Curves for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 1)

by Annabelle Winters

  Oh, God, she thought again as the Sheikh gasped, his tongue pushing deep into her mouth as her fingers closed around his hardness, her fist unable to completely circle his swollen girth, and she pulled at him now, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth slowly as he pinched her right nipple and held on tight before clutching her entire breast and squeezing with force.

  He moved on top of her now, holding himself up with his arms as he drew back his head and closed his eyes and stretched his thick neck as Wendy glanced down along his body as she unbuckled and unbuttoned his trousers.

  Zahain drew back for a moment, going up on his knees before her. His open trousers slipped down over his hips, and Wendy blinked and took two quick breaths as she saw the way his silk boxers were peaked, the cloth dark and soaked where the tip of his hardness had been pressing.

  She released him and he groaned, his muscular neck stretching as he arched his back and shuddered, and now he whispered something in Arabic as Wendy looked down and ran her fingers along the underside of his long, incredibly hard shaft.

  He was thick and heavy in her hand as she pulled at him, and she spread her legs as he knelt before her. That sheet was gone now and she was exposed again, open again, wet again, ready again, ready for him. He looked into her eyes as she let go of him, and now she moaned as she felt his swollen tip make the most intimate contact with the sensitive mound perched at the top of her slit.

  She pushed up into him as he rubbed against her hood, now teasing her slit with his tip, running the peak of his hardness all along her length, opening her up carefully, completely, his eyes still locked in on hers as he began to massage his way into her, his girth slowly stretching her as he entered, filling her as he pushed himself in, all the way in, so deep, so deep, so goddamn deep . . .

  16

  Her heat was overwhelming to him, and he found himself choking back tears as he carefully pushed his way inside. It had been so long, so long . . . and for it to happen this way, so suddenly, with this woman who was drawing out something so deep from Zahain, so primal, fundamental, REAL . . .

  Because it had to be real, didn’t it? After all, he barely knew her, but yet her body felt like home to him, like he belonged here, beside her, on top of her . . . inside her . . . oh, God, inside her!

  She moved beneath him as he pushed all the way in and stayed still for a moment, reveling in the feeling of his swollen girth pressed up against every inch of her inner walls. He could still taste her on his breath, smell her when he inhaled, see only her when he closed his eyes. She was his, Zahain knew, his in a way that none of the others, five years ago, ten years ago, fifteen years ago, had ever come close to being. He had never let any of them get close enough to even awaken the depth of feeling that was now coursing through his body as he slowly began to move against her, move inside her, so deep inside her.

  She was spread wide beneath him, and Zahain could feel her sturdy hips move as he began to thrust and flex inside her, the curve of his shaft pressing his swollen head against the upper wall of her vagina as he pulled back and drove forth once more.

  Wendy shivered as Zahain pushed back in, and the Sheikh kissed her neck as he gasped and pumped, pushed in and drew back, and he could feel it rise within him, the explosive climax building, not there yet but coming, coming in hard, coming in strong, coming in full . . .

  She was groaning out loud now, whimpering as he pushed with power, flexed with force, drove with all of his desire. He licked her cheeks like an animal as the beast within him started to stir, that monstrous orgasm building deep within his balls that were swinging and slapping against her as he grunted and held himself up with his arms, changing his angle as he felt the tip of his cock graze that secret inner wall of hers again, bringing a shudder from her heavy body, a deep shiver going through her curves.

  Her breasts looked tremendous to him, moving frantically beneath the black cloth as she gasped for air, and now he pulled up her top as he pushed into her, and she was snorting and gurgling as she raised her arms above her head so Zahain could pull that turtleneck off, and it was off now, Wendy’s hair opening up as the shirt flew across the room, and Zahain inhaled deep as he took in the sweet smell of her naked body, the gentle musk from her underarms as she tore at his hair, pulled at his curls, and he looked down at her breasts now, heavy and round, soft and milky white, the dark red nipples clearly visible through her sheer beige bra, and he was still moving inside her, hard inside her, flexing and thrusting as he descended on her left nipple, opening wide and taking her into his mouth through the cloth, his lips clamping down on her stiff peak, and he sucked and pulled and now he drew back from her breast and RIPPED that bra off as he felt drool spill out onto her bare chest, and she was arching her back now as he ran the flat of his tongue between the globes of her breasts, licking her with long, forceful strokes, coating her with his clean saliva, now finding her right nipple and sucking HARD, and he sucked again, propped himself on one elbow so he could pinch her other breast, and he could feel that beast rising up again in him, feel that climax building up again, coming in from far off, still just building, like the first signs of a massive tidal wave that begins deep beneath the surface . . .

  “Oh, God, Zahain,” she cried out as he felt his cock get even harder inside her, and she spread wide and then wrapped her legs around him, pulling him deeper inside, and he had never been this deep inside a woman before, he thought, never been so completely taken in, and this was it, he thought, this was it.

  She is it, he thought, she is it.

  And as if in a dream, Zahain felt his eyes go wide and he grasped her hair and kissed her lips and pinched her left nipple so hard she called out, and now he clutched her full breast in his right hand and sucked on the other nipple, and he was pushing hard now, pumping with fury, and he could feel a deep tremor start to rise up from his balls, which felt heavy and full as they swung back and forth against Wendy from below, and he felt so hard inside her, his girth stretching the opening of her slit to the point where she felt so tight against his shaft, so goddamn tight, and now that explosion was building inside him, that tidal wave rising steadily as it turned its way to the shore, and here it comes, he thought, here it comes.

  Ya, Allah, here it COMES!

  17

  And she HOWLED as he came, her eyes going wide, the room exploding with light as Zahain erupted inside her, his heat BLASTING against the back wall of her vagina, and she could feel him flowing inside her, his semen flooding the canals of her cunt, and he was still so hard inside her, still thrusting as he came, and she was shuddering, almost choking on her own saliva, her nipples tight and drawn up into hard points from the way Zahain had been sucking on them, and she was drooling from the sides of her mouth as Zahain’s tongue frantically ran its way along her neck, now down to her breasts again.

  He arched his back up now, rising up above her, every muscle in his upper body visibly flexing as he pushed out the last of his seed, pushed it deep into her, and she looked down at herself beneath him, taking in the sight of her nipples glistening and wet, standing like pink minarets atop the white domes of her breasts, and she touched the Sheikh’s hard, sweat-soaked chest as he shuddered above her, and she looked down again breathlessly as Zahain slowly pulled out of her, the sight of his thick, shining shaft sliding out past her stretched-out lips almost too much for her to believe.

  He stayed there for a moment, on his knees, his heavy brown cock still full and thick, a long trail of semen still connecting his swollen tip with her dark lips.

  “Oh, God, Zahain,” she whispered as he looked down at her, clearly taking in the sight of her gleaming nipples, her glistening slit, her heavy thighs, wide hips. She was not self-conscious in the least, and she smiled as he reached to caress her sides before slowly laying back down on top of her.

  His heavy body felt so good and warm on her that she shivered involuntarily and drew him in. She could feel his length hot against her stomach, his wetness cool against her ski
n even as his body warmed her. She was full inside, she could tell, and only now did the real world bother to intrude by whispering what Wendy had ignored as Zahain had kissed her, what she had ignored as Zahain had undressed her, what she had ignored as he entered her, ignored as he came inside her.

  Oh, God, what if . . . that voice was saying to Wendy. What if you . . . what if you get . . .

  And she swallowed deep and silenced that voice because it did not belong in this strange world that almost had to be fantasy, had to be imagination, couldn’t be real. Just couldn’t. Perhaps she had been knocked unconscious in the chaos at the diner, and now she was in a coma or something and all this was just playing in her head.

  Of course, she knew it was real, and she hadn’t really shut down that voice, hadn’t even really ignored it, she thought as she felt the Sheikh’s warmth inside her. It was just that something felt so right about all of it. Perhaps it was the madness of how it was happening. Who knew. It just felt right, didn’t it? And it wasn’t so much a question of trusting Zahain, this man she barely knew, this Sheikh who possibly had a harem of supermodels at his disposal, who could walk away from this without looking back, walk away from her.

  In fact, she DIDN’T know if she could “trust” him, whatever that meant. She did know, however, that she could trust herself. Her instincts. Her gut. Intuition. The sixth sense. Whatever. Her instincts had gotten her through a lot, and Wendy trusted that voice inside, that voice that spoke to her in hunches and flashes of inspiration, flashes of desire sometime. She’d followed that inner voice in and out of strange and dangerous situations before, and she was doing it now . . . yes, doing it now.

  A strange peace came over Wendy as she lay there, the Sheikh wrapped around her, his heavy body seeming to fit just right on top of her, like her curves were designed for his contours, her softness for his steel . . . her womb for his seed?

  She almost laughed out loud at the thought, for the first time explicitly allowing herself to think it, and now she began to breathe heavy as she realized the immensity of the situation, the impossibility of the situation, the INSANITY of the situation.

  But she did not speak and she did not move, because that voice was calling to her again, speaking to her in the secret language of intuition, telling her that something was unfolding around her, perhaps within her.

  And so after they lay together in silence for almost an hour, when she felt Zahain harden once more against her belly, Wendy smiled up at the old wooden beams of that beautiful Paris bedroom as he kissed her neck again, tasted her nipples once more, and then carefully pushed himself inside her like he had before, flooding the valleys of her vagina with silent fury, the two of them climaxing together as the summer breeze blew across the River Seine, the wind carrying promises, reassurances, and perhaps . . . perhaps . . . perhaps a warning.

  18

  “The woman is staying in the royal palace? Is this a joke, Zahain? Not even a joke, in fact. It is an insult! A goddamn INSULT, Zahain!”

  Little Samir, back from his graduation party, stormed into Zahain’s airy office in the east wing of Farrar’s Royal Palace. The Sheikh had designed this room himself, a circular space at the top of a minaret, windows all around. He could almost see to the ends of his Sheikdom from this room, this perch atop a tower, and it always gave him a sense of calm, a sense of connection between past and future, between the old and the new, tradition and progress. He had spent many nights and days here in silent contemplation, and in fact he had just been contemplating how to deal with his younger brother when Samir rolled in, claws and teeth bared, his stocky body looking almost comical in the flowing white caftan that was traditional dress in Farrar.

  He looks like Casper the Friendly Ghost from those old comic books, Zahain thought. The Sheikh had been in a tranquil, lighthearted mood for most of the day, but now the reality of the situation started to make itself known as Zahain remembered that Samir was neither friendly nor ghostlike. He was a demon, if anything. And you must be careful when negotiating with a demon.

  And it would be a negotiation, that was for certain, Zahain reminded himself. My little half-brother knows he has some power over me, that he holds some trump cards. Perhaps the biggest trump card of them all.

  “What would you have me do, Brother?” Zahain said, trying to use his calmest voice. “Place her in the prisons of Farrar? She is an American, Samir. Here of her own accord. Under strange and unprecedented circumstances, yes. But she is still closer to being our guest than our prisoner.”

  Samir shook his head and then touched the cast on his nose. His lip was still split and swollen, though the bruises seemed to be healing fast. Or was that just makeup—Zahain couldn’t quite tell.

  “I don’t know what she is, Zahain. I do not understand it at all. I filed the police report and my lawyers said they would pressure the District Attorney to prosecute hard. And the civil suit would have been rock solid, the lawyers said. I would have ruined that woman. Crushed the bitch. She’d be paying off the damages her entire life. Her children will be in debt even before they are born.”

  Her children, Zahain thought as his mind drifted to what he had been contemplating in the silence of the early morning as the sun rose across the distant sands. Oh, God, Wendy. What if—

  “So what the hell is going on, Zahain? You like this chick? Is that it? You want to do her? So do her quickly and send her back so I can go to work on her. Why this madness of bringing her to Farrar?”

  Zahain winced, his eyes narrowing, blood rising as he tried to control his rage. A part of him wanted to LEAP across the broad wooden table, reaching for his half-brother’s throat, taking him down to the ground so fast he would not have time to scream. But this was not the time for an ongoing lesson on how a real man speaks about women. This had to be handled delicately. He had not explained everything to his hot-headed half-brother, partly because Zahain had not completely understood it himself. Not understood it until that night with Wendy, that strange, wonderful, surreal night in Paris, a night that seemed like a dream, could quite possibly be a dream, oh, God, was it a dream?

  Samir stood there now, hands on his hips, looking like a puffy white ball of fury. Zahain stayed silent, perhaps too silent, because Samir’s expression changed and now he pointed a stubby finger at the Sheikh’s nose.

  “Ya, Allah, you have already slept with her, have you not? Ah, I may not have been around you much, but I know all the stories about the young Sheikh Zahain, Savior of Women, possessor of the divine brown cock of Farrar. You showed it to her, yes, brother? Did she—”

  But Zahain was already out from behind his table, already striding across the cool stone floor, already right up against the shorter man. Samir’s face barely reached the middle of Zahain’s broad chest, and the Sheikh stood there for a moment, letting his half-brother feel his rage.

  “I would like to blame your filthy mouth on the time you have spent in America, but I know your lack of discipline and self-control is a result of your upbringing, as was—”

  “My upbringing?!” Samir shouted, taking a step back and pounding his flabby chest. “You dare speak about my mother like that? You forget, Zahain, that my mother was the first wife. The FIRST wife. And you know what that means, Great Sheikh. It means I am the rightful Sheikh of Farrar. Lucky for you I am least interested in the day-to-day administration of this boring little country. I am happy with the money and the freedom to do as I please, and you do a fine enough job, from what I hear. But remember that you are only Sheikh for as long as I allow it. Remember that, Brother.”

  Zahain trembled as he inhaled, pulling his anger back. It was true that the Council had ratified Zahain, the eldest son, as Sheikh. But it was also true that Samir was the only son of their father’s first wife, the First Mother. By Farrar’s traditions, Samir was indeed the legitimate Sheikh the moment he turned twenty-one. Of course, Samir was in no hurry to step up to his responsibilities—after all, it was far more fun being a billionaire without the
hassle of administering a Sheikdom. But Samir liked to remind Zahain of their respective places when it suited him.

  “How can I forget, dear brother,” Zahain said finally, standing down. “I am only Sheikh in trust, holding the seat warm for you.” He smiled now, speaking carefully so his next words wouldn’t sound like a taunt. “So are you ready to step up to your rightful place, Samir? Are you ready to lead the people of Farrar? Your people?”

  Samir’s eyes went wide and he burst into laughter, thumping Zahain on the arm. His chubby body quivered with mirth as he stepped back and almost doubled over, shaking his head as he straightened back up.

  “My people? Oh, Brother, I can barely stand to be around this shithole in the desert. No, I only like to remind you that I have the power to dethrone you, brother. I am least interested in actually doing it.”

  But Samir’s face went dark for just a flash, his eyes blazing with an uncharacteristic intensity that reminded Zahain that Samir may look and act like a child most of the time, but maybe he was growing into a man finally. A dangerous man, perhaps.

  “Yes, I am least interested in it, dear brother,” Samir said, his voice low and steady. “For now, at least. For now.” He walked to the front curve of windows, leaning on the pink sandstone ledge and looking out for a moment before turning back. “But back to the matter at hand. The woman at hand. This . . . this fat waitress from Wisconsin.”

  “Wendy Williams is her name,” said Zahain, eyes narrowing as he forced himself to stay calm.

  “Whatever. Who gives a shit. Listen, Zahain. Clearly this is some game you are playing with her—bringing her here under some pretext of answering to the Royal Council. This is not Saudi Arabia. We do not stone people to death or chop off their hands or feet. And although I would be happy to see this violent bitch locked in our prisons for the next forty years, I am not so stupid as to think that we could get away with doing that to an American citizen for a crime committed on U.S. soil. So finish your sick game or whatever with her, Zahain. Parade her in front of the Council, scare her a bit, then step in and save her like the great man you are. Certainly she will show you her tits then, yes?”