaft like that golden-black snake as it entered her, slowly, slowly, filling her, stretching her, opening her wide.
“I love you, Elle,” he whispered
at her neck as that noose tightened just right, just right so she could breathe . . . just right so she could smile, smile in the darkness, smile at the darkness, smile with the darkness.
“I love you, Akbar,” she gurgled through her choker as she felt him drive deep, thrust full, fill her whole. “God, I love you.”
And as those black shadows danced against the warm red cavern walls that were like the inside of the universe’s womb, and as her stockings gleamed white in the night as the Sheikh’s shadow fell upon her, Elle thought she saw that woman in black-and-white walk past in the shadows, and the woman was holding hands with her lover, and the woman wasn’t looking at Elle anymore, wasn’t whispering anything, wasn’t wailing anything.
And she didn’t need to whisper anything, because the world was whispering to Elle, those Gods and Goddesses were whispering to Elle, those angels and demons, those pixies and ponies, those gnomes and goblins, those bunnies and babies . . .
You will find God in the darkness.
You will find God in the light.
You will find God in him.
He will find God in you.
Merry Christmas.
Happy New Year.
Inshallah and Amen.
∞
EPILOGUE 1
“I knew it when you bought out Grady’s share of the company without telling me, Akbar,” said Clarissa as she stared at him sitting there in his white Arabian tunic, those colorful tapestries on the wall behind him lazily moving with the mid-day desert breeze. “I knew that was your answer. That you were choosing to disengage. That you were stepping out of the game.” She sighed now, winking at him for a moment. “And in a way that means I win, yeah? That in some way I actually made you surrender. Hah! Go figure!”
Akbar frowned, his eyes narrowing for a moment before his expression softened. “But yet you came, Clarissa. Not to mention what you did before coming!” He smiled now, shaking his head as Clarissa just shrugged. “Converting to Islam? I do not know if I should be flattered or afraid.”
Clarissa’s jaw went tight now, a seriousness coming to her for a moment before she blinked and shook her head and glanced at his side, at the slight bulge from his bandaged wound. “Akbar, oh, God, I don’t know how I could have—”
“But I do know how, Clarissa,” Akbar said quickly, his look darkening for a moment. “And it is not you, Clarissa. You are dark but not evil. Kinky but not sick. Twisted, but in a strangely authentic, self-loving way. So it is not you.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Akbar! Really? ‘It’s not you, it’s me’?” Clarissa shook her head as she smiled.
“I did not say it was me, Clarissa. I only said it was not you. Not all you, at least. It was the two of us together. We made each other into people that took us further away from our true essence, made each of us darker in a negative way instead of providing each other with balance, with the energy that comes from two opposites. It was unhealthy.”
Clarissa raised a well-plucked eyebrow. “So you’re saying we’re too alike to make it?”
Akbar smiled, looking at her rawhide boots and then slowly stretching his legs until Clarissa could see that the Sheikh was wearing his cowboy boots beneath that long traditional Arab garb.
“Yee haw,” he said in that Arabian accent, no attempt to fake a Tennessee drawl.
“Yee haw, you Arabian asshole,” she said softly, reaching out with her foot and touching her boot to his for a moment before looking up into his green eyes, that feeling of despair somehow already transforming to something that felt like . . . felt like . . . felt like RELIEF!
Yes, relief that Akbar’s words made so much fucking sense to her, relief that she wasn’t as far gone as that twisted woman who thought it would be attractive to get someone stabbed, who thought that it’s what he’d want to see in her. And relief that she could already tell that you know what, she’d be just fine without him. Just fucking fine.
She sighed now, nodding and glancing out past the open veranda, at the desert that seemed reasonably pleasant and not like the snake-pit she’d imagined. Not that she had anything against snake-pits . . .
“So I guess you want to buy out my share of Rattlesnake,” she said. “It’s gonna fucking cost you double now, though.”
Akbar shook his head, his eyes firm and steady like he had already thought this through. “Actually, I am happy with the forty percent that I own. You should remain as chief. I think it will work well. Especially after your wild, radical, out-of-the-blue conversion to Islam. Talk about newsworthy!”
Clarissa laughed. “Holy fuck! I totally forgot about that shit! I’m a Muselam now!”
Akbar snorted, eyebrow rising. “On second thought, perhaps I will just buy you out rather than risk you becoming a brand ambassador for Islam. The religion does not need any more bad press.”
“Aaloooo Ackkber,” she whispered, winking and standing up. “I ain’t selling now. This could fucking play well. Hell yeah, this could get me some serious press. Sorry, buddy. I’m in it to win it now. I wonder if I should take a Muslim name to fuck with people’s heads a bit more. And a new outfit setup. Oh, shit, this is gonna be fun.”
“God help us,” Akbar muttered as he watched her pace through the day-chambers in her bitch-boots and black jeans, the attendants doing everything in their power to not stare. “Christ, Mohamed, Allah, and Yahweh. All of you are needed for this one. She is in your hands now. Inshallah and Amen.”
EPILOGUE 2
NEW YEAR’S EVE
THE ROYAL PALACE OF NIHAARA
A WEDDING, A CORONATION, A BIRTHDAY
A PARTY FOR THE AGES
“Inshallah and Amen,” said Elizabeth Easton, Queen Mother of Nihaara.
“Inshallah and Amen,” said old Sheikh Salim, King of Nihaara for one more night.
“Inshallah,” said the Muslims in the crowd at the Grand Ballroom of Nihaara’s Royal Palace.
“Amen,” said the Christians.
“Amen,” said a few of the Muslims, looking over nervously at each other and at the married couple on the podium before them.
“Inshallah,” said the remaining Christians while laughter and murmuring rose up as the nuptials ended and the next celebration began.
“Happy Birthday, Father,” said Prince Mohammed, nudging his father as the crowd cheered.
“Stop harassing me with your guilt-inducing schoolboy eyes,” snapped the old King as he tried to hide a smile. “I instructed the Council to eliminate those laws now. In the New Year a man will be able to marry another man if he so chooses. Just make sure that the one you choose is a Muslim.”
“Hey, I know some single Muslims in Nashville,” Grady whispered from next to Mo.
Clarissa rolled her eyes and shook her head, turning to her left and glancing at the young Prince Kai, tall and beefy but with that gentle face, those kind eyes, that innocent countenance that felt so pure and clean that it made Clarissa feel filthy in a way she had never felt before.
“I heard you’re a virgin,” she whispered to him as the birthday celebrations went on around them.
“What?” said Kai, his face going red, eyes going wide. “Who has said it?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Clarissa whispered. “Is it true?”
Kai blinked and swallowed, thinking hard for a moment before manning up and nodding. “Yes.”
“Oh, God,” Clarissa muttered. “That’s so fucking hot. So goddamn filthy.”
“What?” said Kai in astonishment, glancing down at this woman who wore the strangest bastardization of a hijab he had ever seen, low-cut V-neck with pink push-up bra underneath, hemline up past her knees, rattlesnake boots up to her skinny white thighs, cloth pulled tight around her bottom. No panty-line.
“Follow me, sweet prince,” she whispered, grabbing his pinky finger and tugging. Then she winked and stuck her tongue out for a moment. “It’s OK. I’m Mooselim.”
And as the dancers came out to entertain the guests, the bride in white and the groom in black stol
e away to the far balcony, the tall, dark, handsome groom pulling his curvy, bouncy, giggling bride out of view from the guests and pushing her up against the sandstone wall as her pretty face shone with the light of that smiling crescent moon.
“You know,” Elle said as she looked up at her new husband. “There’s something about that marriage proposal that I need to clear up.”
“What is that?” said the Sheikh, his breathing already heavy as he kissed her neck, fumbling to get his hands through some opening—any goddamn opening—in her elaborate wedding dress. “Bloody hell. I will have the designers of this dress shot in the knees and hung in the town square.”
Elle giggled as she ran her fingers through her dark lover’s thick black hair. “No, seriously, Akbar. Listen.”
“I do not need my mouth to listen,” he growled as he kissed her neck, now attempting to suck her nipple through her dress, somehow succeeding in getting that nub all hot and stiff.
“OK, here’s my question. You said that if I decide not to take the pill and end up getting pregnant, then we are to be married,” she said as she felt her heat rising under his hungry touch.
“Which is exactly how it turned out,” he growled. “You did not take the pill, and the blood test this morning—seven days after we made love—shows that you are indeed pregnant. So what is the question. By God, get on with it. Do I have to gag you to get you to speak faster?”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” she giggled, suddenly gasping as she felt his hand slide though an opening in the side of her dress, fingers moving fast towards her panties, her white panties, panties that were clean and dry not so long ago but were wet now, dirty now, filthy now . . .
“Bloody hell, woman,” he grunted as he began to unbuckle even as he started to pull her panties down under that wedding dress. “Out with it. What is the question?”
“The question is what would happen if I didn’t take the pill but still didn’t get pregnant? Would we be married anyway?”
“The answer to that is obvious,” said the Sheikh, pulling back a moment and looking her in the eye. “And it should have been obvious back then too.”
Stockings for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 5) Page 17
