101 Nights Box Set: Volume One

by SE Reign

  I laugh, this time because I’m not sure what else to say or do. Normally when people compliment me, they’re trying to work me over for some reason.

  Natalie is too good to do that. She’s serious. I don’t understand someone like her but the idea she’s genuinely interested in me makes my pulse accelerate to the point I’ve almost got a headache.

  I reach out to her, my hands sliding up her skirt. Her breath catches, and I lean against her, pressing her body to the railing.

  “You’re willing to give this a shot,” I say as casually as I can with a half-smile. “Assuming I can hold up my end of the deal.”

  “Give what a shot?”

  “Us.”

  Her brow furrows. “So … you’re serious. This isn’t just about a deal.”

  “Not entirely,” I reply carefully. I’ve never put myself out there like this, never dreamt of having to worry about rejection, especially not from someone I’ve already trapped in my world.

  I slide a hand into her underwear and a finger into her pussy. She’s hot and wet for me, as always.

  “You know were slightly dysfunctional, right?” She’s staring at me hard, the flush of desire creeping up her face.

  “Not really. You told me what you need, and I’ll deliver. Seems more functional than most of the relationships I’ve seen on talk shows.”

  Astonishment crosses her features, and then she laughs hard.

  “I want to give it … us a try,” I say more clearly. “That’s why I asked you what I did earlier today.”

  “My god, EJ,” she murmurs. “Just when I think I’ve figured you out … so you do like me.”

  “Enough to see where this goes.”

  “Just say yes!”

  “Yes,” I respond.

  “Okay then. I get it now. We have some things to work out, though.”

  Like our secrets? She’s right. We have a long way to go to become somewhat functional as a couple, but I think this is the first step towards something more.

  I stroke her clit hard. She groans and leans into me.

  “We’ll figure it out.” I take her into my arms. “Right now, we have a bed that needs christening.” The need rising inside me is inhuman, stronger than usual, egged on by the emotional turmoil of this night, and the small drop of hope blooming inside me.

  I didn’t know how much I wanted this – wanted us. My desire for her is consuming. I’ve always been active in the sex arena, but never like this. Never to the point where I can’t control my need or where, the only peace I know is between her legs with my dick in her cunt.

  I sweep her up in my arms and take her to the bedroom, setting her on the bed. I’ve got no toys within reach, but I don’t care. I need her too much.

  Resting her on the bed, I tug off her underwear and run my hands up her skirt, skimming her thighs and taking her hips. I push her knees aside to expose her cunt then whip off my clothing and settle between her legs, smiling at the pussy that’s dripping for me.

  Her hands are above her head, her breathing erratic. The scent of her arousal drives me mad, and I slide a finger into her pussy and pull it out, licking her juices clean.

  I love the way she tastes. The way she moves, smells, looks at me, smiles. I love how I can control her body and how sensitive to my touch she is.

  Parting the nether lips to reveal her swollen clit, I nuzzle it with my nose, breathing in her scent. I want every part of her, to possess everything about her.

  My tongue flickers out to tease her clit, and she gasps. Her body is quivering in anticipation, her need for me as real as mine is for her. Gliding two fingers into her hot, tight pussy, I swirl my tongue around her clit then stroke it hard.

  “Elijah …” she moans, shifting her hips to give me better access.

  I push two fingers into her ass as well and run my tongue in the moist area between her cunt and clit, then go to town on her, riding her G-spot and clit with varying pressure.

  Within minutes, she’s begging me, a sign it’s my turn. Her climax is assured at this point.

  “You remember the apology position?” I ask, shifting out of bed. My dick is at attention, heavy and throbbing with need.

  She lifts her head, dazed, then nods. With effort, she climbs out of the bed and clasps her hands behind her back then bends over.

  I fucking love skirts. The hem of hers is just high enough for me to see her pussy peeking out at me. I push the skirt up and rest my hands on her perfect, rounded ass.

  “Grab your ankles,” I order her.

  She shifts to obey, her wet cunt fully visible between her legs. Taking her hips, I slide into her, balls deep. She’s oh so slick and tight, and this position allows me a deeper penetration than usual.

  “You get so fucking juicy,” I whisper. I run one thumb over the tight star of her ass and begin to pump into her, hard, fast and deep. With her flavor in my mouth and her bent over in front of me, I really can’t think of a better way to end our day.

  I thrust until the head of my cock is ready to explode then pull out, wanting to extend every interaction we have. Our sex is like nothing I’ve ever experienced: explosive, consuming, intense, and I don’t want it to end quite yet.

  “Stand,” I tell her breathlessly.

  I sit on the bed and push myself back, beckoning her towards me. She comes, hands shaking with desire. Lying on my back, I motion her forwards.

  After a brief hesitation, she straddles me, and I position her over my dick.

  “Ohhhhh…” Her moan is accompanied by a shudder as she sinks onto me.

  I hold her hips in place and push upwards, burying myself deeper into the hot sheathe, then begin rocking her, rolling her hips against mine. Her hands go behind her back, and she tosses her head back, pleasure on her face as I steer her towards her orgasm.

  “On the count of three, you will come, farasha. Understood?” I ask, my own orgasm close.

  “Yes, Master,” she whispers.

  I count down, and she shatters on command. I rock her hips harder against mine, listening to her soft cries. Her cunt is squeezing my dick in waves, and within seconds of her orgasm, I come hard and fast.

  “Fuck yes,” I hiss, holding her hips against mine as I pump cum into her.

  When I open my eyes, she’s smiling down at me, face flushed from her climax.

  “You like that?” I ask.

  “I like everything you do, Master,” she whispers.

  I roll her onto her back and settle on top of her without leaving her pussy. Kissing her leisurely, I leave her mouth to press kisses down her jaw.

  “Good,” I reply. “If we weren’t already late, I’d fill your ass with cum then maybe your mouth again. Maybe fuck your titties while I was at it. Or … masturbate while you make yourself come. We’ve got a ton of options a ton more toys I haven’t introduce you to yet.”

  She laughs.

  I give her one more kiss and withdraw from her, rolling off the bed. Offering her a hand, I smile as I help her up.

  “You’re so sexy right now,” I say, taking in her rumpled clothing, mussed hair, and the flush on her cheeks.

  “Thank you, Elijah.” She turns deeper red and looks down.

  “Go get cleaned up.” I swat her on the bare ass and walk away, towards my master bath.

  I could get used to this.

  Chapter Seven: Natalie

  Elijah is insatiable. I love the way he acts like my body is his entire world. That someone like him – so sexy, handsome and a prince – wants me is complete nonsense. He’s expressed more to me this night than he has in the month we’ve been together, and I’m not sure what to do with that knowledge.

  We aren’t functional. I mean … really? A relationship with a man who has more secrets than the next two dozen people I know? Today has been overwhelming, even for a day with a consuming man like Elijah.

  I saw it again when we were talking on the balcony – the spark in his eyes that tells me there really is a sweet part to him, buried
beneath a callous he’s worn for too long.

  He wants to have a real relationship, or at least try. I’m not convinced he’s capable of it. Even if he is, is this what I want? To be with someone I’m not certain I can trust, who can get rid of me at a second’s notice if it helps him get his trophy throne?

  He likes me. But that’s not enough to prevent him from breaking me, if his father issues a decree he has to follow to get his precious throne.

  Be careful, Natty. I’ve been warning myself about him for weeks, and it’s only getting harder to keep my emotions in check, even though I’ve learned so many good reasons why I should.

  Emerging from the bathroom fully dressed, I see him waiting for me by the doorway of the luxurious bedroom. I’ve been silently calculating how much a place like this costs since we walked in and come to the conclusion that he’s shelled out at least sixty million.

  It doesn’t look like what I imagined such an expensive apartment to be like. I imagine a lot of that cost is the location. I figured the walls would be solid gold for that price or the displays of wealth so extravagant, they were unbearable. But I can actually see myself living here – and loving it. It’s comfortable, tastefully decorated, and cheerful with tons of natural light.

  I go to him, and he takes my left hand. He’s got my engagement ring in his other hand. Afraid of damaging it, I always take it off before we have sex and put it on the nearest nightstand or table. Instead of handing it to me to put it on, he slides it over my ring finger silently.

  I shiver, unable to help the chill that goes through me at the symbolic action. He already owns me for the most part, but the idea he’s taking his claiming of me one step farther …

  “Thanks,” I murmur.

  “Just say yes.” He’s amused.

  Is he serious? My mouth drops open.

  He winks and takes my hand, not waiting for my response. For which I’m grateful, because if he’s really asking, I’m sure he won’t like my answer.

  “Dinner?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I croak. My face feels warm as we stop at the elevator. “Where are we going?”

  “There’s a Nijalan café a few blocks away. You ever had Middle Eastern cuisine?”

  “Once or twice.”

  “Nijalan food is hearty and filling, a taste of home.”

  He’s relaxed tonight. I can’t explain it, but he’s more … human than usual.

  I like him when he’s like this. Approachable, as easy going as a high-strung man like him can get. His intensity isn’t like a predatory businessman plotting his next acquisition but much more like a man taking out a woman he’s definitely interested in.

  “Will we come back here?” I ask, glancing around.

  “Yeah. You really like it?”

  “Very much. And thank you for the tanzanite colors,” I add awkwardly. He’d said it in passing earlier that he chose those colors because I liked them. I wasn’t certain what to say then and have been waiting for the opportunity to acknowledge his kind gesture on some level.

  The elevator door opens, and we walk in.

  “No problem,” he says. He wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me into his body once more. “You’re the most low maintenance person I’ve ever known if a few throw pillows makes you happy.”

  Not sure what to make of his measured tone, I rest against him, loving the scent of our bodies after lovemaking and the heated strength of his frame through his clothing.

  This can’t ever be real. It’s just too improbable, and I can’t help wondering if this is a show on his part, reinforcement for the relationship the press is going insane over.

  We get into the Bentley once more. I rest against him, mentally going over the pictures of the palaces he showed me. It doesn’t seem likely I’ll ever see them in person. Something tells me our relationship is too raw and brittle, too enveloped in secrets, to last long.

  But I can enjoy this moment with him and the idea of owning a palace. I’d like to think, if I ever were the queen of some country, I’d convince my king to use his money to help those that need it, even if that meant selling all but one of our palaces. From what I’ve read online about Nijala, there’s little-to-no middle class and a huge income gap between the elite and the rest of the people. I’m sure Elijah’s billions could fix that fast.

  I’d have to keep one palace, though. Maybe the little Winter Palace. After all, you can’t be a queen without a palace.

  Amused by my fanciful thoughts, I close my eyes and listen to his heartbeat through his sweater.

  “We’ll probably get swarmed by press,” he says quietly. “You okay with that?”

  “As long as you’re there,” I reply honestly. “I think they’re afraid of you.”

  “Most people are.”

  “Does that bother you?” I look up at him.

  “No. Works well for business deals. Keeps people from asking too many questions.”

  “They don’t seem afraid of me.”

  “You’re too sweet,” he replies. “It’s a good combination for a public couple in our position. Your warmth and natural ability with people and me rather cold and distant.”

  I can see what he means. I’ve always had a way with people, probably because I care and try to help those who need it. He’s sort of the opposite – more concerned by his wealth and position than helping anyone. It’s another warning sign that we’re not really compatible, no matter what we’re trying to do here. We are worlds apart when it comes to our personalities and priorities.

  I glance down at the ring on my finger. It winks and glimmers as it catches glimpses of streetlight. It’s a stunning piece of museum-quality jewelry – huge and beautiful. Over the top for me, but it’s almost like his subdued apartment: not nearly as blingy as it could be.

  “You think we really have a chance?” Fuck. Did I say that out loud? “Sorry. Just … never mind.”

  He’s quiet, and I’m praying he’ll let it pass. I don’t need any false hope. I definitely don’t need any real hope, either! I need to be able to walk away from this mess without being broken by it.

  “As you pointed out, I’m not exactly the functional-relationship type,” he says.

  I laugh.

  “But we can try,” he adds. There’s a note in his voice that tells me he has similar doubts about us surviving long as a couple.

  It’s good enough for me right now. I’m not sure I can handle any more emotional flip-flopping. I just want to enjoy one evening without wondering what happens tomorrow.

  I’m expecting the place we’re going to be a mansion in the middle of the city and the home cooking he misses to be delivered on silver platters.

  It’s not. In fact, it’s more of a place like I’d choose to go: a hole in the wall in the business district.

  He’s right about the press. I suspect that having a security team go in advance of us everywhere is what tips off the paparazzi. I’m with Elijah tonight, so I feel less worried about it than when I go out with his security guys for a Starbucks half a block from the Waldorf.

  The cameras start flashing before the car stops moving. His security team has cleared a path to the front door, and I can see the open mouths and wide eyes of a few children in the window of the restaurant.

  I’m feeling more confident lately being in public. It’s probably because I really do feel good in the clothes I’m wearing. They’re stylish and fit well – something hard to find in the places I normally shop for discounted pieces to add to my wardrobe. After taxes, groceries, and rent, I’m normally lucky to have money to eat out twice a month.

  That’s different now. I’m starting to love the clothing I viewed warily at first. Now that Elijah won’t be telling me how to dress anymore, I’m excited to see if people like what I put together as well as what he did. It’ll be a small, personal victory, if so.

  The driver opens the door, and Elijah steps out, as cool and confident as always, appearing completely unaware of the press. Immediately, the ques
tions start, the shouts for us to pose.

  Elijah offers me his hand with a smile, and I take it tightly. I still can’t get over that people are shouting my name, that they’re here to see me. It’s surreal.

  His security team keeps the people away, and we walk. Elijah does stop and pose with me, hand around my back while I wrap both my arms around him, more out of nervousness than anything else. When he’s satisfied, we go inside.

  The restaurant is vacant. I hope we aren’t coming after they closed or worse, that his security team kicked everyone out. It’s definitely not a place I’d expect Elijah to frequent. The tables and chairs are worn and covered with picnic tablecloths, the walls decorated with jewel-toned scarves and photos of Nijalan landmarks.

  And the smell … oh god! It’s heavenly! Rich spices, meat, bread and some kind of baked goods fill the air.

  A couple is waiting at the door leading to the kitchen, both looking awestruck and nervous. With an awkward, deep bow, the man moves towards us and begins speaking rapidly in Arabic.

  Elijah answers, and it strikes me that I’ve never bothered to ask him more about him. What languages he knows, what he studied in college, how often he goes home. He switches to English to introduce me.

  “This is Natalie, my fiancé. Natalie, this is Farid and his wife Talia.”

  Farid ducks his head to me as well, his smile huge.

  “We did not expect his most gracious highness to accept our invitation to a family dinner,” Farid says. “It is an honor to meet you, Ms. Natalie.” He turns to wave his wife forward.

  Family dinner. This is really not like Elijah at all. “It’s a pleasure,” I respond, genuinely happy to meet two people who might give me some insight into Nijala. I shake both their hands.

  The three children from the window huddle around their parents, and Talia runs down their names quickly. They’re seven, ten and thirteen, all girls.

  “Come!” Farid urges us, motioning to a stairwell on one side. Like many shop owners, he lives above his restaurant.

  One of the girls takes my hand to lead me upstairs, and I go with her.