Surrogate for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 7)

by Annabelle Winters

  Dhomaar nodded once and smiled, not pushing any harder when he saw how red her pretty round cheeks were. Ah, this woman, he thought. She is such a woman. So wonderfully female. So gorgeously feminine. Already her mind wonders what comes next! Where is this going? Where do things lead? What does the sex mean? Can I see myself married to him? Do I see myself having his baby? Carrying his child?

  But now the smile faded from the Sheikh’s dark face as he narrowed his eyes and looked past Gracie. How could he tell her? How could he ever tell her? It was already too late, was it not? Because now he actually cared what she thought of him! He shouldn’t care, but somehow he did care. Ya Allah, Zareena was right! My wise queen knew this would happen, did she not? And I followed my throbbing cock and swinging balls anyway! Now there is no way out without hurting this woman when she finds she has been used. No way out without myself feeling the hurt when I see how her expression changes as the truth comes out, see those big brown eyes go wide with sadness and then narrow with anger. Perhaps even hatred!

  But think, Dhomaar. Now that you have a sense of this woman, think about what she will do when the truth does come out. What will Grace Garner say to Queen Zareena when the offer is made for the child? Will she say, “Yes, of course you can take my baby in exchange for cash?” Will she shrug and say, “No, it’s fine that you didn’t tell me I was going to be a surrogate until after I got pregnant. No problem, Queen Zareena and Sheikh Dhomaar! I understand your traditions and beliefs, and I too believe that this was a much better idea than to simply hire a surrogate mother to carry Dhomaar’s child. Where are the custody papers? Here, I will sign immediately!”

  Dhomaar chewed on his knuckle so hard it almost drew blood when he realized that God, this woman was not going to break even under the considerable force of Zareena’s will! Zareena might believe in her own power, but this time the Sheikha was wrong. She might have “researched” Grace Garner, but she did not “know” Grace Garner. Not like he knew her, the Sheikh thought.

  So what now? What do you do now, Dhomaar? Think, goddamn it!

  “I won’t even be your first wife,” came her words again, repeated in the swirl of Dhomaar’s mind as he glanced at Grace and then up at the ceiling.

  Slowly a tingle of clarity and hope emerged in the Sheikh as he narrowed those green eyes and looked at Gracie again. She was too strong-willed to break under the psychological games Zareena might throw at her. But the Sheikh did not play such tiresomely convoluted games, did he? No. The Sheikh simply decided what he wanted and then made sure the world and everything in it conformed to his will. Then he took what he wanted. It is mine and I take it. I am Sheikh. I am king. I am ruler.

  So perhaps I can convince this woman to do the unthinkable. Perhaps I can get her to . . . to . . . ya Allah, do I dare? Do I dare say the words that are bubbling up in me even as I try to choke them back as the words of a madman?

  He clenched his fist again and bit down on that knuckle, and then he lowered his hand and took a breath and spoke.

  “I can promise you everything but marriage,” he said to her in a steady, low voice, the depth of emotion that came with it shaking him. “Gracie, I can promise you everything a man has to offer his woman. Everything. But I cannot give you marriage.”

  “Sorry, what?” she said, frowning because he had interrupted her mid-sentence—though the Sheikh had no memory of what she had been saying. Perhaps wondering about the panty situation again.

  “Everything but the wedding,” he said. “Decide now or forever hold your tongue.”

  And the Sheikh grinned like a lunatic as he felt a strange madness take over, like now that damned universe was speaking to him—perhaps speaking through him! He rose from his seat now, the strained legs of his plastic throne springing back to shape as the king stood in the streaming sunlight of the Wilson Park Middle School staff room, cock and balls swinging beneath his open shirt-tails as he walked towards Gracie, who appeared close to having a brain-stroke that had frozen her face in a pretzel-like twist of absolute shock.

  “Um, decide what,” she stammered, turning her head to the left even as she kept her eyes on him. “Decide whether you’re dangerously insane or just regular insane? I’ll have to think about that for a moment.”

  “Do not mock me,” he said loudly, placing his bare foot on that plastic chair and pointing at the ceiling. “I am a goddamn king!”

  “Yeah, well, I already told you: This is the realm of Gracie the Ruler,” she said, glancing furtively at his cock and balls, which were on prominent display as the Sheikh stood there, his foot on that poor plastic chair. “And I command you to stop talking absolute nonsense!” She snorted and shook her head, exhaling hard as if she had just convinced herself that he was indeed joking.

  “It is not a joke, Grace,” he said now, putting his leg down and reaching for his pants without taking his eyes off her. “Look at me, Gracie. Look at me!”

  She looked up into his eyes now, blinking and looking away again before taking a breath and holding his gaze. Now the Sheikh could see it in her eyes. He could see something that made his heart leap, made his soul soar, made his body feel light like a goddamn feather! Ya Allah, he could see in her what he felt in himself: That there was something here. That there was everything here!

  “I don’t know how to even . . .” she started to say before she just shook her head and looked away from his eyes. “OK, listen. I don’t know if you’re serious or—”

  “By God I am serious!” he shouted, narrowing his eyes as his jaw went tight. “Stop denying what we both feel! You are pregnant, and you know it. You carry my seed in your womb, and you can damned well feel it! So just—”

  “Wait, what?” she said, almost doubling over in shock. “Where the hell did that come from? Pregnant? Are you . . . I mean . . . Oh, shit, we are not even . . .”

  She stood now, shaking her head furiously as she straightened her crumpled jeans and tried to step into them. She put one leg through and then stood up and stared at him. “OK, seriously, you are just way past the point of—”

  But then she stopped abruptly, freezing and cocking her head to the side as her eyes turned to the left.

  “Past the point? I am not even close to the point, and I—” he started to shout.

  “Quiet!” she whispered, raising her hand as those jeans fell to the floor. “Oh, shit, that’s the elevator doors! Someone’s coming. OK, we need to hide. Now! Follow me!”

  She desperately tried to get those jeans back on, but the legs were all twisted up and she stumbled and would have fallen if the Sheikh hadn’t stepped forward and grabbed her.

  “Screw it,” she whispered, kicking the jeans away as they heard the sound of keys right outside the staff room door. “Come on, Dhomaar. That door over there. Run!”

  The Sheikh stared in amused disbelief as Grace Garner ran towards a metal door marked “Exit,” the globes of her magnificently naked bottoms bouncing with urgency. Then he looked at his own trousers and underwear crumpled on the floor, and with a shrug he took off after his woman, cock and balls swinging with glee as those creatures of fantasy finally arrived on the scene, earnestly whispering to each other that this gon’ be good.

  18

  “What good will this do?” the Sheikh said, snorting as he held up the flimsy purple scarf that Gracie had handed him with instructions to use to hide his shame so they could make their way downstairs and run for the Sheikh’s limousine. “I am to wear it like a loincloth? Like I am some Indian guru?”

  “Well, it’s all I have,” Gracie said, rummaging through the miscellany on the tall shelving that ran along the side wall of her home-room class. “Unless you want those woolen socks that have been here since last winter.”

  Gracie had led the Sheikh down the emergency exit—whose alarm had thankfully stopped working a decade ago—and the two had snuck into her classroom on the second floor, where
she thought she had at least some semblance of clothing that would perhaps let them leave without being arrested and registered as sex offenders if they were seen before they made it to the safety of that limousine and its tinted glass.

  “I coulda sworn I had left a pair of sweat pants here,” she muttered as she pulled out a sheath of old drawing paper with some very bad stick figures done in black Sharpie. “Shit, no. I wore those home last month after I spilled grape-soda all over my . . . OK, you know what? You’re gonna have to use the scarf,” she said in a fit of anxiety, tossing those drawings back on the shelf and turning to the Sheikh, hands on her hips, legs together, eyes up front and center. “And this is my goddamn career we’re talking about. So you will damn well do what I say, got it?”

  The Sheikh frowned and held up the purple scarf again, looking hard into her eyes before holding a straight face and nonchalantly tossing the scarf over his shoulder. “I am not covering my royal cock with your silly purple scarf.”

  Gracie exhaled hard, trying to calm herself down. She had crouched outside the exit door and listened to see who it was, and when she heard a woman’s voice muttering something about how it smelled weird in the staff room, Gracie’s worst fears were confirmed: It was Ms. Walters herself.

  Now Gracie wondered if she was going to faint, and she looked around the empty classroom while breathing deep, gulping down lungfuls of oxygen, telling herself that people faint because they stop breathing deep when they’re stressed and so if she just took deep breaths she’d be fine. Sure enough, several breaths later she knew she sure as hell wasn’t going to faint, and in fact she wasn’t even as doomed as she had thought. This was her home classroom and the door was locked now. Ms. Walters wasn’t even going to come down to this floor, let alone knock on the door. As long as they stayed put—and quiet—they could just wait it out. Yup. Simple. Just sit tight and wait.

  Now she turned to the Sheikh, who seemed least concerned that he was a six-foot-five Arab, naked from the waist down, strolling around an American public school in the middle of the day. Did anything phase this man? God, he was so annoyingly calm! Was he actually reading those pinned-up compositions written by her ten-year-olds?!

  He laughed now, glancing towards her and pointing at the bulletin board with the scrawled-out essays. “Ah, children are truly delightful, yes?” he said with a big, goofy grin as Gracie stared at him in wonder, her frustration slowly turning to amusement, her anxiety gradually giving way to a calmness that allowed her to step back for a moment and laugh at how ridiculous this was.

  “Which one is that?” she said, smiling as she walked over to him and squinted up at the composition on the board. “Oh, God, that’s Emma. She’s a precocious little kid. Smart as hell.” Now Gracie’s face lit up as she was reminded of the earnest innocence of these ten-year olds who saw the world with such clarity, it seemed sometimes. “Oh, but read this one. It’s by little Michael. Adorable, yeah?”

  The Sheikh read it and laughed, putting his arm around Gracie and pulling her close, the two of them joined at the hip as they read the words of ten-year-olds and giggled and clapped like they were kids themselves. Slowly they moved along the decorated walls of Gracie’s classroom, the Sheikh asking about cards and compositions, the artwork and the collages. Gracie smiled with him and laughed with him, snuggled into him when he pulled her close, giggled when he patted her naked bottom.

  Soon they were kissing, just like that, just kissing in the middle of class, lips locked, tongues wagging, lovers tasting each other, testing each other, taking each other . . . taking each other to that place where the arousal reigned supreme, where their desire for each other moved to the forefront, where his shaft hardened and her pussy tightened, where his cock rose up against her mound and her vagina oozed its welcoming wetness.

  Now he was inside her, his cock sliding in with shocking ease as he backed her up against the shelving and kissed her deep as he started to pump.

  “Oh, God, Dhomaar,” she gasped when she saw that without even realizing it she was hot, wet, spread, and being taken again. “Oh, shit, that feels good.”

  “Yes, it feels good, Gracie,” he growled as he thrust slow and firm, looking her right in the eye as he drew back from the kiss and placed his hand behind her head so she wouldn’t hurt herself against the wall. “Bloody hell, it feels good. Good like last night, yes?”

  “Yes,” she sighed as she felt him flex his cock deep inside her. “Shit, yes!”

  “And it will feel good when we do it again tomorrow?” he whispered as he pumped into her one more time.

  “Yes,” she sighed again as she felt him raise her left leg by the thigh and start to thrust harder. “Oh, my God, Dhomaar! Don’t stop.”

  “I will not stop,” he grunted now, pushing harder as she felt him somehow grow inside her, his girth expanding the walls of her cunt, it felt like. “I will never stop. Tomorrow. Next week. Next month. I will keep coming. Keep going. Deeper, harder, longer. Like this, like this, and like this!”

  Now he rammed up into her and she howled with the force of his thrust, digging her nails into the back of his neck as she opened her mouth wide to receive his hungry kiss. He kissed her hard as he started to pump with force, drive with gusto, ram with purpose.

  “Again and again,” he panted into her hair as she moaned and whimpered. “Every day, every week, every month. Never stop. Cannot stop. I will take you every day. Make you mine every day. Every goddamn day, Gracie. Even when your belly is large and round with our child I will take you.”

  “What?” she muttered through her tears of ecstasy as he pumped into her. “What child?”

  “You are pregnant,” he growled into her as he thrust again. “You know it, and I know it.”

  She giggled through her next groan. “You’re mad, you know that? God, you’re just—”

  Now suddenly he pulled back and grabbed her by the hair from behind, pulling her head back and making her look up at him. “You think I am mad? You think I am joking? Do you not feel my seed inside you already? Do you not sense that last night we conceived a child?”

  Grace stared up at him as she felt a sickening chill go through her with his words. Her arousal was so strong she wasn’t sure if she was hearing him correctly, wasn’t sure if she was understanding him right, wasn’t sure if this weird tingle was just the arousal or something else.

  She looked into his eyes, frowning as his words from last night rang through her head. “I have waited six months.” “The best of me is in you now.” “Six months for this.” “Now it is done.”

  It is done? What is done? Am I going mad, she thought as she swore she saw the answer in his green eyes, felt the answer behind her own eyes, inside her own body, in the way she had reacted to him, the way she was reacting now.

  “This is insane,” she gasped, feeling like the walls were closing in on her. “No one can know that. You can’t know that. I can’t know that. It’s insane, Dhomaar. OK, listen, maybe we need to take a step back and—”

  “Back?” he said, snorting as he looked down at her. “Back?! Ya Allah, you disappoint me, Grace. You are ignoring what you know is true.”

  “Ignoring what?” she screamed now, not caring who the hell heard. “Some magical knowledge that I’m pregnant from last night? Dhomaar, it’s scientifically impossible to know that right now! It’s goddamn impossible! You’re speaking as if you know for sure already. There’s no way we can be certain this soon!”

  Now the Sheikh let go of her hair and pulled his cock out of her, and Gracie felt a hollow sensation of anguish whip through her, like her own body was screaming in rage, raging at her ignorance, spitting in her face with disgust at how she was willfully ignoring the wisdom of her vessel, the flesh-and-blood vessel which was the seat of her soul in this lifetime.

  “All right, Grace,” the Sheikh growled now, pacing the empty classroom as he took off his white shirt an
d tossed it aside. He stood naked now, brown and hard, ridges of muscle rippling in the light shadows of the classroom. “All right. Now you have done it. Now you have unleashed what I have held back. You have awakened me, and now you will pay the price.”

  This was the first time Gracie had actually seen the Sheikh without his shirt, and the sight floored her as her jaw drooped with astonishment. The man truly was sculpted by the gods, with striations of beautiful brown muscle lining his abdomen, pectorals like slabs of heavy granite, shoulders like ridges of rock, arm muscles defined so well she could teach a goddamn anatomy class with him as the main exhibit.

  His cock was hard, swollen, supremely erect, and it bounced stiffly as he walked towards her. Slowly she backed up, wondering what the hell was about to happen.

  “No, listen,” she muttered weakly as her pussy clenched and released, a fresh flow of wetness oozing from her slit. “I’m not thinking straight. Let’s just talk about . . . about . . .” She frowned as she tried to remember what they had been talking about, but she suddenly couldn’t. She closed her eyes tight to regain focus, and now it came back to her: that madness about her already being pregnant; those weird statements when he fucked her last night; all this stuff about carrying his seed, carrying the best of him, the best of his line, about how he knew they had conceived last night. Madness! And now she was going to pay the price? What price?

  Now suddenly she felt him grab her by the hair, and before she could get her balance the Sheikh dragged her across the room and pushed her down to her knees facing the old-style metal radiator pipes by the far wall. She gasped and tried to turn, but he stood above her, holding her in place between his muscular thighs, now pushing her down until her legs were bent beneath her, her face close to the pipes lining the wall.

  “Dhomaar, what the hell—” she started to say.

  But she swallowed the words as she felt him grab her wrists and pull her arms out in front of her, that purple scarf coming down and twisting around those wrists, pulled tight with astonishing speed, wound hard around the radiator pipe, double-knotted and pulled tight again until holy mother of God she was tied to the goddamn radiator, on her fucking knees, the Sheikh above her, behind her, in control of her.