The Sheikh's Determined Lover

by Leslie North

  Arif pulled back. His eyes had darkened. He smiled, stepped back, and lifted her foot. Slipping her sandal off, he kissed her instep and then ran a fingernail along the sole. A jolt ran up her leg and into her belly. She'd never known that could happen.

  With a smile, he did the same to her other foot, and then ran his fingers up the back of her leg to her knee. "More?" he asked.

  She nodded—she couldn't talk. Her mouth felt bruised, her tongue thick, and she was having trouble catching a deep enough breath. His touch was like magic—smooth, soft, teasing, and tempting. He found the waistband of her trousers, hooked in his thumbs and inched them down. Leaning over, he kissed every spot he bared, knelt before her like a supplicant to a high priestess. When her trousers pooled around her ankles, he pressed his mouth to her mound and licked inside.

  She gasped. Her knees trembled. Standing, Arif swept her up and onto a smooth, flat stone—an altar or a bench, she couldn’t tell. The heat had warmed the stone, and Arif spread her legs and knelt again between her thighs. He licked in again, his tongue rough and searching. Christine couldn't help the jerk of her hips up to meet that demand of his for more.

  "Ah, you are so wet—so welcoming," he said, his voice low and his breathing uneven.

  Putting a hand on his shoulder, she told him, "You don't—"

  "You are too fond of that word. This is do…no do not. Do enjoy." Before she could answer, he put his mouth on her again, and she lost her thoughts.

  A jolt of pleasure ran through her. He'd found her clit, and he tugged on it now, licked and rubbed, and then slipped a finger inside her. She groaned and shifted, but he held her hip with his other hand. The musky aroma of her arousal filled the grotto. She gave herself over to the warmth of Arif's mouth, to the shivering sensations pulsing through her, to the sweetness of his touch.

  She'd never felt worshipped—adored. She'd never known anything like this.

  Another finger pushed into her—then a third, stretching her wide, pumping into her, pushing her to the edge. With a cry, she let everything go. The world turned white and hot and swept her into small spasms that rocked her body. But Arif would not let up. He pushed his fingers in again—four now. Pushed harder and deeper, hit some part of her core that left her shuddering.

  And then he swept her up in his arms, pulled her onto his lap. His erection nudged her ass, and suddenly she wanted more. Wanted the feel of him inside her, stretching her even wider, pulsing even deeper. She wanted him as she had never wanted anyone.

  Pulling back, she met his gaze. His lips glistened from her—from where he'd had his mouth. She wet her lips. "What about you?"

  Arif smiled. "I am willing to wait. But not for long."

  "How about long enough to get back to the palace?"

  Chapter Seven

  Arif tried to keep his speed under ninety on the drive back to the palace. Christine still smelled of sex, and his erection would not go down. He almost took her hand and put it on him, but he could wait. He kept telling himself that. He debated between going to her room or taking her to his and realized at the front door that while her room would offer fewer interruptions, his room had the condoms.

  Taking her hand, he led the way, his heart pounding, nervous as a groom on his wedding night. His rooms overlooked the desert, and like all the royal quarters in the palace offered a sitting room and a bedroom with en suite bath. His also had an adjoining office. Once he had Christine inside his rooms, he leaned against the door and watched her.

  She had buttoned her shirt unevenly, and her hair looked as if a sandstorm had swept through it. He could not imagine anything more beautiful. She walked the perimeter of the room touching things, as if they would reveal secrets to her fingertips. She stopped and absently turned the sapphire ring on her finger.

  What did she see? A masculine room in dark reds and browns and golds, heavy leather chairs, and a bare tile floor. His diploma from Oxford—he'd taken a first in history—hung on the wall, and a few trophies from rugby tournaments gleamed in one display case. He kept a photograph of his parents—one from their wedding day—and a prayer rug, but otherwise the room seemed almost bare to him now.

  He needed a woman in his life—someone to care for him. A woman such as his Christine, who would love him for himself and not for his position in Zahkim.

  She glanced at the photo of his parents and looked over her shoulder at him, eyebrows lifted with a question.

  He shrugged. "It is one of the things that binds me to my cousins, to Tarek and Nasim. We all lost our parents far too young. Tarek's grandmother raised us all, really."

  "How?" she asked.

  He came to her, took her hand, and led her into the bedroom. "This is not a day for sad memories."

  She nodded, pulled away, and started to unbutton her shirt. Arif went into the bathroom, had to search for his condoms, and prayed they were not too old—Nasim was the man who always had fresh ones. He came back to find Christine lying on his bed, her pale skin a contrast to the red brocade bedspread, the sunlight picking out gold and red lights from her curls, both those on her head and between her legs. The breath caught in his chest.

  He almost stumbled.

  He shed his clothes as he came to her, and when he shucked off his shoes and pants, she propped herself up on her elbows, her eyes wide. "You're a little—"

  "Nothing little." He palmed his jutting cock.

  With a smile, she looked up at him. "I was about to say a little big. I'm not sure."

  Taking her hand, he put her fingers on him. She gave a small gasp, and then her fingers wrapped around him, stroked his cock. Her voice took on an edge of wonder. "It's so…soft. And hard at the same time."

  She wet her lips and looked up at him. "Maybe I should just…" Rolling up to her knees, she didn't finish her words. She took him in her mouth, and Arif could only gasp. He'd wanted to bury himself in her—to take her and give her pleasure. But he could no more stop this than he could stop his heart. She licked and sucked at his cock, and her fingers swept up his thighs to stroke his balls. He gave a groan and put one hand on her shoulder to steady himself.

  "You will be the death of me."

  She gave a laugh that he felt along the length of his shaft, and then she took him deeper. With a sharp groan, he pushed into her mouth. She seemed able to take him, and then he came, the wave of pleasure strong and sharp. Pulses ran through him. His hips jerked again, and he tried to pull back, but Christine put one hand on his ass and wouldn't let him move.

  Slowly, he came back down, sweat cool on his skin, his breathing ragged.

  Christine pulled back, looked up at him from lowered lashes, and licked her lips. "My boyfriend in college used to like that."

  Jealousy swept through Arif like a wildfire. "Boyfriend?" The word came out clipped and harsh. Of course she must have dated before, but he hadn’t expected to have to think about it.

  Christine sat back on her heels, her hands in her lap, her cheeks pink. "What? Do you think I'm a virgin?" She lifted her chin.

  A shock ran through him. Why would she bring this up, unless…

  He stared at her, eyes narrowed. "You are—aren't you?"

  Red flamed from her neck to her cheeks. Rolling off the bed, she swiped up her shirt and threw it on. "That is none of your business."

  He waved at the bed. "You brought it up. And we almost made love."

  She grabbed her pants and stuffed one leg in. "No. We had oral sex, and it was really good, and now you're about to ruin it."

  "Ruin?" He stiffened. "You're the one who brought up boyfriends."

  Pulling up her trousers, she asked, "And you're some kind of monk are you?" She snatched up her sandals and pointed one at him. The sapphire ring winked in the fading daylight. "This…this is why it’s a good idea to keep some emotional distance. I suck at relationships. And I thought this was just about…about…about a stolen moment for us. I'm not looking for commitment. I have a life back home that I very much like."


  Arif crossed his arms over his chest and realized he was naked. He strode into the bathroom to grab a robe. When he came out, Christine had fled.

  Sitting down on the edge of his bed, he put his head in his hands. His Christine—a virgin. A touchy one, at that. And here he had been about to deflower her as if this was a simple affair and nothing else. He gave a groan and straightened.

  It was time to start re-planning his campaign to win her heart.

  He headed into the bathroom to shower and dress. He needed help. Which meant he needed to go to Nasim and ask how one courted and bedded a virgin. If anyone would know, it would be his cousin.

  Christine retreated into the archives. Somehow a bath had not washed Arif's scent off her skin or out of her system. Why had she let him charm and seduce her? Relationships always went the same for her. They started off with good times, and then bam. Something went wrong, and the guy she was seeing would be out the door.

  Except Arif couldn't go anywhere—this was his home. But she was not putting up with his jealous streak.

  And so what if she was a virgin? She'd done everything except actual vaginal penetration—and yes, she was going to think of it like that, and not as fucking or making love. She was going to keep this scientific and rational. She'd had sex. Oral sex and hand jobs, and it all felt pretty good at times. Mostly. And so what if Arif was more than amazing with that mouth of his? She had work to do here, and the past was blessedly in the past.

  For the next few days, she rose early, arranged for breakfast and coffee in her room, and buried herself in the archives. She skipped lunch, ate dinner in her room from a tray, and focused on her translations and notes. She had some very promising leads.

  Obviously, she couldn't trust herself with Arif—he was too charming, too attractive. If he put the moves on her again, she would succumb again. Instead, she emailed her father about her progress in the archives and called him every evening.

  On the fourth evening, he told her the doctors had cleared the cancer diagnosis.

  "What? That's great."

  Her father didn't sound excited. "The bad news is this means they have no idea what's wrong. I'm going back for more tests next week. And I am so damn tired of them drawing blood like they're vampires."

  Christine chewed on her thumbnail. Was her dad's weakness and lethargy all a psychological problem? Their family doctor had been certain it was cancer. But if the oncologist had cleared him, what else could it be?

  "Dad, I'm going to dive into one of the older histories in the archives tomorrow—it's more than promising. There's a reference to the pharaoh Menes, which is significant enough, given the only other chief reference to him is from that bit of inscribed ivory from Nagada."

  Her dad's voice picked up some energy. "Menes? You’re sure? Can you send me the original text?"

  "I'll see if I can get a decent photo without a flash." They chatted a little bit longer about the weather back home, and her dad asked her if she'd been out sightseeing. She didn't dare mention the Forum—that was a loaded memory. So she talked about the souk.

  "Get out and meet the people, Chris. The world's not all books."

  "Ha, coming from the man who prefers an evening in his own library to anything else," she told him. He still managed to extract a promise that she'd at least make sure to sample more of the local foods and customs.

  And how do I do that without Arif trying another seduction—and me falling for it?

  Chapter Eight

  Arif knew himself to be terrible at waiting. He paced the floor outside the archive, thought of going in with an excuse of needing to look up something. However, his duties required a computer to research modern educational structures and funding approaches more often than dusty, old books, and he had sped through his meetings and responsibilities as fast as possible today. He also could think of no real reason to be in the archives other than to pounce on Christine. But this was her sanctuary—he understood that much.

  Sweeping back the ends of his keffiyeh, he paced across the hall again.

  He had taken special care with his dress, donning a black suit and tie, a white silk shirt, black shoes and socks, and a keffiyeh. He wanted to show Christine how well the Western world blended with the Middle East in Zahkim. He was also hoping that a few days away from his side had made her miss him a little bit—Nasim had sworn that neglect was the best way to interest a woman. Arif had some doubts about that—and even more about Nasim's other advice.

  "Best thing with a virgin, get the first time over and done. Then you can focus on pleasure." That sounded backwards to Arif, but Nasim just laughed and told him, "Women want a bloke who's a bit of a caveman. They're not looking for a bloody needy fellow."

  Hands behind his back and pacing across the hall once again, Arif could not see his Christine being the least bit happy with any such approach. He'd texted Tarek for confirmation of Nasim’s advice, but Tarek had simply texted back—Find out what she wants.

  What did that mean? He knew she did not care for shopping; she had told him that. And she'd loved the ruins. But that had nothing to do with marrying him. Was he supposed to ask what food she liked or her favorite color? Those seemed…insubstantial. Which left him with his current idea.

  He'd modified Nasim's instructions somewhat. He would be insistent, but he also had an idea how to figure out what Christine wanted at her wedding.

  But where was she?

  Glancing at his watch, he saw five minutes had passed since the last time he had looked. Sahl should have closed the archive fifteen minutes ago. He was about to give up and go in after her when the sandalwood door opened. Christine stepped out. She looked adorable with her hair curling and mussed, her jeans tight around her hips, and a white, oversized button-down shirt doing very little to hide her curves. Even though she spent most of her days in the archives, Zahkim's sunshine had put some color in her cheeks.

  Arif put on his best smile.

  Eyes wide, she blinked at him. "Uh…oh." She closed the door behind her and clutched her tablet computer to her chest. "Hi."

  He swept her a bow. "I came to offer an apology."

  "That's not—"

  "I insist. You were right—my jealousy was uncalled for. I was just…taken aback. Of course you have had men falling at your feet."

  She winced. "Well, they didn't exactly fall."

  "A woman with your beauty and intelligence and grace—"

  "Okay, now you're laying it on a bit thick."

  He spread his hands wide. "I am telling you the truth. And I have a surprise for you."

  Frowning, she clutched her tablet even tighter. "I think I'll just head up to my room, if you don't mind."

  Arif tried for a hurt look—he hoped his sad eyes would stir her sympathy. "Are you only interested in Zahkim's past? What about the people? Our culture? Do you come only to rob us of the history we've accumulated?"

  Reaching up, Christine smoothed her hair, but it sprang right back into curls. "Rob is kind of a strong word."

  "Ah, then you'll come with me? For this surprise? You enjoyed the ruins—this will be just as good. But with far more vibrant life." Her eyes brightened, and he knew he had caught her interest. He put his hand over his heart. "I vow to do nothing that you do not ask for first."

  "My asking is what has me worried," she muttered. Pushing out a breath, she straightened and asked, "Do I have time to shower and change?"

  "There is no need. You look delicious as always."

  She smoothed her hair again. "Seriously?" Her stare swept over him. "You look a little formal. Maybe just a quick freshen up. And I'll put on a dress."

  Arif bowed again. "As you wish." He made a mental note—she liked showers better than baths. And she owned a dress. It was a start to figuring out his Christine.

  Twenty minutes later, Christine walked carefully down the palace stairs; she wasn't used to heels. She'd showered, slapped on minimal makeup—foundation with sunscreen in it and a swipe of lipstick with moistur
izer—and slipped on a long sleeve dress. It was a favorite. High necked, floor length, but with enough skirt around the hem that she could walk, the navy jersey flowed around her. It was her go-to for university functions, and she'd swept her curls up and away from her face, plastering them in place with hair gel. She was ready to face Arif—and keep him at a distance. But the ring glittering on her finger seemed to mock that idea.

  She'd tried slipping it off a couple of times, but it had stuck over her knuckle. She didn't want to damage it, and she'd try with some soap or oil later. For now, it looked great with the dress—very dramatic.

  Once she stepped outside the palace's thick walls, however, she almost regretted the long sleeves and hem. Heat seemed to close around her, even though the sun had set and twilight lingered in the sky. Overhead, stars had begun to pop, bright and shimmering. The world smelled of the dry desert and car exhaust from the black limo waiting for her, door open.

  Arif waited for her, his hips propped on the side of the car. He looked sinfully good, and Christine made a mental note not to think about how his arms had felt around her. He pushed off the car and gestured to the limo's dark interior. "This will be more comfortable than my car."

  And it was. The second she stepped in, air conditioning washed over her, cool and soothing. Music—something local she suspected, given its non-Western drum rhythm—played softly. Maybe it was one of Tess's new productions.

  Arif swept into the limo like a force of nature. The thing was huge, but his personality dominated the interior. She tried to focus on the soft seats, the tan leather trim, the miles of leg room, and the minibar built into the back of the front seat. A window separated them from the driver. But she kept glancing at Arif, kept noticing just how wide his shoulders were, how the light hit his face to reveal new angles, how the hollow of his throat looked with a small nick where he'd tidied his beard.