by Chloe Cox
At least now he got to see her reaction to the dress.
“Is this real?” she said, holding it up at arm’s length like it was some sort of priceless artifact. She was wrapped in one of the hotel’s plush cotton robes, and nothing else. Her hair was still slightly damp, and her soft, pale skin had a certain glow to it. The effect was…distracting. Bashir kept wondering what she tasted like.
Ridiculous, he thought. Stay focused.
“I am told it is made by a very important designer,” Bashir said. “You may, of course, keep it. It has been tailored to your measurements.”
Stella looked at him as though he had spoken in tongues, then burst out laughing.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and blushed, which was yet another distraction for Bashir’s tortured cock. “I don’t mean to be rude. It’s an incredible gift. I just have no idea where I could wear something like this.”
“You will wear it tonight,” Bashir said, “while you serve me at an event that I am obligated to attend.”
Her round blue eyes widened, and her lips parted as she caught her breath. Delightful.
“Serve you?” she said.
“You recall the service you saw yesterday in the Black Room?” Bashir asked. She nodded, and her robe fell open an inch more as she remembered to breathe. It was too much. Bashir crossed to her and buried his hand in her robe. Her nipples were already hard.
“Yes,” she said faintly. He had surprised her, but now her eyes were half-closed. Bashir rolled her breast in his hand with satisfaction. She should feel at least some of the torture that he did.
“You will serve me as they did,” he said. “You will anticipate my needs, you will obey my commands, and if I so desire it, you will bend over so that I may take you in that expensive dress, wherever and whenever I feel like it. Or even if I simply want to enjoy the view. Is that clear?”
He saw the shiver run through her.
“Yes,” she said.
“Good,” Bashir said. “Now I want to watch you get dressed. Take off this damn robe.”
~ ~ ~
Bashir found the Alexandria Club to be quite boring, but it was often where Cantabridgian events were held in New York. Foolish, really; Cambridge alumni could certainly afford their own building. But Bashir knew his irritation wasn’t entirely due to the environs. He no longer had the best associations with these events. They used to be bearable only because Mark would be there, and they’d have as much fun as they’d had at Cambridge together.
That was all in the past, of course. Mark would not be there.
But Cecil Creighton would. Bashir knew him in college mainly by reputation, as an ass, and now, later in life, as a powerful executive at the international construction firm his family still controlled. There were only so many people in the world one could turn to if one needed an oil pipeline built quickly, and there were even fewer if one needed it to go undetected so that one might siphon off the oil reserves of one’s neighbor. Creighton was one of those men, and Bashir strongly suspected that he had been in contact with groups who wished to steal from Ras al Manas. Protecting the assets of his country—and his family—was a responsibility he could not shirk, even if he would much rather have stayed in the confines of Volare with Stella.
Stella. She stood next to him on the landing above the main hall, bursting from the low scoop neck of her tight, expensive black dress, failing entirely to hide her nervousness. Again, it charmed him. Even with the pain she worked so hard to hide, with what he’d come to think of as the great wound, even with that wearing her down, she still managed to be open to the world. She was like a raw nerve that wouldn’t flinch. The combination of bravery and vulnerability was both inspiring and…
Bashir stopped himself short. That was not a productive avenue of thought. Undoubtedly Stella Spencer unnerved him, undoubtedly she was special, but it was unlikely she would be a miracle match for him. Or, even if she was, that she’d be ready for it, or that he could trust her to remain true. He wouldn’t get his hopes up, not when the likely outcome was an inevitable political marriage.
An inevitability that would certainly come sooner rather than later, if he could not convince Creighton that it was in his interest to ally with Ras al Manas. His family’s patience for his proclivities was always in direct proportion to his usefulness.
“Stella,” he said, frowning. She seemed distracted, peering down below at the mass of well dressed, powerful people milling about the large, well appointed hall. He needed her to remember why she was here. He needed her to be present.
“Yes, Sheikh?”
“Display your breasts for me.”
She jerked her head back, and then turned toward him, obviously not certain if she had heard correctly.
“Here?” she said, and looked down again at the party below. They were alone on the landing, but, of course, anyone might look up at any time. Which was the point. Bashir glowered.
“If I have to repeat myself, Stella,” he said, “you’ll spend the rest of the night that way.”
She looked up and blanched. She could tell he was serious.
Bashir saw her hands shake slightly as she raised them to her breasts, and knew it meant that she was experiencing a spike in adrenaline, in focus, in sensation. She hesitated, only momentarily, and when he frowned she moved quickly, as though plunging ahead, and pulled her dress down over her nipples.
“Do not close your eyes, Stella,” he said, and reached out to brush her cheek. “Be aware, in this moment. Be fully in this moment, or you will have failed to serve me.”
Tension colored her face at the mention of failure. Another interesting tidbit.
Obediently, she opened her eyes, her pupils full and black, pushing the blue of her irises into a fine, bright ring. So open to the world. So brave, in her way. Bashir let his hand trail lightly down her neck to tweak one sensitive nipple, and smiled when she jumped.
“Remember that I own you, Stella,” he said. “Remember that you are mine, that you are here to serve me, that you will feel what I tell you to feel, when I tell you to feel it. We begin tonight.”
She swayed slightly, beneath his touch, and once again Bashir had to fight the urge to simply ravish her. “Clothe yourself,” he said. “I have business to attend to. And then I will attend to you.”
CHAPTER 8
Stella did not like Cecil Creighton. She didn’t like how he kept throwing back those scotch and sodas, she didn’t like the way his fleshy face ruddied the more he drank, she didn’t like the way he wore his sense of entitlement like a suit of impenetrable armor, and she didn’t like the way he didn’t even bother to hide the way he looked her at her.
Which made it all the more confusing that she was somehow very excited to be sitting on the Sheikh’s lap while the two of them talked. The Sheikh had found them a private room off the main hall, full of books and what looked like actual illuminated manuscripts hidden away under protective glass. It wasn’t technically “in public,” but Stella was very aware of Creighton’s eyes upon her. And she was very aware that Creighton knew she belonged, in the very literal sense, to Sheikh Bashir.
She shook her head slightly, biting her lip to keep from smiling. Belonged to Sheikh Bashir. How easily she’d thought that. How easily it had made her wet. This is nuts.
But as long as Sheikh Bashir held her, it felt as though no one else really mattered. Creighton didn’t matter, except as a spectacle. It was like Sheikh Bashir had provided her with a tiny audience, just to excite her. And it did.
“Where’d you find her?” Creighton asked, pulling her out of her thoughts. His red-rimmed eyes were covetous. Again, Stella was torn between disgust and arousal. They spoke of her as if she really were just a possession.
Sheikh Bashir tightened his arm about her waist, and lifted the other hand to absently fondle her breast. Oh my God, he’s really doing that. Stella felt her nipples harden, and knew they would be visible through her dress. “It wouldn’t matter,” Sheikh Bashir was
saying. “She’s one of a kind, and she’s mine.”
I’m his. Stella’s insides fluttered at his words, even if she wasn’t sure he meant them. She hadn’t felt that rush in ages.
“But we were talking about pipelines.”
Creighton rolled his eyes.
“You know, I get tired of pipelines. All day, every day, it’s pipelines. And really, it’s impossible to concentrate with her in the room, Bashir. Tell me where you got her. Or at least let me borrow her.”
Stella stiffened. Was that part of the arrangement? Would Sheikh Bashir do it? She’d thought he’d only been messing with her in the Black Room when he suggested something like that, but he obviously wanted something from this cretin. But he wouldn’t just pass her around like a party favor, would he? Not after he’d just laid claim to her?
That was one of those things that, in theory, made Stella incredibly hot, but in practice, right now, with Cecil Creighton? No. And, in truth, she wanted Sheikh Bashir to want her for himself.
Wait, when did that happen?
“Exquisite, no?” Sheikh Bashir said, and slipped his hand under her dress, between her legs. Stella reddened; he would feel how wet she was. How she was probably already seeping through the thin dress. And, oh God, Cecil Creighton was watching all of it.
Sheikh Bashir’s seductive smile demanded all of her attention. “So responsive,” he said.
He forced her thighs apart and ran his fingers up and down her slit, testing her. Through half-lidded eyes she could see that he smoldered. Would he take her right there? No, he couldn’t. That was insane. But she realized she still wanted him to, even with Cecil Creighton looking on. The admission sent an immediate bolt of electricity from her brain to her pussy and back again, clearing her mind as she began to grind her hips into his hand. She put her arms around his neck and sighed.
“Christ, Bashir,” she heard Creighton say. It both demeaned and thrilled her.
What has he done to me? Why do I like this? The thought floated up unbidden and darted away just as quickly, a tiny insignificance in the immense ocean of sensation that flooded through her. Sheikh Bashir thrust a finger into her, and she clenched around it gladly, happy to have another feeling to wrap herself around. Her mind was almost completely empty, making room for more and more feeling. She hadn’t even realized how much anxiety and sadness she’d become accustomed to carrying around with her, and now Sheikh Bashir was able to banish it with just a finger. Somehow, the fact that she was being watched, that she had an audience, only intensified everything.
Until Sheikh Bashir abruptly stopped. With a soft chuckle, he withdrew his hand entirely.
Not again, she silently railed. When is he going to let me come?
“Get up and serve us another round, pet,” he said. “Mr. Creighton is running low again.”
Creighton rattled the ice in his otherwise empty glass for emphasis, and the hollow crack of ice cubes dragged Stella back down to earth. She pretended to smooth her dress in an effort to steady herself. Every encounter with Sheikh Bashir seemed to go deeper than the one before, seemed to cast her further away from herself and closer to…what?
Pretty soon I won’t be able to think at all. Stella was surprised to find that she looked forward to that moment.
“‘Nother scotch. Macallan is fine. You’d think they’d have better scotch at these things,” Creighton said. He didn’t even remark on what had just happened, as though rich and powerful men toyed with women like that all the time. As far as Stella knew, maybe they did.
Sheikh Bashir slipped a hand under her dress as she rose, and gave her ass a sharp pinch.
“Quickly.”
Her spine straightened, and her cheeks felt hot as Creighton laughed after her. It gave her the weirdest sense of déjà vu, and she was almost to the bar before she realized why: Robert, of course. Robert used to make her attend events that were almost like this, had dragged her along as a necessary accessory while he tried to conduct business. Only he had always been disappointed in her, and had inevitably laughed her off in the same derisive tone that Creighton had used. He’d hated how naïve she was, how, in his words, everyone could read her face like an open book. Robert would explain to her over and over again that information was the currency of the broker business, and he needed a poker player by his side, not a patsy.
There were so many parallels, and yet she’d been enjoying herself up until this moment, even with Creighton there. Why? What was so different about the Sheikh?
The Sheikh. It was still too absurd.
Stella’s mind whirred back to life as she collected the drinks and began to make her way back to the little private room with the sliding paneled doors. She had enjoyed the non-thinking, physically present respite she got with the Sheikh, but it seemed important that she figure this out. Thinking about Robert had deflated her mood a little, and she was angry about that. She wanted to hold onto the high that the Sheikh gave her, even if she didn’t understand it completely. Even if it was, in its way, sort of horrifyingly embarrassing. It was still the one bright spot in the past few horrible months, and she only had the weekend, after all.
What was it about him? She couldn’t help but think about the Sheikh’s promise: she would beg. She would come on his command. She would submit. What did that even mean? She felt she’d submitted pretty well so far; wasn’t that good enough? What did he want? What did she have to do to get him to…
Wow, Stella thought. I’m seriously trying to figure out how to get him to fuck me. It was incredible that she was thinking like this when he had promised to pay her for the privilege. The Sheikh really was naturally dominant, naturally powerful. She couldn’t help but think about how best to serve him.
Or maybe I truly am submissive.
That thought struck her just as she slid open the door with her foot and slipped into the room, and it might have thrown her for a loop if she didn’t already feel two pairs of eyes on her. She didn’t want to embarrass the Sheikh, or herself. She didn’t want to fail at her task, and she didn’t want to reveal herself to be a confused, muddled mess inside, not to someone like Creighton, just for reasons of pride, and especially not to Sheikh Bashir, for reasons that Stella knew were best left unexamined at the moment.
Focus on the task at hand, she thought. Focus on serving him.
That this was part of their arrangement, for lack of a better word, that she was obeying a direct command from the Sheikh, imbued every little gesture with a significance it wouldn’t normally have had. As she walked over to where the two men sat in those wide leather chairs, she let her hips swing and pushed her breasts out. She took pride in the way she bent at the waist and gracefully extended her arm, not caring that Creighton leered at her. This was for the Sheikh. This was part of the game.
And the sight of him, straight backed, hands gripping either armrest, his tailored suit jacket open and relaxed, revealing a crisp white shirt stretched taut over that broad chest…
It was enough to take any woman’s breath away.
She tried not to tremble as she held his drink forward, and, as he took it, she moved her finger up the side of the glass, just to touch him again.
Wow, Stella, get a hold of yourself. This is not middle school.
But the Sheikh knew. From the curl of his lip, she could tell he knew.
“Well done,” he said, and Stella smiled.
Then came Creighton’s voice from behind her. “I’d love for my bitch ex-wife to see me with a piece like that, waiting on me hand and foot,” he said. “Just to see her face. Didn’t give her a damn thing in the divorce, either. She probably is waiting tables.”
And he laughed.
Stella cringed; just the word ‘divorce’ was enough to crash through the little cocoon she’d built up around herself while serving the drinks. And the Sheikh noticed.
She stood up, more quickly than she intended to. She wouldn’t let them see her falter. Wouldn’t let the Sheikh see her falter. The idea that he woul
d see her like that, broken and hurt and damaged, was just unbearable. It would ruin everything this weekend had promised to be. She didn’t want to be that discarded, unlovable woman with him; she wanted to be the sexy, desirable woman who was worth a small fortune.
“Can I get you anything else, Sheikh?” she said. But she couldn’t meet his eyes, even though she felt his gaze, studying her.
“Creighton?” the Sheikh finally said.
“Yeah, all right, Bashir,” Creighton said, and Stella turned to find him rising unsteadily to his feet. He was drunker than she’d thought.
“Listen, Bashir, I can’t just drop a contract, but let me make a phone call and see if I can’t work something out,” he continued. He licked his lips, and looked longingly at Stella’s breasts. “Those bastards won’t have the money for repeat business, anyway. Maybe I can give you a little information, just between us. What you do with it is your business. In return for a little consideration, of course.”
And he gave the Sheikh one of those hard looks that Stella remembered from Robert’s negotiations. He might be a drunk, but Creighton wasn’t stupid. She wondered what kind of deal they’d worked out when she went to get the drinks, and then realized she didn’t really care. She only cared that it meant she’d be alone with Sheikh Bashir soon.
When did I get such a one-track mind? she wondered as she watched Creighton fumble with the door. Finally he set his drink down on a side table and manhandled the thing open. He really was drunk.
Stella turned, eager to hear what the Sheikh had in store for her next, only to see him rise out of his own chair. He didn’t even look at her as he buttoned his suit jacket closed.
“I’ll be back shortly,” he said.
“What?” Stella had never been so disappointed. “But why—”
He turned on her. “I have my own phone call to make. You will wait for me here. You will think about how to please me while you wait. And if you say another word, you will do it naked.”