And by Allah, it feels like she is everywhere right now, does it not, Rizaak thought as he buried his face in her bosom, breathing into her flesh as he felt her rise and fall on his lap, her depths taking his length perfectly, her curves fitting his contours like they were made for each other.
The passion he felt, the need he experienced, the arousal that flowed . . . ya, Allah, it was so animalistic, so raw, so filthy, so . . . so PURE!
So pure, he thought as he breathed deep, taking in the smell of her sweat, the aroma of her armpits, the vapors of her vagina. Ya, Allah, so clean, so womanly, so . . . so . . . REGAL!
And as she rose and descended on him, on his cock, his lap, his seat, his throne, Rizaak realized that he had been using the word Queen in both thoughts and words, and it had been unconscious, instinctive, unquestioning . . .
When the woman appears, it is the sign that you are on the path . . .
And the woman HAS appeared, has she not, Rizaak thought as he ROARED with arousal as he felt Cristy sink down on his cock and take him deeper than he had ever imagined possible.
She will come out of nowhere . . .
Oh, Allah, she came out of nowhere, did she not? She came, she came, she came. She came to me, to me, to me. It was like magnetism, like gravity, like the sun and the moon, the earth and the sky, the clouds and the rain . . .
And suddenly she will be everywhere . . .
Like the rain soaks everything, like the moon shines everywhere, like the sky covers all . . . ya, Allah, she is enveloping me in her womanhood, consuming me even as I consume her, controlling me even as I control her . . .
Fill her with your seed . . .
Rizaak’s eyes went wide as the thought came to him as if put there by some outside force, and as his mouth opened wide in ecstasy, his senses filled with Cristy’s feminine aroma, he thought he heard the words again, as if whispered aloud in the darkness . . .
Fill her with your royal seed, Great Sheikh . . .
Terror gripped the Sheikh as he felt his cock flex inside Cristy’s warm depths, his balls beginning to seize up as they prepared to deliver his load, and as those words ripped through his mind again, he clenched every muscle in his body as he tried to stave off that explosion, and Cristy was SCREAMING as she rose and SLAMMED her heavy body back down on his rod, and those words came again, again and again, and as Rizaak coughed and sputtered into her soft bosom as she rode him, a long forgotten memory of the Begum slipped through the gaps in his swirling mind . . .
“The moment of conception is deeply tied with a child’s destiny,” the Begum had said to Rizaak the day before he had joined the military. “You were conceived three days before your father and I were married. To all others it would seem like you were created on the night after the wedding’s Nikaah ceremony, but I alone know this truth. Yes, my golden child, you were conceived outside the bounds of marriage, against the oldest of traditions, and so your destiny is to always challenge your traditions, to find your own way, to LEAD in your own way. And as I see you dressed as a soldier, that look of pride and determination in your eyes, I wonder if your child, your heir, your spawn will be conceived during a time of great stress, with the threat of violence and death close to you, charging your body, adding a fire to your encounter, a desperation to your coupling.”
The Begum had looked at her son and narrowed her eyes before nodding. “And remember,” she had said. “The circumstances are sometimes created by destiny for that very moment, that moment of conception. As if the situation was engineered by destiny to provide that perfect moment of conception.”
Is that what all of this is for, Rizaak wondered in a moment of clarity that drove him close to insanity. Now he felt everything slow down as if the entire universe had stopped to look at him and nod as if to say yes, all of this is indeed to create the circumstances for that one moment, that one event, that one conception, that one creation, that one climax . . . that one climax.
And suddenly everything STOPPED, like the universe had snapped a photograph and Rizaak and Cristy were trapped in that photograph, and Rizaak thought of that framed photograph of the two of them in that getaway car, with Cristy on top of him like she was now, and the image spawned a million images of he and Cristy together, together through time, across the ages, old England, medieval France, ancient Egypt . . . and his mouth was wide open as the images spun around and merged into one, the image of now, the image of them, of her, of him, him inside her, deep inside her, again and again, and everything started to move again, and now it was CHAOS and now it was MADNESS and now he was coming, he was coming, he was com—
26
Oh, God, he’s coming, she thought just before it happened, in that pregnant moment of infinite potential, deafening silence, chaotic stillness, and though she was aware of the sounds of their bodies everything seemed strangely silent, in slow motion, like an arrow plunging into the depths of the dark ocean as Rizaak EXPLODED inside her, his hot seed SHOOTING up into her depths like a geyser on high, and now she WAILED as his semen blasted like torrents inside her, his face thrashing against her neck and chest, his tongue lashing her breasts as he roared and shouted, pulling at her raw nipples with his teeth.
Cristy was howling in tongues as she felt him unload up inside her, and she felt her pussy clench around his rock hard shaft that was jerking furiously inside her, flexing as it poured its load into her secret spaces, flooding her valleys, overflowing her wells, crashing against her shores, blasting through her dams.
Her own orgasm rolled in now, taking her by surprise by how it slipped into her like the silent, glistening beast it was, its tentacles slowly tightening around her, like a thousand tongues licking her, sliding into her every hole, bringing home an orgasm so complete, so overwhelming, so primal that Cristy didn’t even realize it was an orgasm because it seemed like it was . . . like it was EVERYTHING! Like it was HER! Like Cristy WAS her orgasm! Like that beast had possessed her now, from within, the climax deeply entwined with her soul just like those tongues and tentacles were sliding into her body, and she came like a train blasting through the end of the tracks, a ship running aground, an airplane smashing into the sea . . . everything crashing, everything exploding, erupting, eroding, emerging . . .
Emerging.
And as that final HOWL escaped her lips, she felt that sense of time stopping, and in that moment, in the darkness of the underworld in which she lay, Cristy swore she could SEE his seed flowing inside her garden, twisting its way through her valleys, planting itself in her fertile soil.
Oh, God, yes, she thought as she felt her body shudder through the last of it, her vagina seizing up tight as if powered by the fist of the goddess herself, eternity herself, destiny herself, that divine gardener planting a magical seed . . .
His seed.
His royal seed.
27
It is a blessing that Rizaak has not spread his royal seed, Abdul bin-Khawas thought as he stroked his cat and stared at the television. Yes, it is indeed a blessing that he has not married, has not produced an heir. That will make it easier—almost too easy.
Abdul glanced at his phone and smiled. The phone was still warm from the hour-long conversation he had just had with an American called John Benson. A conversation that Abdul had been preparing for all along—indeed it was a critical part of his plan. The CIA was a critical part of his plan.
Benson was the head of the CIA’s Dubai field office, and was a contact Abdul had made several years earlier. It was not that hard to get connected to the CIA when you are a rich Arab who is part of the ruling family of an oil-rich Sheikdom. And the nation of Khawas had a good reputation with the American State Department, thanks to Rizaak’s own efforts at cooperation and reform.
The relationship with Benson had been relatively casual to begin with—just two “businessmen” staying in touch, with the anticipation that someday they would be of mutual benefit to each other.
“That day has arrived,” Abdul had said to his cat as t
he phone rang, just as Abdul had predicted.
“Was that you?” Benson asked, his voice emotionless, the question so direct that Abdul almost laughed at how much he enjoyed dealing with the no-nonsense Americans. “Or has the young Sheikh gone rogue?”
“By Allah, John, I did not know of it!” Abdul said quickly, making sure to inject some defensiveness into his voice, perhaps even a hint of humility, a dash of fear. “I barely see my nephew these days, but then just a few weeks ago he visited me and asked about my holdings in America. He said he remembered that I owned a bank or something, and he wanted to—”
“Yeah, save it. I don’t give a shit,” Benson barked into the phone. “We need to find him. Does he trust you? Will he contact you?”
There was a moment of silence as Abdul’s heart jumped. The conversation was going exactly as planned. The CIA playbook was already in operation. Yes, the CIA playbook where truth and justice always took a backseat to influence and power. It didn’t matter to Benson whether Abdul had engineered this thing or not. With Rizaak so publicly involved, it would be easier to simply place the blame squarely on him. Then the CIA would step in and covertly support Abdul’s move to take over the reins in Khawas.
Yes, Benson was playing the spy game just right. It did not matter that Rizaak had a history of cooperation with the West. It did not matter that the young Sheikh was progressive and modern. It did not matter because Benson and the CIA knew that Rizaak could never be controlled. They knew that Rizaak was his own man, with his own vision. So long as that vision matched up with America’s vision, it was great. But what if Rizaak’s vision changed? What if the young, independent Sheikh decided that his small but rich nation’s interests were now at odds with the interests of the West? There were a lot of what-ifs, were there not? And Benson and the CIA were in charge of dealing with what-ifs!
Which was why Abdul had been certain that if he engineered this bomb thing just right, the CIA would allow Rizaak to fall and Abdul to rise. The CIA would allow Abdul to rule Khawas according to strict Islamic law. Yes, so long as the CIA had faith that Abdul’s foreign policy would always align with America’s interest, they would not care a damn about Abdul’s domestic policies! About SHEIKH Abdul’s domestic policies!
The first part of his plan had gone off just right: The bomb blast had not killed anyone. Abdul knew that was essential—because if Americans had been killed, then the CIA would have been a little more concerned about finding out exactly who ordered the explosion. But the way it worked, with the bank robbery serving the dual purpose of planting the bomb and also making sure the building would stay empty for a few days . . . yes, the way it worked had been perfect in so many ways, perfect because it would implicitly convey Abdul’s involvement as well as Abdul’s intentions: That he was simply seeking the throne of Khawas and was not a madman out to kill Americans.
After all, the CIA were not stupid. They had enough experience in the Middle-East, enough experience with Sheikdoms and nation-states, with ruling families and royal bloodlines, with struggles for power and the path to the Sheikhood. Yes, Benson would quickly suspect that Abdul had been setting up Rizaak. But Benson would not care. He saw that Abdul was giving him a chance to effect a regime-change in a small but influential nation. The trade-off would be to take down the progressive but uncontrollable Sheikh Rizaak Al-Khawas and replace him with the conservative but controllable Sheikh Abdul bin-Khawas. And clearly Benson had decided that the trade-off was a good one.
“Can you give him to us?” Benson asked again. “Rizaak Al-Khawas. Give him to us, Abdul. Location is all we need.”
Abdul took another breath as he stalled. Although he had not planned the hostage situation, the one benefit was that he knew that Rizaak was currently aboard a container ship called the Dublin Dog, headed for Ireland. The CIA could pinpoint the ship’s location, and that would be that.
But Abdul’s original plan had involved Rizaak still being in the United States, where he could easily be tracked and safely apprehended—indeed, Abdul did not want his nephew to be killed! Being taken by the CIA was enough of a death sentence! Now, however, Abdul did not know what would happen if he gave the CIA the name of the ship. Would they send a battleship to intercept them? Would they board the ship via helicopter? Or would they just send two F-16s or a drone to bomb it to the bottom of the Atlantic!
Abdul was not concerned about what Rizaak would say after being captured and interrogated—indeed, the only “truth” that mattered was the truth that was easiest and most beneficial to the State Department’s interests. They would lock Rizaak up, and that would be that. It would not make Abdul happy to know that his sister’s only child would never see the light of day again, but this was about something bigger, was it not? Yes, something bigger. But not big enough to get Rizaak killed at sea if something went wrong. Better to plead ignorance for the moment, and let the CIA pick up Rizaak on dry land, where things would be more conducive to a safe operation.
So Abdul had stalled a while longer and then finally spoken. “I will do my best. Give me a few days. A week perhaps. Two weeks maybe. Yes, two weeks.”
28
“Two weeks? We have to trust them for two more weeks? Do YOU trust them? Do THEY trust YOU?”
Cristy looked into Rizaak’s eyes as he sighed and then shrugged. They were sitting in the sun now, on the large, triangular deck on the focsle of the ship, the frontmost portion. The metal deck was painted an industrial green, and it smelled of grease and seawater. There were two gigantic anchor chains coiled on either side of the deck, the metal painted black for rustproofing, the chains attached to tremendous metal winches that would be turned to lower the thousand-pound metal anchors into the sea when the ship got to port.
“What choice do any of us have, Cristy?” Rizaak said. “We have another fourteen days at sea. I cannot possibly hold four people captive for that long! With Malone the captain gone, the first mate must have taken over command of the ship, and he must know that Malone had his sister and some of her 'friends' on board. I cannot just tie these people up or even lock them in their cabins. And even if I do, how do we feed them? How do we take them to the bathroom? I am assuming the rest of the crew is used to keeping their heads down and turning a blind eye, but now, with their captain mysteriously gone, I cannot trust them to mind their own business if strange incidents keep occurring. No, the only way is to let Jane and Tom and the others go about their business and act as normal as possible. I believe they will play along. I believe they understand—or at least Tom, Dick, and Harry understand—that we are all on the same side suddenly, that we are all branded terrorists, and you and I are useless as hostages now. Their only hope is the cash I have promised to give them—cash that will allow them to run and hide. For a while, at least. So yes, trust is not the question. Survival and rational self-interest is what will make them trust me, and what makes me trust them.”
“Jane?” Cristy said, eyes widening.
Rizaak let out a cold laugh. “I believe that between Tom, Dick, and Harry, Jane can be more or less controlled. So long as you and I keep our distance. For now only Harry knows of these abandoned crew quarters.” He shrugged again. “And although I hate to say it, that pig of a man Harry is whom I trust the most. I trust him because I know he is scared, and because I know he is greedy, and because I know he is selfish enough to betray all the others if it saves his own skin.” He laughed now. “A man like that can always be trusted because he is predictable and controllable. I learned that from your very own CIA, you know.”
Cristy sighed, shaking her head as she squinted from the sun. She rubbed her bare shoulders and shook her head again. “OK, so Harry, Jane, and Dick didn’t know about the bomb. But Tom knew! He KNEW he was planting a bomb! And so I don’t see how anything changes for him, for his motives.”
“Tom did not know that my own damn uncle ordered the bomb,” Rizaak said now, shaking his head and raising his eyebrows. “Tom was hired by a middleman in America itself. He
says the middleman told him the bomb would be set off after a day or two, once the bank was empty and temporarily closed. No one was going to get hurt. It was supposed to be a message about the bank’s layoffs. The common worker striking back against corporate America—that was the message. That is what the middleman told Tom. No connection to Islamic extremism, no one gets killed, and so the case would be handled locally, with FBI involvement at most.”
Cristy took a breath and blinked as she thought. “So Tom says he had no idea he was working for your uncle. He had no idea that this would turn him and his entire gang into international terrorists who would be hunted by the CIA. And you believe him?”
“I do. He was genuinely afraid when he realized that the CIA would now be involved. In fact, the middleman himself may have had no clue about the identity of his ultimate employer. Uncle Bin covered his tracks well.”
“Not really, Rizaak. Your uncle OWNS Midland Bank, yeah? He’d be the first suspect, wouldn’t he? I mean, come on: An Arab owns a bank that gets blown up. Yeah, I know you said no one was hurt because the bank was still closed after all the drama, but still. I wouldn’t call that covering his tracks.” Cristy sighed as she touched a bruise on the outside of her thigh—a bruise that looked very much like the imprint of Rizaak’s fingers. She smiled as she touched the bruise again, blinking as she tried to keep focused on the conversation.
“Did I do that?” Rizaak said now, reaching out and gently running his fingers over the tender skin of Cristy’s thigh. He placed his hand there now, spreading his fingers and matching the outline of the blue-and-green bruise. He took a quick breath now, blinking as if in disbelief, as if the memory of what had gone on in the darkness below decks had just come back to him. “Oh, Cristy, I am sorry. I did not—”
“No,” Cristy said, shaking her head firmly as she swallowed hard. She couldn’t think about it right now. What had happened between them seemed like it belonged in another world right now, another reality. It needed to stay below decks, underground, in the darkness for now. It couldn’t stand to be cast into the light of day, perhaps because the truth of what she felt was too overwhelming to comprehend, too insane to analyze. “Not now,” she said. “Rizaak, I can’t right now. I—”
Hostage for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 3) Page 12
