Never Refuse a Sheikh

by Jackie Ashenden

  And yet somehow he must not break. He could not afford to.

  So bend. As she is bending.

  “You should not, Safira.” His voice cracked. “I’m not worth your forgiveness.”

  Her hands slid up his chest and around his neck. “Everyone is worth forgiveness, Altair,” she whispered. “Especially you.”

  And rising up on her toes, she pressed her mouth to his.

  * * *

  He didn’t move for a moment and Safira caught her breath, wondering if she’d pushed him too far. But then suddenly his mouth opened over hers and she couldn’t stop the shudder of relief that swept through her. She hadn’t known how much she’d wanted him to give her this. To give in. She hadn’t known how much she’d hated the distance he was trying to put between them until it wasn’t there anymore.

  She’d come to his room tonight for answers, to try and make sense of what he’d told her out there in the courtyard. Because there was more to it than simple treason, she was certain. He was cold and he was hard, but he was not a man who would callously threaten an entire nation. Why else would he have spent ten years putting a country back together through sheer force of will?

  She’d never dreamed it would all come down to the simple need of a boy for understanding. For connection. A kindred spirit who understood him.

  And then the kindred spirit he’d thought he’d found had betrayed him, manipulated him. And for the past fifteen years he’d been punishing himself for a mistake that wasn’t even his fault.

  It made her heart hurt. Because when she’d been a child, her passionate nature fighting against the restrictions of her position, she’d felt lonely too. Like she hadn’t belonged, wanting only to find someone who understood her, someone she belonged with.

  That loneliness hadn’t driven her to make the kind of mistake he had, at least not one with such serious consequences, but she understood it. And she’d meant what she said, that he was worth forgiving. Because for all that he was hard and cold, he was trying to make things right, trying to fix things. How could she blame him for that?

  She couldn’t. So she gave him understanding instead in the only way she knew how. By offering herself.

  Words for the night were done with anyway. There was only the heat of his mouth and the burn of their chemistry. The feel of him, no longer so remote and distant, beneath her hands. The beat of his heart against her palm.

  He kissed her hard and she kissed him back just as hard. There was no anger at all between them now, only the desperation of hunger denied. The yearning for a connection they’d both ignored for far too long.

  Altair lifted her in his arms and carried her over to the bed and then there was no distance at all.

  Material tore as he pulled the gown from her, but Safira barely noticed because she was too busy ripping open his shirt, buttons scattering over the sheets and dropping onto the floor. His skin was hot and smooth beneath her hands as she slid her fingers over him, like liquid bronze as he moved. She couldn’t stop touching him, shaking with the need to caress the contours, the dips and hollows of his shoulders, chest and abdomen. He was all hard, cut muscle, not an ounce of fat on him, and she wanted to lie there and explore him all day.

  But he wouldn’t let her. He didn’t try and restrain her this time, employing other methods that were, in their way, far more effective. He paused to tear the rest of his clothes off then ripped away her panties too, leaving her only in the jeweled necklace and her high-heeled sandals. Then he pushed her back onto the bed and his palms settled down on her inner thighs, spreading them.

  She trembled as he did so, his palms burning against her sensitive skin. His face was fierce with desire, golden fire in his amber eyes as he gave her one scorching look before dropping his gaze down between her legs.

  “Altair, I—”

  But he gave her no time for the rest of the words to leave her mouth. One minute he was looking down at her bared sex, the next he’d bent and his tongue was there, licking up through her slick folds, tasting her like she was the best thing he’d ever eaten in his entire life.

  She cried out, arching back on the bed, her fingers clutching the crisp white cotton of the sheets as pleasure burst behind her eyes, lighting up the darkness like a full moon on a hot desert night. Then his hands slipped beneath her thighs, lifting her legs up onto his shoulders, and his tongue was there, exploring, tasting, pushing inside her, drawing sounds from her she couldn’t stop.

  The pleasure was so intense she could hardly breathe. Her hips rocked helplessly against his mouth and she reached for him, burying her fingers in his hair and holding on tight. It was too much and yet it wasn’t enough. She wanted more.

  He made a deep, growling sound of approval that only ramped the pleasure higher, made his tongue thrust deeper as he moved a finger between her thighs, stroking over her clitoris to add to the intensity of the sensation.

  Her orgasm, when it came, was the howling heat of a desert storm and she lost herself in it, blinded herself with it so that she lost track of where she was.

  But she knew who she was with. She never forgot that.

  His grip didn’t relent as she felt him lower her hips back to the bed and then he was turning her over onto her front, one sinewy arm winding around her waist and hauling her up onto her knees and back against the hard heat of his body.

  She shivered, panting as she felt him spread her open with his fingers. As he pushed into her in one hard, deep thrust. “Altair!” His name broke from her in a hoarse cry, sensitive tissues stretching around him, the sensation at first far too much and too close on the heels of her last orgasm.

  He didn’t stop. His arm around her was like an iron bar, the flex of his hips driving a rhythm that tore sobs from her throat. He bent over her, the muscular length of his body nearly covering her and for a moment that was all she wanted. To be surrounded by him. To have no distance, no separation. To be joined. Then he whispered her name in her ear, bit her neck, her shoulder, making her scream and push back against him, driving him deeper inside her.

  It was like a fight, a war, both of them pushing the other, both demanding more and getting it. The world became reduced, narrowed to the slide of slick skin against slick skin, the heat of his body at her back, the hard press of his fingers on her hips. The exquisite friction of him inside her. The ragged, rough sound of his breathing as he drove them both toward the edge.

  Nothing mattered more than this. Nothing was more important than this.

  Safira cried out as he reached for her breast, pinching her nipple hard, the sensation joining all the others, making her shudder, almost there and yet not quite. In retaliation, she clenched her inner muscles around him and was rewarded by a muffled curse.

  She reached back with one hand, gripping his hard thigh. “Now,” she gasped in a raw voice. “Now … God …”

  And he answered, shifting, thrusting, the hand on her breast sliding down over her stomach to slide between her thighs, stroking her until she couldn’t bear it any more, the storm surrounding her once more and lifting her up, whirling her around in darkness and heat and astonishing pleasure.

  Dimly she felt the push of him inside her get wilder and deeper, before he went still and gasped her name. Then he collapsed forward onto the bed, taking her with him, covering her with his body so that she rested there beneath him. He was heavy but she didn’t care. She wanted to lie like that forever. They were both sweaty and hot and yet she felt connected to him in a way she hadn’t been to any other human being in her life.

  After a long time, he shifted and she wanted to tell him not to, that his weight on her was perfect. But then she felt a hand stroke down her back, gentle and light, and that was even more perfect.

  She didn’t feel any need to speak and neither did he. So they lay there in a deep, satisfied silence that went on and on, while he stroked her back, making her want to arch and purr like the cat he kept calling her.

  Then, when she was drifting on the edges of
sleep, he moved. And she heard a whisper in her ear.

  “Again.”

  Chapter Nine

  Safira woke the next morning wondering where on earth she was. The bed was vast and covered with tangled sheets, and the view outside the high arched windows was not the one that she remembered was outside hers.

  In fact it took her a full minute to remember.

  Altair. She was in Altair’s room.

  A flush of heat went through her, despite the fact that they’d spent most of the night dealing with that very same heat. And dealing with it very well judging from the aches she had in all sorts of unfamiliar places.

  She lay back in the sheets for a moment, a bubble of something she hadn’t felt since she’d arrived at the palace expanding in her chest. Happiness.

  Perhaps it was wrong to feel that way after everything he’d told her the night before. Wrong to be happy in the face of so much grief and guilt. Yet didn’t they both deserve it? It was a peace of sorts and something they’d both desperately needed, him especially. The passion with which he’d taken her, over and over again, told her all she needed to know about his desperation. He’d been all heat and demand and she’d given him everything he’d asked for. Without hesitation.

  She rolled over, disappointed that he wasn’t in the bed beside her. And then, before she’d had time to second-guess his absence, her gaze caught on the piece of folded paper sitting on the pillow next to her.

  Slowly, she sat up and reached for it, opening it up.

  There are clothes on the sofa. Get dressed and meet me at the helipad at ten. A.

  The little bubble in her chest expanded even more. What on earth was this?

  Putting aside the note, she quickly checked the clock on the nightstand. Oh God, she only had half an hour.

  Scrambling out of bed, she quickly crossed over to the sofa. There were some familiar looking clothes folded up neatly on the seat and, beside them, a box.

  Frowning a little, she picked up the clothes and shook them out. They were her desert robes, the ones she’d been wearing the day he’d taken her from the tribes. Hadn’t they gotten rid of them? Clearly not.

  But … he wanted her to wear them? Why?

  Her heart beating fast for some reason she didn’t understand, she reached out to the box sitting beside her robes and took the top off. Inside, gleaming against black velvet padding, were a set of knives. Almost exactly like the ones he’d thrown out the window of the limo.

  There was a note resting on the top. A princess cannot go undefended.

  The little bubble in her chest burst, happiness spreading through her, inexorable as the tide.

  Her eyes prickled, her throat thick.

  He’s fixing you like he’s trying to fix his country.

  No, he wasn’t fixing her. He was giving her back the little pieces of herself she’d found out in the desert. The strengths she’d gained after she’d thought she’d lost everything.

  And that mattered.

  Feeling lighter than she had for days, Safira showered and dressed in her robes. Then she spent a happy few minutes testing the edges of the knives and then secreting them about her person. They were beautifully made and sharp, the loveliest set of weapons she’d ever owned.

  A princess should never be helpless.

  He was acknowledging her as a warrior, not only a princess, and it felt good. It felt right.

  She made her way to the helipad at exactly the time he’d specified and her heart nearly stopped in her chest when she saw him standing beside the helicopter waiting for her, tall and lean in a white T-shirt, utility pants and desert boots. The same clothes he’d worn when she’d first met him. He wore a keffiyeh wrapped around his head, a white one that made the beautiful bronze lines of his face stand out and his amber gaze somehow more intense.

  Her heart was racing as she approached the helicopter, everything inside her going tight, clenching hard with hunger.

  “Good morning, kitten,” he said as she stopped in front of him. “I see you got your gifts.”

  She couldn’t stop the smile that spread over her face. “Why do you call me kitten? I am a lion. Especially now I have my claws back.”

  He smiled in return and this time her heart didn’t race, it stopped dead in astonishment. Because it illuminated his whole face. Transformed his beauty from cold and proud into warm and vital. Alive. It made her want to get close, drew her like a fire on a frozen winter’s night. “Of course you are a lion,” he said softly. “And you do not need robes and knives to prove it. Yet you curled up in my lap last night all the same.”

  She wanted to touch him, wanted to kiss him, maintain that connection, but there were people around and she thought that maybe she could leave that for later, when they were alone and had time for a kiss to develop into something more. “Are we going somewhere?” she asked instead, glancing at the helicopter.

  Altair’s eyes gleamed gold. “We are.”

  “Where?”

  Again one of those beautiful smiles, a wicked edge to it this time that made her heart turn over and over inside her chest. “It is a surprise. Get in, kitten, and you’ll see.”

  And she did see when a couple of hours later the helicopter landed in the middle of the rocky desert. There were some tents pitched not far away and as the rotors slowed to a stop and they got out of the helicopter, a man came toward them, leading two beautiful horses.

  Safira caught her breath. “What’s this?”

  Altair was grinning, and now he just looked like an excited, slightly naughty boy. “Your surprise. I thought you might like to come with me to an oasis I know of for a couple of days. We will ride there and camp. Get to know each other as you wanted.”

  The tears that had prickled against her eyes earlier were back and she had to blink hard to contain them. She stared up at him, into his brilliant golden eyes. “Why?” The question sounded graceless, but she couldn’t temper it. “Why are you doing this?”

  His smile dimmed, but he raised a hand, cupped her cheek in a gesture that stole all the remaining breath from her body. “Because I took so much from you, Safira. I need to give you something back.”

  “But you don’t have to—”

  “Let me.” His thumb stroked her jaw. “Please.”

  She wanted to tell him that he didn’t need to give her anything. That all she wanted was that feeling she’d had last night, when they were joined, that here was where she belonged. With him.

  But he stopped any further questions with a kiss, in front of the pilot and the tribesman leading the horses toward them. And she forgot why she even wanted to protest in the first place, letting the warm, liquid happiness that welled up inside her overflow and fill all the cracks in her heart.

  They rode to the oasis, racing each other across the rocky desert, the wind grabbing at Safira’s keffiyeh and tossing it back from her hair. She let it go, loving the feel of the hot, dry wind in her face and the desert heat on her skin. Because, whatever she might have been born to, she’d found a lonely kind of freedom in the desert.

  Except it wouldn’t be lonely now.

  The oasis, when they got there, was small and perfect and completely private. There were palms with a tent pitched beneath them. The camp itself was moderately simple and yet not entirely without creature comforts because, after all, Altair was a sheikh. And Safira found she wasn’t averse to them either.

  The tent, for example, was large, mainly to accommodate the vast and supremely comfortable bed. There was also a solar shower and a bathtub under the trees that had hot water piped to it. A small battery-powered fridge had drinks and prepared food, and there was a fire that had been stacked with wood, all ready to be lit.

  Safira loved the place immediately.

  As soon as they got there, they tethered the horses, stripped off their clothes and went swimming in the waterhole. A swim that soon turned into something more when Altair tried to duck her and she fought back. The fight moved into the tent, onto the be
d, where they stayed for the rest of the day, alternatively making love then dozing, before waking each other to pleasure again.

  As the darkness fell, Altair warmed up a stew over the open fire where they sat and ate it with flatbread and olives, drinking the dark red wine from the palace’s royal vineyards.

  “You are fixing this county, aren’t you?” she asked him, sitting cross-legged on the ground next to the fire, the wine sitting pleasantly in her stomach. “At least, that is what you are trying to do, isn’t it?”

  His eyes were burnished in the light of the fire. He didn’t look at her, but when he answered, his voice was full of painful honesty. “The rebel leader—my father—was killed in a mortar attack. And when the news came, I knew I had to do something to fix the mess I had created. There was chaos after the sheikh had been killed, no one else to do it, so I worked hard to rally support and take the throne myself.” His gaze flickered. “I did not want it, you understand. It was a necessity.”

  “I do understand.” And she did. He had not enjoyed his power, that was obvious.

  “I spent years battling to secure the throne. To bring peace to Al-Harah. It is a job that probably will never be finished.”

  Safira took another sip of wine, watching the fire send shadows flickering over his beautiful face. “You cannot punish yourself forever, Altair,” she said softly.

  His gaze lifted from the fire and met hers. “It is not a punishment. It is a penance. Someone must fix what I broke, Safira. And that someone has to be me.”

  “But at the expense of your happiness?”

  “Happiness is irrelevant.”