“What’s happening, Rizaak,” Cristy muttered from below him, and he could feel her body like it was a part of his, like she was a part of him just like he was a part of her. “Oh, God, I don’t know what’s happening,” she sobbed in a delirium of ecstasy as Rizaak pounded into her, his muscular hips SMASHING his pelvis against her magnificent rear cushion as he flexed and groaned.
“Nahn yahdith, ya malika,” Rizaak muttered through gritted teeth, the words yet again coming from a place deep inside, a place beyond rational thought and simple reason. “WE are happening, my queen. Ya, ALLAH, WE ARE HAPPENING!”
And now Rizaak felt his entire body seize up, and everything went dead quiet for a moment, dead quiet as if time had stopped, and he could feel his jaw taut like wire, his cock flexed like a steel coil, his balls clenched like a vise, everything frozen and stiff, like that last poignant moment at the top of a waterfall, with your entire past swirling at your back, the future roaring before you as you close your eyes and give in to the unstoppable force of gravity.
And Rizaak shuddered at his very core as he felt that release push its way to the surface as if in slow motion, and as his mouth opened wide, he could feel the heavens open up in tandem, laughter and joy raining down from above, like the angels were welcoming him to his destiny, introducing this man to his woman, this king to his queen, his seed to her womb.
His seed to her womb.
15
Cristy felt him EXPLODE inside her even as her own manic arousal rounded the corner and gathered speed, her own orgasm approaching rapidly as Rizaak continued to come inside her, and he was ROARING in pleasure, SHOUTING in ecstasy, GROANING as he flooded the valleys of her vagina, his heavy balls slapping HARD against the wetness between her thighs as he kept thrusting, his hardness showing no sign of leaving, his power showing no sign of waning.
“What’s HAPPENING, Rizaak?” she was wailing, the words again sounding like another woman’s distant voice, and for a moment she thought she had left her body, had perhaps already died, but no . . . no . . . it couldn’t be . . . I haven’t left my body . . . I haven’t left my body, because all I feel is my body, and all I feel is his body, and ohgod he’s still coming inside me, and ohgod he’s pouring his semen so deep inside, so hot inside, and ohgod what’s happening, what’s happening, ohgod, ohgod, Oh, GOD!
And now her orgasm came BLASTING its way through her convulsing body just as Rizaak pushed into her one last time, delivering the last of his load, the finale to his climax, and she could feel that final discharge of his hot semen deep within her secret passageways, flowing through the canals of her cunt, filling and flooding her so completely that the tears rolled down her soft cheeks even as the backbreaking orgasms rolled through her aching, worn, perfect body.
“Oh, GOD!” she screamed as she buried her face into that pillow, her mouth open wide, saliva pouring out as she choked and coughed. “Oh, God.”
He pumped into her as she came, his hands pulling on her breasts with such force that she couldn’t stop screaming, and he shouted with her, grunted with her, moved with her . . . yes, he moved with her like his body was a part of hers, like they were one person in that moment, and as Cristy’s climax came crashing down on her, Rizaak held her, kissed her . . . loved her.
With a deep-seated WAIL Cristy wound her way through a searing set of secondary climaxes, and her shoulders and elbows were on fire with the exertion, and she just collapsed face first into that hard pillow that felt soft as a cloud right now. Rizaak’s hot, hard body was on top of her from behind as he smothered her with his weight, blanketed her with his breadth, covered her with his kisses from behind—kissing her neck, her back, her cheeks, her hair, his cock still hard and full inside her as she shuddered her way through that infinite orgasm, sobbed her way almost to insanity and back.
She couldn’t be sure when it was over or if it was over at all, but eventually she realized she was flat on her stomach, the air rushing out of her as Rizaak lay still on her naked body, his cock slowly slipping out of her as she felt his hot breath in her matted hair, smelled his perspiration mix with hers, the aroma of his semen heavy in the air, mixing with the musk of her sex, the smell seeming clean and pure to Cristy now, simple and right, perfect and precious.
“Sawf tazhar aimra'atan,” Rizaak muttered into her hair. “Sawf tazhar aimra'at alkhass bik.”
Cristy listened to him speak in Arabic, the words swirling in the magical atmosphere of the moment, the exotic, foreign sounds only adding to the dreamlike quality of everything that had happened, was still happening, was going to happen. For the first time in days she felt almost total calm, supreme relaxation, that ethereal feeling that everything was just the way it should be, that things were right, things were wonderful, things were just perfect!
“Waqalat 'annaha sawf tati min 'ay makan,” he whispered again, his breath hot against Cristy’s neck. “Waqalat 'annaha sawf takun fi kl makan.”
Cristy giggled as his breath tickled her in the most exciting, innocent, childlike way. “What does that mean?” she asked, her eyes closed, a placid smile on her round face.
But Rizaak didn’t respond. “Eindama takun mustaeiddaan 'annaha sawf tazhar,” he said again, his body almost motionless as he lay on top of her. “Almar'a.”
“Rizaak?” she said, trying to turn beneath him so she could see his face. But the cot was impossibly small, and their combined weight was causing the springs to sag horribly, so much so that it felt like they were in a hammock. So she stayed quiet and motionless below him, reveling in the way his broad frame covered her tender body like a blanket, the way his weight pressed down on her and gave her the most wonderful feeling of being secure, protected, taken care of, loved . . . loved?
And now Cristy’s own thoughts began to drift as she dreamily listened to Rizaak continue to whisper in Arabic like he was speaking from a deep trance, a trance that Cristy herself was deep within now as she let the consciousness of the moment sink into her.
Yes, a trance . . . and in that trance she heard the words Rizaak had shouted: “WE are happening! WE are happening!”
And she let the words flow through her mind as she lay beneath him, that supreme sense of well-being and comfort taking hold in the strangest of ways, and although there was a part of her that reminded her of the insanity of what had just happened, that she had just made love to a man she barely knew, that he had exploded deep inside her, his seed flooding her dark depths, still flowing through her secret valleys, that voice was faint and distant and it was soon lost in the swirl of emotion, the spin of images, the sound of his words:
WE are happening, Cristy.
WE are happening.
16
Rizaak crept back to his cabin just as dawn hinted its arrival over the eastern horizon, its red glow emerging like a warning, a reminder that he and Cristy were in a world of danger right now—perhaps Cristy more than he.
He had convinced Cristy that Jane would not harm her, and she had agreed to stay in her metal prison and let Rizaak slide the deadbolt shut as he left. Rizaak kept the master key that Cristy took from Malone, and he used it to get back into his cabin. The cabin locks on this ship—as with many older European-made freighters—were double-sided, which meant a key could be used from both inside and outside. Indeed—if that had not been the case, if Rizaak was not certain that he could leave his cabin in the dead of night and go to her, go to Cristy . . . yes, Rizaak would never have asked her to stay in that container-prison.
This way he had some control over the situation, Rizaak reminded himself as he quietly shut his cabin door and locked it from the inside. Now he knew where Cristy was, and he knew he could leave his cabin whenever he wanted. He could sneak out and take down Harry and Dick, one by one, if he needed to do it. Though of course, that would not be a good idea. Besides the risk of getting caught in the act, there was the greater danger of Jane and Tom. He did not know which cabin they were in, and besides, four people was too many to take out in secrec
y.
He could try calling for help, perhaps. A cell phone from someone's cabin would be useless out at sea, so he would need to go to the bridge, to the main communications area. And Rizaak knew enough about ships to know that the bridge is always manned by at least two officers at all times. Twenty-four hours a day. Too much risk. He would never get a call out before getting caught. No, he would have to wait. And Cristy would have to wait.
She was scared, he knew. But, Allah, she was strong too, was she not?! To be able to swallow her fear and attack Malone took courage, took CHARACTER! How many women would have cowered in the corner, accepting their fate, turning into victims without a fight? Not that one could blame a woman who hadn’t eaten or slept well in days for being unable to fight off a hulking brute like Malone; but, God, Cristy had done it! And she stayed strong even when she realized she had inadvertently killed him! She had the presence of mind to take his key, to come and get me, to HANDLE the situation! This is not a woman who passively yields to circumstance. Not a woman who yields at all, perhaps!
But, by Allah, she yielded to me, did she not, Rizaak thought as he stood by that grease-stained porthole and stared out at the reddening sky. Did she not yield to me?
No, it occurred to him now as the sun began to rise over the ship’s distant bow. You are wrong, Rizaak. She did not yield to you. And you did not yield to her. The truth is that you both yielded to something greater than your individual selves in that moment, in that intimate coupling, that divine embrace, that ethereal encounter.
Never had Rizaak experienced passion like that, intensity of that magnitude, ecstasy so deep and profound that it still seemed like a fantasy. Yes, he knew that part of it was fueled by the danger, the fear, the adrenaline of the past few days; but not all of it. No, not all of it. Because had Rizaak not noticed this woman the moment he walked into that bank? Had he not found himself gravitating towards her without any conscious choice? Was that not the way of destiny, that unconscious yet unyielding pull towards someplace or something or someone . . . someone . . . a woman . . . a lover . . . a . . . a
. . . a queen?
Now Rizaak recoiled from the porthole window, and suddenly the sun blazed hot and merciless on his skin, and the room began to spin again as he stumbled to his bunk and flopped onto it, eyes wide and unfocused, lips moving as he muttered in Arabic. And now images came back to him, words came back to him, and he remembered how he had been muttering in Arabic as he lay on top of Cristy, as she giggled like a schoolgirl and asked him what he was saying as his hot breath tickled her soft, sensitive skin.
He hadn’t answered, and indeed, the question had barely registered. Only now did it occur to Rizaak that he had in fact been uttering the words of his late mother, Begum Al-Khawas, the second wife of his father, the old Sheikh Al-Khawas himself.
Begum Al-Khawas had outlived her husband, and although Sheikh Al-Khawas—Rizaak’s father—had died when young Rizaak was barely five, the Begum had made it her duty to instill a deep sense of his father into her young son.
“Your father was a practical, logical man,” the Begum would tell young Rizaak during the lazy afternoons after the young prince’s tutors and trainers had finished with him. “Some said he was cold, even ruthless when it came to matters of policy and governance. But I saw a side of him that no one else did—not even his other queen. Your father was capable of great passion, deep warmth, unyielding love. Yes, he buried that side of him when he sat on his throne, handled matters of his court, decided cases of grave importance. And although he did believe in the importance of rational thought and logical argument, at his core your father was guided by a deep sense of destiny, a profound need to follow his instincts, to trust his emotions, even if they conflicted with logic, tradition, or even common sense!”
“Is that why he is dead?” Rizaak asked her once, many years later, when he was fourteen years old and was learning more and more about his father—how the man lived, and how he died. “Because he followed his heart and not his mind?”
“Who told you that?” the Begum had snapped at him, her long brown face twisting, her dark eyes narrowing. “Tell me who said that and I will have him exiled for speaking ill of the late Sheikh! It is haraam to speak of the dead king in such tones. Now tell me, Rizaak. Who has dared to poison your ears with these lies?”
Rizaak had smiled at his mother, his young face calm and poised. “You did,” he said. “You did, dearest Mother.”
The Begum’s surprise was apparent, and Rizaak could still remember how his mother had almost slapped him across the face for his insolence. In a way he had insulted both his mother and his father in the same sentence! Looking back now, Rizaak was almost surprised that the Begum did not exile HIM!
“Speak,” the Begum had rasped as she glared at her son, her lips tight, her eyes focused and dark. “Explain yourself, Rizaak.”
“You said my father had decided to ride an unbroken Arabian stallion against the advice of his trainers,” Rizaak had said, his voice wavering as he tried desperately to keep his thoughts from racing too far ahead. “And then he was thrown from the horse and trampled beneath its hooves. If he had listened to common reason and logic, would he not have followed the advice of his expert horse trainers and chosen not to ride a dangerous, untamed animal?”
Now the Begum’s face relaxed, and she looked into her son’s dark green eyes, her hands reaching for him, her grip tightening around his teenage arms that were already hard and muscular from his daily training. “My son,” she said. “Do you not see? To your father, following his heart WAS the logical thing to do! To him, common sense meant nothing more than trusting your instincts! To the outside world he made himself appear cold and rational, but inside him beat a heart of fiery passion, of deep-seated romanticism, of a keen appreciation for the mysteries of the universe, the silent ways of Allah, the secret guidance of His angels. Your father rode that untamed stallion because his instincts guided him to do so. It was part of Allah’s plan.” She had paused for a moment. “A plan that has resulted in you becoming the heir-apparent. I am a junior wife, but you are the only son. Perhaps that was Allah’s plan. And perhaps that is why your father felt an unconscious need to ride out alone that day. He was driven by that sense of destiny, my son. By his intuition and the guiding hand of Allah and the angels. That is why he was a great man, a great husband, a great father. And a great Sheikh. It is about balance and trust, my son. Balance between intelligence and instinct. Trust in God and the universe.”
Mother and son had stayed quiet for several long moments, and then the Begum spoke again, her voice low and urgent. “THAT is what I have been trying to teach you, my son! THAT is what I am trying to ignite in you! You must find that balance in your mind, that harmony in your soul, that perfect equilibrium when your instincts are the same as logic, your common sense no different from your passion. And once you find that balance, every step you make, every action you take, every event that transpires will take you closer to your destiny. It will feel as if the stars are aligned, as if the universe has shifted in your direction.”
Rizaak’s smooth young face had crinkled in confusion as he tried to understand his mother’s words. “But how will I know when I have achieved that balance, Mother?” he asked then. “How will I know?”
And the wise old Begum had looked her son deep in the eye, gripping his arms tightly again as she spoke, the words coming out with an intensity that seemed desperately relevant to Rizaak right now:
“You will know because a woman will appear in your life, my son. YOUR woman,” the Begum had whispered through the dry desert air of Khawas all those years ago. “As you move towards the path of balance, the harmony I speak of will show itself in every area of your life, in every area of YOU! You will feel it in your mind, your body, your very soul. Once you are ready internally, then the universe will respond with an external sign that you are close to achieving that magical balance. And the most fundamental balance in a man’s life comes from his woma
n. So pay attention, little Rizaak, for she will come out of nowhere, and suddenly it will seem like she is everywhere. A woman, my son. Your woman. Your woman.”
“Your woman,” Rizaak muttered in Arabic, the words coming out again and again, repeating itself like a mantra, like a spell being cast, a prophecy being fulfilled. “She will come out of nowhere, and suddenly it will seem like she is everywhere. Like she is everywhere.”
17
His smell was everywhere: on her, around her, inside her. And she held on to the smell as she felt dawn break outside that metal chamber. Yes, she could feel the sun beat down on the roof of that red container, the heat rising inside even as that ventilator chugged and coughed as it replaced the stale air with fresh oxygen at a rate that seemed only just bearable.
With the sun’s heat came the reminder that if last night was a dream, the rest of it was a nightmare right now. Cristy knew what was coming. She knew WHO was coming. In a way the thought of that beast Malone lurching towards her seemed less menacing than the image of psycho Jane coming at her with a gun. Maybe a knife. Perhaps a goddamn tweezer, just so she could prolong the pain!
Rizaak had explained that Jane seemed to exhibit certain tendencies common in psychopaths—in fact, Rizaak had phrased it exactly like that: “Jane exhibits certain tendencies commonly found in psychopaths.”
“So she’s a psycho,” Cristy had said to him as she snorted, almost giggling as she rolled her eyes in the darkness, the two of them pressed tightly together in that hammock-like cot. “I could’ve told you that, buddy.”
Rizaak had laughed and kissed her, and it was a moment that seemed alarmingly light-hearted. But of course it was deadly serious and of utmost consequence, and so Cristy had listened carefully as Rizaak told her how to act.
“Do not question her authority,” Rizaak had said. “Do not disagree with anything she says, no matter what.”
Hostage for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 3) Page 8
