ROMANCE: THE SHEIKH'S GAMES: A Sheikh Romance

by Knight, Kylie

  Carly shrugged, clearer headed now than she’d been the night before when, somehow, she’d managed to summon the willpower not to ask Rahm up to her apartment to do all the wicked, dirty, nasty things she wanted him to. “I dunno,” she purred, still feeling frisky after her electric walk home with the Persian hunk with the predatory swagger and cocky leer. “The look on his face when I literally shut the gate on him was worth not getting to first base, Avery.”

  Avery groaned as if Carly was speaking another language. “But what’s the point, Boss?” she asked, using her pet name for Carly who was, technically, her boss. “I mean, why deny yourself a night of pleasure when it’s literally walking you home?”

  Carly shrugged, finding it hard to argue with her assistant, who at 23 was only eight years younger than her boss. “Haven’t you ever heard of playing hard to get?”

  Avery blanched as if she’d bit into an actual coffee bean while sucking on her diminishing frappucino. “Those games don’t work anymore,” she pronounced with all of her lifelong experience.

  “So what does?” Carly asked, genuinely curious.

  This time it was Avery’s turn to shrug. “I dunno,” her PA replied less than helpfully. “I guess when I’m into a guy, he gets to be ‘into’ me, if you know what I mean!”

  “Avery!” Carly teased, wagging a motherly finger even as she wished, somewhat jealously, she could live by the same credo. Sure, it had worked back in college, but now that she was a responsible adult, with a corner office and mortgage and life insurance and everything, she felt somewhat guilty every time she had a one night stand.

  And besides, with Rahm, it was more complicated than that. Perhaps if all they’d done was meet at a bar, she might have indulged in a night long fluid swap back at her place. But they hadn’t. They’d met doing business, and thus Rahm was immediately and, she supposed, permanently a rival. She wouldn’t never think of “giving” up anything without a fight, not even a romp in her king size bed.

  Even if she wanted to, Carly couldn’t “give in” to Rahm without a series of compromises and qualifications, like any good negotiation. A kiss here, a lacing of fingertips there, a purr or a moan, each would be doled out in good time.

  That is, if he ever called her again!

  “So what’s your game plan now?” Avery asked knowingly, as if reading her mind.

  “Now?” Carly countered, another old negotiating tactic designed to buy herself enough time to come up with an answer.

  “Yeah,” Avery said, falling for it hook, line and sinker. “I mean, the sexiest guy in the club walked you home, lingered at your gate, went home with the bluest of balls and… now what?” When Carly looked back at her, still unable to answer, Avery pursued the line of questioning with new vigor. “I mean, did you exchange digits? Cell phone numbers? Please tell me you at least got his business card.”

  Carly shook her head, realizing she might have been a little too hasty in her negotiating tactics the night before. Avery was right: she’d screwed it up, all of it, every last inch of it. She’d played it so cool, there was nowhere left for Rahm to go but, well… away.

  If he did call now, it would be a miracle and, what’s worse – for him, anyway – a losing battle. If Carly had neglected to get Rahm’s “digits,” as her young personal assistant had so hiply put it, then so had he. If she was in the dark about how to get in touch with him, than Rahm was as well, and to do so now would be to reveal that he had put some extra effort into making the first move.

  Now all Carly had to do was sit and wonder if she was worth it…

  Eight

  Rahm sat in his office, three computer monitors flickering incessantly as his fingers flew across an equal number of keyboards. The first monitor was a streaming ticker of stock prices for the last two dozen tech companies Carly had acquired. The second pulled random profiles from each of those twenty-four companies and ran them through a filter of various keywords designed to elicit some kind of profile of which companies piqued Carly’s interest and why, all so Rahm could begin to predict which company might be in her line of fire next – and how he might get there and acquire said company first. The third was more personal, revealing Carly’s website and, after some snooping around, her work cell phone number.

  His own smart phone sat on the desk between the second and third keyboards, the number already punched in and a profile pre-monitored, all so he could text her at a moment’s notice.

  So why hadn’t he? Rahm wondered, grabbing a can of iced coffee from the office dorm fridge and standing as he opened it, the faint whiff of espresso and cream filling his nostrils with a savory scent indeed.

  He took a long, eager sip before stretching and realizing how dark it had gotten in his lonely, isolated office. Located in the west wing and furthermost corner of the rented penthouse suite, it provided him with both privacy and isolation, both great for business but frustrating when it came to pleasure.

  He felt restless, cooped up and pushed through the French door windows, late evening sprinkled with neon and salt spray from 24-stories below. His feet were bare, having long since kicked off his Italian loafers hours earlier. Padding silently onto the wraparound balcony, he smelled the faint scent of smoke and turned, just in time to find Ahmed, his head bodyguard, tamping out a clandestine cigarette on the bottom of his thick soled boot.

  “Ahmed!” Rahm scolded playfully, accent thicker and more native around those from his homeland. “What have I told you about smoking on the job?”

  Ahmed smirked, smile lighting up his granite hard face to match his chiseled and toned body. Trained in a dozen lethal fighting techniques and mercilessly loyal to the sheikh and his family, Ahmed’s soft, bashful smile belied the brutal force that lay beneath his fitted suit. “Always save one out for you,” Ahmed chuckled, accent almost as thick as Rahm’s father’s.

  “That’s right,” Rahm said, reaching out for the pack of cheap cigarettes Ahmed offered. He grabbed one, slid it to his lips and waited for Ahmed to light it before inhaling the crisp, acrid smoke into his lungs. Tobacco was forbidden in the palace back home, but a rare and appreciated indulgence whenever abroad.

  Like Rahm himself, Ahmed and the other dozen bodyguards assigned to him had assimilated quickly – and nearly totally – into western life, drinking, smoking and carousing nearly as much as their boss whenever time permitted.

  They were no less effective in keeping him safe – not that he was in any danger to begin with – but Rahm feared for the day when they returned to the sheltered homeland and were forced to contend with his father’s strict and unyielding ways. He was no less afraid for himself, but at least Rahm could control their return date by continuing to be successful in his business. His poor bodyguards were ever at the sheikh’s mercy, and never more than a phone call from being whisked back home.

  Rahm sucked on the borrowed cigarette, watching Ahmed do the same as they shared a rare and brief private moment overlooking the glittering jewel of South Beach down below.

  “Burning the midnight oil, boss?” Ahmed asked with a knowing tone. Rahm realized that, more than perhaps anyone else, Ahmed knew his comings and goings. It was part of his job, of course, but it was more than that, Rahm realized now, the two men peering down at the city streets below.

  “Always, Ahmed,” Rahm said by rote.

  “Not ‘always,’ eh boss?” Ahmed teased back, nudging his boss’ shoulder and making Rahm smile sheepishly. “Many a night you’re working some angle at the hottest new nightclub, and not facts and figures in your home office.”

  Rahm sighed in agreement, the nicotine tasting acrid on his tongue as he let the cigarette smolder between his fingers as they gripped the balcony railing restlessly. “Believe it or not, that’s what I’ve been doing all day.”

  Ahmed rolled his eyes. “Come on, boss,” he groaned good-naturedly. “Internet porn is fine for nobodies like me, but for a future sheikh? Who could have any one of a thousand, of a hundred thousand, beautiful women in
Miami? Why waste time on a computer when you can have the real thing?”

  Rahm chuckled conspiratorially, realizing this was more than he and Ahmed had said to each other in weeks, even months. “Not that kind of work,” he explained. “Father wants me to research a new competitor and, well, she just happens to be drop-dead gorgeous.”

  Suddenly, Ahmed perked up. “You mean the leggy redhead from last night?”

  Rahm nodded, almost bashfully – even protectively. “You mean, the one who shut you down?”

  Ahmed laughed riotously, tamping out his second cigarette the same way he had the first and field stripping it so the tobacco that remained flew away on the soft, sultry breeze high atop the penthouse balcony.

  He shrugged, stiffening slightly and, unlike Ahmed, flipping his extinguished cigarette out into the air. “If you knew the first thing about business, my friend,” Rahm explained, only half-joking, “you’d realize that this is the first stage of the negotiations.”

  Ahmed arched on thick, midnight black eyebrow. “Negotiations?”

  “All sex is a negotiation, Ahmed,” Rahm explained patiently, enjoying the rare moment of male bonding that was so rare in his life. The men he usually spoke to were either a.) business rivals or b.) employees, leaving little time for one-on-one discussions about anything other than his finances or his schedule.

  Ahmed snorted, leaning against the balcony railing at his side and crossing his large, tattooed arms skeptically. “Please, boss, edify me.”

  Rahm leaned against his own railing, facing his bodyguard, buying himself a little time. He’d meant the statement as a throwaway comment, but now thought a little harder about what he’d meant. “Well,” he began, eyes returning Ahmed’s curious gaze. “Think about it: you meet a woman, and there is either instant attraction or not-so-instant. Instant attraction makes the negotiations a little easier, but not always foolproof.”

  “Hold up, boss,” Ahmed snorted, waving his big hands for emphasis. “How can you screw up something as simple as instant attraction?”

  Rahm shrugged. “She might have a table of friends waiting on her who won’t let her go home with a stranger,” he said, remembering how reluctant Carly’s tablemates had been to see her go the night before. “She might have work tomorrow, or a roommate or have just gotten over a bad breakup with a guy who looks just like you. There can be a 101 ways you can fuck up ‘lust at first sight,’ trust me.”

  “And when it’s not ‘lust at first sight,’ boss? What then?”

  Rahm nodded, eager to explain. “That’s when you really have to learn to negotiate. To listen to what they’re saying and use it to your advantage.”

  “Such as?” Ahmed asked, curiously, inching closer all the same – as if to hear better.

  “Let’s say she just broke up with a guy who looks just like you,” Rahm said. “That would be a deal breaker for a lot of girls, and a lot of guys, but actually it’s an advantage because if she dated him at all, there will still be some feelings left over him. If you’re patient, and skilled, and careful, and listen, you can tap into those feelings until the attraction turns irresistible.”

  Ahmed snorted, waving a big, dismissive hand. “I think I’ll just stick to getting them drunk and horny, thanks.”

  Rahm nodded. “I’m usually in complete agreement, my friend,” he said, clapping the big guy on the even bigger shoulder. “But when you have as much sex as I do, that kind of willing compliance gets… boring… after awhile.”

  “Boring? Boss, you’re usually with a different girl each night, each one sexier than the last, in all shapes and sizes. Black, white, Latina, full-figured, rail thin, supermodels, actresses, debutants and sluts. How can that ever get boring?”

  “Trust me, my friend, those kinds of girls are all the same. They’re not fucking me, they’re fucking their idea of me.”

  Ahmed rolled his intense green eyes. “Idea of you or the real you, boss, they’re still in bed with you.”

  “Perhaps,” Rahm sighed, turning from his friend, confidante, protector and employee to peer down at the bustling city streets lit with neon and sulfur down below. “Their bodies might be in bed with you, but their minds are a million miles away, already thinking of what they can get from you. A shopping trip here, a platinum bracelet there, a watch or tiara or a gander at your private yet.”

  Rahm felt the truth of his words sink in with every soft, sad syllable, recalling the countless women who’d lain beneath him, writhing away, panting and moaning, sweating and trembling, muttering words they’d know he’d love, praising his prowess as he panted and pounded between their legs. But in their eyes was the empty, hollow greed that saw past the chiseled good looks he worked so hard to attain. As easy as it was to seduce women with his looks, his charm, his freedom and, naturally, his money, for Rahm at least it was becoming more work than pleasure.

  The very thought of going out, going through the motions, the noisy nightclubs and vapid small talk, the familiar pattern and paint-by-numbers motions it would take to get the hottest girl in the club away from the bar and into his Rolls Royce seemed like so much drudgery.

  “Boss,” Ahmed said, clapping him on the shoulder then squeezing persuasively. “You’re over thinking all this.”

  Rahm felt the tension leave his body as his bodyguard’s giant hand massaged the tension from the space between his shoulders. “Yeah?” he asked in a soft, malleable voice.

  “Yeah,” Ahmed assured him. “Quit using your big head so much and start letting your small one make more of the decisions.”

  Rahm shook his head, shrugging off both his lethargy and his bodyguard’s hands at the same time. “That’s where you’re wrong, my friend,” he said, eager to rid himself of the long, stilted day spent staring at not one, not two, but three computer monitors. “Both my heads are big, that’s the problem!”

  Ahmed’s laughter filled the balcony as he followed his boss back inside the luxurious condo. “That’s where you’re wrong,” he thundered, following Rahm to his room to prepare for another evening out on the town. “I’ve been forced to watch you shower one too many times, boss. It’s not so big.”

  Nine

  He murmured her name, breath hot in her ear as his large, thick fingers raced to unbutton her lacy white blouse. Despite their fervor he took his time, left hand pinning her arms above her head defenselessly as she squirmed beneath his velvet tongue and warm, silken breath.

  The fingers of his right hand danced along the soft white fabric of her blouse, gently tugging the hem free from the waistband of her sensible black work skirt and easing it to either side of her heaving, tender breasts. It had been so long since a man had undressed her that way, or any way, that Carly was more vulnerable than usual to her overloaded libido.

  Every glance of his skin against her own sent lightning bolts racing through her veins, forcing her to bite down on her lower lip, already trembling and sore, to keep from crying out in unintelligible grunts, moans and curses – and he was only getting started!

  As if sensing it, Rahm took his time, tenderly cupping the bottom swell of each breast, the heat of his flesh searing through the gauzy black material that separated his from her own. Then, as if testing even his own patience, Rahm expertly unclasped the bra at the front and it fell away, making her gasp at the sensation as his fingers immediately raced to dance between each nipple, tenderly rasping them to a heightened stiffness that sent a throbbing, velvet pulse through her veins each time his thumb or forefinger elicited a murmuring, mumbling pant.

  She was heaving now, pressed against the wall, hands still yanked high above her, Rahm’s grip both firm and tender at the same time, her constant wriggling against his ironclad grip only serving to heighten the sensation of lack of control as he continued to dominate her with his single hand. Her breasts fully aroused, nipples stiff and tender, Rahm moved on to her quivering belly, soft fingertips dancing down her rib cage until dusting her waistline before unzipping and promptly slipping off her
skirt.

  She helped him by kicking it off, her work heels clattering on the hard wood floors as she stepped out of each one, naked now save for her black cotton panties. Even those were no match for Rahm’s roving hand, so expert at teasing pleasure above – and below – her undergarments. As his fingers traveled along the front panel, damp with desire and lust, they met the quivering ridge of her mound, flesh meeting flesh, the explosive combination making her cry out and bolt upright… from her bed!

  Carly peered around, panting and damp with sweat, peering through rapidly blinking eyes at the room surrounding her. Her room; her bedroom. Not the foyer where she’d dreamed Rahm had taken her moments after stepping inside her south Beach condo.

  Disappointed yet still throbbing and damp with desire, Carly moaned aloud in the quiet darkness and collapsed back onto her twisted sheets. The sultry air outside her bedroom sliders rustled the curtains on either side, caressing her with the warm embrace as she peered down at her body, naked and aglow in the moonlight.

  She found her panties wadded and dangling precariously from one ankle, her usual night shirt tossed haphazardly to one side, her nipples hard, her skin flushed, her belly trembling, her mound on fire as her right hand drifted inevitably toward the throbbing joint between her legs.

  She moaned aloud, lifting her left hand above her head to grip the iron rails of her retro headboard, right hand drifting down her trembling belly and toward her aching mound much as Rahm’s had in her dream – her wet dream, and the third since they’d met.