The shadow was almost on him from the other side of the bed, and Zaal could see the outline of a broad man, tall and heavy, gun drawn and secured in two hands like he knew how to use it, legs braced well like he knew what he was doing, knew what he was going to do. Zaal looked up from where he crouched, and he saw the bald head, the neck tattoo, that nosering that looked familiar. One more step, my would-be assassin. One more step and you are in my crosshairs before I am in yours. Come. Meet your fate. Meet the king on the battlefield.
With no sound the Sheikh rose, like a muscle-bound specter emerging from the wooden floorboards, his powerful thighs and calves pushing up like springs as he rose to full height and swung so fast that Nosering screamed in surprise and fired, fired again, one more time, one last shot ringing through the electric air before the gun went silent, before everything went silent, everything but the whispering trees and those breathless creatures of fantasy, who slowly uncovered their sightless eyes to see who was left standing.
31
The Sheikh felt the first bullet rip through his left arm, going clean through the fleshy part of his massive bicep, tearing the muscle but missing the bone. The pain felt like nothing, like he knew it was there but it was meaningless. With his right arm he swung, putting all his weight behind that fist, every muscle in his body coiling and releasing with synchronized beauty to deliver a blow that broke Nosering’s jaw, dislocating the mandible and twisting his neck as he flew back against one of the sturdy pillars of that old bed.
“Fuck!” gurgled the man, grabbing his hanging jaw as he wildly squeezed the trigger again and again before the Sheikh hit him once more, in the chest, breaking three ribs that cracked louder than a rifle shot.
One more crack to the face, dead center to the nose, smashing all the tender cartilage. Nosering crumpled like a ragdoll, down to his knees and then the floor, body propped against the bed, blood pouring from his mouth as his broken jaw hung slack, his eyes rolling up in his head like a whale going belly-up after the fatal harpoon. One more gurgle and Nosering’s eyes closed, unconsciousness taking him into its forgiving arms as he went slack against the bed, body twisted grotesquely.
He was breathing. He was alive. And now the Sheikh staggered back and took several breaths as he blinked through the adrenaline rush and then checked himself for any more injuries, knowing that he may have been hit again and wouldn’t know it because he could not feel pain in this state, this altered state that all great warriors enter when the stakes are highest.
The other bullets had missed, and the Sheikh cracked his bruised knuckles and looked at his wound. He could see the bullethole, and there was also an exit wound. Good. Less chance of infection. The bullet had not shattered the bone. Also good. But there was blood, and now as the adrenaline drained from his system, he could feel his heartrate pick up, his blood pumping faster.
Quickly he grabbed one of his silk handkerchiefs and tied it tight around his wound, grimacing as he used his teeth to pull the knot as hard as he could to stop the blood. Now a thick towel around the dressing. Good, he would not pass out. He was all right. He was OK.
He glanced at Nosering, but the man was done. Broken jaw, broken nose, ribs that would take a month to heal. Done.
Zaal grimaced again as he felt pain throb through his arm now as the severed nerve endings came to life to say that they needed some attention. Yes, the wound needed to be cleaned. The bleeding had to be stopped, not just slowed. Then stitches. Antibiotics. Yes, he needed a doctor, but the idea of a hospital did not even enter his swirling mind. He needed his healer. He needed his queen.
The Sheikh grabbed his car keys, not bothering to look for his phone or wallet. Then he went to the land-line and dialed 911 and placed the receiver on the table as he heard the operator come online. He glanced at Nosering once more, wondering if he needed to tie him up. But the man was out cold, and Zaal needed to move.
He headed for the front door and his silver Range Rover, but then stopped and turned, walking briskly back to the unconscious man. He reached down and slapped his face a few times, again and again until the man blinked and coughed and looked up.
“Here,” said the Sheikh, reaching out and yanking the nosering clean off the guy’s smashed nose, the metal ripping through flesh as he screamed in pain. Now the Sheikh pried Nosering's mouth open, slipped the ring onto his tongue, and then held the man’s broken jaw closed, forcing him to swallow.
“It is a shame,” said the Sheikh as he headed for the door. “Now I will have to come up with a new nickname for you.”
A grunt and then a grimace as his thoughts whipped back to where he knew he had to go, to the only place he wanted to be, to the only person he wanted to be with. To his silver chariot the Sheikh went, his arm throbbing, head pounding, heart racing, mind swirling like a misty whirlpool. But his eyes were clear and focused, and his jaw set tight as he fired the powerful V8 engine to life.
And as he drove through the winding roads, the Sheikh felt that other engine slowly come to life as the adrenaline-fueled alertness channeled its way down another set of pathways, like the lava of an erupting volcano changing direction, the red hot magma blazing down a different road, a road that runs alongside the road of violence, the dark twin sister of violence, the two sharing the same heat sometimes, the twin needs not so different in the depths of man, in this man.
This man who could not give a damn about stopping the bleeding anymore, because that other engine had started up, had roared to life, with its deep rumble sounding through the cosmos, rousing those creatures of fantasy once again as they raced alongside the silver chariot, squealing and cackling in anticipatory glee.
32
Fran watched with a frown as the twin headlights careened their way through the empty parking lot of the strip mall. It was past ten and all the stores were closed, and even she was getting ready to call it a day and head back to her apartment for the first time in what seemed like a lifetime.
And it was sort of a lifetime, wasn’t it? Like she was living a different life after what the last three days had brought? It still felt surreal, still felt like a dream, still felt like it was fragile and impossible and she was going to wake up and find him gone, find herself gone perhaps, like the dream had never happened.
She frowned again as those headlights drew closer, and then her heart almost stopped when she saw the silver flash under the street lamps. It was the Sheikh, but why the hell was he driving like that?
Fran could feel those hairs on the back of her neck rise up like an invisible hand had just run a single finger along her back, tickling her awake with an ominous touch. She held that frown as she glanced back at her clinic. Her medical equipment had come in that day: examination table, stainless-steel implements, brand new bottles of disinfectant, stacks of gauze and bandages. She hadn’t planned to unpack all of it that day—indeed, she wasn’t an emergency room for animals, and all that stuff could sit in boxes until the space was a bit more tidy. But for some reason she had decided to set up the examination station and all that, assembling the heavy metal table even though it was really a two-person job.
She had thought about calling the Sheikh earlier and asking him to help, but then decided not to do it. Perhaps he needed his own space for an evening. He had given her what she needed over the past few days—God, he had given her what she needed! So if he needed space right now, then she could step back and do that. She wanted to give him what he needed.
Now that Range Rover screeched to a halt outside the front window to her clinic, headlamps still blazing as the Sheikh opened the door. She could only see him in silhouette against the blinding halogen lights of the truck, and she squinted as she opened the front door and called his name, her tension rising when she saw him take an awkward step to his side so he could close the front door without using his left hand.
“Zaal?” she said, blinking away the spots as those headlamps finally went dead. “Zaal, what . . . oh, shit! Oh, God, Zaal! What the hell happene
d? Get in here!”
She ran to him before realizing he could walk all right, and then she turned and tore back into the clinic, ripping open the sealed bottle of disinfectant, lining up the implements and dressings, clearing off that examination table and turning on the spotlight so she could get to work.
Everything good, she decided as she forced herself to stay in control, telling herself that he needed her right now, needed her to be calm and present. All the questions could wait. Right now she needed to fix him. Right now she needed to take care of him. Right now she needed to be whatever he needed her to be, give him what he needed from her.
But when she saw him step into her clinic and slam the door closed, his jaw set tight, eyes focused in a way that was manic but still clear and penetrating like an animal on the hunt, a beast ready to pounce, a man ready to . . . ready to take his woman?!
“Oh, God, Zaal,” she muttered as she dropped the piece of gauze from her hand and stood there under the bright spotlight, like the show was on again, the next act was in play, the stage set for the scene, his burning eyes breathing fire into this new fantasy, his fantasy, what the warrior needed from his woman, what the battle-king needed from his queen.
Now she felt the Sheikh’s arousal reach across to her, his animalistic need awakening its sister-beast in her loins. And her breath came heavy and warm as she felt her blue sundress tighten up, her buttocks clenching and then releasing as Fran gently parted her heavy thighs and nodded at him.
“What do you need?” she whispered under the heat of the spotlight, her wetness coming forth as she saw him undo that heavy brass buckle of his leather belt, ripping open the buttons as a trickle of fresh blood formed an erotic river down his left arm.
“You know what I need,” he growled as he ripped off his shirt, his hungry green eyes taking in the swell of her heaving bosom beneath that thin blue sundress as her nipples went stiff and hard. “You know what I need right now. If you cannot, then . . .” he started to say, like even through his need he was trying to hold back, hold himself back if she asked. “If you cannot give it, then I—”
“Take it,” she muttered as she backed up against the sturdy wooden wall and braced herself, clenching her jaw, licking her lips, brown eyes narrowed and ready, every part of her willing to give him what he needed, even if she had no goddamn idea what was coming.
“Take it,” she said again through gritted teeth as the bare-chested Sheikh approached, lean muscles hard and glistening with exertion, pants off now, underwear pushed down, cock springing out, hard and ready, shaft thick like a ridgepole, balls swinging as he walked towards her, his jaw clenched, body shuddering like he was trying to cling to the last bit of him that was holding back, that everything he had was on the cusp of being released, unleashed, set free, that he just needed that last word from her, that final nod of her head, that final invitation from his queen.
“Take it,” she said for the third time. “Take what you need. I am yours and I love you. So take what you fucking need. Take me, Zaal. Come and take me.”
33
Through his madness he heard her scream, but he was on her now, her words severing that last thread keeping him back, that last fiber that separated the beast from the man, and he was all beast now, all animal, all fire, all passion, all desire.
He roared as he crashed into her, slamming her back against the wooden wall as he felt her gasp in shock at the impact. But she held on, bracing herself and whispering his name, saying she was all right, that she loved him, that she was his and he could take her, he should take her, take her any way he wanted.
“You are mine,” he grunted as he licked her face and then turned her so she faced the wall. “My goddamn queen, and you will take your king, take everything he has, right goddamn now.”
He grabbed her wrists and slammed her arms against the wall, making her place her palms flat against the wood. Then he reached around and pinched her breasts, gathering her globes and squeezing so hard she shouted and arched her back as he rubbed his naked cock against her dress, groaning in ecstasy as he felt his balls and cock against her bottoms.
Now he feverishly reached around and rubbed her hard between the legs, fingers down her panties, sliding into her cunt with force and fury, breath hot against her cheeks as he felt how wet she was. Both hands in her panties now, kneading her heavy buttocks, rubbing her mound, breathing deep of the smell of her cunt.
He could sense the throbbing in his left arm, feel the blood running fresh and warm. But there was no pain and it mattered not, so he grabbed her panties with both hands, twisting the soaked cloth around the waistband towards each side of her bucking hips, now ripping those flimsy panties at the seam, roaring as he brought the red underwear to his face and smelled her scent, the musk of her crotch, taking it in, feeling it fuel his fire.
He parted her buttcheeks, touching her asshole with his thumb as she moaned and writhed against the wall, palms still flat on the wood, legs spread and braced, blue sundress bunched up above her hips. He licked his fingers, now pushing his right middle finger into her mouth and making her suck it before he brought that hand back down and slid the wet finger deep into her rear pucker, without warning, holding her firm against the wall as he felt her body tense up in shock, her asshole clenching as he drove his finger in and out, finally feeling her relax as he grinned like an animal.
“Spread for me,” he muttered as he backed up and rubbed his cock in long, brutal strokes, rubbing his balls and getting his juice flowing. He was close, and he could not hold on any longer. “Spread for me!” he shouted.
“Like this?” she gasped as she moved her palms farther apart and lower down the wall, taking two steps back and hiking her sundress all the way up her lower back as he growled and smacked her naked bottoms, spanked her again as she gasped and held on.
Again the Sheikh slapped her buttocks, watching her creamy white globes shiver as they turned bright red. But she took it, letting out little yelps of pain each time his hands struck her trembling flesh, now screaming as he went harder, spanking her tight and raw, his fingers leaving red marks on her white skin, criss-crossed like lashes from a whip, streaks of blood from his wound dotting her rear as he finally stopped and stepped back, holding his cock as he took a breath, his chest heaving from the madness of where his ecstasy was taking him, where this woman was taking him.
“I love you, my queen,” he said now as he took one last look at her heavy thighs spread wide, buttocks upturned, cleavage of her ass on display, her slit pink and glistening in the yellow light as she braced herself against the wall for him. “I love you, and now I will take you.”
And with one last breath he went to her, hard and heavy, cock leading the way, balls heavy like ballast. And without another word he guided the massive head of his cock to the entrance of her slit and rammed his way in, deep in, all the way up inside, inside his queen’s open cunt.
34
She felt him explode inside her so quick that she barely knew what was happening, before she even caught her breath, before she even came to terms with how deep inside her he had pushed his cock, how wide he had stretched the lips of her vagina, how tight his shaft felt against the walls of her womanhood. And it was only when she felt him blast his seed into her, his semen flowing through the canals of her cunt, flooding the wells of her village as he roared like an animal being born with full claw and teeth straight from the universe’s womb . . . yes, only then did she realize that she was indeed taken, a taken woman, taken and owned, possessed by him.
And God, it felt good. Shit, it felt right. Damn, it felt perfect. She had said take me and he had taken her. It was done. Taken and possessed. She was his now, and she wasn’t letting go.
And while he came inside her like a pipe blowing the mains, a geyser blasting through the bedrock, her orgasm came quiet and sly, staying beneath the surface, like this orgasm was for her, like it was a farewell of sorts, a goodbye to the broken part of her that was now being sent on its way,
sent packing, gone forever, goodbye and fuck off.
She was free. Free to be taken. Taken by the man she chose.
And with a smile she came. Came like a woman. Came like a taken woman.
35
“Then take his woman,” said Longbeard quietly, looking across that teakwood table at the silent faces of his three fellow Regents.
It had been less than a day since the attempt on Zaal’s life had failed. The news reports had been sketchy, with just a brief blurb about the arrest of a gun-shop owner, the man unable to say much, his jaw wired shut, ribs so badly broken he could only take the most shallow, hesitant breaths. The news hadn’t made it past the local Vermont news sites—it just seemed like a break-in or perhaps an attempted hate-crime, given that the house belonged to a rich Muslim immigrant. The fatwa itself had not yet made it to the Internet, miraculously, and so no one working those Vermont news-sites appeared to have made the connection that perhaps this was an attempted assassination related to a fatwa issued by an Islamic nation.
Still, the incident had made it clear to Longbeard that he was a fool to think this could stay quiet. They had not thought this through well enough. A non-Muslim white man is the first to attempt this? He could not collect the bounty. And so he must have been hired by a Muslim to do the dirty work. If the attempt had succeeded, then perhaps it would even have worked! Ya Allah, they had not thought this through well enough. They had not counted on Sheikh Zaal being able to take on an attacker—not just take him on, but put him down! By God, the injuries to that man! Even with ten thousand miles between them Longbeard had trembled in his camelhide sandals at the thought of the Sheikh walking into the room, a camel-whip in his right hand, murder in his eyes!
Untouched for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 6) Page 15