Shelter for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 9)

by Annabelle Winters

  “Are you saying the shoes are not strong enough to—”

  “Ugly!” she said, raising a finger like the word had only just occurred to her even though it had been the first thing that came to mind when she saw the atrocious creations. “They’re ugly, Bilaal.”

  “Ugly,” the Sheikh had said slowly, stroking his beard and looking down his nose at Irene and then at little Sage. “Your mother just called our shoes ugly, my son. That was very rude. What are we going to do about that?”

  “Bad Mommy,” Sage had said, laughing and pointing at her. “Bad girl.”

  The Sheikh had grinned wide as Irene put her hands on her hips and frowned. “Yes, Mommy is a bad girl for being so rude. And what happens when Mommy is a bad girl?”

  “Spank!” shouted Sage, raising both hands in triumph.

  Irene shrieked in shock, glaring at the Sheikh when she heard what Sage had just said.

  “Bilaal!” she’d said, this time not needing to fake her indignation. “You can’t be teaching our son that! He’s going to grow up thinking that bad girls need to be spanked! Are you insane? Do you want us to be arrested for child negligence? Do you want Sage growing up to be a misogynistic pig?”

  “Piggie!” shouted Sage. “I like piggies!”

  “OK,” said the Sheikh, backing away and holding his hands up. “That spanking thing was a surprise to me too. I did not teach him that.”

  “Really,” she said drolly, folding her arms over her pregnant belly. “You seemed to ask him a very leading question. What happens to mommy when she’s bad? He seemed to come up with the answer awfully quick, don’t you think?”

  By then Sage had wandered off to the far side of the room and was pressed up against the window, staring at a silver fox that was scurrying by the trees some distance away from the house. The Sheikh took a step towards Irene, his green eyes flashing like they’d done so often in this wilderness dream they’d been living for so many wonderful months.

  “Ah,” he whispered, rubbing his hands together. “So you admit that the answer is correct.”

  “I admit nothing,” she’d said, backing away in mock fear until she was against the broad wooden table where the family ate all their meals. “I don’t even remember the question.”

  “The question was . . .” said the Sheikh slowly as he advanced on her, “ . . . what happens when my beautiful, magnificent, healthy, sexy wife insults my shoe-making skills?”

  Irene had gasped when she felt the edge of the table against her rump. She glanced up at him and licked her lips, feeling the color rush to her face, the wetness flow beneath her skirt. Sage was out of sight now, but judging by his answer, clearly they hadn’t managed to hide all their activities from him over the past few months. How were they going to adjust to the normal world? What would happen when Sage went to a school with normal kids whose parents barely touched each other in public for fear of “corrupting” their children?

  Screw it, she said. If my son grows up thinking sex with someone you love should be celebrated and enjoyed, not hidden away in the darkness of a locked bedroom, then so be it. I’ll take on any parent or teacher who tries to tell him otherwise. Though maybe we do need to explain a few things to Sage when it comes to talking about spanking bad mommies . . .

  “When I married you I vowed to tell you the truth, no matter what,” she’d said, standing tall as she leaned her ass on the edge of that sturdy oakwood table. “And the truth is, those shoes are ugly as sin. You have a wide variety of exceptional skills, my dear husband. But shoe-making is not one of them. On the plus side, if you did take Sage hunting with you in those shoes, the caribou would probably die laughing before you got a shot off.”

  The Sheikh had almost doubled over with laughter and he stopped his advance for a moment. But one look at her leaning against that table and he was so hot his smile changed form and those green eyes of his were ablaze. And then he was up against her.

  “There is a fine line between being honest with your husband and taunting him, I should warn you,” he’d said, stroking her hair, her smooth cheeks, touching her lips, and then tapping her nose once. He’d placed his heavy hands on her shoulders and slowly turned her so she faced the table. “You know I am a proud Sheikh of mythical Arabia who does not handle taunting very well. And as a king who must set an example, I cannot let such behavior pass without addressing it sternly,” he’d whispered as he slowly pushed her face down on the table, spreading her legs wide, pushing her skirt up over her hips and stepping back and gasping the way he did every time he looked at her bare bottoms.

  “I understand, great Sheikh,” she’d whispered, feeling the warm breeze against her naked rump as she quivered in anticipation of the first strike. “In the interest of your pride and so you can set an example in your great court, I will take my discipline as a good wife. But I ain’t ever gonna let my son wear shoes that you make. Because they’re ugly, and they’re—”

  But she didn’t finish the sentence, because by then he’d shoved a thick strip of leather in her mouth, jamming it between her teeth. She bit down on it, shuddering because she knew what was coming. He took his time as the anticipation built to a fury inside her, and then it came.

  The slap sounded like a rifle shot, and she let out a muffled scream as she bit down on the leather, feeling the blood rush to her face and her ass at the same time. He spanked her left cheek next, a solid strike with the full weight of his open palm. The sting brought her to full alert, her eyes going wide as she shrieked and then moaned into her leather bit as the wetness began to drip out of her. He would spank her good and hard, she knew—until he himself was so hard he couldn’t stop himself. Then he’d slide his fingers up her cunt from behind, coating them with her juice, getting them all slick before using her own natural lubricant to guide his middle finger deep into her rear pucker after circling and tapping it with his wet thumb.

  Sometimes she’d come before he even pushed his cock into her pussy, before he even touched her clit. Other times she’d reach between her thighs and touch herself while he fingered her asshole and rubbed the head of his cock against the rim, threatening to enter that forbidden space. But he never did. He just teased her, let the tension build up, and then he’d back away, making it build up even more. She’d never taken a man into her rear, and the idea always seemed foreign to her until the Sheikh had showed her that it was an erogenous zone like no other. Now she got wet the moment he touched her forbidden hole, and after months of tapping and rimming, pushing one or two slick fingers inside or rubbing the swollen head of his cock against it, it occurred to her that he was training her, opening her up, teasing her to the point where she almost wanted him to do it, almost begged him to do it.

  That time she thought he’d push himself in there, and she’d prepared herself to take him. But then he backed away, slapped her raw ass again, and entered her pussy with a grunt. He’d started ramming her immediately, and she came quick as he shouted in pleasure. The spanking had gotten them hot, both of them close to orgasm by the time he entered. The leather bit fell from her trembling lips when she came, and she felt his geyser of an orgasm erupt in her depths not long after, his strong hands reaching around and grabbing her boobs the way she loved. He pinched her nipples so hard she almost screamed, his hips shuddering against her ass and thighs as he pumped his load into her like the beast of a king he was.

  Then, when they were done, he showed her the butt-plug.

  “My finest creation,” he announced, like he was unveiling an object of wonder and amazement at a medieval court. “Fashioned just for you. For my wife, my queen, the mother of my children. Smooth oakwood from the tree that witnessed our marriage. Sanded so perfectly it feels like silk. Then a delicate layer of natural, maple varnish to make sure there is no chance of a splinter. Smooth. Safe. Fit for a queen.” He’d held up the little knob triumphantly. “I have made a full set. Three sizes. Come. Turn
and show me.”

  “Um, I don’t think so,” she’d said, her eyes widening when she realized what it was. “You’re sick, disgusting, and a goddamn pervert.”

  The Sheikh had raised an eyebrow along with the butt-plug. “Show me,” he’d commanded, his eyes narrowing, his jaw set firm. Irene knew he’d been training her to this point, breaking in his mustang, and she knew her protests were just a remnant of the fake morality that she’d been shedding as they lived here in their own little society, one family doing whatever the hell they wanted, no one to answer to, no one to judge them, no one to shame them into toeing the line of what sex and love should look like. And right now it looked like a hand-made, oakwood knob that was going to go . . . where?

  She’d breathed hard and turned around again, bending on the table and raising her skirts for him. She’d gasped as he massaged her buttocks, his strong fingers kneading away the soreness from the firm spanking and the hard sex. Soon her ass felt supple and buoyant, and she took a trembling breath as he spread her cheeks, massaged some lubricant into her, and then slowly and carefully inserted the plug, winding it into place like a corkscrew.

  “Oh, God,” she’d muttered, feeling her clit stiffen as he did it. She wanted to judge herself and say that she was a twisted, awful, sexual deviant, but the thought only made her hotter. “Oh, shit, Bilaal. It feels so . . . so . . .”

  “You will wear it all day,” he’d whispered as he pulled her skirts back down after taking a long look at the petite polished bump sticking out of her ass. “In time we will move to the next size. Later I will put in size three. Then you will be ready,” he’d whispered, stroking her hair as she blinked and stared out the window at that same oak tree. “Yes, then you will be ready for me. Yes, my queen?”

  “Yes,” she’d whispered, mesmerized by the tranquil view out the window, the gentle touch of his hand on her hair. There was a sense of freedom and purity all around her, from her son playing in the next room to the birds singing their tunes outside. The juxtaposition of the openness of the environment and this secret act of submission to him felt magical, dark in a way that was beautiful, scandalous in a way that was exhilarating.

  For the next week she imagined herself going to PTA meetings with that little plug up her rear, nodding seriously at the other mommies and daddies, smiling at the teachers and principal, offering suggestions for field trips, show-and-tell ideas, cafeteria offerings. She imagined sitting on a throne in the Sheikh’s court, resplendent and elegant in golden robes, a crown of exotic jewels on her head, the largest plug firmly nestled between the twin cushions of her ass. The fantasies had been filthy, exhilarating, so wrong that they felt deliciously right. And as time passed, she found herself almost dizzy from imagining how it would feel to have his girth open her slowly and carefully, so damned wide.

  How will I ever re-adjust to the real world after this, Irene had wondered. It worried her sometimes, and slowly she allowed herself to fantasize about truly living here forever, a thought that had started months ago and was growing stronger as her baby grew inside her.

  She didn’t want to go back.

  Not now.

  Not ever.

  Because she knew what going back to the real world would mean. It would mean her husband, the man she’d sworn herself to, the man who was father to two of her children, would awaken that dark side again. The side that had killed other men. The side that she knew about but in a way had brushed aside, like that was another man who’d done all those things.

  As they neared the final stretch of her pregnancy as well as their self-imposed exile, she’d been seeing glimpses of the Sheikh turning his attention to this mysterious other brother, this man who was barely even an adult, who by all the research she’d done on the school’s website seemed genuinely talented as a playwright and scholar of theater. Almost a prodigy. He must have been the younger of the two brothers, and though Bilaal had guessed he was in his early twenties, it turned out he had just turned eighteen. At fifteen he’d been accepted to the London School of Drama on a full scholarship, and it was unlikely he could have faked or even bribed his way in. And getting a position at a prestigious Swiss boarding school? He had to have earned it.

  Yes, Irene understood that the Sheikh’s young niece might be in grave danger. Irene worried, just like the Sheikh did, about what a man seeking revenge might do to a young teenage girl—physically and emotionally. But you can’t just kill a man for something he might do! Yeah, sometimes we want to do it. Prevention is better than a cure, right? But basic human rights don’t work that way, Irene knew. There has to be another way.

  “There has to be another way,” she’d said to him a few weeks earlier, when they’d been talking about their imminent return to the land of the living. “Bilaal, there has to be some middle ground between protecting your niece and killing a young man who hasn’t done a thing to anyone, who is barely an adult himself.”

  “I will not hear of it,” the Sheikh had snapped, turning away from her, his face dark and firm. “This is about the safety of my niece. My family.”

  “She’s also my family now, even though I’ve never met her,” Irene had said. “And what do you think she would say if her uncle murdered her drama teacher, who is barely older than she is?”

  “She will never know. I have ways of doing things, Irene.”

  Irene’s face hardened. “I’m sure you do. And I will never judge you for what you may have done when serving your kingdom and the allies of the War on Terror.” She took a breath. “But if you kill this young man, then I will judge you. I will.”

  The Sheikh’s face changed expression so quick Irene thought she’d lost him. A flash of surprise, a hint of rage, and then cold, dead, silence. He’d looked at her long and hard, and then turned away and walked to the window. Outside the cabin spring was in the air, but it felt like winter in that moment to Irene. Dark, cold, desolate.

  “Bilaal,” she’d said. “Look at me. Please. We have to be able to talk about this.”

  “This is not your concern,” he’d said without turning to her, his broad body blocking the light from the window, casting a shadow across the room. “I will not have you question how I rule my family.”

  “How you rule your family?” she’d shouted, cradling her belly as she took a step forward. “Excuse me, great Sheikh. But you don’t rule a family. You coexist with a family. You cooperate with a family. Yes, I can accept that as a man you feel like you must lead your family, and there are many ways in which I am happy to follow your lead, our children in tow. But on this, I can’t stand down, Bilaal. As your wife, I am part of this decision.”

  “You are only part of the decisions on which I ask for your opinion,” he said coldly.

  “Bilaal,” she’d said, swallowing the urge to unleash a caustic reply to his pompous remark. She wondered for a flash if she’d made a terrible mistake marrying him. The months they’d spent out here weren’t the real world. They didn’t have to deal with other people, with society, the complications of real-life situations outside the bedroom and kitchen. In a way, they hadn’t really had to deal with each other, had they? “Bilaal,” she said again, controlling her temper and going to him. She placed a hand on his back, and she could feel the tension in him, like every fiber in his muscular body was coiled and ready to attack, to destroy, seek out and kill.

  He turned, looking down upon her face from his towering height. His jaw was still set firm, but she could see in his green eyes that she’d gotten to him just by not taking the bait and snapping back at him. If she had, they’d be shouting at each other by now, and Irene knew that if it came to a contest of who could be more stubborn, it would end in a dead tie, a cold stalemate that could cause a rift over time. Sometimes, Irene thought, the way forward is to submit without yielding.

  “Just think about what I said, about what I want, about what I feel is right for all of us. Your niece, this boy
who may be guilty of nothing. You, me, our son, and our unborn daughter.”

  He’d closed his eyes tight when she said it, and she took his hands and placed those meaty paws against her warm belly.

  “You think it is a girl?” he said, his voice thick and throaty.

  Irene nodded, and the baby kicked gently inside her just then, like that unborn daughter knew she was needed. The Sheikh’s eyes flicked wide in delight.

  “Ya Allah, she is listening!” he said, breathless as he looked down at her. “My daughter is listening to her father’s voice!”

  “And what is her father saying to her when he talks of killing innocent men, of getting what he wants in life by violence instead of love?” Irene said softly, placing her hands upon his and looking up into his eyes.

  Immediately the Sheikh pulled his hands away and stepped back, his face tightening, eyes narrowing. “Love?” he sneered. “You want me to feel love for a man who is targeting my sweet, precious niece?”

  Now Irene wasn’t going to back down. “Of course your niece is sweet and precious, Bilaal. And I understand the need to protect her—believe me, I do. But in a way this isn’t about her. This is about you. You lost your pregnant wife in what appears to have been a tragic accident, and you killed thirteen men who may or may not have played a part in it. Did it bring you joy? Did it bring you peace? No. It simply gave you an outlet for your anger, which only serves to keep the anger alive. Do you think your wife and child are rejoicing in heaven because their powerful protector slaughtered and destroyed people in their names? Will your niece ever forgive you if you do this? Will—”

  “I do not give a damn if she forgives me!” the Sheikh bellowed, bringing Sage running to the room from where he’d been napping. “I do not give a damn if you forgive me, either! A king does what he must, without asking for permission or forgiveness.”

  “And what does a husband do?” Irene asked, taking Sage into her arms and standing up before the Sheikh, barefoot and pregnant, defiance in her brown eyes, power in her voice. “What does a father do? Are you not those things as well now? If not, then when we return I will take my children and go my way, raise them my way, in the light of love, not the shadow of violence. And you can go your way, the way of the king you want to be, murdering and maiming those who even appear to pose a threat.”