Feeling drugged by the passion inside her, Isabella blinked at him, her brain taking a moment to comprehend his words through the fog of lust.
“Safe? You mean sex? Yes, both Dr. Phillips and Dr. Hassan said it was fine for now.” Heat prickled her cheeks, talking so openly about her needs. Not that she was a blushing virgin or anything, obviously, but she’d fantasized about Feraz and this moment for so long, it still didn’t seem quite real. “I figured we should take advantage of this while we still could. That is, if you want to…”
He growled low and leaned in closer to her, forcing her back into the pillows as he loomed above her, his warm mint breath fanning her face. “I want. I want so badly I ache.”
Then he was kissing her and stroking her and Isabella forgot all about her worries, her troubles, the truth of the situation that they’d have to face ahead—forgot about everything except this man, this moment, this incredibly special night with Feraz.
Removing his towel, he lowered the sheets away from her so they were both naked, then pulled her up to sit on the edge of the bed. Feraz knelt between her thighs, placing gentle kisses on her rounded belly before bending to nuzzle the slick folds between her legs. Between licks and kisses, he murmured, “I’ve wanted to taste you again since our kiss in the plane. I’ve missed the flavor of your arousal, the soft sound of your sighs. I’ve missed everything about you, my love.”
Isabella arched against him as he inserted first one, then two fingers inside her, stretching her for him while he tongued her swollen clit. Her fingers tangled in his hair, keeping him close, guiding him gently to where things felt best. Soon, she was teetering on the brink of climax. It had been so long, too long, since she’d been loved this way and she couldn’t hold back. She cried out as orgasm overtook her, her body clenching around his fingers as she rode out the waves of pleasure.
Feraz kissed her inner thighs then stood to climb onto the bed and stretch out on his back, head resting on his hands clasped behind his head, the picture of masculine indulgence. “Do with me what you will, wife.”
Isabella stared at him a moment, her gaze raking over him from top to bottom, lingering on the proud jut of his hard cock. She’d never been the aggressor in bed before, but he made her want to try all sorts of new things. Only trouble was, she had no idea how to start. “I, uh…”
He opened his eyes and watched her, curious. “I did some research into this myself and most recommend the woman take the lead here. It is more comfortable for you that way.” He shrugged and winked, glancing down his body toward his straining cock, a bead of wetness glistening at its tip. “I will love being with you any way you choose, rohi.”
She bit her lip, and reached a shaky hand out to trace her fingers down his chest and abs. His muscles tensed beneath her touch, but he didn’t move, didn’t say a word, just let her do as she pleased. Emboldened, she moved closer to kneel between his spread legs, and took his cock in hand. It felt like warm velvet over steel against her palm and she stroked him slowly from base to tip, swiping her thumb across the broad pink head to gather that pearl of moisture there then brought it to her lips. Yep, he definitely tasted as good as he looked.
Groaning low, Feraz watched her through half-lidded eyes, his full lips parted slightly, his breath quickening. Color flushed his tanned cheeks and his dark gaze glittered with need. He wanted her as much as she wanted him. Isabella would have loved to take him into her mouth and pleasure him as he’d pleasured her, but there would be time for that later. Right now, she needed him inside her, more than she needed anything else in the world. Slowly, she straddled his hips and positioned the head of his cock at her wet entrance, gradually lowering herself down onto him until he was hilt-deep within her slick channel.
They both moaned then, staying still, Feraz’s hands holding her hips as if he feared she might leave him again. Then, tentatively at first, she began to ride him, raising off him until just his tip remained inside her then lowering down again, over and over until they were both on the brink of coming hard. Feraz guided her, but never took control, letting her dictate how much of him she took and the angle of penetration. He was right, this was super comfortable. And super considerate. The few men she’d been with in the past had been selfish and always took the lead. Feraz was confident enough to put her in charge of his ecstasy.
Soon, though, he couldn’t help thrusting gently inside her, matching her stroke for stroke, one hand still on her hips while his other tenderly fondled her sensitive breasts. At last, Isabella could take no more and gasped softly as a second climax took her. She stilled atop him, letting her body clench around his hard cock while he continued to thrust inside her—once, twice—before his whole body tightened and he squeezed his eyes shut as he came hard inside her, murmuring words in Arabic she didn’t understand, his voice low and rough with desire.
Afterward, she collapsed onto the bed and he pulled the covers up over them, spooning her back against him, one arm around her waist holding her tight as he dusted kisses along the back of her neck and shoulders.
“That was magnificent, rohi. You are magnificent.”
She smiled and snuggled back closer against him, unable to keep her eyes open. She’d not felt this relaxed and content in forever. Isabella was nearly asleep when she felt Feraz tense behind her and pull away slightly, his fingers tracing the area between her shoulder blades on her back. Isabella frowned and looked back at him over her shoulder. “Something wrong?”
He blinked at her back then looked at her, his expression blank. “Rest now, rohi. We will talk again tomorrow.”
Somewhere in the back of her mind, a warning bell clanged, but Isabella felt too exhausted and blissed out to heed its call. Tonight was just for them. Tomorrow would bring enough troubles of its own, she was sure.
11
Feraz rose before dawn the next morning and showered and dressed without disturbing his wife. The words snagged in his brain, making him reel. He’d seen the proof last night and verified it again this morning. Proof that the woman in his bed was not his wife Roxanne, but was instead her twin sister Isabella. Had to be. They were identical, after all, except for a tiny constellation of freckles that had been on Roxanne’s back, right between her shoulder blades, shaped like a heart. It had been one of the first things he’d noticed about her that very first day on the beach. It had been the distinguishing feature he’d used to tell the girls apart before he’d gotten to know them, before he’d gotten involved with Roxanne.
Those freckles were gone from the woman’s back who was in his bed.
He took a deep breath and leaned his hands against the edge of his desk in his office. But by all accounts, Isabella Germain had died in a car accident in France. Had there been a mistake? Had the authorities been wrong?
The answers were obvious. Of course, they had been. Roxanne had once told him how the sisters would fool people when they were younger, pretending to be the other. Given their unorthodox and unscrupulous mother, he wasn’t surprised. What did surprise him though was how long it had taken him to realize the charade. A man should know his own wife, be able to recognize her and her alone, right?
Exhaling slowly, he slumped back in his chair and stared out the window across from him at the rising sun. Guilt warred inside him with an odd sense of relief. Guilt because last night had been incredible. He felt connected to the woman in his bed, to Isabella, in a way he never had with Roxanne. On paper, he and Isabella had always been a better match anyway—education-wise, interest-wise. And he’d always found Isabella so much easier to talk to and more relatable. But he’d never imagined acting on any of that. Plus, there was the fact that he’d slept with another woman, committed adultery. Except he hadn’t, had he? Because if Isabella was alive and well, then that meant it must have been Roxanne who’d died in that car crash.
Which made more sense. He’d known for some time that she’d been having a fling with some titled playboy in Cannes. Perhaps it was divine justice that she died as s
he’d chosen to live, reckless and wild. What really made him feel guilty, though, was that he didn’t feel any sorrow over Roxanne’s passing. They’d grown apart long ago, and she’d made her wishes to have no part in his life clear. That’s why her message telling him she’d decided to go through with the IVF had been so shocking.
They’d originally donated both eggs and sperm to the highly exclusive clinic shortly after their marriage, wanting to ensure that Djeva would have an heir and his father’s sheihkdom would continue even if something happened to him. At the time, Feraz had considered it unnecessary, but had gone through with it just in case due to pressure from his mother.
Now though, that IVF procedure had given him his twins.
It had given him Isabella.
He wondered why she would go through with the procedure, though, given the risks and the lies and the deception. He wondered what Roxanne had offered her sister to entice her to make the deal and keep the secret. Most of all, he wondered why Isabella had not told him the truth that first day and ended it all right there. She could have asked him for a divorce, refused to stay with him after the babies were born and battled to raise the children on her own in America. He would have fought just as hard to keep them here, and things would have turned ugly.
Perhaps that’s why she went along with his plans.
Questions still lingered. While her reticence around the press and with her royal duties was now understandable, Isabella had gotten along so well with his family—much better than Roxanne ever had. And last night. Why would she make love to him so sweetly if this was only pretend?
His instincts told him what had happened between them last night had been real and true and deeply profound. They’d connected, both physically and emotionally. She’d allowed him inside her body and her heart.
Somehow, in the midst of all this illusion, he’d fallen in love with Isabella. Loved her smile and her kindness and her intelligence. Loved her laugh and the sparkle of joy in her green eyes. Loved her. Period.
Before he could sit down and talk with her though, he needed to sort things out, talk with the clinic in New York and piece together how this whole charade had been accomplished. Then he would sit Isabella down and discuss it all with her, give her a chance to explain, give her a choice—to stay with him, or walk away.
The thought of letting her go now, when he’d just had her, nearly brought him to his knees, but he would do it. If that’s what she wanted. Because he loved her enough to let her go.
He checked his watch then picked up the phone to dial Manhattan.
Time for the truth.
* * *
Isabella blinked her eyes open into the morning sunshine, searching for the source of the annoying buzz that had woken her up. She fumbled a hand over to the nightstand and grabbed her cell phone, squinting down at the screen with sleepy eyes.
She was alone in bed. Feraz must have gotten up already and left her to slumber.
He was so thoughtful.
Smiling, Isabella answered the call without checking the ID. “Hello?”
“Ms. Nazrani?” a female voice said, clipped and professional. “This is Manhattan General Hospital calling.”
Her heart clogged her throat. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s your mother, ma’am. She was brought in yesterday, unresponsive. We’ve admitted her into hospice care. We don’t expect her to make it much longer. I’m sorry to call with such bad news, but we wanted to let you know that if you wanted to see her again before the end, you should come now.”
“But she’s only Stage I. She should still be fine.”
The nurse on the other end of the line paused. “There must be some mistake, ma’am. I’m looking at her chart and I’m sorry to tell you your mother is in late-Stage IV. The cancer’s metastasized to her bones and brain and liver. Her kidneys are failing. She won’t last more than a couple of days at most.”
Mind whirling, Isabella listened to the rest of the woman’s information, then ended the call in a daze. Her relationship with her mother was strained, at best, but it was still her mother. If the woman was dying, she needed to be there, needed to make peace with her at last, before the end.
On auto-pilot, she got up, showered, and changed, then pulled out her bag to pack for the trip. She needed to tell Feraz what was going on but didn’t want him to come with her to New York. Given the circumstances, this was something she needed to do alone. She felt bad that her mother’s impending demise meant she would be free to tell Feraz the truth. She could stop living a lie and tell him she loved him, not as her dead sister, but as Isabella Germain.
Except, how would he react to that?
She’d lied to him, slept with him, all the time knowing it was wrong, no matter how right it felt to be with him. Tears gathered in her eyes, for all she’d lost and for all she’d never have again. Overwhelmed, she stuffed her emotions down deep and concentrated on one task at a time. First, she needed to call Dr. Hassan and make sure it was safe for her to travel home. Then she needed to let Feraz know about her trip to New York. Then she needed to say goodbye to her mother. Finally, she needed to figure out how to tell her beloved husband—no, she corrected herself, not her husband—and his family the truth without losing her children and the man she loved.
The call to Dr. Hassan was quick enough and she got the all clear to fly.
The conversation with Feraz was a bit more difficult. Not because she didn’t know what to say, but because she couldn’t talk to him. Turned out he’d been called into a special session with his cabinet advisors and wasn’t expected to get out of the meeting until that evening. He’d left strict orders with his secretary, Abdul, that he wasn’t to be disturbed under any circumstances.
Ugh. Leaving a note wasn’t ideal, but with her mother’s remaining moments being measured in hours, not days, Isabella felt she had little choice. After asking Abdul to ready the Nazrani private jet for her, she scribbled down a hasty note to her husband then headed down stairs to the limo waiting to take her to the airport.
She signed her letter “Love, your rohi”. Isabella only prayed that Feraz would still want to be with her once he learned her true identity and why she’d done what she’d done. After making love with him last night, she felt closer to him than ever and her heart truly belonged to him. The babies kicked inside her, as if in agreement. She wanted to make a family with Feraz, wanted to live with him in the palace and be a part of his crazy life. Wanted to join his siblings and their spouse, wanted to enjoy long talks with his mother again, wanted to be with him, now and forever more.
As they pulled onto the tarmac at the airport a short while later, Isabella found it hard to believe she’d only been back in Feraz’s life for one short week. She just hoped he’d give her a chance to prove her love to him once she returned and they could turn their brief time together into forever.
12
“Mama?” Isabella said, taking her mother’s frail hand through the bedrail. She’d arrived at the hospice facility an hour prior and still hadn’t quite adjusted to seeing her mother—a woman who’d been so strong and fierce just a week earlier—now unconscious and corpse-like in a hospital bed. She understood her mother’s cancer had reached its last stages, but she’d never expected her to go downhill so quickly. In truth, she’d never imagined her fearless mother dying at all, yet here she was, breathing labored and cheeks sunken.
The nurses had told her that her mother had been fine one minute then collapsed the next, too weak to stand on her own and had gone rapidly downhill from there. According to the doctors, that wasn’t uncommon with terminal cancer. Isabella couldn’t help feeling guilty that she’d not been here sooner, even though she was doing what her mother had wanted.
She stroked her thumb over the back of her mother’s pale hand, the skin there so thin all the veins were visible. So delicate, so fleeting. If she’d known this was going to happen, she would’ve told her mother how sorry she was about how things had turned out, how
sorry she was that she’d been such a disappointment. How she really was trying to get the money they needed to pay for the new treatments without falling too deeply in love with Feraz.
Okay, that last one would have been a lie. Especially after last night.
Making love with him had been everything she’d ever dreamed and more. Passionate, tender, sexy, and sweet, all rolled into one. He’d made her feel beautiful and wanted and treasured. Which made telling him the truth as soon as she got back all the more heartbreaking.
For so long, Isabella had felt so alone. With her mother and her sister now dead, she felt adrift. Then the car accident had happened and somehow, through the chaos and conniving of her mother’s plan, Isabella had found a true family at last.
Honestly, she loved Feraz’s siblings and Zuhra as much as she loved him.
They’d made her feel welcome, they’d made her feel like she’d come home.
Despite all the emotional wounds her sister had inflicted on them.
She’d be forever grateful for that. Grateful enough to let them go, because it was the right thing to do. The only thing really. She had no right to them because she’d lied. She was a terrible person, just like her sister and her mother, no matter how noble her reasons for doing it.
Tears stung her eyes and here, in the privacy of her mother’s hospice room with nothing but the monotonous beep of the heart monitor for company, Isabella let them fall. She cried for her sister’s tragic death, cried for her mother who had always been too smart and too ambitious for her own good. But mostly, Isabella cried for herself. For all she’d finally gained and would ultimately lose because of her deception.
The Sheikh’s Pregnant Fake Wife: Sheikh’s Meddling Sisters Book Three Page 9