Stockings for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 5)

by Annabelle Winters

  —and he EXPLODED in her just as the thought came rushing in, just as her own orgasm came rushing in, gushing in, BLASTING in, and through the deafening rush of ecstasy she heard herself SCREAM, and inside it she heard herself WAIL, and beyond it she heard . . . she heard . . . she heard that woman’s whisper again . . .

  “Thank you,” came the whisper from somewhere so far outside that it had to have come from inside. “Thank you, my angel.”

  17

  He was still inside her when the sun rose, and the Sheikh blinked in the splintered light of the hospital room as he glanced over at this woman who was yet again asleep in his arms, curled up on her side like a bean, her white stockings still clinging to her smooth thighs, her bottom pressed tight against his cock that was somehow still semi-hard and partially inside her.

  “Eleanor,” he whispered as he tried to turn but then realized she was lying on his arm. “Eleanor?”

  “I’m awake,” she said in a startlingly clear voice, her tone almost professional, a hint of distance in her voice, perhaps even a sliver of coldness, like something had closed up in her, withdrawn, gone back into hiding, perhaps deeper than before. “How are you feeling?”

  Akbar hesitated for a moment, not sure what she meant. He was used to women cuddling and cooing in the mornings as if they were long-lost lovers or freshly glowing honeymooners. But this woman, this woman to whom he felt unfathomably close to, almost BONDED to . . . ya, Allah, she will not look at me and instead just calmly asks how I am feeling, like last night never happened, like I did not bring out something in her, like I did not come inside her!

  And by God, I came inside her, did I not! How? Why? And why does it not disturb me? Why does it not make me anxious and angry, just like the time I split a condom inside Clarissa even though I make sure she is on the pill. In fact I asked Clarissa to take the morning-after pill as well, and still I was more anxious than I am now with this nurse I have only just met! Has the blood-loss driven me mad?

  But what about her, he wondered now as he felt Eleanor shift against him, swinging her legs off the bed and now sitting on the edge of the mattress, face turned away from him, legs dangling off as she took several long breaths and stared at the sun rising red through the shutters.

  “What about you?” he asked, reaching out and touching her back, pulling his hand back when he saw how she tensed up and shifted again.

  “You’re the one with the injury,” she said in that professional tone that now betrayed just the slightest of wavers. “Which is obviously a knife wound, by the way. I could lose my job for not reporting it. I could lose my nurse’s license. I could—”

  “Then report it,” Akbar snapped, laying his head down as he felt himself want to close off as well. Who the hell does this woman think she is? “Call the authorities, the police, the goddamn CIA if you want. I have nothing to hide.”

  Now she half-turned, and the Sheikh could see Elle almost let a smile through. “The CIA doesn’t handle domestic matters. That’s the FBI. Don’t you watch American TV?”

  “Trust me, an Arab Sheikh does not need to watch American TV to know what the CIA does.”

  And now her smile broke, not full and not for long, but it was there, and it made Akbar smile, and he feel warm inside, giddy inside, playful inside, like a child, a teenager, an innocent, someone who could get more joy from a trivial moment with the right woman than from three months of bondage and domination with the wrong one.

  “Your nation of Nihaara isn’t in any danger of being bombed, though. Right?” she said now, pulling a bedsheet over her naked shoulders as she glanced around the room.

  Akbar pulled the bedsheet off her, whipping it away from her as she tried to grab it again. Now she crossed her arms over her breasts, still refusing to face him as she sat there on the bed, her smooth curves highlighted by the red of the rising sun, her brown hair glowing like a halo.

  She truly looks like an angel of light, the Sheikh thought as his jaw clenched and his gut seized up as the image of Clarissa pulled at him from the dark recesses of his mind, like something inside was reminding him that he had one hell of a mess to deal with when he got out of here. It was already Christmas morning, and he had not been able to close the deal for Rattlesnake Records yet, which meant that Clarissa was serious about this marriage bullshit, this all-or-nothing two-for-one deal.

  Bloody right, she is serious, Akbar thought with a grimace as that knife-wound throbbed as another reminder of the madness of this woman, the madness he had brought out in her.

  And it was partly his fault, Akbar knew. Yes, Clarissa made the choice to do it, but she was not a psychopath, he knew. She was mad but not insane. Wild but not reckless. Well, not too reckless, he thought as that grimace turned to a tight smile.

  Now he pushed aside those thoughts and looked back over at this nurse who was sitting on his bed, her back to him as she faced the east. Eleanor Easton, he thought. Elle of the East, from where the sun rises. My angel of light. Ya Allah, what am I bringing out in her? Is it right for me to do that?

  “You know my country?” he said suddenly, stopping himself from falling down the rabbit-hole of thoughts that had no resolution, at least not now. “You know I am from Nihaara? Yesterday you did not even recognize my name! And I pay your salary, Nurse Easton!”

  She half-turned again. “It’s called the Internet,” she said holding up her phone and waving it. “And actually my salary is paid by the Nashville Memorial Trust, which—”

  “Which is almost entirely funded by me, with a handful of token American contributors to—”

  “To make it look more . . . what, American? More legitimate? I saw that you’ve got these trusts set up in cities all over the world. San Francisco Memorial Trust, Berlin Memorial Trust, Paris Memorial Trust. That’s a lot of memories, buddy.”

  Akbar snorted once, partly with surprise that she had found all of that online, and partly at how refreshingly direct this woman was being—even though she still wouldn’t turn and look at him.

  “Is there a question in there?” he said now, leaning back and placing his hand behind his head as he smiled up at the ceiling. “Because I have lots of answers.”

  “No,” she said quickly, shifting again, her gaze resting on her pink scrubs that were crumbled by the far wall. Now she looked down at herself, and Akbar could sense the self-consciousness go through her, and he suddenly got the feeling that this woman was going to walk away from him, walk away and not look back—not because she was that kind of woman, but ironically because she WASN’T that kind of woman.

  “Too late,” he said, resisting the urge to just grab her from behind, pull her into him, hold her tight until he convinced her that . . . convinced her of what?

  “Sorry?” she said, half-turning again as she shifted towards the foot of the bed, her arms still covering her breasts, her legs tight together. “Listen, I—”

  “Christmas breakfast,” he said.

  “What?”

  “We are having Christmas breakfast together.”

  “Now?”

  “Well, it is Christmas, Nurse Easton. Is it not?”

  She nodded slowly. “Yup. It sure is,” she said, her voice wavering as she shifted her bottom closer to the foot of the bed, farther from him. “But I—”

  “Look at me,” he said. “Eleanor, look at me.”

  “Don’t call me Eleanor. It sounds like—”

  “I will call you what I damn well please. Now look at me, goddamn it!”

  Now Akbar sat up in bed even as he felt his stitches pull, and he grabbed her upper arm from behind and tried to turn her. But she resisted and so he pulled harder, and now she WHIPPED around and brought that other hand around lightning quick, and it was balled up into a fist, balled up tight like she knew what she was doing, and he saw it coming, saw it coming in slow motion, like that fist itself was a ball of emotion, emotion that she didn’t know how to accept, didn’t know how to express, didn’t know how to release in any other
way right now.

  So the Sheikh clenched his jaw and tucked his tongue back away from his teeth and stayed still and let it come. He let it come.

  18

  She felt the shock go through the entire length of her arm, through her shoulder, even making her own jaw hurt as she connected with the Sheikh, her tight fist smashing into the meaty part of his jaw, just behind his cheek, and she pulled back and tried to swing again as she felt the adrenaline surge along with the emotion, the emotion emanating from that indescribable feeling of sickness that she had been harboring ever since she woke up with his cock still inside her, the memory of what she had done raw and visceral, the memory of what she had said, what she had done, what she had allowed him to do, what she had . . . ASKED him to do!

  I’m not that person, she had told herself all morning as she listened to him breathe against her, this man who was a stranger, someone she knew nothing about, someone who by all appearances was a man she should stay far away from, a man who emanated a darkness that made her feel dirty inside, filthy inside . . . so goddamn filthy.

  And now she hit him again as she felt tears of rage pour down her cheeks, and through it she knew it was anger at herself, rage directed inwards, but she couldn’t stop herself, couldn’t stop pummeling him even as he covered his face like a boxer and let her hit his bulging arms, his broad, exposed chest, his rock-hard abs, his tight stomach and sides . . .

  And only when she felt the warm, sticky wetness of fresh blood on her fists did Elle realize with horror that she had busted open his wound, torn away the dressing, broken through the stitches, and he was bleeding hard now even as he stayed upright and flexed and silent, letting her release whatever she needed to release.

  Now she was sobbing as her fists loosened and her punches slowed to a desperate pawing, the pawing of a confused young animal, an innocent that didn’t understand what was happening, why she was feeling the way she did, why she was acting the way she was, why she was naked here with this strange man, why his blood was all over her fists, his semen still in her depths, his—

  And he pulled her into him now, pulled in this scared little animal with a bearhug that felt warm and scary and wonderful and terrifying, and she sobbed into his chest as he kissed her head, she clawed at his back with those bloody fingers, she took in his raw, masculine smell with every gasping breath she sucked in through her heaving sobs until finally she went limp in his arms, her tears slowing, her heart slowing, everything slowing . . .

  “It was not you,” he whispered into her hair. “It was me. It was too much, too soon. Too much for you to accept. Too much darkness for your innocent light. It was me and not you. You are still that person. You are still that angel, my sweet nurse, my tender healer. You are that angel of light.”

  And he kissed her head again, her forehead, her nose now, finally her lips as she tasted the salt from her tears, tasted the sweetness from his lips, the warmth from his mouth. Then she silently moved away from him and washed her hands and snapped on those purple gloves and went to work, cleaning his wound and removing the torn stitches, sealing the cut with liquid adhesive and putting on a fresh dressing. And only when she was done did Elle realize that she had done it all completely naked, just stockings and gloves, somehow not self-conscious at all with her nakedness.

  What is happening to me, she wondered as she turned away from him and tossed those gloves. Who is this woman who’s standing here naked with a stranger’s semen dripping out down her thighs? Who is this filthy woman, this dirty lady, this bad girl?

  “Christmas breakfast,” he said from behind her, the first words spoken in what seemed like a long time. “I will not take no for an answer, because it is not a question.”

  Elle took a breath now as she stared at the small rectangular mirror above the sink. A part of her still wanted to walk away and never see this man again, never be reminded of what she had done with him, never have to deal with the question of whether what happened last night was all him or if there was a part of her that wanted it, would perhaps want it again, want more, want—

  Stop it, she said to her reflection, almost not wanting to look in the mirror out of fear that it really would be another woman staring back at her. But it was still her pretty round face, smooth, creamy skin, full red lips, big brown eyes that for some reason didn’t show as much confusion as Elle thought they would. Yes, stop thinking about last night and think about right now, about what you’re going to do.

  You can walk away and never look back, she told herself as she stood there and washed her hands again, taking her time as she felt the Sheikh’s eyes on her, like he somehow knew what she was thinking. And what would that say about you, Elle? What kind of a woman sleeps with a man and then never sees him again?

  A whore, came the answer from inside her. A harlot. A hooker. A woman of the night.

  But what does it say about you if you DO want to see this man again, she wondered now as she tried to quiet those judgmental voices of childhood, of society and religion, Sunday school and scripture. Yes, what does it say about you if you want to get to know him, if you let him get to know you. Where can a relationship that started like this possibly end up? How can it ever be right? How can it ever be good? How could I ever introduce him to my mom?

  And then it hit her that ohmygod I’m meeting Mom for Christmas breakfast, and I’ve got an hour to go home and clean up and get to the diner we always go to on Christmas, ever since it became just the two of us.

  Now a wave of relief washed over her, and Elle decided that yes, I can and should and WILL just walk away from this. It didn’t happen. It couldn’t have happened. I’m not that woman. I’m not that girl. I’m not that slut. I’m not that whore. There can’t be a future with this man, and so there might as well not be a past with this man.

  “Thanks, but my mom and I do Christmas breakfast together every year. Just the two of us,” she said.

  “This Christmas there will be three,” came the answer, deadpan and dead serious.

  “Sorry, what?”

  “Three of us at Christmas breakfast,” said the Sheikh.

  Elle turned to him now, the color rushing to her face when she saw the Sheikh slowly get up off the bed and touch his freshly dressed wound, nod approvingly, and then smile full and hold his arms out wide, looking almost comical in his brown nakedness, those dark, rippling muscles and long brown cock so at odds with the goofy smile on his handsome face.

  She snorted in disbelief, turning away from his gaze and finally grabbing her scrubs from the floor, slipping on her pink pants without bothering to search for those blue panties.

  “Uh, yeah. I don’t think so,” she said, almost amused as she straightened up and slipped her top on before realizing that she didn’t have her bra. “That would be a little traumatic for all three of us, I bet.”

  “It was not a question, Eleanor,” he said as that goofy smile relaxed into an easy grin, his green eyes narrowing slightly, an unmistakable glint shining through as she saw his strong jaw go tight. “If you resist, I will have you followed and I will seat myself at your table and engage your mother in the most delightful conversation.”

  “I know the owner of the place, and I’ll make sure he doesn’t let you in,” she retorted, forcing back a smile.

  “Then I will buy the place on the spot and become the new owner myself.”

  “I’ll call the FBI and report you for stalking.”

  “You can call the CIA and report me for terrorism if you want. It will not stop me from getting what I want, Nurse Easton. I will take a sniper’s bullet and still stagger to your table and order a coffee and a blueberry muffin. Nothing stops me from getting what I want.”

  Now she whirled around, a giddiness bubbling up in her, and that sickness was gone, that sense of darkness chased away by the lightness of this moment, the ridiculousness of this naked man, this naked Sheikh from the Middle-East, a knife-wound in his side, his cock swinging as he walked towards her and stood with his arms s
tretched wide again, like he could take on the world, take on the Gods, take on anything and everything to get what he wanted.

  “And what is it you want, Sheikh Akbar Salim,” she said, finally letting that smile come through along with a giggle and a head-shake of disbelief.

  “Is it not clear?” he said, walking close now, naked and brown, tall and imposing, dark and dangerous, knife-wound and tattoo. “I want to meet your mother, Nurse Easton. I want to meet your mother.”

  19

  “Ya, Allah, if your mother were alive to hear this, she would have you exiled!”

  “That is why I am saying it only now that she is gone, Father,” said Sheikh Mohammed Salim, eldest son, heir apparent, the successor to old Sheikh Salim of Nihaara.

  “And you will not say it again. Not to me. Not even to yourself. It is unheard of. Almost heresy. The heir-apparent turning down the supreme Sheikhood? It is not yours to turn down, young Mohammed,” said the old Sheikh, blinking away his disbelief as he stared down at his tall, thin, balding son with the carefully cultivated goatee.

  “That is part of my point, Father. I am not so young anymore. In a year I will be forty, and I—”

  “So you are impatient? Is that it? You do not want to wait any longer for me to die? Should I jump from the high minaret of the Royal Palace so that you can take my seat? Is this blackmail? You are threatening me? You want me to—”

  “Father, Father, FATHER! Stop! Please!” said Mo, forcing himself to stay serious as his hunched old father gathered his spotless white robes and stood up off the purple upholstered, gold-trimmed “throne” that was really a custom-designed easy-chair with excellent lumbar support and almost a million dollars worth of precious metal and gemstones sewn into the gaudy trim. “Please, Father. Inshallah, you will live a hundred more years and none would be happier than I! That is not my reason, and not my intention.” Mo sighed now, glancing down at the sandstone floors of his Father’s evening chambers, now looking off to his left, towards the distant west, where the desert sun was setting over the golden dunes of the Nihaaran desert, its glow casting the pink minarets and white sandstone bungalows in a surreal light. He looked back at his father now, the seriousness back in his expression, the anxiety of what he was about to say coming through in his voice. “But you are correct on one thing, Father.”