“Marry me,” he said suddenly, looking down at her as his eyes went wide.
“What?” she said, blinking as she looked up at him. “What did you just say?”
“You heard me, Nat. Marry me. Become my wife. My Sheikha. My queen.”
She blinked again, forcing a smile, her lips trembling as she opened her mouth to speak. “Maybe you really are drunk from kissing my wine-tainted lips,” she said, her voice unsteady, her eyes wide. “Or maybe I’m just really, really drunk and hearing things that you aren’t really saying.”
“I am saying it.”
“You can’t mean it. You don’t mean it.”
“I do not say things I don’t mean.”
“We’ve known each other a week. Spent just one full day and night together.”
“A hundred years ago a Sheikh would first meet his wife-to-be on the wedding day,” said Zameer without hesitation.
Nat giggled as she looked up at him from her haunches. Then she shrugged. “By that logic, we’re like an old married couple after two days of . . .” She glanced at his cock and shrugged again. “Of this.”
The Sheikh grunted, and then he went down on his knees, bringing his head down to Nat’s level, looking deep into her eyes and then kissing her hard on her wet lips. “Listen to me,” he said, his eyes wide, his mind clearer than it had ever been. “I am dead serious, Nat. This is how I make decisions. I trust my instincts, my gut, my intuition.”
“Well, me too. But this . . . this is insane!”
“Why? Because we have known each other one week? So bloody what? Do not fall into the trap of yielding to public opinion, of living your life as defined by some arbitrary rules of how long two people must know each other before choosing to be with each other. A queen does not care about public opinion. She sets public opinion by what she does, by the decisions she makes, by her choices and actions.”
“What’s happening here?” Nat muttered, shaking her head and absentmindedly touching the Sheikh’s broad, naked chest as if to see if he was real or just an apparition. “How can this be happening?”
“I do not know. All I know is that I have never felt so free with a woman before, and I cannot let you out of my life. Which means the decision is simple: If I cannot let you out of my life, then I must take steps to ensure that you are always in my life. Always and forever. The decision is made. You will be my wife. My Sheikha. My queen. The decision is made.”
18
Nat stared at the naked madman kneeling before her, his cock still rising up like a pillar in the darkness, its red head glowing under the light of the moon and its sister stars. Her head was spinning, the blood beating within her temples. But she felt clear-headed to the point where it terrified her. Her vision was crisp and true. She could hear the sounds of the tiniest insect in the woods beyond her vineyard. She could see every bump and crater on the face of the moon that smiled down on them. What was happening? What the hell was happening?!
“Zameer,” she whispered, touching his chest again just to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating. The evening had started off with Nat popping a bottle of wine, all pissed off and depressed, totally convinced that there was no way in hell the Sheikh was coming back. Why would he? She’d put out for him on the first freakin’ day, and now he was gone like a dune in the desert.
But then he’d returned, silent like the breeze. He’d come back to her, and he’d opened up to her—emotionally and physically. This was a king, she told herself. What the hell was he doing with her?!
She touched his face, looking deep into his eyes, reaching into herself as she tried to figure out what her own instincts were saying, what her own intuition was whispering. All that stuff about his brother, that secret pact made a decade earlier, the threat of it all unraveling, his sudden, impulsive marriage proposal . . . it was all related, wasn’t it?
“This was a huge burden on you too, wasn’t it?” she whispered, caressing his face as he kissed her hand. Suddenly she understood, the realization coming through so clearly it almost floored her. He’d just told her something he’d never said to another human being, something he’d sworn he would never reveal. Opening up in that way had bound them together, she realized. An emotional bond so deep it felt like magic, felt like madness, felt like . . . marriage.
Suddenly a million questions burst into her head: What about the winery? What about his reputation? What about his brother? The Saudi sanctions? The accusations of usurping the throne?
Oh, God, he needs me, Nat understood. He’s a king, yes. But he’s also a human being, a man who lost the person closest to him at an early age, sacrificed the bond with his brother in the service of his brother! What kind of strength did that take? What kind of resilience and self-confidence did it take for him to hold his ground through the accusations and rumors, to rise up and lead his kingdom and people, to prove himself to the point where he overcame all of that?
But now, with all of it threatening to resurface, with this guy Siddiqui potentially bringing all of it back up, Zameer needs me. He needs someone to stand beside him, behind him, with him. He doesn’t want to do it alone anymore. And isn’t that what marriage is, in a way? The decision to not go it alone any longer? To take on a partner, have someone in your corner, someone who knows you inside and out, who has your back no matter what?
And can you do that for him? Have his back no matter what emerges? No matter where this leads? What if it turns out he did kill his brother? That he’s a liar and a cheat? A manipulator and a fanatic? What if he burns your vineyard to the ground, asks you to become some kind of religious superfreak? What then?
The back and forth was almost too much, and Nat felt her mind swirl again as she stared into his green eyes. She knew almost nothing about him; but she also knew everything in a way. She could see it in his eyes. Feel it in his touch. Sense it in the air.
For a moment she wanted to say yes and hug him, let loose the part of her that wanted the wedding dress and the big cake and the pomp and ceremony. But she held her tongue and stayed silent—not because she hadn’t decided, but because . . . because she had.
Oh, my God, she thought as she touched his face again, ran her hands along his hard chest, glanced down at his body, naked and bared for her, for her alone. I don’t need to say yes, because I already have. I’m here, and so is he. He’s reaching out to me because he needs my help. Why else would he agree to spend a week with me? This isn’t about the vineyard or some pledge to stay away from alcohol. It’s about something deeper, and he’s asking me if I’m willing to step up and help him find his way through this. If I’m willing—and able—to be his queen.
“So the first thing we need to do,” Nat said as a switch flipped inside her and her mind moved into high gear. She was his woman, she’d decided. She was his queen. And now she needed to help him figure this out. “Yes, the first thing we need to do is find your brother. Because if Siddiqui has really found him, then we can too.”
Zameer took a long, slow breath, and Nat could see the admiration in his eyes, like he’d realized that she’d just answered his question, that she’d just said yes to his proposal without saying a word, by simply assuming they needed to work through this together, like a couple, a husband and wife, a king and queen.
Then Zameer shook his head, his eyes narrowing as a smile broke across his face. “That is not the first thing we need to do. At least it is not the first thing I need to do.”
Nat blinked, and then she saw his ramrod-straight cock move as the Sheikh went up on his knees. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said, snorting with laughter and shaking her head even though she felt her arousal spiral up. “I thought we were having a serious discussion here.”
“We are,” he said. “I opened up for you. Now I want you to open up for me.”
Nat frowned, and then her eyes widened as the Sheikh spun her around and slowly pushed down on the s
mall of her back until she raised her ass in the air for him. She understood what he wanted, what he was going to do, what his first act as her king, her Sheikh, her fiancé was going to be.
He was going to open her up.
He was going to uncork her.
19
She felt him twist the cork around counter-clockwise, slowly and carefully, the head of his cock brushing her between the legs, he was so hard as he knelt behind her.
“Are you ready?” he whispered, pressing her buttcheeks and then smacking each one gently, the left and then the right, his rhythm making her body shake as her bottom shuddered from each slap.
She nodded, her mouth hanging open as Zameer pulled the cork out and placed it on the ground in front of her. Nat blinked when she saw how large it was, the bulb round and shiny, the stem much thicker than she remembered. Had she really been plugged with that for over a day? Was she really ready for this? Ready for him?
“I will oil you first,” he said quietly from behind her, and Nat could hear the arousal in his voice, feel it in his touch, the way he was alternating between smacking her ass and kneading her buttcheeks with his powerful hands.
“Oil me?” she croaked as she felt her wetness flow down the insides of her thighs. “Now that sounds like something a desert king would do.” Nat grinned and shook her head as she thought of what Peggy had said to her about those cheesy Sheikh Romance novels she’d apparently been reading since she was a teenager.
“That is racist,” Zameer whispered from behind her, and Nat laughed when she heard the amusement in the Sheikh’s voice. “Perhaps you need to be disciplined first, you rude American girl, you wanton woman of the West.”
“Perhaps I do,” she replied, taking a breath and catching the scent of fresh coconut oil. Had the Sheikh brought it with him? Had he planned to uncork her this evening? Was that why he’d returned? Not for her, but for her fat ass? Sure. Why not. If it was her big butt that kept bringing him back to her, that was just peachy.
Nat smiled wide even though her body shivered with a strange nervousness. This was new for her. This was the first time for her. This was . . . special for her.
“Oh, God,” she groaned, tightening as she felt the Sheikh circle her rim with his fingers, coating her rear entry with the coconut oil. It felt beautifully smooth, sickeningly erotic, ridiculously filthy, and Nat felt her head unconsciously moving in time with Zameer’s intoxicating touch.
“So beautiful,” he whispered from behind her, and she felt him kiss her lower back, lick the top of her crack. Then he slid one finger into her rear, his cock rising up and firmly lodging itself between her legs from behind, lining up perfectly beneath her slit as it hardened to where it felt thick like a pipe. “I cannot wait to feel myself in you. To come inside you. Fill you until you overflow.”
“You’re sick,” she muttered, her smile wavering as her arousal ratcheted up to levels she’d never experienced. “You know that, don’t you?”
“And you just agreed to marry me,” he growled, sliding another finger into her as she tensed up, her rear sphincter closing as she gasped. “You know that, don’t you?”
“Oh, God, what have I done?” she said, turning her head halfway so he’d see her smile.
“Too late to take it back,” said the Sheikh. “Now relax. Open for me. Come now, my virgin American bride-to-be. Open up for your desert lover, your savage beast from the East.”
Nat laughed, the tension draining from her body, her rear entrance relaxing and opening up enough for the Sheikh to push a third oil-slicked finger into her. “Have you been reading Sheikh Romances too, Zameer?”
“Perhaps I write them,” he grunted. “Based loosely on my own life and exploits. Though of course I need to tone it down. Truth is stranger than fiction sometimes, as they say.”
“I’m sure,” Nat said, marveling at how they were going back and forth with such lightheartedness after just breaking off a discussion that was about as serious as it got. Then a marriage proposal, an acceptance that was made without using the word “Yes,” and finally the coronation of her asshole with the Sheikh’s mighty cock. Hell yeah, truth was stranger than fiction! What next?
The climax, Nat thought as she lowered her head and prepared for the Sheikh. Where is his long-lost brother? How did Siddiqui find him? Does anyone else know who he is? Where is he? What is he?
20
“I know who you are. And I know what you are!”
Peggy took off her glasses and watched her sleeping husband snore gently beside her. She wasn’t sure if she loved him or hated him in that moment, wasn’t sure if his deception excited her or repulsed her. They’d met ten years ago when she was taking a finance class at American University’s Adult Education Center in Washington, DC. He was a quiet, shy man, prematurely balding, with an accent that was a mix of British, American, and something else. She couldn’t tell if it was real or fake, and when she asked he’d simply replied that his parents were first-generation immigrants from Armenia and so his accent was a mish-mash of cultures and influences.
His skin was a light olive, his eyes pale brown, and although she hadn’t fallen madly in love with him, she liked his easy, understated mannerisms, his gentle way with her. There was also something about how he carried himself that had appealed to Peggy—something exotic, almost regal. Almost, but not quite—like there was something that didn’t sit quite right with him, an underlying dissatisfaction, perhaps a lack of confidence or belief in himself.
She’d married him anyway, smiling when he went down on one knee and presented her with a ring that was clearly store-bought. But the diamond was real, and it was good enough. Not everyone gets to marry a prince, she’d told herself. Be rational, and settle for the best you can get. Who knows, maybe he’ll be the frog that turns into a prince when you kiss him.
He hadn’t turned into a prince, but he’d given her two healthy sons and a reasonable middle-class lifestyle, most of which was funded by what he said was a modest inheritance that had been invested well. They were happy, she’d told herself again and again over the years, even though she’d found herself returning to those steamy romance novels as they got older and the sex began to lose its luster.
Not that their sex had ever had much luster, Peggy reminded herself as she crossed her legs on the bed and took a long breath. A girl needs some excitement, and shit, she’d gotten some, hadn’t she?
She almost laughed out loud as she thought about what she’d done to get them to this point. But how could she not? This was fate. Destiny. Meant-to-be. She had married a prince! The problem was he didn’t want to be a fucking prince, so Peggy had to take matters into her own hands.
She closed her eyes as she thought about the first night she’d heard her husband speaking Arabic in his sleep. At first she thought it was gibberish, but the words and pronunciation reminded her of stuff she’d seen on TV and in movies, and finally she’d recorded some of his dream-state ramblings and begun to translate them. She couldn’t figure out most of it, but she managed to pick up a few phrases, some scattered words, names and places. One name in particular. One place in particular.
Sheikh Zameer.
The kingdom of Ladaak.
Weeks of feverish research followed, but Peggy couldn’t find much on the Internet other than some sketchy articles from a decade earlier about a missing brother, the heir to the throne. And there were no photographs of the Royal Family available on the web. Not a single one. It was almost like someone had gone through a professional effort to scrub the Internet of all photographs older than a decade—the sort of thing celebrities got done to get rid of bad pictures of themselves.
Eventually Peggy confronted her husband about being from the Middle East, but he simply stared at her wide-eyed and placid, finally shaking his head and denying anything and everything.
“I think both of us have been watching too mu
ch Homeland,” he’d joked when she asked him about the Arabic. “You know my parents were from Armenia, and I don’t even speak that language, let alone Arabic. Don’t be ridiculous, Peggy. I can’t believe you’re seriously asking me these questions! What do you think I am? An undercover terrorist? A sleeper agent planted here by Al Qaeda, to be activated in twenty years out of the blue? One of those things where the wife and kids have no clue, and all the neighbors say, ‘Oh, but he seemed so normal!’? Come on, Peggy. Be realistic.”
I think you’re the long-lost Crown Prince of Ladaak, she’d wanted to say to him during that discussion, but she could already tell from the way he’d dismissed her questions that he wasn’t going to admit anything. Clearly he’d left that world because he wanted to, as insane as it sounded to Peggy. After all, who the fuck walks away from a crown, a throne, and a billion-dollar fortune to live in Bumblefuck, Virginia, and marry a . . . a . . . princess?
Oh, God, I’m a princess! she’d realized as the wheels turned in her head. And I should be a queen! I am a queen in fact, because my husband is a king, whether he wants to be one or not! I’m a queen, and I’m going to get my throne. One way or another, I’m going to get the happy ending I’ve dreamed about since I was a teenager reading Mills and Boon!
She’d ruminated over it for a month, alternating between trying to confront her husband again or coming up with another way to expose him, to force him to accept who he was, to take back what he’d given up, to be the man she wanted him to be and make her the woman she’d dreamed about becoming.
But her efforts were shut down, and Peggy decided there was only one other way: To get to the brother. To get to Sheikh Zameer. To put Zameer and her husband in the same room, make it impossible for her husband to deny who he was.
Of course, she didn’t know Sheikh Zameer, and she didn’t know how to get to him. Should she write a letter? Email him? Send him a telegram?
Uncorked for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 14) Page 11