I understand. I really do. But I still cannot move.
Zahir takes me by the hand. “Come,” he says, “I will give you a tour and then we will meet the pilots who will help explain the difference between my jet and the two-engine private plane your father owned. I can promise you this jet is very, very safe and my pilots are excellent.”
He gently pulls me forward until the lock comes out of my step. And as my lungs slowly start to work again, I have to agree with him. This plane is nothing like the two-engine puddle jumper that ended my father’s life. It has four bedrooms, a boardroom with technology walls, and a long touchscreen table. There’s even a dining area that seats twelve, a prayer and meditation room, and twenty reclining seats in the back for his staff.
The three-pilot crew responsible for flying the plane on overseas trips tells me this particular jet has had exactly zero mid-air or on-the-ground malfunctions. Then they take a lot of time to answer my questions and explain to me the pre-flight checks that go into preventing the same kind of fuel system failure that caused my father’s plane to go down. They imply, but do not outright say, that my father didn’t keep up with the maintenance on his plane and, even worse, hired a pilot who did not perform the proper fuel system checks. By the end of our conversation, I understand that the combination of neglect and not taking the correct safety precautions before take-off was why his plane went down.
After we’re done talking to the pilots, Zahir leads me to the first-class level staff section where we take two seats in the first row.
“We must buckle up for take-off and landing. It is like commercial travel in this one way,” he tells me. “But we’ll be free to move about the cabin after takeoff.”
“Okay,” I say, but then cut off when the plane’s engines fire up.
I close my eyes and try to pretend this really is a commercial flight, the kind of first-class trip I have not been able to afford since my father died.
It totally doesn’t work. I can feel a rising panic as the plane starts to lift off the ground.
But then Zahir’s hand covers mine. “I am your boundary. I am your control,” he whispers in my ear. And the panic lifts, giving way to the same warm and secure feeling I always get when he completely immobilizes me and then takes me hard while I am still in a submission hold.
“How did you know that would calm me down?” I ask when it is just the two of us in the biggest of the four bedrooms where he has invited me to have dinner. It puts me in mind of the palace’s aesthetics with the richly-colored satin duvet on the queen-sized bed, and the Bedouin-style curtains that separate the sleeping area from the smaller sitting area. There’s even a Persian rug spread out on the dark wood floor.
“You are asking me how I have come to know you?” he asks with his low grumble-laugh as he opens the door to a small closet. Inside, are two freshly pressed suits hanging on the rack. “The answer is I’ve made a close study of you over the past two months. It is the same as how you knew that phone call to Holt would work on me.”
I think about it and realize he’s right. The meals and the sex and the fighting have allowed us to get to know each other far better than most other couples with only two months together would.
And that brings up another issue. That we are in this bedroom together. Flying to my home state together. Even though I know Zahir is a man who doesn’t forgive or forget.
“So…about that big punishment you had planned?” I ask. “Is that still on?”
He pulls one of the suits from the closet and answers, “Of course, habibti. But we will deal with your situation at home first. Then we will continue with the punishment.”
I nod, not really expecting anything less from him. But then I frown at the dark gray suit in his hands. “Wait…why are you changing into a suit?”
“My traditional clothes are what I most often wear in Jahwar. But I tend to wear suits when I am traveling abroad or attending events like Holt’s wedding.”
“But…you’re always in a suit when you visit me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Zahir crinkles his brow. “I dated a bit in high school and college, and I am aware many Western women find my traditional clothing…off-putting.”
I crook my head at him, a little stunned to discover that after weeks of having little to no choice about my clothing (or lack thereof), he would consider my feelings about what he chooses to wear. Then I guess, “So they used to call you Terror Fund Baby at Beaumont, too. Just like Asir.”
“Oh, I think it’s safe to say it was far worse for Asir,” he answers with a downward pull of his brows. “My brother has a kind and open nature. He was completely unprepared for the aggressive racism and bigotry of American teenagers.”
“Yeah, I bet,” I say with a wince. “But he did eventually figure it out. I mean, by his final year at Beaumont, those racist white kids voted him prom king.”
Zahir gives me a small half-smile. “True. I often feel he would have made a better king than me. I like the business aspects of being head of the royal family, but the people part…” he grimaces, “Asir’s always been a natural at navigating the social requirements of royal life, whereas I really have to work at it.”
I consider this. Consider him. And realize I like being here with him. Fully clothed and simply talking. It doesn’t feel like a punishment.
“Hey, Z,” I say, crossing the small room to stand in front of him and the suit he’s holding. Just close enough that we are almost but not quite touching.
“Yes, Prin?” he asks, eyes flickering with bemusement—probably because I am doing to him what he always does to me.
In keeping with the role reversal, I get as close to his ear as possible and ask, “Can I put this suit back in the closet for you…please?”
A look passes between us. We may be coming to know each other better, but we are both still full of surprises.
“Yes,” he answers.
His reply is simple. But the look in his eyes—the look in both our eyes—is not.
And that’s how Zahir and I end up talking on the flight back to New Jersey for far longer than we ever have back at his palace.
A woman in a short-sleeved button-up blouse and pencil skirt version of the palace uniform serves us each a glass of wine and an Arabic mezze of hummus, stuffed grape leaves, spicy eggplant dip, tabbouleh, potato harra, seared spinach, spicy cheese, potato kibbeh, and sambousek—the fried meat pockets I’ve come to love. Nabida is right. This food is nowhere near as good as the appetizer platters Zahir has been hand feeding me for the last two months.
But I eat happily, and even drink the wine as we sit and talk about Zahir’s life. From some of the trickier oil deals he’s currently negotiating for his kingdom, to the pressure that the Indian side of his family is putting on him to finish the Kingdom Mall. It’s all more than a little fascinating, and it slowly begins to dawn on me just how much time and effort he’s been putting into me with so much going on in his life beyond my suite’s doors.
We also talk about music. Zahir turns out to have very old-fashioned taste consisting of Arabian crooners from the seventies, and almost no American music or musicians save Frank Sinatra.
“Frank Sinatra?” I repeat, hardly able to believe Old Blue Eyes is the only American on his playlist.
“Yes. Sinatra is one of the few things Luca and I have in common.”
“Well, that and hookers,” I point out.
He bounces his head. “Our relationship, much like yours and mine, is complicated. Perhaps this is the only kind of relationship I can have with people from New Jersey?”
I chuff, mostly because it’s amusing to hear that somebody who grew up over six thousand miles away from New Jersey still “got jokes.”
“What’s, like, the most recent music you downloaded?” I ask after the attendant drops off our main course of curried chicken.
“Oh, let me think…that would have been a year or so ago,” he pauses for a moment to per
form some mental calculations, “Ah, I remember. It was by an incredible Palestinian singer…Omar Kamal. Here, let me play some of his music for you…”
He presses the front of his phone a few times and seconds later, a man begins to sing…wait for it…a cover of “Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You.”
“Wow, you really went out on a limb to embrace that guy into your music collection…”
Zahir’s looks mildly defensive as he says, “He is very talented. You should give him more consideration.”
But it’s good background music for our dinner conversation. And despite Zahir’s severely limited musical palate, I very much enjoy the fact that the closed-off sheikh is finally opening up. But eventually, Zahir consults his watch and stands up from the table. “It is 10:00 PM in New York. We can safely sleep without it being an issue now. You may return to your room.”
I had no idea he was keeping us up to avoid the type of jet lag that hit me like a truck during those early days in Jahwar. Honestly, if Nabida and Raima hadn’t assisted me in my first few days at the palace, I would have been neck-deep in some serious jet-lag for at least another week. So I am grateful Zahir planned ahead. At the same time, I’m a little sad at the idea of going back to my room.
“Hey, Z…” I say.
“Yes, Prin?” he answers.
“Thank you…”
And then, for the third time in my life, I kneel before him. But instead of begging, I lift his kandura and pull his dick out of the loose white underwear underneath.
For once, Zahir isn’t raging hard, but he swells as soon as I wrap my hand around him and take him in my mouth. I eagerly accept the challenge of bringing him back to form with a knowing smile.
“Prin…” he says, his breath hitching as his hands find the back of my BBC duchess braids.
I get the feeling he wasn’t planning on sexy times tonight. But he doesn’t make me stop or try and take the reins back as he usually does.
Instead, Z watches me take as much of his monster as I can into my mouth, before licking and stroking the parts I can’t fit all the way in. I watch him, too, and when his breath seizes up, I put him back in my mouth. A few deep sucks later, I’m swallowing his cum and drinking it down.
“Told you I like the kandura,” I tease afterwards, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
I stand and begin to make my way to the door. But just as I am about to move past him, he catches my hand.
“Prin…” he says, “…stay.”
A command. But it doesn’t sound like one. Or feel like one.
I don’t fight him. Just take off my clothes and climb onto the neatly-made bed.
He removes his clothes, too, dropping the tunic into a built-in hamper near the closet door. But instead of joining me on top of the covers, he tugs at them and motions for me to move over, so he can pull them all the way down.
I watch with wide eyes as a nude Zahir climbs into the bed and pulls the covers over us both. Then he turns me onto my side and pulls me backwards into his arms.
“Do you need help to fall asleep?” he asks, his voice husky in my ear as he gently cups a hand over my pussy.
“Yes, please,” I answer softly.
His fingers dive inside, and his thumb gently caresses my clit. And even though the sensations aren’t nearly as intense as those during our usual sex, I end up coming just as hard.
I pant for a second or two after, wondering if I should go to my designated room. But then Zahir murmurs, “Turn off bedroom four lights,” and the room blinks into darkness. Guess that answers that question…
“Goodnight, Prin,” he says.
“Goodnight, Z,” I reply.
We are a few hours into the flight. Somewhere over an ocean…I’m not even sure which one. And we are moving farther and farther from Jahwar.
Chapter 44
I wake up to see Zahir in a suit eating breakfast and he tells me we’ll be landing in Newark soon.
“Newark?” I ask. My father’s plane always landed at Teterboro Airport because it caters to private planes. I wonder if we’re going straight to Newark because Zahir is trying to spare me more troubling memories or because his jet is too big for a smaller airport to handle.
“Yes, Newark,” he answers. Then he tells me to take a shower before I can ask him why there. A sweater dress, lacy underthings, glossy riding boots, and all my toiletries have magically appeared in the bathroom. I dry off and dress myself, all the while noticing how very different I feel in Western-style clothes. The dress is still modest, but I would never wear it in the hot desert climate of Jahwar. Only someplace where winter hasn’t quite given over to spring. I am definitely, definitely not in Jahwar anymore.
We disembark and make our way through passport control and customs, and step outside the airport to be met by a small motorcade consisting of two Mercedes with New York license plates and, to my shock, a white Mercedes Maybach that looks identical to the one we drove in to the Jahwar airport. It’s idling between the other two cars and I can clearly see it has the same long, thin license plate with the royal family’s crest.
“Uh…how did you get your car here?” I demand as we walk toward an open back passenger door.
Zahir’s eyes crinkle with amusement. “Oh, did I forget to mention my plane also has a parking garage? I’ll be sure to take you for a quick tour on our way back.”
“Oh, my God!! Is that a Mercedes Maybach Landaulet???” Kasha screams before I’m barely out of the car.
The girls obviously knew we were coming because they’re waiting in matching flower-print skater dresses outside our home when we pull into the circular driveway and standing next to the broken fountain.
“Um…” I say, looking to Zahir for support.
“It is,” he replies, though the girls have yet to say so much as a hello to him.
“What?!?! Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” Kasha whips out her phone and poses in front of the vehicle for a selfie.
“Whoa…I thought this model was only a prototype.” Sasha looks uncharacteristically impressed.
“Just how rich are you?” Kasha demands while pulling in her twin sister to strike another pose in front of Zahir’s car.
And I’m sorry to say the questions only get more embarrassing from there.
“So…since you’re our brother-in-law now, can you arrange marry us to one of those hot rich sheikhs?” Kasha asks as she makes us a pot of coffee.
Zahir and I are seated at the kitchen counter while the twins play host and the guards hover discreetly outside the kitchen door.
I try not to notice everything wrong with the room. The peeling wallpaper, the cracked linoleum, and the janky faucet that spits water in all directions when Kasha fills the coffeepot. These are on my endless to-do list of house repairs I don’t have the money to fix.
My gaze shifts to the man beside me. You know, the one who casually throws one of his hundred cars into his private Boeing before flying over the ocean. But I know I shouldn’t feel embarrassed about the state of our house. Zahir has to realize not everyone is lucky enough to live in a palace.
Plus, we’re lucky to have a roof over our heads. The only reason my dad’s creditors didn’t take it along with the cars and everything else was because he’d put it in my mother’s name as part of some obscure tax evasion loophole. And since they were never officially married, the house went straight to me after her death. Not that my dad ever bothered to tell me this. I didn’t discover I owned the house until shortly after he died.
By then, the house had been through some hard living and needed a lot of fixing up, including foundation work, to make it worth selling. Considering the twins had already lost so much, I figured the least I could do was stay with them here, so they didn’t have to go through yet another upheaval.
But apparently Kasha’s sick of living in a dilapidated mansion. She sounds totally serious about her arranged marriage question as she eyes the what I’ve now learned is a highly coveted Mercedes-Maybach G650
Laundlet through the kitchen window. “I mean that ride is sick!”
“Kasha…” I say, my voice laced with warning.
Zahir only smiles and says, “Considering your young age, I believe it would be better for you to focus on your singing career. But if you truly wish for an arranged marriage, you are welcome to ask me again in six or seven years.”
Sasha rolls her eyes. “Yeah, like you’ll be around in six years.” She pours milk into a German cow-shaped creamer Dad brought back from one of his European trips.
“He might!” her romantic twin, insists. “You never know.”
“Actually, I do,” Sasha answers. “I read all about it on the internet. This temporary marriage thing is something rich Arab dudes like him do when they want to get some on the regular without pissing off their mosque and family. If he was serious about Prin, he’d let her live here and date her like a normal person instead of forcing her to stay with him in his palace.”
“Sasha,” I say, my voice not nearly as light as it was when I chided Kasha.
But Sasha just slams the milk down and says, “By the way, Prin, not to tell you how to run your game or anything, but I hope your dowry includes more than just him agreeing to release us from your contract. Because a lot of other chicks get six to seven figures to slut themselves out.”
“Sasha!!” her sister cries, her voice squeaky with shock and dismay.
“Tell me I’m wrong, Prin,” Sasha replies with a defiant tilt of her head. Her cynical gaze lasers right through me. “Tell me there is any chance of you staying with this guy when your sex contract is up.”
I stare at Sasha in open-mouthed shock, my face hot with embarrassment. Truth is, she’s not entirely wrong. This marriage really is nothing more than a marketing tactic with some unexpectedly intense sex thrown in for fun. It is definitely not a relationship, no matter how happily my heart beat last night when Zahir and I fell asleep together.
I attempt to respond, hoping some sort of non-lame sounding excuse or explanation will magically pop out. But it doesn’t, and I end up closing my mouth again, a small choking sound issuing from somewhere low in my throat.
LUCA - Her Ruthless Don (Ruthless and Obsessed Duet, Book 1): 50 Loving States, New York, Pt. 2 (Ruthless Tycoons 3) Page 29