“You can fill in the blanks, Fran,” the Sheikh had said, gently pushing her away, the unease in him coming through clearly in the way he touched her as he stood and walked to the window, keeping his back to her.
Fran could see his fists clench behind his back, his massive shoulders tensing up as he stared out over the green landscape, his eyes narrowed, jaw set tight, the exiled king alone and angry. She stood and went to him, reaching up and massaging his shoulders, trying to take the tension away with her touch. His muscles were tight like coiled rope, and he sighed and stretched his neck as she kneaded and massaged away the stiffness.
“They located where the extremist group was staying. And two nights later they sent in a drone,” he said slowly, his voice betraying the strain of the memory.
“A drone. You mean . . . what, they bombed the place?”
“Razed to the ground. Rubble and bodies. Nineteen men. Four boys. Kirwaani boys.”
Fran had taken a breath and slid her arms around his broad frame, unable to get all the way around his chest but doing her best. “Zaal. They were eighteen. They were men. They made their own decisions. And you made your decision.” She walked around so she could see his face, her own breath catching when she saw the anguish in this powerful man’s eyes. “They made the wrong decision. And you made the right one. The decision a leader has to make. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” he said firmly, eyes narrowing, jaw tightening. “And I would make the same decision if I had to do it again. But that does not mean I am not torn apart by it. It does not mean I do not grieve for those boys and their families. It does not mean I am blameless.”
“Of course you’re blameless! Those four boys only have themselves to fucking blame! I’m sorry if that’s cold, but it’s the truth, Zaal! And you know it!” Fran had said, getting a strange sense of association. Four boys. Four boys and a sixteen-year-old girl. Who was to blame? Was it all their fault? Was she blameless back then? Could she tell herself it wasn’t her fault with the same confidence she was telling him it wasn’t his fault?
Oh, God, she had thought as she hugged the Sheikh as he held her. He’s just like me, she thought for a fleeting moment. Like I was made to understand him just like he was made to understand me! Is that possible? Does the world really work that way? Dreams work that way, sure. Fantasy works that way, yeah. So can we just stay in this dream? Can I just keep believing this fantasy? Can we just keep saying we love each other until we don’t need to say it any more? Fake it till you make it, yeah?
The Sheikh had been staring down at her all the while, his brow furrowed as if those green eyes were trying to read her mind. And as if he could in fact read her mind, he cocked his head and, without hesitation, without a hint of pity, no patronizing in his tone, said, “Do you not carry some blame with you for what those four boys did, even though you know you are blameless? Do you not carry some shame with you, even though it is only they that should be ashamed? Blame. Shame. Guilt. These are devious creatures, psychic devils, sly and surreptitious beings. They stay with us even though we know we can discard them at any time. Even though we know we do not need to carry the burden. Ya Allah, do we not both carry blame in our hearts when our minds assure us we are blameless? Do we not stink of shame though we know we are innocent and clean? Do we not carry the load of guilt though we know it is not our load to bear? These things leave emotional imprints that can only be healed by . . . by . . . I do not know. I do not know, Francine. Come here. Come here, my princess. Let me hold you. Come to my arms and press your body against mine. Perhaps this is the medicine I need. The medicine we both need.”
He pulled her into a bearhug that almost crushed her, and she hugged him back and tried not to let the tears break. She looked up at him, into those green eyes, taking in the thick waves of black hair framing his handsome face. Were they really having these conversations just two days into their relationship? Oh God, was this even a relationship! Oh God, wasn’t it a relationship? If not, then what? Somebody please tell me!
“I love you, Francine,” he had said from above her. “By God, I do love you, my princess.”
Was this still an act, she wanted to ask him, wanted to ask herself, wanted to ask the universe. But it was not a real question, because she knew the answer. Fake it till you make it, right? Live in the fantasy long enough and there’s nothing left but the fantasy!
So she burrowed into his massive chest, the desert princess and her exiled king, two strangers still playing house, still playing lovers, still playing the game. Then she sighed and looked up at him and said, “I love you too, Zaal. I love you too.”
26
The Sheikh watched her from across the round table by the ice-cream parlor’s front window. He watched as she ate her ice-cream and chewed on that awful bubble-gum mixed into it. He watched as she finally spat the gum out into a napkin and pushed the empty cup away and frowned up at him affectionately.
“So,” she said, shifting in her plastic chair and smiling.
“What,” he said softly.
“Isn’t that usually a death sentence?”
The Sheikh almost choked on his plastic spoon. “What? To hate bubble gum is a crime punishable by death in Vermont?”
She closed one eye and looked up at the ceiling. “I don’t know about bubble gum. But to speak ill of Ben & Jerry’s when you’re in Vermont . . . yeah, that’s a pretty serious mistake.” She smiled warmly, looking around as if to make sure no one was close enough to overhear. “No, I mean the charge of treason. So this Regency Council—”
“Regents Committee.”
“Don’t interrupt me when I’m on a sugar-high. Yes. OK. So this Regents Committee in Kirwaan—they decided that since you provided a foreign government with information about Kirwaani citizens which ultimately resulted in those citizens getting killed, it qualifies as treason.”
The Sheikh thought for a moment and then nodded. “That is accurate enough. Yes.”
“OK,” said Fran. “So my question is that if they charged you with treason, isn’t that like a death sentence or something?”
Zaal widened his eyes and exhaled, raising both arms in the air and then shaking his head. “I am glad you are not one of the Regents, my dear,” he said. “No, my father did away with the death penalty almost thirty years ago. Treason does carry a penalty of life imprisonment, but Kirwaan is still basically a monarchy, and so a member of the Royal House of Kirwaan cannot be placed behind bars. Exile is the only option for someone of royal blood.”
She blinked and looked down at the last bite of vanilla-bean. Then she put her spoon down and pushed the cup away. “Royal blood. I . . . I still have a hard time even . . . I mean, Zaal, you were literally about to become a king when all this happened!”
“I will still be king,” he said quietly, wondering if he believed that or if it was just empty rhetoric which he would be repeating as the years slipped away in exile. Did he even deserve to be king? Yes, the decision he made about those boys was sound, and yes, he would make the same decision again given the chance. But perhaps that was what made him unfit, did it not? If that was the road the people of Kirwaan wanted to take, then perhaps he was not suited to be their Sheikh at all!
No, he thought. That is not what a king does. A king does not bend to the will of the extreme fringes of his people. A king chooses the direction in which to take his people, and he leads them there.
Now for the first time Zaal looked at his princess as she burped silently, one hand covering her mouth as she glanced shyly up at him to see if he had noticed. He smiled when he saw her turn red. Ah, his princess. And his queen. His queen? A king needs a queen, does he not?
Ah, Zaal, is the magic of the moment sweeping you farther from reality? Or are you being swept closer to your destiny? Yes, the past three days with this woman have been like nothing you have experienced in this life. She has surprised you, delighted you, made you laugh, and then brought you to your knees. You have not wanted to lea
ve her side for a moment during these three days. And all these declarations of love that started as play . . . now they no longer feel like play. Perhaps they never felt like play! That first time you said it, you felt something shift inside you, yes? Perhaps it was just the shock of hearing those words come from your mouth. But you know yourself well, Zaal. No barriers within the mind, yes? Live your inner life with complete openness? So why are you trying to second-guess yourself? Why are you looking for a reason to doubt the depth of what you felt when you called this woman your princess, called her your queen, told her you loved her? And why do you want to doubt the warmth you felt when she said she loved you, those big brown eyes looking right into you, in through the windows of your heart, past the borders of your soul.
Do you want to trust me, you had asked her. So ask yourself the same question, Sheikh. Ask if you want to trust yourself, Zaal! And if the answer is yes, that you do want to trust yourself, then you must accept that what you feel is real. You must understand that this feeling is only going to get stronger, not weaker! Even in three days it is like she knows you better than any woman. She has heard your secrets and she is still here.
Not all your secrets, came the thought now as her voice drifted through his daydream, reminding him of the question.
“Well, how does an exiled king get to be king again?” she asked, touching her lip and frowning.
“My exile can be ended by the Regents Committee. But it will need to be a unanimous vote. All sixteen Regents must vote in favor.”
“And how many voted to exile you?” she asked.
“Eleven.”
Fran grimaced and rubbed her chin. “And this exile decision can’t be overturned by the Sheikh, your uncle?”
Zaal shook his head. “No. It is a safeguard built into the law.”
“Hmm,” she said. “So the king doesn’t really have absolute power. How disappointing.”
The Sheikh raised an eyebrow and placed his heavy forearm down on the little pink table, making the pile of paper-cups shake and shiver. He clenched his fist as she giggled, and he tightened his jaw and narrowed his gaze. “Careful, princess,” he growled. “It is dangerous to question an exiled king’s power.”
For a moment Zaal worried that he should not have said that, that he still did not know this woman so well, that his words could trigger memories that might open up old wounds. But she giggled again, raising her hands in a mocking gesture of puppy-dog surrender, her brown eyes narrowing for the briefest of moments, a flash of excitement showing back there before the shyness returned.
Yes, excitement. Just like the excitement he had seen in her when they made love in the open last night, out on the back porch. And this was a woman who just two days earlier seemed so closed up! Ya Allah, not only had she opened up in the most surprising way, but Zaal could swear that at times during their lovemaking she was actually holding back! Like her body wanted to take her someplace but the mind would not allow it.
Of course, Zaal had been holding back too—by God, he had been holding back! But he knew he was holding back, was fully aware that he had chosen to take it slow with this woman. But did Fran know she was holding back? Did she sense in herself what I sensed in her? That natural inclination to go further, harder, faster? Perhaps even wilder? Is it possible that being raped at such an early age forced her mind to shut down thoughts and inclinations that might have naturally emerged had she not been raped?! Is it possible that she worries that anything other than vanilla sex is just a sign that she is damaged from the rape? Does she need someone to lead her where she cannot go on her own?
Stop it! he thought, clenching his fist again when he realized he was getting hard beneath that tiny pink table. Any more and the goddamn table itself would rise, making those American mothers scream and cover their toddlers’ eyes before taking in the sight of his crotch and then pretending to be horrified as they hurried home to jump their unsuspecting husbands . . .
He was grinning like a fool when he realized that Fran was giving him the strangest smile as her eyes darted down at the table and then back up at his face. She could sense his arousal, he realized. Perhaps it is time to leave. Perhaps we should—
But before he could move he saw her slide down in her chair, and now he gasped in shock when he saw Fran’s bare foot slide its way up beneath the table and rest squarely on his cock, her yellow-painted toes curling down as she began to rub, sending his erection to full mast so goddamn fast that he almost groaned out loud.
Without a word she rubbed his cock with her foot, her toes first, the entire length of her foot now, her soft arch, her tight heel, those toes again, rubbing as he tried to keep his expression neutral, holding his tongue firm behind his teeth so he wouldn’t bite it off from the way his jaw was clenching and releasing as the ecstasy mounted.
The Sheikh’s vision grew blurry as she brought him close with nothing but her foot, her face calm and composed as she casually looked to the side, out the window, that tight smile on her face telling him she was loving this as much as he was.
And as the Sheikh felt his balls tighten in his pants, his cock flex under her touch, his semen making its way up his shaft like a goddamn army slowly preparing to breach the borders, storm the city, smash through the walls . . . yes, as he felt his body tense up, through his blurred vision he thought he saw Fran change form, her sweet, pretty face still the same but taking on a touch of something he could not name . . . like she was growing, transforming, maturing . . . like she really was a princess becoming a queen, his queen, his goddamn queen.
Slowly she turned to face him as she stepped up the erotic motion, her toes firmly pulling at his cock through his pants, jerking him off steadily as he shuddered and grunted. By God, I know she is aroused too, but she has the composure of a queen, does she not? The grace of a goddess! She shows her true self only to me, behind the curtain, beneath the table! That is the greatest quality of a queen, is it not? To control the image you present to the world while at the same time opening yourself to your king and to him alone. To me alone. Just for me. All mine. All mine!
And he saw her jaw tighten as she realized he was almost there, and as those big brown eyes narrowed and focused on his, as her tongue whipped out and wet her red lips for just a moment, as she closed and opened those eyes in a seductive blink that was just for him, this queen of composure, this graceful goddess, this little rosebud who was rapidly approaching full bloom, she brought her other foot up as well, toes of both feet curling as they clutched the monstrous erection pushing against his trousers, her jaw tightening into a regal smile as she jerked his cock past the point of no return.
Now she whispered across the table, soft and subtle, just for him. She whispered, “Come for me. Come for me, my king. Come for your queen.”
And as that climax rolled in like those armies taking the city of heaven, the Sheikh just tilted his head back and slammed his clenched fists onto the little pink table, and without giving a damn about anything, without caring where he was, without even knowing where he was, Zaal opened his mouth and roared as he came, came like a goddamn horse, exploding in his pants as he slumped down in his chair, almost passing out from the climax, brought to his knees in a pink-and-white ice-cream parlor, the king vanquished by this woman who was once his princess and was now his queen.
“I’ll be in the car,” she whispered, her face red and peaked as she stood and hurried out the door, looking down and pulling her hair open so no one would see her face, putting on her sunglasses as she ran past the store window, one hand over her mouth, the queen still barefoot.
27
They drove in silence through the sunny streets of afternoon Burlington, Subarus gliding around them like bees and butterflies, blue gnats and green firebugs. Fran had told herself she was horrified as she left the store, but she couldn’t deny that she was aroused and excited, giddy like a schoolgirl on the last day of class, happy like a horsefly in marmalade. It had turned her on to feel the Sheikh harden under her
touch, to see him groan quietly, grunt softly, then finally break and just lose control as she made him come for her.
Right there in the open. Under the pink table of an ice-cream parlor. If no one had known what was happening when she started, they sure as hell knew when she finished!
He had reached for her when he got to the car, tossing her shoes in the back and sliding into the driver’s seat, his dark pants not showing his discharge just yet even though she could smell the heavy aroma of his warm semen when he closed the car door.
She pushed his hand away from between her legs, telling him to drive. Of course she was aroused, but a part of her was freaking out and she needed to process it first. The way things had escalated over the past few days was getting to her . . . getting to her because it seemed so damned natural, like there was something inside her struggling to break free, like that first climax under his soft touch was bringing forth something deeper, something stronger, something . . . wilder!
And now that dread teased at the edges of her mind, the sinking thought that had played overlord in her psyche for so long, the thought that her orgasm that night on the dryer had tainted her forever, that the yearnings and fantasies she had denied for so many years were only there because she was broken china, damaged goods, crockery with cracks in it, cracks through which those thoughts peeked through, thoughts that maybe she’d like to go further, harder, wilder . . .
And for years she told herself she didn’t have the right, had lost the privilege, would never be able to separate her needs from that incident. How could she ever be sure that if she wanted a man to take her hard, to push her up against a wall and just fuck her brains out, to rip her panties off with his teeth and spank her big round ass as she howled . . . God, how could she ever be sure it wasn’t because of that night?
Now she looked over at the Sheikh as he drove, a lazy smile on his handsome face, his body composed and relaxed, like he certainly wasn’t doubting himself, questioning what got him off. God, if only she could get to that place! If only she could stop that part of her that wanted to point fingers at her secret desires, judge her private fantasies, issue denials, whisper warnings, bark out pronouncements, mete out punishments. If only she could learn that from him!
Untouched for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 6) Page 13