“Born and raised,” she said, looking around quickly as if to make sure her supervisor wasn’t watching. Then she relaxed a bit and nodded. “How about you?”
The Sheikh laughed. “Thank Allah, no! I cannot even stand a chilly breeze, let alone blocks of ice falling from the sky.”
“It’s just a snowstorm,” said Willow. “Though it is looking pretty rough out there. I hope you weren’t planning on leaving anytime soon.”
The Sheikh frowned. “What do you mean? I have a meeting in New York City in two days.”
Willow raised her eyebrows. “Well, you could start driving tonight and you might make it in two days. Assuming you have a truck, of course. And even then it’ll be slow going across the Midwest. It’s supposed to come down heavy for two straight days, and then it’ll take a while to get the roads cleared.”
“I do not care about the roads so long as the runways are clear,” said the Sheikh, frowning as he glanced at his watch and wondered if he should call his pilots and see if they could take off tonight itself, before this storm got any worse—as if it was possible for the storm to get any worse.
“I’m pretty sure all flights have been grounded. I’d be surprised if the airport is even open. I have a couple of friends who work ground crew for one of the airlines, and they couldn’t make it out past their own driveways!”
“I do not care about the airlines. I have my own airplane.”
“Yeah, but if there’s no air-traffic controllers and no one to plow the runways, then it doesn’t matter. You aren’t going anywhere. I’d suggest extending your hotel reservation now, just to make sure you’re not stuck without a room.” Willow glanced over the crowd. “Not sure how many of these folks are out-of-towners, but they’re all gonna be extending their stays through Thanksgiving.” She snorted. “And I hope you’ve already got your turkey, because there might be a run on birds at the grocery store.”
The woman went quiet for a moment, as if something had occurred to her. She blinked, her eyes narrowing a bit as she glanced down at him. If this were any other woman, the Sheikh would have thought she was checking him out. But this felt different. It was like she was evaluating him, making an assessment, judging his worthiness or something. Whatever. He had bigger things to think about. Like how the hell he was going to get out of here.
“Turkey?” he said absentmindedly as he glanced at the window and wondered if it was his imagination or if the snowflakes really looked as big as frozen turkeys. “Thanksgiving?”
“You’re kidding, right? You know it’s Thanksgiving on Thursday. Tell me you know what Thanksgiving is!”
The Sheikh shifted on his chair. “Of course I do.”
“You ever been to an American Thanksgiving?”
“No,” said Rafeez. “Why? Are you inviting me to your home, Miss Willow?”
Willow laughed. “I’ll be working on Thanksgiving. I get paid time and a half on holidays. But if you’re still in town . . .”
She trailed off, and the Sheikh could tell from the way she hesitated that whatever she’d thought about earlier was still playing on her mind. Now he was curious, and he turned on his chair and looked up at the short-haired woman. “Go on, Miss Willow. What should I do if I am stuck in town for Thanksgiving?”
“You should get your own bird. A local, North Dakota turkey. I have a friend who runs a turkey farm just outside Fargo. If you’ve got a four-wheel drive vehicle, you should be able to get there.” She smiled, her eyes sparkling as if there was some inside joke that the Sheikh wasn’t getting—or wouldn’t get until later. “Tell her you want to buy her largest turkey, and that you want her to stuff it for you.”
The Sheikh laughed. “A fine idea. But I am staying in a hotel. What in Allah’s name am I going to do with a stuffed turkey? Cook it in the microwave in my suite?”
Willow shrugged. “I’m sure you guys will figure something out.” She smiled again, turning to go get the Sheikh his club soda. “Oh, and tell her Willow sent you.”
3
“Of course she did,” said Pen, blinking twice as she stared up at the tall, dark-haired man standing in her doorway. He wore a thick leather jacket with a fur-lined collar, and Pen frowned as she wondered which poor animal had been shaved to line this man’s collar. But she couldn’t hold the thought for long, because the man’s green eyes were locked in on hers with a cool confidence that made her feel warm all over, tingly beneath her clothes, hot between her legs.
Willow had sent her a cryptic text saying she was sending over a “customer” and that Pen should keep her hair open and not in that ratty ponytail. What the hell did that mean, Pen had wondered. But then, on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, the door-chimes had gone wild and when she pulled the door open she saw the man standing there.
It was clear what Willow had done, and one look into his twinkling green eyes and half-formed smile told Pen that this man knew it too. She almost swooned as she took in the sight of his strong jawline highlighted by perfectly manicured stubble, thick black hair that complemented his smooth olive skin, dark red lips so full and thick Pen had to force herself not to think about where she wanted to feel their warmth.
Her mind spun a web of doubt, excitement, and straight-up panic as Pen wondered what the hell to do next. Clearly Willow had decided she was going to send over this man as some misguided attempt at matchmaking. Absolutely misguided, Pen thought as she touched her hair and felt her right leg bend back involuntarily like she was a stork or something.
I hate you, Willow, she thought as she swallowed and tried to fight the feeling that this guy was way out of her league. I hate you, and I love you. Oh, God, I love you so much, you dark-haired little witch!
“So Willow sent you here to buy a turkey,” she said slowly, feeling the cool air swirl up around her black tights, which she was wearing beneath a long, hip-hugging maroon sweater that highlighted her curves while nicely hiding the round of her belly. “But it sounds like we’re the turkeys here.”
The man raised an eyebrow and pulled his fur-lined collar closer. “May I come in?” he said. His accent sent a chill through her, its Middle Eastern lilt tempered by a vague hint of British propriety. It sounded almost royal, Pen thought. Which was ridiculous, of course. There weren’t any royals anymore, were there? And certainly none that would show up at her door in a obvious set-up situation!
But why did he show up, anyway, Pen wondered as she stared tongue-tied into his eyes, blinking as she glanced at his mouth again, horrified as she pushed away an image of those lips of his between her legs, his tongue sliding out and disappearing into her—
Oh, God, are you insane, she thought, blinking again and stepping back so the man could enter. There were snowflakes all over his thick locks of hair and massively broad shoulders, and when he took off his jacket and stomped his feet in her foyer, she almost gasped out loud when she saw how big his chest looked in the tight-fitting black cashmere sweater he wore.
“OK, this is awkward,” Pen said as the blood rushed to her face. Suddenly she felt very white and exposed, and she unconsciously tugged at the bottom of her long sweater, wondering if she going to start sweating. Had she used enough deodorant? Had she used too much perfume? Was her lipstick too thick? And again, why would a man like this even show up to what was in effect a blind date? “The next time I see Willow, I’m gonna . . .”
“She is a good friend to you. I trusted her immediately, and that is why I am here,” said the man, looking her straight on with a calm confidence that shook Pen to the core. He winked. “Though of course my bodyguards are outside, just in case you try any funny stuff. I am not that kind of man, you know.”
“Of course not,” Pen said, surprising herself by how confident she sounded while inside she was a quivering mess of high-school level nerves. “And I’m not that kind of woman.”
The Sheikh took a step closer, and Pen could sm
ell his scent: red sage and desert oak, a mix so potent that she touched her neck as she inhaled deep. “What kind of woman are you?” he asked, his half-smile breaking into a full grin as Pen wondered what the hell was happening, what was going to happen, and what in God’s name she’d do if he took one more step.
“The kind who invites strange men into her home, obviously,” she said, blushing as the thought came to her that this man was twice her size, and she was alone in this old farmhouse. No one would hear her scream. She had a shotgun, but it was in the cellar, and she hadn’t cleaned or fired it in years. What the hell was Willow thinking!
What the hell am I thinking, Pen wondered as she reminded herself that Willow wasn’t particularly good at long-term planning or thinking too many steps ahead. The woman operated mostly on instinct, and although that had worked out reasonably well in Willow’s life—she was married to a nice woman and they’d adopted twins from South America—Pen wasn’t so sure if those instincts would carry over when it came to Pen’s life.
And then suddenly she decided this was ridiculous, that she couldn’t handle it, that she needed to turn her back on it—whatever it was! What the hell was this guy doing in Fargo, anyway? No way he lived here. Which meant that no way he was looking for anything more than . . .
“The turkey,” he said, raising an eyebrow and looking around as if he expected to see rows of dead birds hanging in her damned living room. “This is a turkey farm, yes?”
Pen blinked and folded her arms beneath her breasts, almost fainting when she saw how his gaze shamelessly moved to her bosom for a long moment before he looked back up into her eyes. “OK, Willow was messing with you. With me, I mean. With us, I guess.”
“How is that? I do not understand.”
“Well, this was always a turkey farm, and it still is, in a way. But after my parents passed a few years ago, I stopped . . . well, I don’t . . . I mean, these turkeys aren’t for eating.”
The Sheikh frowned. “What are they for?”
Pen frowned right back. “They aren’t for anything! They’re living things, creatures of this world. They’re just alive! They’re just—”
“Ya Allah,” the Sheikh groaned, rubbing his forehead and looking down. “Please do not tell me you are a peace-loving vegetarian who believes that eating meat is some form of barbaric activity, akin to murder.”
Pen put her hands on her hips, feeling the blood rise in her—and not in the way it had risen earlier when she’d seen his tall, muscular frame in her doorway. “You say that as if it’s laughable to not want to murder innocent animals just to stuff your damned face!” she said, her frown getting deeper. She knew every little line on her face was probably visible right now, but she didn’t give a damn. There was something about the lazy, flippant way in which he’d pretty much dismissed everything she believed in with one mocking sentence that made her decide she wasn’t sleeping with him if he was the last man on Earth.
And that’s when she imagined Willow standing triumphantly in the background, grinning like an elf, pointing out the annoying little tidbit that if Pen was hotly deciding that she’d never sleep with this man, it simply proved that all she’d been thinking about since this man walked into her home was . . .
“How do you sleep with all that noise?” the man asked, cocking his head.
“What noise?” said Pen. She listened, and then she realized that although the birds were housed a hundred yards away, you still could hear them fluttering and gobbling and doing whatever it was that turkeys did when no one was watching. She laughed and shook her head. “I guess it’s always just been background noise for me, and I just tuned it out.”
The man nodded. “The soundtrack of your life, yes? Gobble gobble.”
“Excuse me?” Pen said, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Did you just call me fat?”
“What?” said the man, and for the first time Pen saw him look flustered as the color rushed to his brown face. “Of course not! I do not comment on a woman’s appearance! That was not what I meant at all!”
Pen closed her eyes and bit her lip. She really knew how to step in it, didn’t she. “No, of course not. I don’t know why I said that. I’m just nervous, I guess.”
“I make you nervous?”
Pen blinked as she studied his handsome face, which had regained its natural, almost regal composure. “No,” she said finally. “It’s not you. It’s the situation, I suppose. I haven’t dated in a long time, and—”
The man raised an eyebrow, his green eyes shining with mischief. “So this is a date? How very curious. Please, go on.”
Pen went so red she was certain she could blend in with a bowl of tomatoes. “No,” she said hurriedly, touching her hair as her eyelids fluttered involuntarily. “I mean, it’s . . . oh, God, I don’t even know what I’m saying. How about we start over? I’m Penelope Peterson,” she said, sticking out an arm awkwardly.
“Rafeez Al-Zahaar,” said the man, making no move to shake her hand. “And there is no starting over. This is perfect.”
“What’s perfect?”
The man snorted, holding his arms out wide and making a slow turn around her living room. “This. All of it. This place. This week. This trip. All of it. A perfect mess.”
“Mess?” said Pen, feeling her frown coming on again as she tried to fight it back. “So first you call me fat, and now you’re saying my place is a mess?”
“Ya Allah,” said Rafeez, rubbing his heavy stubble and grinning, showing off his perfectly aligned, naturally white teeth. “You are putting words in my mouth.”
And I’m putting my fat foot in my own mouth, thought Pen. But she could feel some of the awkwardness start to melt away even as they both laughed hesitantly. This actually does feel like an awkward first date, she thought as she felt her blush come on again but without her caring this time. She brushed away a strand of hair from her cheek and glanced up into his eyes, feeling that telltale heat whip through her when she saw the look in his eyes.
Then suddenly she didn’t care that this man Rafeez probably didn’t live in Fargo, perhaps didn’t even live in the United States at all. She just cared that he was making her tights feel tight, her panties feel wet, and her bra feel damned uncomfortable, like it needed to be taken off and tossed across her “messy” living room.
It’s Thanksgiving, she thought as she stared into the handsome stranger’s green eyes and shifted on her feet as she felt the connection between them grow even as she sensed movement at the front of his fitted trousers. It’s Thanksgiving, and Willow has sent you a gift, you moron. So just accept it and be grateful. Be grateful.
To hell with it, she thought as she watched Rafeez take a step toward her like he knew what she was thinking, knew that she was saying yes, knew that she wanted what he wanted. It’s storming outside, and chances are when it clears up you’ll never see this man again. So to hell with it. Just go with it.
She felt herself nod, the movement so subtle she wasn’t sure if it was real or not, if it meant anything or not. Then she felt his body near hers, his arm sliding around her back, his strength drawing her in, his scent overwhelming her senses as she gasped and looked up into his eyes.
And when he kissed her, she closed those eyes and gave thanks.
Thank you, she said as she kissed him back, opening her mouth and letting him in. Thank you for this.
4
Is this what I came here for, the Sheikh thought as he felt the thrill of the kiss rip through his body like a sandstorm. The kiss was gentle, but the waves of passion that stirred inside him were building to where the Sheikh could barely breathe as he kissed her again, pulling her close against his body, his right arm tight around the small of her back, his left hand sliding around to her ass and squeezing firmly.
Soon he was grinding his cock against her crotch, and he grinned against her cheek as he felt her pull her thick sw
eater up slightly to give him access to her front. He reached between them and rubbed her gently with the back of his hand, pushing his knuckles against her mound as he drove his tongue into her mouth. Their kisses were gaining intensity, and the Sheikh could sense a desperation in the way they were touching, a deep-seated yearning in the way their bodies were rubbing against each other. Perhaps it was the cold outside that made him yearn for her heat like this. Perhaps it was something else. Who the hell knew. All he knew was that this was happening, and it was perfect. Just bloody perfect!
“You are perfect,” he muttered, pulling her sweater up over her head, his eyes almost rolling back in his head at the sight of her magnificent breasts barely contained by the beige satin bra. “Ya Allah, I am so bloody hard for you. I do not know what has come over me.”
“Oh, so other women don’t get you hard?” she whispered, and the Sheikh snorted with surprised laughter as he pulled back from the kiss and looked upon her face. She was blushing, her eyes wide with embarrassment. “Oh, shit. I didn’t mean that! I meant . . . OK, I’m just gonna shut up now.”
The Sheikh leaned his head back and laughed out loud. “Perfect,” he said again. “A perfect mess. Come here, Miss Vegetarian Turkey Farmer. Come to me.”
“I think I’m about as close as I can get,” Pen said, raising an eyebrow and then looking down at their bodies smushed together as the Sheikh placed both palms firmly on the rounds of her buttocks and squeezed hard. “Oh, God, that feels good.”
“I think we can get closer,” Rafeez whispered, kissing her forehead, her nose, her cheeks, even her damned eyelids. He pushed his hands down inside her tights and underwear, his cock going to full mast as he ran his fingers along the smooth skin of her ass, pulling her cheeks apart and touching her crack as she gasped and shuddered under his grip. “Still so much cloth between us. Come, we’d better get you out of these.”
She nodded earnestly, looking down at herself as she placed her hands on his chest to steady herself. “We’d better, yes. Too much cloth.”
Grateful for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 16) Page 2
