Rizaak reached down and trailed his index finger right along her slit, starting at the bottom, where her crotch was against the deck, now tracing his way all the way up to where her swollen clit was already peeking out from its secret hiding place.
He ran his fingers up and down the thick dark lips of her vagina as she trembled and gasped, leaning back and propping herself up with her hands as she spread her thighs for him. Her tattered blouse was open all the way, her breasts hanging out beneath her bra that was pushed up. Her skirt was hiked up tight around her waist, bunched up almost to her breasts as she arched her back and raised her hips towards his delicate, teasing touch.
Rizaak’s index and middle fingers were wet from her juices, and he brought his fingers to her face now, coating her lips with her own wetness. Cristy gasped when she smelled herself, shivered as she licked her lips, trembled as Rizaak leaned in close.
“Do you taste yourself, Cristy?” he asked as he grasped the back of her neck and slowly, carefully licked her lips with his warm tongue. “This is what I tasted that first time together, in the darkness. It is the taste of a woman. It is the taste of MY woman.” He paused and drew back, licking his own lips and swallowing. “It is the taste of you, Cristy. Of you.”
He went silent as he kissed her full now, bringing those wet fingers up to their interlocked lips, now pushing his fingers into her mouth along with his tongue, and Cristy licked his fingers, sucked his tongue, her senses overwhelmed with the sweet taste of his saliva mixed with the musky wetness from her own crotch, the sensation of touch and smell and taste all mixed up in the most filthy, erotic, intoxicating way possible.
What’s happening to me, she thought as she felt herself reach for his cock even as he slapped her hand away again. I’ve never acted this way around any man before, never even believed that I COULD act this way around a man!
His fingers teased her slit again as he kissed her, and Cristy gasped into his mouth as she felt Rizaak gently spread the lips of her pussy with his thumb and finger, holding her vagina open as he kissed her. The warm salty air teased her open cunt as she gurgled and swallowed, shivered and shook, and Cristy’s mind began to swirl even as Rizaak’s tongue swirled in her mouth, the thumb of his other hand pressing down on the hood of her clit as he held her vagina open in that filthy way, making her YEARN to be filled with something hard, thick, manly. Oh, God, what was he doing to her! This was so dirty, so filthy, so wrong!
That last thought twisted and turned in her mind as she tried not to think about how she had been raised to believe that sex was something that belonged in the darkness, the shadows, behind closed doors. And here she was in the bright sunlight, under the clear blue sky, her boobs glistening in the light of day, her thighs shamelessly spread wide beneath the heavens! Could she have ever imagined this would be her? That this COULD be her?!
Cristy hadn’t even had sex until her senior year in college, her parents had done such a number on her! And now, as Rizaak slowly pushed her down onto her back on the warm metal platform, Cristy wondered in a moment of almost crazed arousal if perhaps this was the point of everything that was happening! That the robbery, the little girl at the bank, that impulse to offer herself as a hostage . . . that all of it was just a sideshow, that what was happening right now, happening to her body, happening in the flesh, was what it was all about!
WE are happening, she thought as she exhaled and let Rizaak bend her knees and push her legs back towards her body, knees up against her chest, the position spreading her so damned wide, opening her in such a filthy way that she almost came as she felt his hot breath against her cool wetness.
We are happening, she thought again as she closed her eyes and let the sun warm her face as she felt Rizaak warm her slit with his tongue.
“Oh, God, yes,” she muttered, smiling again as she realized she was going to come very soon, thanks to the buildup, thanks to what this man was bringing out in her, thanks to WHO this man was bringing out in her, this other woman who was naked and smiling, her legs pressed up against her breasts, vagina on display!
She reached between her legs and grabbed his head like she couldn’t control herself, but Rizaak pulled away from her immediately, raising his head and looking down at her as he held her legs bent up, her knees almost against her chest, her crotch and butt spread incredibly wide before him in the most filthy manner.
“You are not in control of your arousal,” he said now, his voice deadly serious as he licked his lips and shamelessly glanced at her slit, her crack, before looking into her eyes. “I am in control of your arousal.”
“Please,” she whispered, trying to buck her hips up towards him as she felt her orgasm rear its head in the distance as it angrily waited to flood through. “I’m about to . . . I’m about to . . . oh, God, Rizaak, I’m . . .”
“Say it, my innocent little American girl,” Rizaak whispered as he leaned over and gently blew warm air on her glistening slit. “Now that we are in the sunlight, in the bright light of day, where there is no place to hide, can you reach inside and let yourself go? Let yourself come? Let yourself come to me? To my control?”
“Oh, God, yes,” Cristy whimpered as his hot breath on her clit pulled her closer to the edge. “Yes, Rizaak. I’m going to . . . I’m going to . . . oh, shit, I’m going to come! Oh, God, please let me COME!”
And Rizaak just pulled back and let go of her legs, jumping back off the stairs and onto the deck as Cristy gasped in shock at the sudden change. Her mouth hung open as she raised her head off the platform to see where he had gone, but her orgasm was so close now that she just plopped her head back down and closed her eyes and reached between her legs and—
“NO!” came the roar, and Rizaak was close again suddenly, and he grabbed her wrists before she could touch herself. “You will NOT come unless I say it! I am your Sheikh. I am your King. I am your bloody GOD right now! You will obey me and hold yourself back until I give you permission. Until your Sheikh gives you permission.”
“Rizaak, I can’t! Oh, God, I—”
“Say YES, MY SHEIKH!” Rizaak roared now as he held her hands above her head and licked her face. “SAY IT!”
Cristy clenched her pussy as she tried to hold back her orgasm, and now tears began to roll down her cheeks as she felt herself go into a convulsion from the strain. She wanted to come, and in fact a part of her was almost angry right now, angry at him for pulling back, just like he had pulled out of her in that one wild moment when they were like animals mating in the darkness below decks. But here in the bright sunlight it felt different, like there was no hiding—no hiding from him, no hiding from herself.
Yes, no hiding from herself.
Now Cristy felt her body slowly manage to stave off that orgasm, and the effort was so intense that she saw her life flash before her eyes for a moment . . . all those years of being the sensible one in the family, the one with the steady job, the one who made responsible choices, the one who had been forced to step up and take charge when her parents lost control of their lives and went into debt, when they lost the house and car, when they lost the will to even be parents at all . . . yes, all those years of being forced to call the shots, to be the “planner,” to actually be the parent to HER parents as they slipped into addiction like so many of Baltimore’s unemployed . . .
And the realization came through in a rush, a whirlwind, a gasp, that although Cristy had always recognized that her strength was an asset, that her strength was valuable and wonderful, that her strength made her happy and confident . . . yes, although she was proud to be stronger than any man she had ever met, for that fleeting moment she also recognized the beauty in the feeling of being forced to obey a man who was her match, to release herself to his control, to submit to him.
To submit to him.
So as she watched Rizaak stand above her now, stripped naked and bare, his bronze, hard torso shining in the sun, a thick vein throbbing in his engorged cock as he knelt down above her convulsing body, Cri
sty felt something inside her just let go, just give in, surrender to his control, allow herself to trust this man completely.
“Yes, my Sheikh,” she whispered to him as she watched the swollen head of his gigantic cock trace its way along her nipples, her chest, her neck, anointing her with his fresh stickiness as it oozed its way closer to her lips. “Yes, my Sheikh. I will obey.”
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Her taste was still heavy in his mouth, her aroma still strong in his head as he heard her say the words.
“Yes, my Sheikh,” she said to him as she lay spread beneath him, a queen at the command of her king. “I will obey.”
It took everything he had to not betray what he felt as he heard the release in her voice, saw the genuine trust flicker in her eyes like she had crossed a threshold in her mind, passed a signpost in her psyche. She was giving herself to him, like she had decided at a deep emotional level to give him control over her body in such a profound, fundamental way that Rizaak wanted to shout to the heavens and proclaim to the world that this was indeed his queen, that there could be no doubt about it now!
Because after those last two encounters—encounters with infinite depth, profound passion, unfathomable arousal . . . yes, after that Rizaak feared there was nothing more to conquer in this woman! But now, now that he had seen that strange look in her eyes just before she said “I will obey” to him . . . yes, now he knew that she had CHOSEN to submit, CHOSEN to obey, CHOSEN to give up control! She had not been broken! She had CHOSEN to let go, to give him control. And was that not the truest sign of strength?! The strength of a queen?
Ya, Allah, the strength of a queen!
Rizaak felt a rush of joy that threatened to overpower him, and he wanted to take her into his arms and tell her everything, tell her that this was destiny playing out before their very eyes, that although he had always laughed at his mother’s melodramatic pronouncements of finding balance and harmony, of his woman appearing as if from nowhere . . . yes, now perhaps he was starting to believe!
But just as he was about to speak, that rational, logical, practical side of his brain butted in and forced him to hold his tongue, forced him to draw back.
It took him a moment to understand it, but when he did his entire body seized up as the fear flooded through him, the fear that perhaps, maybe, possibly . . . without even knowing it . . . she was close to breaking HIM! Because if he truly believed that she was his queen, that his mother had been right in her sentimental speeches, that Cristy was his woman, that everything that was occurring was in some way just the universe’s playful scheme to throw the two of them together and watch as destiny played itself out, as fate took its course . . . yes, if he truly believed that, then it could lead to disaster, could it not?! His own feelings could endanger both of them, could it not?!
Because in two weeks, when the Dublin Dog pulled into the port of Ireland, Rizaak knew he would have to walk away from this, walk away from her. It was her only chance. If Cristy stayed with him, ran with him, hid with him . . . then there’d be no hope of convincing the CIA that she wasn’t a part of the bombing. She’d be written off just like Rizaak had been written off: as casualties of the West’s war on terror—truth and “justice” be damned!
But how can a king leave his queen behind, he thought as he looked down at her before him, her pretty round face, innocent but strong, creamy white skin looking smooth and perfect in the sunlight, her curves beckoning to him as he knelt suspended above her, the two of them naked beneath the cloudless skies of midday.
Now Rizaak could feel the sweat collect on his forehead as his breath caught in his throat at the thought of being separated from this woman, this woman who he felt so close to right now, this woman with whom he had shared so much in so little time, this woman with whom he wanted to share so much more!
But he drew back, gritting his teeth from the effort, closing his eyes tight and stepping away from Cristy, going back down the stairs as he felt an overwhelming combination of rage, confusion, and . . . and . . . and fear!
Fear that he would make the wrong decision, that he would take Cristy with him as he traveled through Europe incognito and figured out the next step.
Yes, fear that his judgment was compromised, that his emotions were coming to the forefront and confusing him, that his feelings for this woman—an American woman he barely knew—were overruling his logic and reason. After all, could he afford to trust what he “felt” for Cristy? Could he afford to risk taking her with him? It would make it harder to stay hidden, to stay underground with an American woman in tow, would it not? His old military and government contacts in Europe might be hesitant to help if they knew they were aiding a U.S. citizen who was wanted by the CIA for terrorism! Her presence would endanger BOTH of them!
And what about my responsibilities to my people, my duty to my nation, my charge to bring Khawas and her citizens out of the dark ages of Islamic law and into the joyous future where freedom and religion can co-exist side by side? Is my responsibility not to my ancestors, my bloodline, my people? I cannot be compromised by allowing myself to get sucked into the memory of my mother’s melodrama, the sentimentality of a woman. I must be above that. I AM above that! Ya, Allah, yes! I must focus ALL my attention and energy on clearing my name, somehow turning the tables on my uncle, that crafty old bastard who makes me wish I had not eliminated the old custom of beheading traitors in the public square of Khawas’s capital city!
No, I cannot be distracted by a woman! Yes, with Cristy it feels different, it feels special, it feels REAL . . . but what if I am wrong? What if my BODY is wrong? What if it was just the danger of the situation that made things seem more real, more intense, more “meant to be” than it really was?! Certainly I have been in dangerous situations before—perhaps in MORE peril than now. And there were women in my life then too—but nothing and no-one came CLOSE to feeling like this. Oh, Allah, what do I do?
“Please,” came her voice now, drifting through the daydream of doubt that had ensnared Rizaak. “Don’t make me wait, Rizaak. Don’t make me wait, my Sheikh.”
And now Rizaak’s face hardened as he looked over at her, and that earlier joy he had felt momentarily gave in to the doubt. Now when he looked at Cristy he saw nothing but temptation, the age-old temptation that leads a man away from his true path, that ancient test that even Ulysses had to face when he heard the siren song.
Is that what it is, he wondered as confusion roared in once again and threatened to take him beyond the edge of madness. Has this woman appeared to test my character as a ruler, to test my duty to my country, to test my commitment to always choose the logical and reasonable course of action and not give in to emotions that can betray me as they have betrayed so many others—as they betrayed my father, who chose to ride to his death for no reason other than he “felt like riding that horse” on that day?!
Now Rizaak’s rage focused on his mother, the old Begum, and he wondered if she was laughing at him as he stood there naked and hard, glistening with the sweat of confusion on that sun-baked metal deck. Was she laughing at his weakness, at how her son was following his arousal and thinking it was “destiny,” listening to his cock and swearing it was “fate” that beckoned him to Cristy, made him think she was his queen who had been sent by the heavens, brought to him by the angels?!
What is the right choice, he thought as he closed his eyes and turned his face up to the sun even as he heard Cristy’s voice once again calling for him, teasing him, TEMPTING him.
Give me a sign, Mother, he thought as he felt his jaw go so tight his head felt close to exploding. Give me a sign, Mother! What part of me do I trust?! Is this truly destiny or is it an illusion, nothing but a man’s animalistic need getting overblown into something more in his mind?! Give me a sign, Mother! GIVE ME A SIGN!
But the heavens were silent, and Rizaak stood there for what felt like a long, endless, torturous moment. Then, without looking at Cristy again, he gathered his clothes and walked away.
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She sat there vulnerable, naked, exposed. She was bewildered, humiliated, ashamed. Then she was angry. Angry with herself. What was she doing? What was she thinking? This wasn’t her, was it? This COULDN’T be her!
Slowly Cristy sat up and pulled her bra back down over her breasts, tied that torn blouse as best as she could, pulled that navy blue skirt down past her hips as she stood and gingerly stepped down from the top deck at the front of the ship. In some way she was almost relieved! “I will obey you, my Sheikh?!” What the hell was that? Talk about getting caught up in the moment!
The earlier feeling of incredible closeness seemed almost laughable now, and as Cristy stepped towards her metal chambers below decks, she almost marveled at how quickly things seemed to have changed.
It couldn’t have meant anything if I don’t give a damn right now, she told herself as she forced a smile. And who was I kidding anyway! We don’t even know each other! For all I know he IS part of some weird terrorist plot! I should just be thankful that it looks like I’ll be free when we arrive in Ireland. Who gives a damn what happens to him after that?! Maybe in a month there’ll be videos of Rizaak and his uncle in black hoods spouting extremist madness as they threaten to steal the Statue of Liberty and replace it with a billboard of a goat driving a BMW through some shitty desert!
The image made her chuckle like a madwoman as she stopped outside the thick metal door leading to the dark, empty room that was to be her holiday home for the next two weeks. But she controlled her emotions and now she shook her head firmly as she decided that the passion Rizaak and she had felt in those two lustful encounters were simply fueled by the situation, the danger, the looming threat of being killed. And now, now that it seemed like things would work out—for her at least—yes, now perhaps it was time to be REALISTIC about things, to remember that she barely knew this guy, that the sensible thing to do was get the hell away from all of this, to get to the U.S. embassy or whatever, to get back to Baltimore, her apartment, her job, her . . . her boyfriend?!
Hostage for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 3) Page 14
