Pregnant By My Boss's Cousin, The Billionaire Sheik

by Pinky Haversnatch

  Pregnant By My Boss’s Cousin, The Billionaire Sheik

  Book One of the Stuffed Sausage Series

  Pinky Haversnatch

  I dedicate this book to all the stalwart readers who enjoy a good giggle every now and again.

  To my dearest author friends, EH Poussay, GPC, LL, and TMC.

  And a special thanks to CD, RR, EB, JLB, CC…

  Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  About the Author

  Also by Pinky Haversnatch

  Introduction

  This is a work of fiction. Bad fiction. Purposefully bad fiction.

  It is a tongue-in-cheek novella.

  I do hope you enjoy it!

  Pinky Haversnatch

  Chapter 1

  I am Maisy Moore.

  I was born in America. But after a turn of events that I still can’t quite understand, I find myself a part of a harem belonging to Sheik Abdul Ali. I also find myself very pregnant.

  How did it come to this? How did I end up here, in the Sahara dessert, and so much in love with this man that I can’t see straight half the time?

  It all started seven months ago. I was working as a data entry clerk for Stuffin, Dee, Blake, and Evans, the giant conglomerate that owns too many business to count. Ranging from the small yet powerful media corporation GA Media Group out of Broward County, Florida, to Blakely and Chance enterprises — an adult sex toy manufacturing company located in Phoenix.

  I liked my boss, Gamble Potter. He was a decent enough looking fellow. The kind of charmer your mamma warns you about. He’d say just about anything to either get in your pants or get your money. I avoided his sexual advances at all costs simply because he wasn’t my type. Besides the fact that he was too short, he was also too cocky for his own good.

  Well, one day, I was in his office to grab some invoices — avoiding his advances like always — when he walked in…

  He is a three thousand dollar suit draped over six-foot-three inches of lean, hard muscle. Beautiful skin the color of bronze, with the deepest, darkest brown eyes I’ve ever seen. His curly black hair is combed in a modern style that frames the most handsome face I’ve ever seen. Angular jaw, long, slender nose, and full lips. I want him. Instantly. Like a dying man wants water. Or like a woman who hasn’t had sex in over two years. Both are accurate descriptions of need.

  A ten-pound solid gold necklace draped around his neck, gold rings lined all ten of his long fingers. Fingers I suddenly have the desire to trace themselves all over my body and plunge into my wet nether regions. I’m not sure, but I think I come a little just marveling over his magnificence.

  “Hello, my cousin,” the good-looking man of my dreams says, nodding his head to Gamble.

  Gamble comes from around his desk, extending his hand toward the unbelievably beautiful man.

  Cousin?

  I can’t believe these two are related. They look nothing alike.

  The living breathing Adonis doesn’t even look at me.

  I stand there with my mouth agape as I listen to the two of them talk.

  “When did you get into town?” Gamble asks as he pats the stranger on the shoulder.

  “Only just,” the hot, dark haired man replies. “I would have been here an hour ago, but the flight attendant spilled a $3000 bottle of champagne on my lap. I had to change.”

  The image of his nakedness jumps into my imagination. Suddenly, I want him to stuff his manhood into me like a butcher stuffing meat into those sausage wraps. Hard, fast, and repeatedly, like he’s on a damned assembly line. Stuffing, stuffing, stuffing.

  The sound of his sexy voice brings me back to the here and now.

  “I of course, had to fire her. Good help is so hard to find these days.”

  There it is: the family resemblance. He is just as smug, just as cocky as Gamble. But I don’t care. He is gorgeous.

  “Who is this woman who keeps staring at me?” he asks Gamble, without even so much as a glimpse my way.

  “That is Maisy Moore, one of our data entry clerks,” Gamble answers, shooting a look of annoyance my way before stepping back around his desk. “Maisy, you are in the presence of royalty. You really should bow.”

  Women don’t bow to royalty, they curtsy, but I’m not going to tell him that. Problem is, I don’t know how. And even if I did, I can’t move. Can’t take my eyes off the royal man.

  “Allow me to introduce my cousin to you. Sheik Abdul Ali.”

  A sheik? I am dumbfounded. I am not only standing in the presence of the most beautiful, sexy man I’d ever seen, but he is a sheik to boot!

  “In my country,” Abdul begins… damn, but his voice is sexy! A deep, warm, soft, pleasant voice. “Women are beaten for staring at me.”

  Oh, he can spank me! He can do anything he wants to me. Instinct begs me to look away. But I simply can’t. My eyes are frozen.

  A long, painful silence fills the air between us. Finally, he throws his head back and laughs, startling me back to the here and now.

  “I must apologize,” he says as he comes toward me with his hand out. “I was only kidding.”

  His accent is English, with just a twist of Middle Eastern hottie thrown in to make my labia quiver with excitement.

  When he takes my hand in his, I swear I feel a bolt of electricity pass between us. Unspoken, yet just as powerful as getting kicked in the head by a donkey.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I whisper thickly.

  His smile is as bright as seven suns. Magnificent, powerful, and virile. My ovaries are jumping into warp drive, screaming Take me! I want to have your baby!

  “Cousin,” he begins in that deep, sexy voice, “where have you been hiding this charming young woman?”

  “In the basement with all the other data entry clerks,” Gamble answers snidely. “And that is where she should get to before I fire her ass.”

  I can’t afford to get fired. I need the paycheck. Unlike the sheik, I’m not independently wealthy. I’m not royalty. It isn’t what Gamble said, but how he said it that hurt. I am nothing. Just a data entry clerk with an addiction for cheap purses and binge-watching television.

  While my coworkers think Gamble is good looking and sweet, I know better. I’ve been on the receiving end of his snide comments and ridicule too many times.

  I say nothing as I clutch the invoices to my chest and flee the room.

  An hour later, the man I knew I had fallen in love with the moment I laid eyes on him, is standing in front of my desk. My coworkers are also in awe of the beautiful man. They are whispering and giggling as I try my best not to look like a complete idiot. That is hard to do, considering my mouth is gaping open like a trout going after a plastic worm.

  “What?” I asked breathlessly. I knew I hadn’t heard him correctly. I couldn’t have.

  He is smiling, which makes him a gazillion times better looking. “I asked if you would do me the honor of having lunch with me. My cousin does let you out for lunch, doesn’t he?”

  My lunch was going to be a cup of noodles and a peanut butter and banana sandwich, which would be repeated every day for the next three months. I’d gone on a little spending spree over the weekend. My favorite store was having a clearance on my favorite brand of not-so- brand-named purses. My addiction had taken over and I purchased three small looking purses. Imagine my surprise when I opened them up only to find several smaller purses inside? I put it all on my credit card. I’d found out about the sale through an email I’d received. Of course, I received lots of emails from the same few sto
res, over and over every day. It was part of their marketing plan. Bug me until I buy something. But they never really go away, even after I’ve spent hundreds of dollars on their cheap knockoffs.

  “I have a standing reservation at the Ritz,” he says as he continues his assault with that blindingly beautiful smile.

  The fanciest restaurant I’d ever eaten at was Hopkin’s Steakhouse in Pasadena. Somehow, I manage to find my voice. “Sure,” isn’t exactly poetic, but what can I do, with my womb screaming and begging for him to plunge his cannoli into me repeatedly?

  I grab my purse from my desk drawer and try to look like I have my shit together. Coming around the desk, I bang my knee into the drawer I’d forgotten to close. I bite my lip hard to keep from cussing like a drunken sailor. The pain is intense, but not as intense as the desire I feel when Abdul reaches around and grabs my arm in an effort to keep me from falling.

  I look up into those liquid brown pools of loveliness and damn near hike up my pencil skirt and shout, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, TAKE ME NOW.

  “Are you well?” he asked, his beautiful brows scrunching into a look of genuine concern.

  “I’m, I’m fine,” I reply, wishing he’d just scoop me up in his arms and toss me onto my desk and take me like a caveman.

  Abdul whisks me into the back of his limo. I’d never been in one before and I’m in awe of the opulence. Black leather, a mini bar, the whole nine-yards. I kept wishing he’d lean over and kiss me, rip my clothes off, and let me have my way with him. But the ride is too short. All too soon, we’re sitting across from one another at the famous Ritz. It was opulent and luxurious, just like I knew in my heart he would be if he ever got me in his bed.

  “Do you like oysters?” he asks as he peruses the menu.

  “No,” I answer honestly.

  “Too, bad,” he says. “They make a most marvelous aphrodisiac.”

  My eyes shoot up from my own menu so fast, I nearly sprain them. What is he insinuating? I don’t have the guts to ask.

  “Do you mind if I order for you?”

  He can do whatever he wants to me and for me. I simply don’t care. Feminism be damned, because he is simply too hot. Too drool worthy. Too…just too everything good. “Sure,” I say as I put my menu off to the side of the table.

  He raises a hand and motions the waiter over. “We will have the truffles and arugula salad,” he tells him. “She will have the Duck comfit and I will have the filet minion, rare.”

  I’ve never had duck and tell him so.

  “It is a delicacy, I assure you.”

  “And to drink, sir?”

  Abdul peruses the wine menu for a moment. “The Chateau Laffite,” he replies.

  I have no idea what Chateau Laffite is, but don’t want to admit it. It sounds expensive.

  The waiter gives a quick bow and leaves us. I sip on water, but it can only quench the thirst in my mouth, not the one in my lower areas.

  “Do you come here often?” I asked, hoping I didn’t sound as stupid as I felt.

  “Whenever I am in New York,” he says, taking a sip of water. God, how I wish I am that glass!

  “Is that often?”

  “Not nearly as often as I’d like.”

  “Where do you call home?”

  “Paris, London, Munich, Rome,” he replied with a smile.

  I actually feel sorry for him. There is something hidden in his eyes that makes me want to reach out and stroke his cheek. I have lived in the same home my entire life, surrounded by a loving, happy family. That is until I turned twenty-one and moved out on my own. I have a studio apartment in New York. 400 square feet at $1500 a month.

  But there is something in his tone of voice, that c’est la vie doesn’t quite make it to his eyes.

  “Those sound like houses to me. Places to stay. Not homes.”

  Raising one eyebrow, he studies me closely for a moment, as if to assess whether I am a safe person to talk to. “The truth?”

  “Yes, please,” I say, urging him to continue.

  “I am happiest in Al Zahil,” he replied. This time he looked genuinely happy.

  “Al Zahil?” I asked. My curiosity was as peaked as my sexual attraction toward him.

  The waiter brings the wine, pours a sample for Abdul to taste. Satisfied, he nods and the waiter pours each of us a glass. “Leave the bottle,” Abdul tells him.

  As soon as he is gone, I ask Abdul to tell me about Al Zahil.

  A faraway look falls over him. “It is the most beautiful place in the world. So very quiet. I am at peace whenever I am within its walls. It is paradise.”

  I don’t know why I say it, but I do. “It sounds heavenly. I would love to see it someday.”

  Once again, he is scrutinizing me, studying me. While he is doing that, I am slowly undressing him with my eyes. God, I want him. Want him more than I have ever wanted any man ever before. I know instinctively, that this man could take me to paradise in more ways that one.

  “Are you really a sheik?” I ask him.

  He smiles across the table at me. “Yes, I am really a sheik.”

  I think back to the old black and white movies my grandma was so fond of. Specially the ones with the sheik kidnapping the innocent woman and taking her back to his palace. “So Al Zahil,” I begin. “Is that a palace?”

  “Yes,” he replies. “That is where my family resides. I go there whenever I can. My many businesses keep me away far too much for my liking.”

  “Businesses?” I ask. “I thought all sheiks made their money in oil.”

  He laughs. “Yes, I make much money with all the oil fields we own. However, I am not one to sit back and do nothing with my life.”

  “What kind of businesses do you own?” I ask, sipping on the wonderful wine.

  “Many,” he says. “I own seven media corporations, located across the United States.”

  “Like TV stations?” I ask.

  “No, no TV stations. Mostly, it is online media marketing.”

  The waiter brings the salads and truffles. The smells hit my nose and they are wonderful. My stomach starts growling. I hope Abdul can’t hear it. My hoo-ha is also growling with an unbelievable need.

  We chat throughout the rest of the meal, about the weather, the food, and many other innocuous subjects. Not once do I look at my watch, worried about getting back to the office. Nothing else matters but him. While he talks about his brothers, I am resisting the urge to try something seductive, like kicking off one of my 3-inch heels and running my toes up and down his leg.

  I have just taken the last bite of my duck, when Abdul gets to his feet. He tosses what looks to be five-one hundred dollar bills down on the table. He holds out his hand to me and says, “Come.”

  Oh, I want to. Repeatedly. Until I lose my voice from screaming. But I know he isn’t talking about that kind of come.

  I take his hand and allow him to lead me out of the restaurant. We step into the cool afternoon air to the sound of horns, people talking, and the general hustling and bustling that is New York City.

  I didn’t want to leave him, but I knew I had to. I glanced down at my watch — my high school graduation gift from my grandmother — and cursed under my breath. I should have been back to work an hour ago. My stomach tightens with worry.

  “What is wrong?” Abdul asks me.

  Dread washes over me, replacing all the lustful thoughts I’d been enjoying over our long lunch. “He’s going to fire me!” I exclaim.

  “Gamble?” he asks, once again looking concerned over my well-being.

  “Who else?” I snapped back at him. “He is my boss. He’s going to kill me.”

  Abdul takes me by my elbow and ushers me into the limo. “I will not allow him to fire you or to kill you.”

  I slide into the cool leather seat, nervous and excited all at the same time. I can’t make sense of the pull this man has on me. Why do I want him so badly? He smells so damned good. Like expensive cigars and musk and silk suits and the wine we’d jus
t drunk.

  The limo pulls away from the curb and heads down West 59th. I lay my head against the back of the seat, feeling the affects of the good duck and wine. I try to push all the images of him on top of me, plunging into me hard and fast, out of my mind. But it’s impossible.

  Moments later, I feel his hand on my thigh and can hear him leaning toward me. I hold my breath, uncertain and hopeful, my womb trembling with anticipation.

  When next I feel his lips, they are pressed against mine. Warm, soft, moist, and I get the oddest sensation of falling away into a beautiful abyss of desire and need. I scoot closer, needing to be as close to him as possible. I’d crawl right inside him if I could. I have never felt such a powerful feeling before. Desire, lust, need all blend together in a delightful concoction. His smell alone is making me as horny as a high school kid on prom night.

  He slides his hands up and down my thigh, inching ever closer to my flowering blossom of love. I can feel it uncurling, opening, wanting nothing but him inside me.

  He forces open my mouth with his tongue. I do not resist. I moan into his mouth, begging, pleading with my hands for more.

  He slips his hands under my skirt and finds that special place at the apex of my legs. My nubbin is soaked with anticipation, fluttering like a flag flapping in the wind.

  “I want you,” he murmurs into my mouth.

  I say nothing. There is no need for words. Only action.

  I wiggle around, opening my legs for his gold ringed fingers. He leaves my mouth and heads right for my breasts. I can feel his tongue through my cotton blouse and bra. It feels good, but not good enough. I pull my blouse to one side and draw my breast out of the cup of my lace bra, offering it up to him, like an ancient druid making an offer to the gods.

  He pulls my nipple into his mouth and sucks on it like an olive from a martini. Sucking, sucking, licking and twirling his tongue.