Sheik

by Mason, Connie

  “Do you like that, Princess?” he whispered against her ear. “Spread your legs and let me pleasure you.” He slid two fingers inside her and Zara’s knees buckled.

  “No, stop! Send me back to the stables but don’t use me like this!”

  Jamal went still. He seemed angry. “I’m not using you. I want to give you pleasure. We will pleasure one another.”

  “That’s not at all what I want. Berber women are free to choose their own lovers. We are men’s equals.”

  Schooled in the ways of Islam and the teachings of Allah, Jamal was surprised at the concept of women being men’s equals. Even in his mother’s country women were possessions. They could not own property or enter into contracts. They had to obey their husbands and submit to their wishes.

  “You are a slave, and slaves have no rights,” Jamal pointed out. “I can take you here, beside the pool, if I so desire.”

  “I will not submit easily.”

  Jamal stared at her. Her beauty was mesmerizing. Allah help him, for he did want her, but force did not appeal to him. Force had never been necessary in his dealings with women. I will have her willing and submissive, he vowed to himself, without the use of force. Seduction was a game Jamal played well. Zara was his possession, and he was determined to have her in his bed. He wanted her for his love slave, eager and submissive to his needs.

  “I will strike a deal with you, sweet vixen. Here’s my wager. Within four weeks you will invite me inside your body. If you do not, I will set you free.”

  Zara couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Jamal had just offered to free her if he couldn’t seduce her within four weeks. Allah was indeed kind to her. She would never willingly place herself in Jamal’s bed. He was her enemy. Sayed was dead, and it was Jamal’s fault.

  “Is that all there is to the wager, my lord?” Zara asked suspiciously. She did not trust him.

  “If you lose, if you take my manhood inside you,” Jamal continued evenly, “you will reside in my harem and come to me when I want you.”

  Zara thought his proposition over carefully. Clearly Sheik Jamal had an inflated ego.

  “I agree. But I can only lose the bet if I take your manhood inside me willingly. If you take me by force, or without my permission, you lose the bet. Am I correct?”

  “So be it.”

  “Will you answer a question for me?”

  “What is it you wish to know?”

  “Did you send me to the stables to pleasure your stable slaves?”

  “What ever gave you that idea? You went to the stables because the sultan wanted you punished for your brazen behavior.” His brows came together in a black scowl as comprehension dawned. “Which of my slaves accosted you? Is that why you left the stables tonight?”

  “You can’t blame them for thinking I was meant for their pleasure. Nothing was said to disabuse them of the notion that I was theirs for the taking.”

  “What did they do to you?” Jamal asked fiercely. If they had touched her he would have their heads.

  “Nothing … yet. Mustafa found a pitchfork in his face when he tried to force me. I told him you would punish him if he touched me.”

  “And so I would have. You’ll sleep in my harem from now on. You’ll be safe there.”

  “Safe?” she hooted. “It will be a simple matter for you to seduce me if I sleep in the harem. Nay, I will return to the stables with the other slaves, but you must tell them I am not to be touched.”

  “Zara, my fierce Berber warrior,” Jamal said softly. “You are too proud for your own good. I will tame you yet, my fiery pearl.”

  He stared at her mouth, lush and moist, and decided his seduction would start tonight. “Turn around, let me soap your back.” When she appeared reluctant to obey, he gently turned her and closed his legs around her so she couldn’t escape.

  Dipping another glob of soap from the jar, he spread it over the elegant curve of her back, massaging the knobs of her spine with the pads of his fingers until she moaned; the pressure was wonderfully soothing after her hard day’s labor. Then she felt him squeezing her buttocks, his fingers slipping into the separation between the perfect halves, sliding between her thighs to tease the sensitive nub there, probing her opening.

  Abruptly his hands fell away and he pushed her down into the water. “Rinse off.” She came up sputtering. Jamal grasped her beneath the arms and hauled her out of the water. She stood there shivering in the night air as he dried her with a soft linen cloth.

  “I can do that myself,” Zara declared. When Jamal touched her, her body behaved strangely. She felt weightless, without substance. Her flesh tingled and burned; his touch set fires inside her. In order to win her freedom she had to gird herself against him, to remember that he was the enemy, else she’d end up in his bed.

  “Allow me,” Jamal insisted. “Your skin is like silk. I wonder, do you taste as delicious as you look?”

  Fearing he intended to find out, she backed away from him. But Jamal was not ready to let her go. Scooping her up in his arms, he carried her through the open double doors into his chamber, placing her on his sleeping couch. His dark eyes glowed as he stared down at her. Light from the hanging oil lamp bathed her in gold dust and magic. Jamal trembled with desire.

  “Don’t move,” Jamal whispered. “I’ll be right back.”

  Spellbound, Zara couldn’t have moved had she tried. In any event, she wouldn’t have gotten far. Jamal returned almost instantly with the vial of scented oil he had left beside the pool. She watched in trepidation as he poured a generous amount into his hands and sat down on the couch beside her.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “You’ll find out, just turn on your stomach and lie still.”

  She turned with great reluctance on her stomach. Then she felt his hands on her. The heat of his skin had warmed the oil, and he spread it over her back, buttocks and legs, gently massaging her sore muscles. The relief was so intense, Zara could not stifle her groan of pleasure. Working in the stables had taken a toll upon her.

  “Turn over,” Jamal whispered huskily.

  “I don’t think—”

  “Don’t think, just feel,” he said as he easily flipped her to her back. Then his hands worked the same kind of magic over her breasts, stomach and the front of her legs.

  When he dipped his oiled fingers between her thighs, Zara stirred and murmured a weak protest. She was thoroughly enjoying the massage until his blatant sexual overture spoiled her pleasure.

  Zara squealed in surprise when Jamal bent his head and kissed her breasts, first one then the other. He kneaded them, lifting them to his hungry mouth to suckle and lick. She whimpered when he bit gently upon a tender crest. Immediately he soothed it with the moist warmth of his tongue.

  She shivered. The pleasure was sharp, almost unbearable, and dangerous. Losing the wager meant permanent captivity.

  “Stop!”

  “I haven’t done anything yet,” Jamal whispered. Then he drew one nipple deep into his mouth, sucking vigorously as his hands stroked the length of her slick body.

  “I won’t let you seduce me!” Zara cried, nearly mindless with pleasure. What she and Sayed had done together was child’s play compared to what Jamal was doing to her now.

  Leaving the sweet enticement of her breasts, his mouth fastened onto hers, his tongue delving deeply, tasting of her. Nectar of the gods, he thought as he nibbled and sucked on her lips. But it was another set of pouting lips that drew his mouth downward. She shuddered uncontrollably as he traced a path to the glistening cleft between her legs.

  “You taste of jasmine,” he said, referring to the scent he had used to massage her body.

  Her hips rose off the couch, pleasure stabbing her as he tongued the tiny jewel between her legs. Suddenly he thrust two fingers into her inner wetness. She climaxed violently as his fingers thrust in and out of her.

  While she lay recovering from the violent climax, Jamal rose above her. His sex was painfully di
stended, the tip wet with his juices. When he flexed his hips, Zara came to her senses, realizing her danger. She pushed against him so hard he landed on his rump on the floor. She leaped to her feet before he gained his wits, backing away from him, her green eyes blazing.

  Jamal matched her anger as he picked himself off the floor and returned her glare.

  “What made you think I’d let you seduce me so easily?” Zara asked. “I want my freedom.”

  “I gave you pleasure,” Jamal said. “You let me put my tongue and fingers inside you.”

  “Did you give me a choice?”

  “I could take you now if I wanted to. You are my slave. Slaves obey their masters.”

  “Then you would lose the wager, my lord,” she said sweetly. “You are a man of your word, are you not?”

  “I am a man. I can only be pushed so far. I’m obsessed with you, Zara. I’ve made no secret of the fact that I want you. Four weeks, my fiery warrior. Count the days, for you will be mine long before that.”

  He rose abruptly and pulled on his caftan. His erection was still full and heavy, his lust unassuaged. This kind of sexual frustration was foreign to him. When he wanted a woman all he had to do was ask and one would be available. His manhood had never known the kind of deprivation he was now experiencing.

  Moving away from Jamal, Zara felt unspeakably vulnerable without her clothes. In the short time since their meeting, Jamal had learned her body more intimately than she knew it herself. It was humiliating.

  “Give me back my clothes so I can to return to the stables.”

  “You are unlike any woman I’ve ever known,” Jamal said sourly. Never had he met a more contrary female. Why wouldn’t she give herself to him? It wasn’t as if she were a shy virgin. She had enjoyed his loving, as far as it went. Did she still mourn her Berber lover? Not one to give up easily, Jamal renewed his vow to have Zara in his bed soon. He swore he would make it happen.

  Zara hugged herself and shivered as Jamal rummaged through a chest containing an assortment of clothing. He found what he was looking for, handing her a white shirt, pantaloons and djellaba that must have belonged to him. She donned them quickly, rolling up the sleeves of the shirt and tightening the sash around her slim waist to hold up the trousers. Then she slipped the djellaba over her head.

  “Come along,” Jamal said as he picked up the oil lamp and held it aloft.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I’m escorting you back to the stables. Your companions will be told in no uncertain terms that you’re not to be touched by them.”

  He grasped her arm and pulled her into the courtyard and out the gate. Zara dug in her heels. “I need a weapon. The pitchfork is too unwieldy to use effectively.”

  “You want me to give you a weapon?” Jamal asked with amusement. “I’m not stupid, Zara.”

  “What if I promise to use it only to protect myself? Do none of your slaves carry weapons?”

  It was a logical question. Many of his slaves carried weapons, but only those loyal to him. Some even served as men-at-arms. “Only those I trust.”

  She gave him a guileless smile. “I’m a helpless woman. What harm can I do?”

  Jamal gave a shout of laughter. “There’s no denying you’re a woman, sweet vixen, but helpless is not a word I would use to describe you. I told you I would speak with the slaves. After I finish with them, they will not dare to accost you.”

  Gripping her wrist firmly with one hand and the lamp with the other, he pulled her along with him to the stables. Once inside, he came upon one of the slaves sleeping in the straw and nudged him awake with his foot.

  Abdul came up in a crouch, ready to defend himself. When he saw Jamal, he blanched and fell to his knees. “What is it, master, what have I done?”

  “Rouse the others,” Jamal ordered.

  Within minutes all four slaves stood before him, glancing warily from Jamal to Zara. Ahmed, the stable master, stepped forward. “What have we done, master?”

  Jamal pushed Zara forward. “Listen well, for I will say this but one time. Zara is to work, eat and sleep in the stables; she is not here for your pleasure. Abuse her at your own risk, is that clear?”

  A look of silent communication passed among the slaves before Ahmed spoke for all of them. “We understand, master. Your new slave is safe with us.”

  Jamal nodded curtly, turned on his heel and strode from the stables. He should have gone directly to the harem to relieve his frustrations with his concubines, but he was no longer in the mood. For the first time in his memory he sought his bed without first easing himself with a woman, despite the fact that he needed one desperately. His sex ached and his lust was unappeased, but the woman he wanted was sleeping by choice on a bed of straw in the stables instead of reclining on a soft couch in the women’s quarters.

  Jamal had never met a woman quite like Zara. Her flesh was sweet and soft, her face lovelier than the moon and the stars, yet she insisted upon being treated as a man’s equal. He had tasted her passion tonight and it had but whetted his appetite for more. Since he had no intention of freeing her any time soon, he was determined to seduce her and enjoy every minute of it.

  Zara crawled into her bed of straw, still wary despite Jamal’s warning to the stable slaves. Quiet settled over the dark stables. It was very late, and she was exhausted. She closed her eyes, ready to drop off to sleep, when she heard a noise and then a voice whispering into her ear.

  “You are a slave like the rest of us, Berber wench. You may have opened your thighs for our master tonight, but he still brought you back to the stables to sleep. If you had pleased him you would be in the woman’s quarters now, sleeping upon a soft bed.”

  Zara did not recognize the voice; it could be any one of the stable slaves. “Who are you?” The air around her did not stir; her tormentor was gone.

  The next day Zara was given the foulest of chores. Ankle deep in dung, she raked and swept and mucked out the stalls. That night she fell asleep over her dinner, too exhausted to finish her meal. The next day was the same, and the day after that. Fearing the consequences of running into Jamal, she stayed away from the courtyard pool, using water from the well to wash the day’s grime from her face and hands.

  Zara did not like the way Mustafa continued to stare at her, as if she were a sweetmeat and he a starving man. At the end of the third day of back-breaking toil, a stroke of luck placed a weapon in her hand. She was at the well and found a knife someone had left in a basket of fruit. No one was nearby as she quickly snatched it up and hid it within the folds of her djellaba. The next day she had reason to be grateful for her good luck.

  Mustafa had been goading her for days, somehow making sure that she was given the hardest and dirtiest chores. When he told her he would take over her work load as well as his own if she would lie with him, she spit in his face. Being shamed by a woman enraged Mustafa. He retaliated instinctively. He backhanded her with his hamlike hand, sending her flying against a stall. Regaining her feet in a crouch, Zara pulled her knife and flew at Mustafa, though he was three times her size.

  Their struggle brought the others running, appalled that Mustafa had deliberately disobeyed Jamal’s orders. Ahmed tried to break up the fight, receiving a cut on his hand for his efforts. Over and over the combatants rolled on the ground. Despite being smaller than Mustafa and a fraction of his weight, Zara was holding her own. Mustafa got in one or two good punches, but Zara wielded her knife with dexterity. Mustafa was bleeding from several small cuts, and Zara’s right cheekbone was swollen and purple.

  Zara did not hear the sound of running footsteps, or the commanding voice issuing crisp orders. She had no idea Jamal was nearby until Mustafa was pulled off her.

  “Master,” Mustafa said, bowing low. “Forgive me.”

  Zara looked up at Jamal from her position on the floor and recoiled in fear. His face was twisted into a mask of rage, terrible to behold. Haroun, his lieutenant, stood beside him, awaiting orders.

 
“Take Mustafa to the slave market in Meknes and sell him, Haroun,” Jamal said with quiet menace. “Take him away now, before I kill him myself.”

  “Please, master,” Mustafa begged, “it won’t happen again.”

  “You’re right, Mustafa, it won’t happen again.” He turned his back on the slave as Haroun dragged him away. Then he dropped to his knees beside Zara. “Are you all right?”

  Still winded from her fight, Zara merely nodded.

  “What was that all about? It seems I can’t trust you out of my sight.”

  “I’m surprised you need to ask,” Zara said bitterly. She tried to rise but was too shaky. It was then that Jamal saw the bloody knife in her hand.

  “Where in Allah’s name did you get that? Give it to me!”

  Zara handed it to him; it had served its purpose. He helped her to her feet, grimacing when he saw the fresh bruises on her face. The bruises from the sultan’s blows had just begun to fade. Rage welled up in him. Some men enjoyed striking women, but he wasn’t one of them. Seeing Zara bruised and battered made him want to kill. Zara might be rash and foolish but she was not lacking in bravery. How much simpler his life would be if she but acted like a woman, taking her ease in the harem and sharing his couch at night.

  “You can’t stay here,” Jamal said, coming to a decision. The sultan be damned. Zara could not remain in the stables. She was his slave and she would obey him.

  Zara merely stared at him. What could she say? She didn’t want to stay in the stables either, but she didn’t like the alternative.

  “Come with me. You stink of dung and sweat.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  Jamal noticed that the stable slaves were listening with avid interest. “Go back to your chores,” he told them.

  He waited until they were alone before answering Zara’s question. “You know where I want you. Beneath me, in my bed.”

  “You can’t force me.”