by Leslie North
Pushing up from him, she sat upright. Arif clung to her hips, trying to keep himself from exploding and coming apart. She wiggled again, lifted her hips up, and pushed down on him.
He groaned. "You will be the death of me."
She ran a finger over his lower lip. "La petite mort—the little death. Yes, just as the French say." She began to move then, lifting her hips, shifting them, experimenting with what she liked. He could only groan and hang on—to her hips and to himself.
Her orgasm hit like a desert storm—fast and hot and wild. She threw her head back. The heat from her washed into him, and the spasms shook her, milking his cock, sending him over into that fracture of eternity as well.
He became aware of her body on his, of the small tremors still shaking her, of how he was still hard inside her. Rolling with her, he put her on her back. "We are not done, yet, habibi."
Now he could push into her—and pull out fully to push in again. He spread her legs wide and started slow, listening to her soft moans, her ragged breaths, and feeling her hand on his hip as she tried to pull him deeper. This was what he had wanted—to mark her as his, to make her his own. He pulled out, heard her whimper of need, and plunged in faster now, his own need shattering his control.
He gave a low growl, and his hips bucked, and he started to fuck her as hard as he'd wanted from the moment he'd first seen her. She opened for him, took him in, arched her back and came apart for him. Her spasms shook him, but he wasn't done. He hovered on the edge, buried up to the root inside her, his arms braced either side of her so he could see her face go slack, see her eyes lose focus. And then he lost his own. The world came apart and fell back together. He put his head on her chest. Her heart pounded to match his own.
Christine stroked her fingers over Arif's back. He had a beautiful back. She didn't know what to say—or do. She could hardly move. She had a soft ache between her legs; she'd probably ruined his jacket with her moisture, and she didn't care. A marvelous lassitude clung to her arms and legs. Her lips felt bruised, properly ravished. She'd be sore tomorrow—it was like riding a horse.
She huffed a laugh, and Arif threw an arm over her. "What is so funny?"
Waving a hand, she said, "This. I think I like riding you better than I like riding a horse."
He kissed the side of her breast and settled his head on her shoulder. His beard tickled. "You can do both, although not at the same time."
She smiled again, but stilled. Arif sat up and traced a line from between her breasts to her belly. "What is it? I can hear you thinking."
"You cannot."
"Very well, I can feel it when that brain of yours kicks in. You went from feeling to thinking. You have a small twitch that gives it away, and your right hand flexes as if you wish you had a pen in it."
"Okay—so you can feel it. It's nothing."
He took hold of her chin and turned her face to his. "Tell me. Now is the time to share what is inside. You have shared your body and soul with me, habibi."
She slipped from his arms and sat up. "I was just…it's the archives. What if I can't find what I'm looking for?"
Arif sat as well. He didn't put an arm around her, but simply sat next to her. "There is always that chance. Can you not be satisfied you found me?"
She glanced at him and almost told him this wasn't real. It was a moment outside of time. But she didn't want to ruin the mood. Looking down, she traced the edges of his jacket button. "My dad needs a reason to live. I'm fighting for his life. The doctors say now that it's not cancer—they don't know what the problem is. And if I can't bring home proof of his theory that the Lion People first settled Egypt—that he was right, that he has a paper to write…"
Pressing her lips tight, she shook her head. She didn't want to think about that possible future. It had always been her and Dad, ever since Mom had died. Her dad had shaped her life—her career. How could she manage without him?
Arif nudged her shoulder with his. "Perhaps it is true that you are trying to walk a path that is not yours. Have you not stopped to ask what it is you want in your heart?"
She stiffed. "I know what I want. That's why I'm here."
He put his hand over hers. "Habibi, everyone's death is fated in the stars. Some things cannot be changed."
A chill breeze lifted the goosebumps on her arms. She pulled away and stood. "That kind of thinking is just what leaves someone stuck. Can't be changed, so don't even make the effort. Well, that's not me. And you obviously don't know a thing about me if you think it is!"
Chapter Ten
Arif watched Christine stand, grab for her dress and boots and glance around, obviously looking for where her underwear had gone. He tightened one hand into a fist and stood. "I don't know you? No one can know you, because you do not know yourself."
Turning, she shook a boot at him. "You are making assumptions."
"And you are turning what was a perfect evening into a disaster. Why must you be so…so…"
"So stubborn? Independent? Practical? Because that is who I am, and I should have known it would end up like this. It always does!" She dragged on her dress, didn't bother with her boots, and stomped away in bare feet.
Cursing, Arif started after her, had his feet tangle in his clothes, and went face down on the tile. He kicked at his jacket and decided he could not race after Christine bare-assed. He dragged on his shirt and pants, stuffed his and Christine's underwear in his pockets, grabbed his shoes and socks, and went after her.
He found her door locked.
He considered knocking it down—as if he could. But he could call for palace security and have it opened. Instead, he leaned his forehead on the cool wood. Just who had ruined the evening—him with his unwanted and ill-timed advice or Christine for being so damn stubborn? Was he a fool to want this woman in his life?
But the moment he had first seen her, his heart had given a hard jump, thudding against his ribs. From the moment he had first looked into her eyes, he had felt a connection to her. He knew in his bones—in his soul—they were meant for each other. Or so he had thought. Perhaps it was just his timing that was off. Very far off. And the fear haunted him—would he lose her as he had lost his parents? Would he lay his heart before her only to have her leave him?
Heading back to his own rooms, he threw his clothes into the hamper, then pulled them out again to breathe in Christine's scent and the lingering aroma of her arousal. His cock twitched, and he mentally told it to behave and stop getting him in trouble. He showered, tried to sleep, and couldn't.
He rose before dawn, dressed and headed to his office. Reports blurred into memories of Christine in his arms, and as the day wore on, meetings became dull affairs that droned on and on. He was supposed to send Tarek a report—had it only been just over a week since Christine had swept into his life?—and he could not manage more than one stilted sentence.
Everything is running smoothly.
Except it was not.
Well, Nasim knew how to get a woman in his bed, but he did not know how to get a wife. Tarek had gotten his wife, but he was of no use; his only advice had been to find out what Christine wanted. Which seemed impossible. Arif fell back on his final hope—Shiekha Amal, Tarek's grandmother.
The old woman had been delighted with herself, taking full credit for bringing Tarek and Tess to the point of admitting they were fated to be together. She had also overdone at Tarek's wedding and had taken herself and Arif's aunt, Bian, off to a spa in Al Resab. Sheikha Amal had returned the day before, and Arif sought out the shiekha in her quarters, which overlooked the garden. Some years ago, she had moved into ground-floor rooms, taking over part of a wing for herself and her ladies. Arif found her alone, sipping tea and eating sweet biscuits. She was also watching American daytime soap operas, a favorite addiction of hers.
She turned off the TV, however, when Arif entered and waved him to a comfortable, overstuffed chair opposite hers. She'd had her rooms decorated to match the Queen of England’s in Wind
sor Palace after seeing a show on them, and Arif almost felt transported back to his days at Oxford. He'd had to endure one royal visit with Tarek, who'd had to endure even more. This was far worse, for he had no idea how to act—or where to begin. He sat with his elbows braced on his knees and his hands clasped.
Amal poured him tea and handed him a steaming glass. "It is that American girl, is it not? Bian has said we must watch out for her."
He looked up at Tarek's grandmother. "Bian does not like Americans, and Christine is my fate, Sheikha Amal. I know it in my heart."
"But she does not agree? She should have been Tarek's match."
Arif straightened. "No—she is mine."
"Good. Then court her. You young boys, you think a ripe fruit should fall into your hands. That you should not have to climb and exert yourself. In my day, a woman expected a man to bring flowers, to be kind, to strut his plumage. It is the woman who decides these things, so give her a reason to decide on you."
Arif frowned. "I thought I was courting her."
Amal laughed. "With what? With a few days of what? You have a brain—or I thought you did—use it, boy!" She turned back to her TV, flipped it on, and started watching again. "And if you don't have one, watch some shows and get some ideas."
Christine stared at her tablet's screens. The text she'd been reading had turned out to be a magical incantation to bring love.
"Not much use," she muttered. Except it would be nice if it worked.
She'd blown it. She'd stepped all over what had been a lovely evening and hadn't even thanked Arif for making it special. All because he'd said something that had hit a raw nerve.
What if she failed?
What if her dad was going to die no matter what she did?
She pushed out a breath, dragged her fingers through her curls, and stared at the next stack of parchments that Sahl had brought to her. He seemed to at least be used to her presence now and was assisting—grudgingly. Either that or he'd figured out if she found what she wanted, she'd leave.
She put her head in her hands.
Why couldn't she be enough of a romantic to just enjoy a moment? And why couldn't Arif have kept his mouth shut?
She'd gotten a note from him this morning, offering a tour of the government offices in Al Resab, which boasted some excellent antiquities. She'd sent back a note with a polite decline, and had headed to the archives. Skipping breakfast, she had gulped down a cup of coffee, burning her tongue, for she'd been half afraid Arif would show up and waylay her.
A sudden memory of his lips on hers shorted out any other thoughts. She rubbed a hand over her eyes and tried to focus. She got through two parchments—one a list of all Zahkim's rulers, which sidetracked her into making a list in a file on her computer. Arif might like that. She almost deleted the file, but she might as well have some work out of the day. Feet dragging, she left the archives before Sahl even showed up, jangling his keys.
The next day went about the same.
Arif sent a note again, this time with an invitation to tour the site of Zahkim's new university, where construction had been delayed due to an archeological find of a possible temple site. She sent back a thanks, but no thanks. She had to stay focused. She thought he might give up on her after that, but the following morning, she found him waiting at the door of the archives when she arrived.
She gave him a sideways glance and fiddled with her tablet. Arif smiled. Her stomach did a flip, so she straightened and tugged at the hem of the baggy T-shirt she'd put on over her jeans and sandals. How did he always manage to look so comfortable, so cool, and so edible?
He had on a white shirt and black trousers, just like the night they'd…
No, she wasn't going to think about that.
She put her shoulders back. "Good morning." Inside, she winced. That sounded terrible. "I…I should apologize. I…thank you for the other evening. It was…" She ran out of words.
Strolling over to her, Arif stopped in front of her and shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. "Amazing? Wonderful? I would not trade a moment of it—not even that ending. But I understand you are having difficulty finding what you wish. In the archives. I have cleared my calendar to assist."
"What?" The word squeaked out. An image of Arif as her assistant popped into her head—the two of them working side by side.
No, we'll end up on a table in the archive, scattering rare books, tearing off each other’s clothes.
She blinked. "I couldn't possibly make such demands on your time."
"It is my pleasure. Besides, as you have mentioned, the archives have become a…well, a storage room, for lack of a better word. It is one of my duties, and I have overlooked the need to make a real survey of the work to be done for proper organization." He leaned closer. "Sahl would have a heart attack if I were to sneak coffee in to you, but I have arranged lunch to be served right here, just outside, and you may use me as a sounding board for ideas. Tarek always did so back at Oxford, and I did take a first in history."
Her mouth fell open. She closed it, swallowed, and tried not to be impressed. "Did you specialize?"
"I tried to stay general, but I must admit the life of Fatima Al-Fihri, who established the University of al-Qarawiyyan in Morocco in 859, caught me up utterly. Her dedication to education is something anyone must admire. I did my thesis on her."
"Oh…you're the A. ben Iben? I never put it together. That was incredible work. That's what got me interested in Zahkim's archives as a possible source."
Arif opened the carved sandalwood door. "Ah, a touch of fate, after all. Shall we?"
He swept her into the archives. Christine settled at her usual chair and table. He asked what he could do, and she had no idea. He began by walking the archives. She could hardly drag her attention from him—from watching how he moved, how he stroked his beard when he was thinking, how his eyes darkened when he looked at her.
Turning her attention to the research, she tried to settle to her task.
Arif actually helped. He found a dusty book hidden on a higher shelf and brought it out. The history was in an archaic Arabic script, but Arif had no difficulties translating, and she soon had several references to older works worth investigating. Arif went off to ask Sahl ibn Harun about them.
Christine's tablet binged with an incoming email, and she opened it as a distraction.
Tess had emailed a quick note to say she was working on new songs and she'd forwarded an article about Christine's father. “Nice to see your dad mentioned—is he getting the credit he deserves?” she wrote.
Excited now, Christine opened the attachment. The article started off positive, noting how some geologists believed the Sphinx to be far older than first thought due to rain weathering on the lion part of the carved stone. Then it brought up her dad's theories about how the Sphinx must have had a lion's head at one time. It went downhill from there.
“Professor Kris Harper's claims line up with aliens building the pyramids and Atlantis survivors scattering to build every early civilization—not a shred of evidence exits.”
With a growl, Christine slapped down her tablet. She stood and strode from the archives, determined to get herself and the anger blazing through her out of the room before she did any damage. Once outside, she slammed her fists against the wall.
A hand settled on her shoulder, and she swung around, ready to belt whoever it was.
Arif held up his palms. "I come in peace."
"Aliens! Atlantis! They think my father's a crackpot. Geology's not evidence. Oh, no. There has to be writing or artifacts that can be carbon dated. And it's a theory, dammit! He didn't state the Lion People as fact. He proposed an idea. It's just like Schliemann and Troy. He was laughed at, too, for his idea that Troy existed outside of Homer's stories! And while Schliemann wasn't the best at preserving archaeological evidence, he did point the way to looking at old texts as being more than just stories!" Putting his hands on her shoulders, Arif rubbed the knotted muscles. Christine's a
nger started to leak out. "It's just not fair."
"What is in life? Come, take a walk with me. You are in no fit shape to bring calm intelligence to any work this afternoon." He took her hand.
She let him lead her from the archives and through the palace. The blaze of anger faded, leaving her exhausted and almost ready to cry. Was this a fight she couldn't win? She just hoped her dad didn't see that article, but he’d already seen too many others just like it.
Arif opened a door and ushered her into a room she had never been in before. She stopped to stare.
A long, oval, indoor pool stretched out in front of her, sparkling and blue. Carved white marble pillars held up the ceiling around the edges of the huge room. Blue and white tiles decorated the floor. Jasmine scented the air, and water splashed into the pool from a fountain built into the far wall.
"This used to be part of the old harem, but Tarek's father had it converted into a swimming pool." Arif gestured to a wall of doors on their right. "Changing rooms. You'll find everything you need." She turned to him to protest, but he took her shoulders and walked her over to the changing rooms. "Swim first. Lunch, then we'll go looking for your father's equivalent of the gold of lost Troy."
Inside the dressing room, she found more than one swimsuit—a dozen options hung in a full closet, along with white terry-cloth robes in a variety of sizes. Floor-length mirrors let her figure out if she wanted a one-piece or two. On a small wooden table, water with cucumber slices sat in a glass pitcher, and next to it a chase lounge in a golden silk damask left the room looking like a high-end spa. This was here every day? Why hadn't anyone told her?
She picked out a modest one-piece in black, changed, and came out wrapped in the thick plush of a robe. She wanted to take it home with her. Arif lounged in the pool already, arms stretched out, and a sleek swimsuit clinging to his hips. Christine wet her lips, slipped off the robe, and took the plunge.