by Leslie North
Fatim’s heartbreaker grin nearly split her in two.
6
A week and a half. That’s how long Calla had to help plan, arrange, and weigh in on every last detail of her upcoming wedding. Her upcoming wedding. It still sounded like a joke. She just hoped it didn’t when she called her mom to share the news.
At the very least, Calla had resolved to not tell her mother that the whole thing was a sham. Just a ruse to help the king keep his crown. Even if society at large speculated, even if rumors spread and gossip ran rampant, Calla wanted to at least pretend this had something to do with mutual interest. After all, she’d been raised in the west. Marriages always included an element of love. The bride and groom at least had to look like they liked each other.
Calla sewed furiously as the video call to her mother rang. She’d temporarily halted all other projects in favor of The Big One—her wedding dress. This was the one arena where she had full control, and with Fatim’s blessing, she was going a non-traditional route. Really, the dress would blend the best elements of tradition with something feminine, graceful, and modern. Like Amatbahn tradition meeting Audrey Hepburn. Plus a whole helluva lot of beads.
Making it entirely herself would be the billboard for her design business in Amatbah, too. She never could have imagined such a huge platform prior to the king’s offer. How many eyes would be seeing her work? The mere thought made her dizzy.
Her mother finally answered the video call, an unflattering view of her nostrils filling the screen. “Hello? Did I answer?”
Calla smirked. “Hi, Mom. Yes, you’ve answered the call. Move the camera. I can practically see your brain.”
Her mother righted the camera but held it down low, offering an odd angle of her flawless Amatbahn features: pitch black hair in a glossy bob; large, dark eyes rimmed with kohl; the plump lips that Calla had inherited.
“What’s new, my dear?”
“Oh, nothing much.” Calla took a breath, bracing herself for the news. “Just about to get married, is all.”
Her mother snort-laughed. “I’m sure.”
“No, I’m actually serious.”
Her mother narrowed her eyes. “Calla Clark. Tell me right now if this is real.”
“It’s real, Mother.” Calla looked down at the project in her hands, resuming sewing. “I’m getting married, and it’s happening fast. Much faster than I anticipated.”
Mother clamped a hand over her mouth, the excitement seeping out through the video call screen. “Who is the lucky groom? Tell me!”
Calla paused, not looking up at the camera. “It’s the king of Amatbah.”
Mother laughed so loudly that Calla winced. She tapped the volume down a few notches.
“Stop it. Who is it? Some nice boy you met while working at the palace?”
The door to the sitting room swung open, and her skin prickled. It had to be Fatim. She turned to look, and there he was. For a moment her breath disappeared. All she could see, think, and feel was Fatim; his dark chocolate gaze swung her way, and she was utterly consumed by him. Her hand stilled in the air, mid-stitch.
“Hey, there. I’m not interrupting, am I?” he asked, strutting her way.
“Not at all. This is perfect timing, actually.” Calla turned back toward her laptop, grinning. “Mother, I’d like you to meet my fiancé. King Fatim of Amatbah.”
Fatim placed a palm on the table beside the laptop as he leaned down behind Calla to enter the camera’s view. His cologne wafted toward her, something masculine and woody. She drew a discrete breath, filling her body with his scent. She never wanted to forget this moment. The closest he’d ever been to her.
“Hello. Nice to meet you.” Fatim nodded. “I trust you’ll be coming to the wedding?”
Calla’s mother sat stunned on the other side of the world, her mouth agape.
“We haven’t quite gotten to that part yet,” Calla said.
“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to rush things.” Fatim squeezed her shoulder. A gush of moisture greeted her panties.
“It’s okay, honey.” Shit. The pet name just slipped out. Did he mind? She looked up at him, finding his dark gaze waiting for hers.
“It is such a pleasure to meet you, Your Highness,” her mother said, her voice a few pitches higher than normal. Bordering on a shriek, really. “This must have been a whirlwind romance! I bet you took one look at my daughter and thought, this is the one, didn’t you?”
Fatim chuckled softly, his warm hand finding Calla’s shoulder again. “It was exactly that way, ma’am. Your daughter is the most gorgeous woman in any room I’ve ever been in.”
Calla’s heart nearly stopped. She tried not to look stricken. “Oh, come on now, Fatim.”
“It’s true.” His hand didn’t waver. When he moved it, she expected the imprint to be branded there. Forever marking her as his.
“I’ve been grooming her for this her whole life, you know,” her mother went on smugly. “It started with the debutante training. As well as the endless hours of Amatbahn classics lessons. Our yearly visits back home were only the icing on the cake. I’ve prepared her for great things.”
Calla tried not to roll her eyes. “That’s true, of course. I just didn’t think that marrying myself off would count as the great accomplishment of my life.”
She knew the barb would provoke a reaction—that was why she’d said it. Her mother narrowed her eyes, no doubt preparing her retort, but Fatim stepped in.
“Not the greatest, of course, but surely it makes the top ten?”
Calla laughed, and her mother dropped the eye daggers. Calla resumed sewing, her stitches becoming almost invisible.
“I’m sure you’re well acquainted with my daughter’s fierce independence,” her mother remarked dryly.
“One of the things I love most about her,” Fatim responded.
A big smile blossomed on her mother’s face. “Aww. Now isn’t that sweet? Let’s see a smooch!”
Panic formed an iron fist in her belly. Shit. They hadn’t talked about what to do in moments like these. It hadn’t even occurred to her that they might need to play the romantic-couple part in front of anyone. Not when the majority of the country would be expecting them to remain modest and humble for the wedding and the upcoming preparations.
“Uh…” Calla began. Fatim’s warm hand moved, and then suddenly he was gripping her chin between thumb and forefinger. He tilted her head back and lowered his mouth to hers. Fragrant heat greeted her, the cologne mingling with the scruff of his beard and the velvet caress of his lips and—Calla’s mind short-circuited. She melted into the kiss, tilting herself up to him, welcoming every last drop of his essence.
“Wasn’t that romantic?” Calla’s mother gushed when Fatim pulled away. “I can just tell you two love each other so much!”
Calla saw stars—honest-to-God stars. She blinked lazily, unable to rip her gaze from Fatim’s face.
If their ruse was going to include more kisses like that, then maybe this wouldn’t be so hard.
“I’ll leave you two to chat,” Fatim said, rubbing his hand across the back of Calla’s neck. Her pussy clenched. Holy hell, everything this man did turned her on.
“Oh, wait, Fatim—” she blurted, her mind spinning. She had nothing more to say to him. She just didn’t want him to leave.
“Yes?” He paused, swinging that devouring gaze back her way. Words evaporated in her throat. Kiss me again like that? All she could do was offer a smile.
“I’ll find you after I’m done talking to my mom,” she finally forced out. “So we can finish the wedding planning.”
Fatim smiled. Genuinely, and beyond the view of the camera. Like a little gift, meant just for her. “Sounds great, honey.”
The way the word rolled off his lips left her whole body tingling. When she turned back to the camera, her mother had that knowing smirk on her face. Somewhere between I-told-you-so and the dreamy eyes of a woman who knows her daughter is in love.
&n
bsp; Except she wasn’t in love. Not really. In lust, maybe. And the same crippling wave crashed over her again.
She needed to keep her heart out of this business deal. Except with kisses like that in the mix, it might be damn near impossible.
7
Fatim looked out at the sea of guests and tribal leaders. His wedding. His second wedding. They’d pulled it off. A cork popped loudly nearby, followed by shouts and laughter. The entire back garden of the palace had been converted into a lush and colorful tribal affair.
Orange and red rugs covered the natural curve of the sloped backyard. On the west end of the garden, a sitar soloist plucked mesmerizing music while belly dancers gyrated nearby. Long tables nearly overflowed with food—every style of hummus, flat bread, rice, curry and grilled meats, arranged in tiers—and an open bar tucked into the palm foliage featured endless champagne and local beer.
For arranging it in under two weeks, he and Calla had done an admirable job. He was even enjoying himself, despite the fact that his regal wardrobe—heavy, mauve robes that swished the floor as he walked—weighed about a metric ton.
Across the garden, Calla flit about like a fairy. She looked like one too. Her custom-made wedding dress was the talk of the wedding. The shimmery, iridescent corset hugged her torso well—maybe too well. The hint of cleavage there had been taunting him all night. Combined with her cocoa hair swept back, exposing that long, creamy neck, he could barely pry his eyes off her. Sure, this was his wedding—but he never expected to desire his new wife so much.
Though truth was, he’d been fantasizing about Calla a little bit too much over the past week. Ever since he’d stolen that surprise kiss in the sitting room, her soft pucker was all he could think about. Repeating the kiss. Drawing out that same starstruck look from her. The one that told him she’d be perfectly content taking things much, much further than the kiss.
Good thing tonight is your wedding night.
The thought wouldn’t leave him, no matter how much he knew that he’d stick to his word. The promise he’d made Calla—that they would fake the consummation. He was an honorable man. He would never force her to do something she didn’t feel comfortable with. But what if she wanted to consummate?
He hadn’t planned on his marriage becoming an affair with the same woman.
Calla looked over her shoulder, her honey brown gaze snagging his from across the garden. She sent him a small smile—one that made him feel like they’d been doing this for much longer than a week. More like months. Years, maybe. Something flickered to life inside him, but he looked away before he could spend too much time thinking about it.
“Congratulations, your Highness” Yaret was at his side, clamping a hand onto his shoulder. “You made the deadline.”
“Barely,” Fatim said, knocking his glass against Yaret’s in a toast. “I turn thirty in just a few hours. This is the definition of ‘under the wire.’”
“But you pulled it off. And that’s what counts.” Yaret smiled out at the party. “And you couldn’t have found a better wife.”
“Oh? Do you know something about Calla?”
“I can just tell—she’s about as sweet as they come. I see the way she looks at you. I don’t know how you managed to convince someone to fall for you with such a tight deadline, but I suppose those are the secrets of kings.”
Fatim smirked. He hadn’t convinced anyone to fall for him—but if the outside world saw it that way, who was he to correct them? Calla was doing her job and doing it well.
“Your new wife has enchanted several of the tribal leaders’ wives with her dress creation, as well,” Yaret went on. “I believe she has several new clients already.”
“She’ll be enchanting the whole nation soon enough,” Fatim remarked, downing the rest of his champagne. “And speaking of Calla—I believe there’s some business we must tend to.”
Yaret’s eyes went round with understanding. Fatim clapped him on the back and weaved through the crowd, heading for Calla. This was part of the tradition of Amatbahn weddings. At ten p.m., the groom whisked the bride off to the royal tent to consummate the marriage. A tent had been erected in the garden precisely for this moment. As heads turned his way, realization sank in. Chitchat ground to a halt as all eyes focused on the king. Phones and watches were consulted, and then the clapping started.
Calla took notice soon enough. She whipped around, scanning the crowd until her eyes found his. Fatim had warned her about this—Amatbahns liked to make a big deal about their king carrying off the bride to consummate the new marriage. As clapping filled the garden, Fatim strode more quickly toward Calla. A grin spread across her face, and the emotion of the night filled Fatim with a showmanship he didn’t normally possess. When he arrived, he scooped her up into his arms.
The shouts and cheers of the tribespeople spurred him on. He grinned down at Calla, the energy of his people swirling and throbbing around him.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be careful with the dress.”
A pretty flush stained her neck. “I didn’t think you’d be actually carrying me to the wedding tent.”
“We have to give the people what they want.” The wedding guests moved away to form a path as Fatim cut through the crowd. Chants erupted—Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!
“Like right now?” Calla asked, a brow lifted.
Fatim grunted as he hoisted her in his arms, being careful not to strain the dress. She giggled as he threw her around. When she was eye level with him, he leaned forward for a kiss.
This one was just as electrifying as the first, stiffening his cock immediately. He grunted through the kiss as the rest of the world fell away. The cheering people, the rhythmic clapping, all of it. The world shrank to just him and Calla, the weight of her in his arms both provocative and perfect.
“Time for the tent,” he breathed once the kiss broke. He tossed her over his shoulder, and she giggled, kicking her feet playfully as he took the final steps toward the tent. A royal assistant waited there, had the heavy tarp of the tent already rolled back so they could step through. The flap thudded down to the ground once they were inside. Calla gasped.
“Holy crap.” She lifted her body to get a better look at her surroundings. “This is the tent of my dreams.”
Fatim hefted with a laugh but didn’t lower her to the ground. He took a moment to absorb the royal tent, trying to see it through her eyes. Lanterns hung from various points in the pitched tent, casting an amber glow over the thick, hand-stitched rugs. The music and chatter from outside had receded to a dull roar. Throw pillows dotted the rugs, and a low-lying sofa sat toward the back. Fatim had requested silken drapes in lush reds and burnt orange, which hung from the center post and then were gathered back to the tent walls, creating a cozy yet bohemian feel. Beneath the draping fabric was the focus and the prime directive of the royal wedding tent: the king-sized bed, outfitted with impossibly soft white sheets.
“Do you like it?”
“Like it?” She sighed. “I could live here.”
Fatim swallowed hard, his mind still on that kiss. He dug his fingers into the backs of her thighs; his mind went foggy. Everything about this place, the weight of her in his arms, begged him to take things further.
“Are you going to put me down?” she giggled, kicking her feet a little.
“I don’t want to ruin your dress,” he teased. “Now that you’re in my arms, you should stay here.”
“Hm. I think you kinda like having my butt in your face.”
“You wouldn’t be wrong.” He slid his hand up the lacy covering of her dress, tracing the curve of the back of her thigh. His hand practically throbbed the closer he got to her pussy, as though it served as a homing device nearing its base. Calla wiggled in his grip as his hand crested the curve of her ass.
“Is that too much?” he asked quietly, almost afraid of her answer. Now that they were in here, he knew what he wanted: Calla. No faking it. No make-believe. Just pure, enticing, breathy Calla.
>
She shook her head, wriggling under his hand. Urging him to continue? He moved his hand down the length of her dress, fingers reaching for the hem, and then traced his way back up the length of her bare leg. Goose pimples sprouted in the wake of his fingers. When his hand reached the back of her thigh, he paused. She breathed heavily, fidgeting over his shoulder.
“Calla?” he asked.
She whimpered. “What?”
“Do you want me to keep going?”
The answer whooshed out of her. “God, please yes.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. He pushed his hand up, finding the sweet seam where ass cheek met thigh, the lace edge of her panties, and then, just a bit to the center…the tell-tale moisture. Calla inhaled sharply.
“Oh my god,” she whispered.
His cock was hard as a rock as he moved his hand back and forth over her ass cheek, drawing measured breaths that served to keep his cool. He needed to check himself before he took this too far. This was business. Even though that didn’t mean they couldn’t have fun, Calla needed to be on board.
“Calla.” He carried her to the bed and lowered her gently. She looked up at him, eyes wild and dark. Some hair had loosened from her updo over the course of the night, and seeing her there, mussy and in that dress, nearly broke him. He balled his fists, resisting the urge to push the dress up to her hips and take this where he so desperately wanted. “I need you to tell me. If you want this.”
His implication weighed heavily between them. Her chest rose and fell as she stared at him.
“I do,” she whispered.
“Just making sure,” he said, searching out the hem of her dress, unable to prevent himself from touching her. He ran his fingers over the bony part of her ankle. “This isn’t part of the job description. This is…extracurricular.”
Her eyes drifted shut, and she nodded vehemently. “Absolutely. Consider me clocked out.”
He grinned, skipping his fingers over her shin, then up along the heat of her thigh. Clocked out, but not checked out. Elegant Calla was enjoying every second of this, it was more than obvious. He gritted his teeth as his fingers met the lace edge of her panties once more.