Mistletoe for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 17)

by Annabelle Winters

  She felt a slight breeze around her bare ankles as she let her thoughts flow free, let them take form on their own, let her instincts answer the question of what she wanted for Christmas. Again her life flashed past her eyes like the Ghost of Christmas Past: All the mistakes she’d made, how she herself was a mistake, an accidental pregnancy, unplanned, unscheduled, unwanted . . .

  “I want to be wanted,” she whispered as that breeze got steadier. “And I want a child that feels wanted, that is wanted! That’s what I want for Christmas. Yup. Whoever’s listening, that’s what I want for Christmas.”

  She frowned as she finally realized that the breeze wasn’t her imagination. She turned and saw that the window near the fire escape was somehow wide open even though she always kept it shut.

  “Santa?” she said out loud, trying to smile even though she felt a strange chill go through her. “Sorry, I didn’t set out any cookies and milk for you. Hopefully that won’t get me on the naughty list.”

  Santa didn’t answer, but Queenie heard a sound from behind her that was too loud to be a mouse stirring. She turned slowly as that chill rose up her spine, the blood pounded in her ears, her vision blurred. Then she stared at the three masked men standing before her, and just as one of them stepped forward with a handkerchief that smelled like chemicals, she smiled and nodded, deciding that these were the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future.

  10

  “The past does not matter. The future is too far away to be relevant. And the present is . . . you. You are my present. My gift. My Christmas miracle,” came the Sheikh’s unmistakable voice through Queenie’s chemical hallucination. “How do you feel?”

  Queenie groaned and blinked, rubbing her neck as she tried to focus. “Like I’ve been wrapped in a stocking for a week. How’re you?”

  The Sheikh laughed, clapping his hands once, the sound making Queenie wince.

  “OK, can we keep the noise level down, please?” she said. “I’m having a very nice hallucination, and I don’t want to be interrupted before I ask the Ghost of Christmas Future some questions.”

  “Ya Allah,” the Sheikh said, completely ignoring her request and clapping three more times like this was a circus and she was the performer. “Excellent! You have just been drugged, kidnapped, and transported halfway across the world, and yet you are calm and focused.”

  Queenie blinked. “Calm? More like still drugged. As for focused . . . well, I can see you clearly enough, if that counts. Oh, wait, I actually can’t see you clearly. Scratch that.” She blinked again, gazing up at the high, domed ceilings of the room she was in. “Where am I?” she said, frowning. “Why is this room so big?”

  “It is not a room, it is the Eastern day-chambers of Wakhrani’s Royal Palace. It is bathed in sunlight from seven in the morning until three in the afternoon, and for over a century my ancestors have been using it to conduct business, pleasure, and everything in between.”

  Queenie looked around as the Sheikh stood and spread his arms out wide. He wore black silk pajamas—not the kind you sleep in—and a red robe that was more cloak than robe, now that Queenie thought about it. And why was she thinking about what he was wearing, anyway, she wondered as her frown deepened. She glanced to her left, and only then did she notice that what she thought was a black wall was in fact a massive open balcony facing the dark expanse of night. Slowly she made out stars . . . one, two, then a hundred, now a thousand of them! It looked like a million diamonds set in black velvet, and she gasped and stood up, feeling the need to look out into that darkness.

  But her legs were wobbly from being drugged, and about a second after she managed to stand up, her knees buckled and she crumpled to the floor, her mouth hanging open as she watched the intricately designed carpet come rushing up to meet her.

  She didn’t fall onto the carpet—though it seemed plush enough to cushion her fall. Instead she felt an incredibly strong arm slip around her waist, a hard body press against hers as the Sheikh swooped in and caught her as she fell.

  “Ya Allah,” he muttered. “Those imbeciles gave you a double dose. I would have them beheaded for this, but it is my fault for not sending my most trusted men. I had no choice, though. I had to go with men who were already in the United States. Time was of the essence.”

  “Why?” Queenie said, leaning against his hard body like it was a perfectly reasonable thing to do. “Why are we in your day-chambers when it’s night outside? What kind of stupidity is that?”

  The Sheikh laughed in surprise. “That is what is most confusing to you in all this? Not the fact that I have kidnapped you and brought you to my palace?”

  Queenie pushed against his chest, her breath catching when her palms rested against his massive pectorals. God, he was muscular. Big and hard, tall and straight. So handsome. Such smooth, clear brown skin. And those eyes!

  Queenie blinked as she felt her senses return in a rush, and now the panic came riding in like a stampede of horses. Her breathing quickened, her heart raced, and the blood pounded in her temples as she blinked several times and fought back the shock.

  “The last thing I remember was being in my apartment and wishing . . . wishing for . . .” she gasped, looking up into his green eyes and then away from him, blinking again. Was this real? It felt real. He felt real. It had to be real. She didn’t drink or do drugs. She didn’t believe in ghosts, alternate realities, or honest-to-God miracles. So this was real, which meant it was . . . insane. Straight-up insane!

  She felt her vision contract, and at first she thought she might pass out. But then Queenie just started to giggle. Perhaps it was the drug, but she didn’t feel drunk or stoned or intoxicated. She clearly remembered what she’d been thinking about before she’d been taken: She’d been thinking about the Sheikh. Thinking that she wanted him, that he was gonna be her king, her happily ever after, just like in those books she’d read obsessively while alone in her room, one hand absentmindedly shoved down the front of her worn-out cotton panties.

  She giggled again as she thought about some of those stories where some rich guy or ruthless criminal (always with six-pack abs and a chiseled chin—whatever that meant) kidnapped a woman because he liked how her ass looked in harem pants or a Victorian gown or whatever the time-period and setting required. The woman would either scream her head off or just gasp and faint, either break down like a little girl or get “feisty” with the hero, threaten to sue him, kill him, or just kick him in the balls. But then the hero would take what he wanted, show her that his cock was the solution to all her problems (and his too . . .), she would get knocked up against her will, escape from captivity or reject him outright, only to return with triplets in her arms and love in her heart. The end.

  But I don’t wanna fight him off, Queenie thought as she glanced at the twinkling stars over the desert sky. And I’m not going to faint, scream, or throw a tantrum. I wanted this. I chose this. I asked for this.

  And I’m accepting it. I’m accepting my Christmas Miracle. I’m taking my king. No more drama. No push and pull. No whimpering and saying, “Unhand me, you brute!” In fact I want his hands back on me, and I’m not ashamed to say it. In my story, the heroine is asking for it! Fuck it. This is the new romance, a happily-ever-after for today’s woman. You got some crazy ex-wife who says she’s got your kid? Big deal. I’ll one-up her. Show her I’m in it to win it.

  “In it to win it,” she whispered as clarity returned to her body and mind at the same time. Her mother was dead. Her past was burned down and buried in the Alaskan snow. It was time to embrace who she was. Slut? Whore? Harlot? All right. So what? You jealous that I’ve got the self-confidence to just shrug and go for what I want without any more shame, any more guilt, any more hypocritical bitches pointing their self-righteous fingers at me and calling me names for doing something they wish they got a chance to do?

  “What did you say?” came the Sheikh’s voice th
rough her daydream—or nightdream, really. Waking dream. Whatever. “You are mumbling.”

  “Then you’d better shut me up with a kiss,” she replied firmly, looking up into his eyes as she felt the wetness ooze into her panties. Then she glanced past him, checking the time on a massive grandfather clock encased in hand-carved teakwood, decorated with intricate Arabic inscriptions, the hands made of a metal that looked like gold . . . probably because it was gold. “And since it’s still Christmas for another hour or so, why don’t you finish this Christmas story and knock me up while you’re at it. Let’s get this Christmas Miracle signed and sealed. Get this gift wrapped. Put a bow on it. Get it tied and—”

  And then she couldn’t speak, because the Sheikh had indeed shut her up with a kiss, a kiss that exploded her world, erased the past, made the present and the future roll into one and then disappear into the diamond-studded Arabian night until there was nothing left but him and her, a man and a woman, Queenie and her King.

  11

  Of course that is the answer, the Sheikh thought as he dug his fingers into her hair, slid his other hand down the back of her panties, pushed his tongue deep into her mouth as he kissed her with a desperation he’d never felt. She is the answer! The complete opposite of everything I hated in Renita. She brings to me everything that Renita drained from me. This woman adds to my power, reminds me that I am a man and that she is a woman, that I am a king and she is my queen.

  And of course a queen will feel no shame to ask for what she wants, to demand what she wants!

  Ya Allah, Bawaar thought as he felt her hands claw at his cock through his silk pajamas, her touch almost making him explode right then and there. What this queen wants is a child. A child conceived on Christmas Day! She has decided to step into the ring with Renita, to beat that woman at her own game! No shame. No hesitation. The confidence of a queen who knows what she wants and is not ashamed to spread her legs to get it!

  The Sheikh felt his mouth widen in a grin as he pulled her top off and buried his face between her breasts, the fingers of his left hand firmly wedged in her rear crack, his right hand deftly snapping off her bra from behind.

  Her magnificent breasts popped into full view as Queenie’s bra fell off, and the Sheikh groaned out loud and then took her right nipple into his mouth, sucking so hard she screamed and arched her back. Her fingers were buried deep in his thick hair, and he could feel the pain in his scalp as she clawed and pulled at his locks. He moved to her other nipple, biting gently but firmly as he drove his middle finger into her asshole, bringing forth another scream of surprised pleasure from his queen, his Queenie.

  “Ya Allah, I have never been so aroused,” he growled, pulling back from her breasts and looked down past their bodies at the way she was firmly pulling on his cock through his pajamas. He groaned again, feeling his balls tighten already as if they were preparing for the biggest orgasm of his life. But at the same time he knew he would not come until he was inside her. His body would not allow it. Although there was no way either of them could know for sure, somehow the Sheikh knew he was going to impregnate her tonight, on the first damned try. He was going to do it, by Allah. Give her what she wanted. Commit to her right now, in the flesh, with his seed.

  He pulled her hand away from his cock, moving down along her body and yanking off her unbuttoned jeans. Her panties were a crumbled, wet mess, and he gasped at the sight of the dark patch at the soaked crotch, his mouth salivating as her scent came up to him and drew him close like a magnet. One deep breath and then his face was jammed in there, his tongue pushing the damp cotton up between the dark lips of her slit. He could taste her, and he swallowed like he needed to possess her nectar, own her essence, like it gave him strength the way a magic potion gave the gods of myth special powers.

  “Please, Bawaar,” she groaned, spreading her thighs all the way wide as the Sheikh began to lick the insides of her loins like an animal. “Please fuck me. Fuck me now.”

  Her words almost made him blow his load, but his balls seized up tight like they were reminding him that he was in control of his body and of hers as well. He would fuck her, and by Allah he would fuck her hard, pouring every last drop of his thick semen into her. But not yet. Not until he decided. She was his queen, but he was the king. And she needed to know that he was the king. Now and forever.

  “I will fuck you when I am ready,” he growled, pulling down her panties and tossing them away. He held her thighs down and apart, breathing deep of her feminine musk as he stared directly at her glistening red slit open wide for him, her matted brown curls neatly arranged around it like it had been designed by divine hands. “First you will come for me. At my command. Yes?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, bucking her hips up toward his face and arching her neck back. “So long as you give the command pretty damned soon.”

  The Sheikh smiled and shook his head. “Not yet,” he whispered, lowering his mouth to her open slit and then gently blowing on her. She moaned and shuddered as he blew warm air against her stiff little clit, making her hairs flutter like desert grass as she began to writhe and thrash under his strong grip. “Not until I allow it.”

  “What are you doing to me?” she groaned. “Oh, God, I don’t think I can hold it.”

  “You can and you will. I am your king, and I am also your boss, by the way. So you will not come until I allow it.”

  Queenie gasped, her eyes rolling back in her head, her mouth contorting as she squirmed under the Sheikh’s hold. Then she opened her eyes and blinked as if she was trying to focus. “I don’t think denying me the right to have an orgasm is covered in the employee handbook. And if it is, it’s most certainly . . . oh, oh, God!”

  The Sheikh stared in wonder as Queenie came, her orgasm clearly whipping through her body like a wave. Bawaar swore he could see it move through her like something real and tangible, and the sight of her losing her mind from arousal almost made him come too.

  And then suddenly he was inside her, all of it happening so fast he could barely remember what had happened. He had slipped off his pajamas, positioned his cockhead to her open slit, and driven all the way in with one hard stroke, flexing inside her once and then immediately beginning to pump as she screamed and came harder.

  “Oh, fuck!” she howled as he contracted his muscular ass and rammed himself into her again, the sensation of her warm depths around his swollen cock so divine that the Sheikh almost wept.

  So many years I tortured myself by staying loyal to that woman when someone like this was out there waiting for me, he thought. Just for me. For me alone.

  There was no doubt in Bawaar’s mind as he pulled back and pushed himself into her again, smiling as he saw beads of perspiration appear on her forehead like droplets of dew on a flower. No doubt that she was his, that he was claiming her as his . . . his everything. Lover, mistress, whore, wife, queen, employee . . . whatever. It did not matter what label they put on it, because no word could come close to describing how sublime it was to feel her from the inside like this.

  “Ya Allah,” he whispered as his orgasm rolled in silently at first, his balls seizing up as his peak approached. Then it hit him, and his balls released their load through his strained cock as the Sheikh pushed in and held himself there while his thick semen poured into her. “Ya Allah, take all of me,” he groaned. “All of me.”

  He saw Queenie nod up at him almost unconsciously, her legs wrapping themselves around his ass and holding him inside her as he pumped his seed into her depths. There was no conflict, no doubt, no holding back. It seemed natural and easy, the Sheikh thought as he pushed out the last of his load and then lowered his head against her neck in satisfied exhaustion.

  Could it really be as simple as this, he thought as he kissed her neck gently and smiled against her skin. An awful marriage ends, and something wonderful begins. She will get pregnant from my seed tonight. We will be married within a year
. She will sit beside me on the throne. We will have more children, grow old together. And when we die, we will race through the skies together, hand in hand, escorted by God’s angels to His heaven. It is perfect, is it not? How can it be so perfect?

  “Because we both deserve it,” he said out loud to her, completing his thoughts in speech. She looked up at him, nodding as if she’d somehow been following along in her own mind, as if her own thoughts had been tracking with his. “Our private journeys have led us to each other, and now that we have found one another, there is no doubt.”

  “No doubt,” she whispered back, and in her faraway look the Sheikh could see that he was right. This woman had been to hell and back in her own private journey, and although he knew little of her life and her past, the mystery only made his heart leap with delight at how much fun it would be to discover who this woman was, what she liked, what she hated, what she looked like in the morning, whether she snored in her sleep. “None at all.”

  12

  “Not at all,” the Sheikh said, grinning as Queenie sat across from him at the breakfast table. “I did not hear a thing.”

  “So I don’t snore. That’s good,” Queenie said, blushing as she looked into his eyes and then at the sturdy teakwood table that was laden with breakfast flatbreads, camel-milk cheese, finely ground hummus, an array of fresh fruit, chopped nuts. There were also some steaming hot dishes that looked savory and delicious. “You do, though.”

  “Excuse me?” the Sheikh said, raising an eyebrow and glancing at her as an attendant poured out two cups of hot sweet tea. “I do what?”

  “Snore. Sounds like a chainsaw. We might have to sleep in separate bedrooms from now on.”

  The Sheikh waved away his attendant and glared across the table at Queenie. “Our first morning together and already you are complaining. Usually a woman waits at least a year after marriage before pointing out faults in her husband.”