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

by Annabelle Winters

  Still, the idea of being a Queen in the desert wasn’t as distasteful. Besides, once all this nonsense was settled, Akbar would certainly not be confined to his God-forsaken little country. At the very least, Clarissa could split her time between the United States and Nihaara. People would understand that. They wouldn’t question her commitment. Hell, Akbar wouldn’t question her commitment either. Not after she converted for him.

  Converted for him.

  Religion hadn’t been a big part of her upbringing, and Clarissa generally couldn’t give a rat’s ass whose God was fucking whose Goddess and in what magical hole. It was all just a racket. Just a business. A set of transactions. And so this could be a transaction too, yeah? Fuck yeah.

  So she pulled up the number of the Islamic Association of Tennessee and dialed, not wasting much time in getting to the point.

  “Yes. How much would I need to donate to have someone come out to my office and convert me? Yes? No, convert me to Moslem. Mooselim. Izlam. You know what I mean. Yes? Sorry? Hello? Hello? OK, fuck you. Your loss!”

  It took her over an hour, but she finally found a retired Muslim cleric who seemed to understand how things worked in America, and the old man showed up at the office before sunset, incense and prayer mat in hand, an official looking document with an Arabic letterhead and a place for her signature.

  “Regular ink or blood?” she asked as she looked at the document after he had muttered a string of prayers and showed her which direction the holy city of Mecca stood.

  He offered her a smile as she signed. Then he put his signature and seal beside hers, insisted on taking only cash, and told her she could keep the prayer mat and incense.

  41

  “Once you sign here, it is done,” the emissary said quietly, pointing at the paper with the Arabic letterhead, his finger on the blank signature line right next to the seal and signature of an old Muslim cleric who had just left the private chambers where Elle was staying.

  She had been woken up by a female attendant, who had informed her that she was needed urgently. After pulling on a robe and running a brush through her hair, Elle had walked to the anteroom to see a wiry old man with intelligent eyes, who in a quiet voice explained that he was an emissary of the Judicial Council, and had disturbed her at this unholy hour at the insistence of Sheikh Akbar himself.

  “Where is he?” she had asked, her eyes lighting up at the mention. “Can I see him.”

  “Yes, of course. That is why he has sent me,” the emissary had said. “But first I must speak with you, Ms. Easton. I must speak with you of a matter that I fear—nay, I am certain—that the Sheikh will not bring before you.”

  “OK . . .” Elle had said, frowning for a moment and then nodding.

  And the old man had gone on, on and on, talking about the laws, the councils, the connections, ascendancy and dependency, politics and influence, marriage and religion.

  Marriage and religion.

  “So now it is your choice, Ms. Easton,” the emissary had finally said. “And it is not an easy choice. It is not a choice I would wish upon anyone, let alone a woman who may well be my Queen in a few days! But I have laid the facts before you, stated my opinion, and now it is in your hands.” He had paused a moment, looking into her eyes and then smiling tightly, those intelligent eyes of his showing a flash of warmth. “Of course, I cannot simply expect you to trust that I am stating the truth and not attempting to manipulate or influence you, respected Madam. And so of course you must discuss all this with Sheikh Akbar before you make any choice. It is not my intention to apply undue pressure, my lady.” He had taken a breath. “But there is the pressure of time, and since Sheikh Akbar is immovable as the mountains of Iran, I have come to you in the hope that I do not have to take that last step and force the choice on the young, woefully unprepared Prince Kaizad.”

  Elle’s frown had only gotten deeper as the man spoke, and finally she closed one eye and bit her lip and said, “Immovable. What do you mean when you said Sheikh Akbar is immovable?”

  The man shifted in his cushioned seat. “I asked the Sheikh if he intended to marry you, Ms. Easton,” he said.

  Elle felt her breath catch when she realized that this was the night of the third day, and ohgod she hadn’t seen him, hadn’t spoken to him, hadn’t even sent word of her decision! And then it occurred to her that ohgod HAD she made a decision? HAD she said yes? Of COURSE she’d said yes! But did he know? Or was he sitting in an underground dungeon somewhere, wondering if she’d deserted him, if all this was indeed too much too soon for sweet, innocent little Eleanor, if that gentle nurse from Nashville couldn’t handle the drama, didn’t want the trauma, couldn’t stomach the stress, wouldn’t take the madness, had forsaken him, left him alone in the dark, his angel of light, not enough light for his darkness . . .

  “He said yes,” the emissary continued.

  “Sorry, what?” said Elle, blinking as she tried to refocus.

  “When I asked him if he intended to marry you, Ms. Easton. The Sheikh said yes immediately.”

  Oh, God, of course he said yes, and of course he knew that she’d said yes, and of course they didn’t need to say it to know it, and of course they knew it in the first three minutes, the first three days, the next three lifetimes . . . just like they knew it when she dressed his wound, when he kissed her lips, when he pushed her up against that wall and she gasped and said, “Stop or I’ll scream.” If that wasn’t a woman saying yes, then what was?

  And the thought almost made her laugh as that secret darkness reared its head inside her, reminding her that a part of him was inside her, a part of him that was really a part of her, had always been a part of her, silently waiting for its master to summon it to the fore . . .

  “But when I told him that he should simply make you convert to Islam and it would be done, that is when he became immovable, Ms. Easton,” the emissary was saying when she chased away those thoughts and came back to the moment. “He said he could not ask you to do that. He would not ask you. He refused to even discuss it.”

  Elle blinked as she tried to follow. Is that what this man was here for in the middle of the night? To ask her to convert to Islam? To ask her what Akbar had refused to ask her? To put the choice in her hands? And what kind of a choice was it? If she said no, and the young Prince Kai didn’t marry someone, then Akbar could sit in prison for months while some old men with white beards went back and forth with endless debates in all kinds of committees and councils all over the Middle-East?

  Oh, God, Elle thought as she thought of her mom now, what the woman would say if Elle woke her up right now and said, “Hey, Mom. One more decision that I’d like to bounce off you here. And I kinda need to decide in like an hour.”

  She almost laughed at the scenario, but of course she knew that this one was on her. This was her decision, and one she needed to make alone. She couldn’t even bring Akbar into it. After all, he’d already said so much simply by refusing to even ASK her if she’d be willing to convert!

  And then it occurred to her that maybe he’d done it because he thought she’d say no, perhaps be offended, so offended that she’d walk away, again saying it was too much, too messed up, too dark and twisted. So now where did THAT leave her?! Would she need to convert to prove to him that she COULD handle it? Handle ALL that came with his world? The twists and turns, the politics and religion, the darkness and the light?

  Now she heard Mom’s voice again, Mom saying that Elle should ask Akbar to convert to Catholicism to prove that he was ready to enter HER world, to show that he would love her more than anything, more than . . . more than . . . more than God?!

  And when that thought came ripping through, Elle had to stand up and excuse herself, because only then did it occur to her what her mother—her conservative, straight-laced, God-fearing, God-LOVING mother was really saying, was really, really saying!

  She was saying, “Elle, don’t you see? When you find that someone, that special someone, that one man who was
made for this one woman, that one man who can bring out the deepest feminine in you, the one man who is willing to give up everything to possess you . . . then, honey, my baby girl, my little angel of light . . . that’s when you’ve found God, truly found God! Because God lives in the UNION at the bottom of it, the UNION at the top of it, the UNION in the center of it, the center of the universe, the center of everything, where opposites unite and become one, man and woman join in the flesh and the spirit, the darkness becomes bright and the light shines with black beauty, dark beauty, the universe’s beauty, God’s beauty, your beauty, Elle. Yours and his.”

  “You can find God in the darkness as well as the light.”

  You can find God in the darkness as well as the light.

  And now Elle looked at that piece of paper, and she took a breath, and she signed her name.

  42

  Oh, God, where am I, she thought as the heavy wooden door creaked shut behind her, leaving her alone in the darkness.

  Elle pulled at the dark colored hijab that the emissary had sent a female attendant to bring for her so she could move through the palace discreetly as she was led down through winding sandstone staircases cut into the desert bedrock, through cool passageways that dripped with fallout from the underground river from which Nihaara drew its water supply. She walked for what seemed like an hour, silently following the emissary deeper and deeper underground, feeling like she was walking back into that dream, deeper into that fantasy, that fantasy that sometimes felt so dark that the only thing holding the fear at bay, the only thing letting her take another step down beneath the earth, the only thing keeping her going was her faith that he was at the end of this road, waiting for her, desperately waiting for her, for her light.

  Now she was alone, the emissary assuring her she could pull at an old chain hanging by the door and it would summon an attendant to lead her back out. Alone in the dark. Alone with her faith. Alone with her fantasy. Alone with him?

  “Akbar?” she called out, hesitation in her voice as the flickering yellow bulbs made the shadows dance against the dark red sandstone walls.

  “Elle,” came his voice, and she heard the relief, sensed the excitement, felt the joy.

  And now she felt joy, she felt excitement, she felt the light, and she RAN down the uneven corridor like a child through an enchanted forest, the creatures of her dream laughing in anticipation as they took their places in the long red shadows of this underground world, and she saw him now, his handsome face dark and weary, raw from sleeplessness, his stubble thick and unruly, a bruise on his forehead. He looked like a man from another time and place, a military man, a wartime ambulance driver, and the whole place had a feel of someplace beyond time, the darkness and the urgency making Elle feel a desperate sort of love for this man, a love that she KNEW was something that had existed beyond the three days they’d known each other.

  “Akbar,” she gasped as he grabbed her through the bars, his strong arms pulling her in so fast she hit the bars with a force that knocked the wind out of her, knocked any remaining sense of the real world out of her, plunged her into this fantasy all the way, all the goddamn way.

  And then he kissed her, a kiss that rang out across space and time, a kiss that came from that place where three minutes and three days and three years and three centuries made about as much damn sense as three earnest elves and two giggling goblins making pancakes out of mistletoe and frankincense.

  Yes, he kissed her. By God, he kissed her. By this God and that God and every God, he kissed her.

  43

  He kissed her even though he had so much to say, grunted when he tried to speak, growled when he tried to talk, roared when he finally gave up and simply gave in, gave in to her, gave in to himself, to the moment, the underground, the fantasy . . . the fantasy that by Allah was so damned real that he truly felt like that imprisoned criminal, that dungeoned dissenter, that prisoner of war . . .

  “Tomorrow I hang,” he whispered through the bars as he kissed her, the criminal kissing his girl, the dissenter kissing his rebel-queen, the soldier saying goodbye to the woman who made the fight worthwhile. “I hang for treason, for rebellion, for blasphemy. Murder and conspiracy. Crimes against the king, crimes against the Sheikh, crimes against—”

  “They are wrong,” she whispered urgently, and he almost smiled when he saw how deep she was with him, taking him deeper. “You are a good man, and I will fight for you, I will set you free, break you free if I have to.”

  “It is too late,” he muttered, pulling her by the waist, pulling her against the bars so tight he could see the metal press against her breasts, the front of her thighs, even her cheeks as she pressed her face to the bars to receive his kiss. “Today is the third day and tomorrow I hang. Tonight is all we have, mio amore.”

  “God will save you because you are good,” she whispered, holding back a smile before she gasped at the force with which he grabbed her breasts through the thin black cloth of the Muslim hijab that covered her curves.

  Akbar groaned when he felt her thick nipples stiffen under his touch, and his erection was so strong he began to unbuckle just to ease the pressure of his cock in those black silk underwear that were already stretched and soaked with his sticky wetness, his need for this woman.

  “There is no God in these dark caverns,” he whispered as he slipped that belt out past the loops with his left hand, the fingers of his right hand clamped down on her nipple, pinching and pulling it through the gap between the bars.

  “Allah exists in the darkness and the light,” she muttered through her half-veil as her mouth opened wide at the pain of his clamped fingers on her nipple, and she reached in through the bars now, reaching for his peaked trousers that were already unbuttoned.

  She unzipped him now as he gasped and looked down at her black-clad hand snaking in through the iron bars, smooth white fingers drawing down his zip, now sliding in and grasping his cock firmly through the silk cloth of his underwear, pulling already, pulling him closer to her with his cock as he growled in ecstasy, grunted in pleasure, gasped at the sensation of her warm hand around his thick shaft.

  “Allah is no longer my God,” he muttered as she pulled at his cock, her brown eyes looking black in the dim light, her brown hair hidden by the dark veil of the hijab that flowed like black flames in the yellow underground light, casting cackling shadows against the red dungeon walls. “My captors have shown me the light, and I have found my way to Christ. My captor . . .” He groaned in delirium as she pulled at his hardness, her strokes slow and smooth, his need rising to the point where he was losing track of himself, of what he was saying. “My captor, the woman who broke through my defenses and brought me to my knees, to my downfall, brought me to her God, to our God, to a God that is all Gods.”

  “Sounds formidable, this captor of yours, this fiery woman of the cloth . . . ” she whispered as she brought her other hand between the bars now, pushing his unbuttoned trousers past his muscular hips, now pulling the waistband of his underwear down even as she maintained her grip on his shaft with the other hand, firmly jerking him off through the underwear as he felt her get close to pulling the restrictive cloth away and unleashing him, releasing his cock and balls that felt hard and full, angry and raw.

  “Woman of the cloth,” he muttered as he looked down at her in that hijab, her white skin glowing in the dim light, the woman looking like a lover from another time and place, a Muslim warrior-woman with her man on the battlefield, a Persian mountain-girl, a Turkish slave-girl, now that American nurse again suddenly as she glanced up into his eyes for the briefest of kisses before looking down again.

  “Woman of the cloth. Woman of the stocking,” he said now, as that image of when he first undressed her came to his swirling mind, making the dark caverns seem bright suddenly, and he knew it was her light, the light that shined through her, that came from someplace deeper and was brightened and polished and given color and shine and purpose by the woman Elle was, the woman she
was with him, that balance she brought to him, the balance that was the basis for all movement, all rhythm, the rhythm of the universe, the rhythm of God, the rhythm of the Goddess, of all Gods and Goddesses, Allah and Yahweh and Mohamed and Christ, Jupiter and Zeus and Isis, Brahma, Vishnu, Kaali, the God in the alcoholic’s bottle, the Goddess in a hit of the drug, the angel in the distance, the devil in the detail . . .

  Now his need was there, his desire unleashed, his passion furious and alive, his arousal hard and intense, open and deadly, unstoppable, unforgivable, unremitting, unrelenting . . .

  And as Elle pulled his underwear down past his hips, his cock sprang out straight and hard, long and thick, dark like those goddamn metal bars of the cage, and the Sheikh could not see, could not hear, could not stop . . . would not stop.

  “Here in the underground there is no Allah and no Yahweh, no Mohammed and no Christ, just man and woman, a man-god and his woman-goddess,” he growled, the voice rumbling through him as he felt his arousal take over like a living, breathing, laughing thing, wild and free, dark and unstoppable, all-powerful in this underworld. “In here I am God,” he muttered as he pulled her hand away from his naked cock, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her into the bars, looking her deep in those brown eyes that had that black gleaming in them fierce and true, taking him to that place where he KNEW he was a god and he KNEW she was a goddess and he KNEW he was all-powerful, all-encompassing, the commander of the realm, the master of the universe, the master of his mistress, his woman, this woman, this woman who WAS his realm, who WAS his universe, who WAS his. His.

  “Then what God do I answer to as I go down on my knees,” she whispered as she broke from his kiss, her face sliding down the bars, tongue out, dark-red tongue of the woman, teasing his bare chest as he ripped his buttons off and tossed his tunic to the corner and stood there naked, hard, erect, arms out to the side, feeling free even behind bars.