The Sheikh’s Accidental Heir (Sharjah Sheikhs Book 2)

by Leslie North

  3

  She tasted of vanilla and wine, and she parted her lips for him, invited him to do more than take a small sample. She came into his arms, willing, her slender body pliant and warm. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pulled him closer.

  Ah, but she was heaven—she was demanding and like nothing he had ever known. He lost track of time…lost track of everything except her. The feel of her in his arms. The softness of her mouth. The sharp edge of her teeth. He almost forgot to breathe.

  She pulled back slightly and stepped from his arms, her eyes glinting. Picking up her glass, she drained the last bit of her wine, tipping her head back and exposing her throat to him. “I’m not wasting an ounce of a Montrachet.”

  He laughed, poured the last of the wine into her glass—and the last of his wine, too. Taking her free hand, he pulled her with him, up the stairs and to the loft bedroom.

  She came with him, her steps only a little dragging.

  The maids had turned down the bed and had left only one light on. Below in the main room, the drapes hung open, giving a view of the lights of New York and light floated up from the open dining room.

  Melanie glanced around, took a sip of wine and wet her lips. “I’ve never been someone to jump into a one-night stand.” She lifted a hand and fluttered her fingers.

  “Good.” He came to her and put his hands on her waist. “Now I wish for the dessert I have been wanting all evening.”

  Taking the wine from her, he set the glass on a night table. He unbuttoned her shirt, pressing a kiss on each inch of skin revealed. She sucked in a breath. Straightening, he pulled her closer. She was trembling. He shifted and urged her onto the bed. She lay down, her hair spilling around her face. He took a moment just to admire the breasts now straining against a very practical white cotton bra.

  She lifted a foot. “Shoes?”

  With a smile, he pulled off her shoes—something flat and sensible. The black sock followed, and then he had her foot in his hand—she had lovely feet. He stroked his fingers over a high arch. She didn’t paint her toenails. Putting down one foot, he took up the other and pulled off the shoe and sock and then he leaned forward and unbuttoned and unzipped her pants. He peeled them off along with her underwear, leaving her half naked on the bed.

  Unlike the women of his country—and the prostitutes he’d known—she did not shave. Dark hair made a small triangle between her legs. The scent of her arousal wound around him, musky and warm. He wanted his fingers buried in her—wanted his mouth on her. But he also wanted to take his time.

  Her breathing had quickened. She sat up, reaching behind her to unhook her bra. She shrugged off her shirt and flung off the last of her clothes. Ah, she was more than beautiful. Strong arms and shapely legs, a flat stomach and curving hips were a better feast than what they had had at that New York deli.

  He spread her legs and knelt beside the bed, ready to worship this American goddess.

  “Lay back—enjoy. Let me feast,” he told her.

  She smiled and eased down on the bed again. He pulled her to him and spread her legs even wider so he could see into the mysteries of female delight. He put his mouth on that pearl that glistened. She rasped in a breath, and he knew he’d found what gave her pleasure.

  He suckled and nibbled and licked at her, tasting the honey that poured from her. She moaned again and stiffened. He lapped even harder at her, slipping one finger into her. She shuddered and gasped, small nonsense pouring from her mouth as if she could not stop the words.

  Ah, his sensual American—she loved this.

  Pulling away from her, he wiped her juices from his mouth and beard and stood. His shoes thudded onto the carpet. He dragged off his shirt and his pants, and went to the nightstand to pull out a condom and slip it on. His father, he knew, had left bastard children around the world—he had no wish to do the same.

  Coming back to Melanie, he covered her body with his and slipped into her.

  She gasped, her eyes going wide, but she wrapped her legs around his hips and pulled him deeper. “More,” she whispered to him, her voice rough and deep.

  “My pleasure,” he said.

  And it was. He started slow, but she would not let him stay that way. She was more than demanding, so he gave her what she wished. He pounded into her, hard, diving deep with each stroke, holding back on his orgasm until she gave a small scream.

  He let go then, pushed into her harder and faster, pounded her into the soft mattress until the world went white and pleasure swept into him.

  Sweating, skin slick and hot, he slid off her and pulled her close. She gave a soft hum and asked, “How soon can we do that again?”

  He could feel the condom wet and clinging now, and he dragged it off and threw it aside. The maid could deal with that later. He stroked a hand down his sensual American’s back. “Drink your wine—and then we will go again. And tomorrow you may show me New York.”

  4

  They had sex five times that night, barely getting any sleep, but Melanie felt oddly energized. The next morning, she’d called George to ask him to keep an eye on the business and do the inventory they did after any event. George had given a low laugh and said she sounded like she was ‘getting some’ and he’d handle everything. He sounded pleased she was trusting him enough to give him more responsibility. Ahmed had done a few texts, and then they’d showered, had breakfast, more sex in the living room, this time doggy-style that had her coming with gasps. She’d never had a lover like Ahmed—and the things that beard of his did to her skin were probably illegal in five states.

  Then they’d set off to see sights.

  They’d done more than that.

  Ahmed insisted she buy a few dresses—and then he’d bought her flowers. She’d left them at the 9/11 Memorial, and they’d gone window shopping and she’d bought him a small Statue of Liberty as a souvenir.

  The theater last night had been amazing—Ahmed had gotten them front row seats to Hamilton, and she’d never had seats so good. Afterwards, she’d finally had that dinner in his suite—but they’d ended up naked and eating dinner off each other’s bodies before collapsing into bed.

  They’d woken late—she’d barely had the energy to crawl into a bath. Ahmed had joined her and scrubbed her back, along with a few other parts that had left her gripping the edge of the tub and gasping as she came.

  Right now, the sun was out and the day was just starting to get muggy. They were supposed to hit the museums, but Central Park had been too tempting. A light breeze stirred the air, and they were eating ice cream and walking near Artist’s Gate. The artists were out with their easels and chalk or watercolors to work, or with a display of their work for sale. Ahmed kept one hand on the small of her back, and Melanie wasn’t sure if she liked that almost possessive touch. It was nice—but it was also possessive. And this was a fantasy, and nothing that would last. That was a good thing—a few more days of this and she’d fall apart.

  “Why don’t you have a husband?” Ahmed asked.

  She gave a shrug. “I did the usual—boyfriends in high school and college. But culinary school didn’t leave me much time and then I got a job as a line cook in the restaurant of one of my teachers. That sucked up so much of my time that the boyfriends would come and go—just about literally.”

  Ahmed shook his head. “They were fools.”

  She laughed. “I can’t really blame them. If they hadn’t left, I’d probably have dumped them. Relationships can get in the way of what you want.” She glanced sideways at him and tipped her head to one side. He’d bought them cones—hers was strawberry and he’d gone for plain vanilla, which so wasn’t him in bed. No—he was something exotic and exciting. And she almost didn’t want this to end—but it would. Soon. “Which brings us to what is it you really want?” she asked.

  She took the last bite of her cone and turned to him, touching one hand to his face, running her fingers over his close-trimmed beard. “This is our last night—tomorrow it’s b
ack to work for me. And you.”

  He pulled a face. “Yes. My brothers have been filling my cell phone with texts and calls I have not answered, and now I hear my father wishes me to return home.”

  “Really?”

  He tossed the rest of his ice cream into a nearby trash can and took her hands. “I will go when I am ready—and I am not certain I am ready to give you up, Melanie.”

  She laughed and pulled away from him. “Ready or not, we both have lives waiting for us. This Cinderella turns back into a pumpkin tonight. And you still haven’t told me what it is you really want.”

  Turning, but keeping hold of one hand, he waved at the artists around them. “How many of these painters will make a living from what they do?”

  She glanced around at them, figuring most worked other jobs. “Does it matter if they’re doing what they love?”

  “Ah, but they must eat—and pay the rent. The lucky ones do more than that—and that is my gift.”

  She laughed again and shook her head. “You’re lucky? That is not a skill.”

  “But it is. It is why my brothers drag me here and why my father encourages me to do more even though I do not need to. I have a nose for the lucky deal. I can look at a building and a tingle in my gut tells me it will become popular enough that the rents will go up. I look at land and know it will have oil or water. I read up on a company and some sense tells me its stock will go up. I just know. My father does not approve of stock markets—he calls them gambling.”

  “Which is close enough to true. My uncle dabbled in stocks and lost his retirement.”

  “Ah, but he was not me. It is business if you buy smart and sell smarter.”

  She tipped her head to one side and brushed back a strand of hair. “So… this is all your own money you’ve been using for our escape?” She wasn’t sure she believed that, but it had been pure joy not to worry about the cost of those theater tickets or the price of any meal.

  Ahmed let go of her hand and spread his hands wide. He gave her a grin that made him suddenly seem boyish—and far too charming. “Of course. And someday I will have enough money that he can leave his businesses to my brothers, and I will go on doing what I do—investing with some luck and some skill.” He glanced around. “I may even invest in New York real estate—a gallery perhaps.” He glanced at her. “Or a restaurant.”

  She put up a hand. “Oh, no—don’t look at me for that. I know just what a nightmare that can be. I really would like a life someday, and a restaurant won’t give me that.”

  “You sound very certain.” He took her hand again.

  She pressed her lips tight. She wasn’t going to ruin their last day by digging up a painful memory.

  He tugged on her fingers. “Let’s skip the museum and go back to the hotel. Our two days are almost up.”

  “No. You have to at least see some of the Met. You can’t come to New York without that.”

  He frowned, and she liked that small pout he was giving her, but she wasn’t giving up on the Met.

  The sedan that Ahmed kept at his beck and call waited for them at the edge of the park. It dropped them off at the Met, and Melanie dragged Ahmed inside. He scoffed at the antiquities.

  “Old stone—we have such carvings and statues all over my part of the world.”

  She took him instead to the modern art wing. He liked that more, wondered at the price of a Picasso, and said, “Art would be a good investment. I really must look into a gallery in New York—and yes, it will have a café next door, too.” He gave her a long look, but she wouldn’t be drawn back into talking about that idea. She’d had enough of trying to make a go of a restaurant in New York.

  She was also too aware of him—his scent, his body, his touch.

  Since meeting him, she’d had more fantasies come to life than she’d thought possible. He could just look at her with those hot, dark eyes and she’d start to get wet. Even though they’d had each other just about every way possible, she wanted to get back to the hotel room with him.

  One more night.

  That was all they had.

  George had already texted her a dozen questions, and she could easily imagine he was having trouble juggling the clients they were trying to line up for two weddings in the fall and the holidays needed to be booked, and suppliers would be calling for orders and payment. But she wanted this last evening with Ahmed.

  He turned now, saw her looking at him and a smile curved his lips. “The hotel? Are you hungry again?”

  “Always,” she said.

  The sedan took them back. They didn’t bother with dinner, but started to strip each other as soon as the door closed behind them. Ahmed walked her out onto the terrace, shedding clothes as they went.

  “And just where are you taking me?” she asked. “Do you know where the bedroom is?”

  “Who needs a bed?”

  She shivered. “Hard to snuggle outside.”

  He laughed, took her hand and led her up the stairs to the loft overlooking the rest of his suite.

  At the top of the stairs, he turned her around and kissed her, his lips soft. He held her face in his hands, and she felt herself melt. She reached for the buttons on his vest, opening it and sliding it off his shoulders. He pulled one hand away, then the other, letting it fall to the floor.

  He’d worn just the light jacket, trousers and an open-neck shirt. She had on the summer dress he’d bought for her—something silk, splashed with color like a garden, and ridiculously expensive. She reached for the straps, but he put his hands on hers. “Keep it on.”

  Reaching under her skirt, he pulled off her underwear—also bought, also silk and black bits of lace that barely did the job. Her legs she’d kept bare and shaved. She left her sandals on, too.

  With a smile that promised trouble, Ahmed reached up under her skirt and stroked into her wetness, his fingers sending shivers through her. She was shaking with desire. She clutched at his shoulders.

  “Come for me,” he whispered.

  She did.

  When she could breathe again and open her eyes, Ahmed smiled. “Now for the bed.”

  He turned her. The edge of the mattress knocked against the backs of her legs. Ahmed eased her down onto its welcoming softness. He pushed her dress up around her hips and then straightened. Pulling off his jacket and shirt, he smiled again.

  She couldn’t help smiling back. He was perfect. Rippling muscles on his chest, a spray of dark hair, more muscles on his arms, and abs that would do a marine proud. The guy might be rich, but he also worked out. And then she couldn’t wait any longer.

  She spread her legs and beckoned for him to come closer with a finger. He shook his head and headed to the nightstand to grab a condom. She hated the need for that, but he was smart to take precautions. He stripped and slipped on the condom. He looked so damn big, his cock jutting out like that. He also shaved his balls and she’d never had a man who did that. She loved it, though, when they slapped against her as he pounded in hard.

  Rolling up onto her knees, she kept her skirt around her hips and wiggled her bare ass. “Do me like this.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Do me hard. Really hard. I want to still be feeling you inside me tomorrow.”

  He grinned, wrapped his fingers around his girth and gave his cock a stroke. She licked her lips.

  Slipping onto the bed, he came up and knelt behind her. She gripped the headboard. Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, he slid inside her.

  She couldn’t stop the moan that came from somewhere deep inside her, the moan that turned to a whimper as he drew himself from her, leaving her empty.

  “Please,” she begged, gripping the headboard tighter. “Harder. More.”

  “Whatever you wish,” he whispered into her ear, his beard tickling. He pushed in with a hard thrust. Pleasure shot through her body in a spike that left her shivering. She moaned again and arched her back as pleasure threatened to spill over into pain.

  He withdrew slowly again, and then thrust back j
ust as hard. She tightened around him, daring him to pull out. His fingers dug into her hips. This time, he pulled out and plunged in hard and fast, his cock seeming impossibly large, filling her like nothing ever had.

  He murmured something in Arabic. She had no idea what he’d said, but the tone of his voice had her curling her toes as his hips pressed against hers.

  He picked up more speed, pounding into her now, hitting that spot that drove her wild. Her breath came in short, sharp bursts.

  Reaching around, he grabbed her breasts, his fingers brushing across her nipples. The pleasure between her legs threatened to explode at any moment. She shifted, spreading her legs even more and he pulled out and pushed in again.

  She cried out, muttering nonsense, arching for him to go deeper. What felt like electric shocks rippled through her. He jerked inside of her, said something to her in Arabic that she didn’t understand, but his voice had her tightening her muscles as his body shook in response.

  And then she felt something hot gush into her.

  She lost it then, came with a force she’d never felt before. He kept bucking into her, burying himself deeper. She wanted all of him inside her. He grabbed her hips and pushed himself deeper.

  The world fell apart.

  When Melanie could drag her eyes open, she was lying on the bed, Ahmed on top of her, almost crushing her. For once, it felt good. It felt right.

  She shifted, and he rolled off her. He cursed slightly, and she lifted up on an elbow. “What is it?”

  “Nothing.” He stroked a hand down her back. “I am sure it will be fine.” He tossed something aside, but she couldn’t think right now, couldn’t focus. Sweat slicked her back, her stomach, and her thighs. She felt—wet. Like pasta cooked too long.

  She collapsed back onto the soft sheets. Ahmed flung a hand over her, resting his palm on her ass. She reached up and pushed her fingers through her hair.

  “It’s back to real life for us tomorrow,” she muttered. Ahmed gave a grunt in reply.