And like dark clouds broken open by the relentless rays of sun, clarity descended on Fran so fast she almost crumpled to the floor, almost floated to the ceiling . . . and through that clear patch of sunny blue sky came the realization that she was doing this for the only reason that made sense: Because she wanted to.
I’m doing it because I want to be with this man, she told herself now as she took that last step and walked into his home, into his arms, into his care, his protection. I’m doing it because I want to be with this man, and that’s all the goddamn reason I need. I want to do this. I want to do this! Does it get any simpler?!
“Yes,” she said now as he stepped inside with her and slowly closed the heavy wooden door as those creatures of fantasy who were peering through the enchanted woods sighed with melancholic relief and congratulated one another on a job well done.
“Yes,” Fran said again to this stranger with the green eyes, this man who had been custom-made for this woman, this man who had stepped forward and said he was taking responsibility for her, was taking her in that natural way just like an animal takes his mate, like a man takes his woman, takes her for the first time.
13
The door closed behind them and that sense of clarity only burned brighter as Fran stepped into the center of the massive open floor, feeling for a moment like she was in the center of the universe itself, like she was the star of the show, like it was her show, her moment, her night.
She could see the trees swaying outside the rows of windows lining the wood-paneled walls, and she could hear the crickets chirp as the cicadas sang their tune of the woods. In the distance an owl calling its mate. In the forest a brown rabbit escaping its fate. On the hill a she-wolf a moment too late. Sounds of fantasy. Songs of magic.
Zaal came to her side now, taking her hand in his as she looked up at him like she knew him, like she knew him better than she possibly could, knew him even though she knew nothing about him, just that she wanted to trust him, that her body wanted to trust him, trust him so she could trust herself again, so her body could trust itself again.
“Come to me,” he said to her now, twirling her around the center of that open room, circling around her as he held her hand and twirled her again, like they were dancing to music that transcended sound, moving to a beat that emanated from their hearts, their bodies humming a tune that had never been heard in the universe before, that was fresh and new, original and untouched. “Come to me, my virgin beauty. Let us have our first dance together.”
She laughed at the madness of it all as she kicked off her shoes and wriggled her toes against the warm wood, and he led her through that silent dancefloor, stepped her in time to the unhearable dancetrack, whisked her with him in a whispering waltz, dipped her now, spun her quick, twirled and tossed, spun her round, right up against that warm, clean bed with its four posts rising up like trees of a forest, pillars of a palace.
He kissed her now as their bodies pressed tight together, and as Fran felt his hardness against her front she once more felt herself opening up in a way that seemed to come shockingly easy, frighteningly fast, terrifyingly quick.
“Oh, God, Zaal,” she whispered as she felt her heat rise, the drama of the day adding to the sudden desperation that made her shudder, made her swoon, made her think that how could this be happening when she didn’t deserve it, when she was an awful person who had run away from friends and lovers like they had meant nothing, like she had deserved nothing. And here she was with a stranger, dancing as he kissed her, laughing as he touched her, touched her like it was natural, like it was right, like it was the way she deserved to be touched. Oh, God, did she deserve to be smiling and happy, or was this just her running away again?
Stop thinking and stop talking to yourself, she told herself as she sat down on the bed and raised her head to receive this stranger’s kiss, and she wanted to think that she was a whore to even be here, in his house, on his bed. But then she smelled the clean linens of the massive bed, sensed the wisdom of the aged wood of its headboard, saw the shine on the dark-stained posts of its majestic frame, and she was reminded of the feeling that this was not a bed to which a man takes a whore, it was not a bed for a harlot. Instead it was a bed for lovers, a bed for a honeymoon, a bed for a . . . for a virgin, for virgin love.
And suddenly Fran was no longer a damaged whore about to sleep with a stranger, but she was that virgin about to give herself to her first love, her true love, her only love. And God, it really felt that way, didn’t it? A fantasy, yes? It had to be. But so what? Had she not lived in the shadow of her self-induced nightmares for so long? Wasn’t it time to live in a dream, even if it was for one night? And in a sense wasn’t the first time by definition a one-time deal, a one-night stand? So sit back and go back, go back to the one night you never had, that was taken from you, stolen from you. Take back the night you never had, the night of the first time, the first touch, the first . . . climax. Take it back, little Frannie. Take it back.
Now gently her stranger-lover pushed her back onto the massive bed, its firm mattress cradling her curves as she backed up and held her legs together even though she wanted to spread them right now. But she kept her thighs pressed tight together, smiling up at him as she allowed herself to slip into the fantasy that those words of his had triggered, that first and best fantasy, that sweetest and smoothest fantasy, the first fantasy of the fresh schoolgirl, the last fantasy of the faded widow.
“I think I’m ready,” she said to him, the uncertainty so real, the dream taking over now, drawing her in so quickly she felt like that fifteen-year-old girl again, her face fresh and smooth, her pussy wet and clean, tiny and tight, so tight, so goddamn tight. “I think I’m ready for my first time.”
14
“You are too tight to take me, I think,” he whispered against her cheek as she shivered at the feeling of his large hands caressing her thighs beneath her skirt as they cuddled together and kissed like high-school lovers, both of them fully clothed, the electricity of their first kisses alone almost too much to handle. “And I think you are not wet enough to handle it. Not experienced enough to enjoy it. Perhaps I should not be the one to take your virginity, my untouched princess, my unopened flower. Perhaps I am too old, too experienced, too . . . too big for your tiny, virgin pussy.”
She giggled as he kissed her again, his fingers now teasing the bottom edges of her panties that had ridden so far up her bottom that it felt like she had nothing on beneath that crumpled denim skirt. Those panties were soaked, and Fran didn’t even want to think about how long she had been wearing them that day. But it didn’t matter. She felt clean and fresh against this man, this man who was taking her deeper into this fantasy, making it seem light and playful while still devastatingly serious, deeply meaningful.
“Maybe you are too old and experienced,” she whispered as she clamped her thighs tight together again, feeling him grunt and then chuckle as he tried to push his fingers between her legs, now groaning in pleasure as Fran reached for his hardness, that massive bulge in his fitted trousers, the monstrous erection that had been rubbing against her mound as they kissed and fondled each other like first-timers. But it was the erection of a goddamn man, not a horny little boy, and Fran could feel her pussy tighten and release and tighten again as her fingers closed around the outline of his cock, grasping his girth through the soft cloth, her fingers not making it all the way around his swollen shaft, her hands feeling small as she gently jerked him back and forth as he shuddered and dug his fingers into the side of her thighs. “And God, maybe you are too big,” she whispered, a tremor going through her thighs as she felt them slowly part under his powerful touch. “Too big for my little pussy.”
She almost choked in shock as she heard herself speak, the words coming so easily that she wanted to feel horrified but instead could barely hold back a snort of pure delight. Her arousal was soaring so wonderfully through her body that Fran felt like a completely different person for a moment, a moment w
hen she almost had to tell herself that she had never been aroused like this, not with any man, ever, not even alone with herself, in the privacy of her own thoughts, her own fantasies.
Fantasies? What fantasies, Fran thought now as she felt Zaal groan again and claw at her thighs as he slowly pried her legs apart while she giggled in delight at how his cock was flexing in her hand. Yes, what fantasies had Fran allowed herself to have on her own? None! Never! Not a one! She couldn’t take the chance of coming face to face with what she feared was the truth: that her sexual pleasure would forever be locked up in that secret scream in the basement of her parent’s home, that if she unlocked her body, then her mind would return there again and again in sexual fantasy, that she’d be one of those unhealed women who relived the rape to climax, who needed the fear to come, who needed the panic, needed the violence . . .
But here she was, aroused and wet, giggling and hot, sinking deep into the sweetest fantasy so easily that it made her want to cry out in joy, sing with delight, scream to the world that perhaps she was not so broken, that she was not so damaged, not so twisted after all! Was it really that easy? After years of being in fear of her own touch, shying away from every man’s advance, no matter how gentle and respectful . . . yes, after all that it just goes away when this stranger invites me into his home, his arms, his bed? What is different about him? What is different about me?
Shut your stupid-ass, frowny-faced brain and enjoy this, she told herself as she gasped when his weight shifted and pressed against her. Now he rolled on top of her and kissed her hard, pushing his tongue into her mouth as she was forced to let go of his throbbing cock that she had been pulling at with increasing fury, the rising fury of her own passion, passion that had been locked up so long that it was raw and angry now, like an unjustly imprisoned creature that is finally given its reprieve and wants nothing more than to run amok through the streets of the city, the paths of the forest.
“I will go slow and careful,” he whispered as he kissed her neck, his hands pushing her skirt up over her hips as she spread her legs beneath his weight, moaning as she felt his hardness press down on her mound through her damp panties, pushing the wet cloth into her slit as he grinded against her. He slowly backed up now, raising his massive body off her and pulling off his shirt as she looked up at him in awe, with the awe of a schoolgirl glancing up at a real man, this man who was going to lead her past the gates of innocence, make her a woman.
The Sheikh was broad and brown, lean and cut, pectorals heavy and thick, striations in his shoulder and chest muscles clearly visible in the shadows of the dim overhead chandelier, stomach flat and lean, with bumps of smooth brown muscle like sand dunes of the Sahara, a thick vein running along the side of his lower abdomen, descending into the perfect V of his pelvis, the glistening top of his haunches just visible over his low-rise trousers that were magnificently pushed out by his erection, that beast of an erection, the erection of a goddamn man.
“Slow and careful,” he said, his jaw clenching as he pushed that red t-shirt of hers up past her breasts. “Oh, my God, Francine. By Allah, you are magnificent!”
He growled as he descended on her breasts, pushing her bra cups up over her boobs and taking her right nipple into his mouth as his hand clamped down on her left breast. He sucked hard now, with all his force, and Fran screamed in pleasure as she arched her back and pushed her chest into his face, reveling in the feeling of his soft stubble against her bare skin as he sucked and pinched, growled and grunted, pulled at her nipple, bit at her boobs, now licking her down the center of her cleavage, pushing her creamy white breasts apart and coating her soft skin with his clean saliva, sucking and kissing her nipples again, nipples that were stiff and straight, red and glistening now, tight and peaked like hillocks of erogenous pleasure.
“Oh, God, Zaal,” she moaned as he pinched her breasts again, slowly moving down to her bare stomach. “Zaal, I—”
“Do not say my name yet,” he muttered as he teased her belly-button with his tongue, both hands firmly grasping her breasts, kneading and pressing, squeezing and pinching, holding tight and releasing before pressing hard and holding firm once more. He looked up past her breasts and into her eyes now, his green eyes hazy with desire but somehow exuding a sense of control that relaxed her as much as it excited her. “Do not say my name yet, Francine. This is about you and you alone. Focus on yourself, on your body, on what you feel, on how I feel against you. This is your night, Francine, and tonight I am your true love, your first love, your greatest love, your only love. Because every woman deserves her first time to be with a man she has chosen, a man who has chosen her, a man she loves, a man who loves her.” Now he raised himself up and slowly lay against her, his chest pressing down on her breasts, his weight feeling wonderfully secure on her body, warm like a blanket, safe like love, like real love, like what she always imagined real love felt like if there were such a thing, if real love was indeed real and not just fantasy.
Of course, this was a fantasy, she told herself as she nodded and looked into his eyes and nodded again as if to say yes, OK, I’m in this with you, ready to play pretend, to try this theater, produce this play, take the stage. I’m ready to take the floor as the starlet and not the harlot, the saint and not the sinner, the virgin and not the whore.
“The man I have chosen,” she whispered as she reached up and touched his face, tracing her fingers along the hard ridge of his high cheekbones, the steady line of his set jaw, his dark red lips that were full and thick. She ran her fingers through his thick mane as he looked deep into her eyes, and she could feel herself falling under a spell almost, his spell, her own spell, the spell of the moment, like how the greatest actress reaches so deep that she forgets she is in a play.
And perhaps the secret is that it is all a play, all an act, all theater, all drama, all make-believe, all fantasy . . . and true freedom is simply understanding that we choose the fantasies we want to live out, choose the plays we want to star in, choose the partners we want to share life’s stage with, Fran thought for a moment as she touched his face again, his handsome face which she was not allowed to call by a name just yet, the face of her pretend love, her fake lover, her partner in this performance, her co-star on the stage, her . . .
“I love you,” he whispered as the secret audience gasped and clutched their hearts in glee. “I love you, Francine. My sweet little rose. My perfectly formed beauty. By God, I love you.”
15
The Sheikh knew it was fantasy, but the words sent a shudder through his hard body as he spoke them. He knew he was simply delivering his lines in this game of make-believe, but by Allah it felt so bloody real, so goddamn right.
He kissed her as the feeling enveloped him, the feeling of warmth, the feeling of a part of him merging with her as they kissed like lovers, like real lovers, like it was truest love, like this was not an act, not a fantasy.
Ah, fantasy does not feel this real, but by Allah, reality does not feel this real either, it occurred to Zaal as he took in her sweet smell, tasted her clean lips, whispered her name as she moaned softly like a girl being touched for the first time, touched by a man she trusted, a man she had chosen, a man she loved.
The Sheikh grinned now as he saw Fran’s eyelids flutter as she blinked up at him with those big brown eyes, those eyes that had been cold and closed from the world not so long ago but were now warm and vulnerable, open and trusting, trusting him with this fantasy, with her fantasy, trusting him like a child trusts without hesitation. How could it be? Perhaps even she does not know how! God, there was true innocence in this woman, he thought as he kissed her cheek and she murmured in approval, her breath warm against his face as their noses touched for a moment, making her giggle and shift beneath him.
Yes, true innocence that I do not think she sees in herself. Perhaps because of what happened. Perhaps she blames herself like many victims do in secret. But then how is she opening up to me so easily? Why, by Allah? And why do I feel this oth
erworldly duty to live up to that trust, the sense that if I betray it even in thought let alone action, then I can never be forgiven, not by myself, not by the angels, not even by the demons! Ya Allah, such a deep need to shield this woman, protect her, help her open up to herself, open up to me in a way that feels so simple and primal, like the alpha of the pack feels over its mate, an awakening awareness of the sacred duty of the male, the animus, the goddamn man in me! And I know nothing more about her other than where she is from and that brief article from over a decade ago. And she knows perhaps even less about me! Yet here we are, kissing like lovers, cuddling like it means something, like it means everything!
For a moment the Sheikh thought he should pull back, pull away, turn her away, turn himself away. Was he manipulating this woman, taking advantage of her past, stealing her future for one night of passion?
No, he thought as he kissed her again and slowly moved down along her body, groaning as he felt his cock rub against her mound that felt soft and warm beneath her raised-up skirt. I am not manipulating her any more than I am manipulating myself. I have drawn her into this fantasy, and I have fallen into it with her, fallen so hard that it almost seems real, so real that when I said I loved her I almost convinced myself!
Yes, that is what scared me, he thought in relief as he tried to push away the reminder that he had never, not once, not in two decades of lovers and loving, of seduction and sex, of erotic interludes and romantic rendezvous’, not once had he told a woman he loved her, not even in jest, not even in play, not even as part of a fantasy, not even when they begged him to say it, pleaded for the words, cried in anger at his coldness, screamed in anguish at the sight of his broad back as he walked out the door.
Untouched for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 6) Page 8