Zahkim Sheikhs Series: The Complete Series

by Leslie North

  It would be wise to say no. She wouldn't have her heart broken when she had to get back to her real life. But with sudden clarity, she knew she'd regret that no. Someday, when she was far older, when the bloom of youth had faded, leaving her without even that attraction, she'd look back on this night and smile—if she said yes.

  But she couldn't get the word out.

  She put her hand in Arif's.

  He shook his head. "No, you must tell me you wish this. If you do not, I will take you back to your rooms and give you a chaste kiss on your cheek, even if it kills me to do so. You must tell me what you want."

  "You." She got the word out on a breath.

  Stepping back, Arif smiled, his face shadowed by the night and only revealed by the glow of the lights outside the palace walls. She thought he would lead her back down the stairs to her bedroom—or to his. Instead, he took off his black jacket and spread it on the tile floor. His tie went next. His shirt came off, revealing all that sculpted muscle and lean body and tanned skin. Shoes, socks, and pants followed after that, leaving him in black underwear, which he skimmed off his narrow hips.

  She felt wanton to be dressed while he stood before her, naked and touched by a sliver of pale starlight. She wanted to match his daring. Reaching behind her, she pulled down the zipper and eased the dress from her shoulders, letting it pool around her feet. She slipped out of the boots and walked to Arif.

  He ran his fingertips down her arms, leaving behind a shiver and goosebumps.

  Leaning over her, he kissed her shoulder and slipped down the strap of her bra. He did the same to her other shoulder, reached around her, took her in his arms, and kissed her.

  His mouth angled over hers. She parted her lips, welcomed the warmth of his body against hers, felt the nudge of his erection. She gave a sigh and gave herself to sensation—to soft lips, bristling beard, nipping teeth, and his ever-questing tongue. He teased and stroked and had her panties soaked with arousal. She wanted him. Now.

  She started to drag off her panties, but Arif pulled back and shook his head. He carried her down with him to his pile of clothes, spread her out over them. The tiles still gave off remaining warmth from the heat of the sun, but she shivered again because Arif had unhooked her bra and stretched out beside her.

  "Beautiful," he murmured and put his mouth on her breast.

  She arched for him. He tugged on one taut nipple, turned to the other one, licked and then took it between his teeth, and teased it hard with small, rapid strokes. His hand glided down her stomach, slipped under her panties and between her legs. Mouth and hand worked on her. An ache rose in her, the need for more. He tormented her even more with soft bites and warm licks of his tongue. With a groan, she grabbed his shoulders. The pressure built inside her—that sweet yearning. She wanted him. Needed him. She moaned. He moved to her other nipple, rolled it in his mouth, took it between his teeth, and pulled back, as if trying to pull the orgasm out of her. His thumb rubbed over her clit, and then he pushed his fingers into her as he had at the ruins.

  The world shattered. She gasped and spread her legs wider, needing something to fill her, the ache insistent and pounding through her veins. Shuddering, she moaned. Arif stilled his hand and lifted off her.

  She turned in his arms and stroked his erection with one hand. "Now. In me. I want this."

  Arif stilled, muttered a curse for condoms that would not magically appear in place, and reached over his Christine to try and find that silver packet in his trouser pocket. He was probably going to ruin this.

  "Condom? You brought a condom?" Christine asked.

  She was going to think he had planned this seduction, but he had only had wishes and dreams. He shook his head, found the crinkling foil and ripped it open. "I am a man who lives in hope."

  She giggled…giggled! He paused to stare at her. She ran her fingernails over his chest. "Well, I live in books, so why not."

  He kissed the tip of her nose. "No, you are much more than any kind of bookworm. You are a miracle. A blessing. A wonder."

  Heat rose from her body—he could feel it as he'd felt it when she'd come in his arms. His cock twitched, and he put a hand on it to calm the urgent thing. He slipped on the condom, and that settled his too-hot blood.

  Taking hold of Christine's hips, he rolled onto his back, pulled her with him so she had to sit astride him. "I've had dreams of you riding me—ride me now, Christine. Take your pleasure as you will."

  It was not the caveman advice Nasim had given him, but damn Nasim—the man went through women as if they were toys to be used and discarded. Arif would allow his Christine to take what she wanted from him.

  She sat on his hips, his erection pressing against her. Her arousal left her wet and warm. He shifted, and she gave a small purr and dragged one fingernail over his left nipple. He arched for her as she had for him.

  "Wow—you're sensitive." She put her mouth on him and nipped as he had her.

  He groaned and grabbed her waist. "Keep that up, and this will be the end to our evening."

  She sat up again and shook her head. "Oh, no. You're not getting out of this, buster." Leaning down, she kissed him, took his mouth as he had taken hers. He wrapped his fingers into her hair to keep her in place, to hold her to him, and he plunged his tongue into her the way he wanted to fuck her—hard, demanding, going as deep as possible. She turned soft in his arms and ground her hips against him.

  He didn't let go of her, but she shifted, and the head of his cock slipped into her. He groaned but didn't stop fucking her mouth with his tongue. She kept her hips hovering over him, just the head of his cock inside her. She did something—some small wiggle or rotation—and he groaned and let his head fall back. "I was wrong—you are a torment, not a blessing."

  She put her mouth on his neck, and he felt her smile. She wiggled down another half inch on him.

  Arif kept his hands on her hips. He would not roll over and throw her down and plunge into her. Not this time. No matter how much he wanted to. Shifting his hands to her breasts, he took them in his palms, squeezed and kneaded the softness. She sat up, threw her head back and pushed her hips down.

  He nudged the edge of rapture. He wanted to buck up, to push deeper. Christine caught a breath and then caught her lower lip between her teeth. A small line appeared between her eyebrows. With a growl, Arif pulled her face down to his, took her mouth with his, and pushed his tongue between her lips. She had liked that—someday he really must fuck that wide, generous mouth, but for now, he would let his tongue do what he wished to do to her with his cock. She groaned…and suddenly he pushed fully into her.

  She gave a cry, and he swallowed it down, shifted his hands to her ass and held her still. He worked his tongue now to soothe her, licked inside her mouth, nibbled on her lips, let her lie within his arms until she grew accustomed to him. She gave an experimental wiggle of her hips.

  Heat shot through up into his spine. She wrapped around him, and the world became nothing but her heat and the feeling of her—so tight and clutching at him with small spasms.

  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 full
y 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 Windsor 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.