ZAHIR_Her Ruthless Sheikh

by Theodora Taylor

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  ZAHIR - Her Ruthless Sheikh

  50 Loving States, New Jersey

  Theodora Taylor

  Contents

  Prologue

  I. HIS TO DENY

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  II. HIS TO TRAIN

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  III. HIS TO SURPRISE

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  IV. HIS TO…

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Also by Theodora Taylor

  About the Author

  Prologue

  “Prin, wait! Hold up!”

  With only the tiniest fraction of guilt, I pretend not to hear Sylvie call my name as I disappear into the crowd at Holt Calson’s party.

  I love Sylvie. I really do. After 14 years spent exclusively with narcissists and hustlers, there’s a reason I picked a sheltered Jamaican girl as my best friend during our first year at Beaumont, an exclusive Connecticut boarding school. I lived on campus full time, and Sylvie was a day student on full scholarship, and I never cared that she only got into Beaumont because her dad was one of the groundskeepers. She laughs at all my jokes. She listens like nobody’s business. And girl, if you want a study partner—Sylvie’s got you covered. She will keep you on task and encourage you until next thing you know, you’re staring down at a report card stuffed with A-pluses.

  But partying? Yeah, so not one of her strong suits.

  Turns out, she really wants to hold on to our status as the biggest nerds at Beaumont even though we graduated last Sunday. She’s been mad fretful about lying to her crazy strict mom since I picked her up. And instead of being impressed that we’d been invited to one of Holt Calson’s infamous penthouse parties, she took one look at his beautiful high-rise and started searching for the nearest bus stop.

  “I’m not tall and beautiful like you,” Sylvie said, her lovely Jamaican accent lilting across the otherwise quiet New Haven street as she tugged on the skirt of the dress I loaned her. It’s heavily sequined and sparkly—80s vintage courtesy of a shopping trip through my dead mom’s closet. And unlike my mini dress, it is also nearly knee-length. But Sylvie was acting like I loaned her a skimpy bikini. “I really do not think I belong at this skyscraper party. Can’t we just get cheeseburgers or something?”

  “It’s a high rise,” I corrected her. “Not a skyscraper. And I don’t even know where to get cheeseburgers around here.”

  I’m not sure she even heard me. She just kept saucer-eyeing the admittedly tall-for-Connecticut building and hugging herself.

  Sigh.

  Ever have one of those friends who is, like, the whole package but doesn’t know it? Sylvie is my total opposite. She’s petite and cute as a button on top of some seriously banging curves. Plus, she’s nice as hell, trustworthy, easy to talk to, and has a normal name—qualities I do not take for granted after a lifetime as Princess Jones, daughter of hip-hop mogul, Majesty Jones.

  But tonight, I started to feel some kind of done with her. I ended up taking her by the arm and physically dragged her into Holt Calson’s building. “Asir Zaman invited me to this party,” I reminded her in the lobby as I pulled her toward the old-fashioned elevator that will take us up to the penthouse. “Asir Zaman!!!”

  But even a multiple exclamation mark reminder wasn’t enough to keep the look of horror off of my anxious best friend’s face as we walked into a party that looked and sounded like one of the luxurious mansion rap videos my father’s label used to churn out back in the 90s.

  So yeah, I made the call and abandoned my super-sheltered friend rather than risk getting reverse-dragged out the door.

  Maybe if it were anyone but Asir Zaman, I’d let Sylvie take me by the arm and lead me to the relative safety of cheeseburgers. I mean, I can go to a million parties like this one back in Jersey. Hell, Dad is no doubt throwing a bigger and better version right now at our mansion in Alpine.

  But I’ve had a crush on Asir since my first year at Beaumont. He is everything I ever wanted but never had in a boyfriend. Smart? Dude, he was in all the advanced classes with Sylvie and me. Athletic? Yup, he was the star of the lacrosse team—and trust, you can’t get any less hip-hop than lacrosse. Plus, he’s confident without having to put on a thousand chains and smoke a hundred joints just to get through the day.

  And did I mention he is fine as hell? A few of the bigger assholes at school might have called him “Terror Fund Baby” behind his back, but truth is, he is one of the most clean-cut, preppy kids I knew at Beaumont. Yeah, his skin is on the swarthy side, but I haven’t ever seen him with so much as a five o’clock shadow. And his school uniform never seemed to wrinkle, even at the end of a long day.

  Honestly, Asir is so far out of my league, I have no idea how to be myself when it comes to him. Hell, I could barely say “hi” or “nice game” when we passed each other in the halls at school. Because even though I was crushing on him, I knew there was absolutely zero interest he could have in a girl with a Jersey accent and a dad who is most famous for yelling, “Ya weak, mayne! Ya weak as shit, mayne!” over and over again at an American SuperStar contestant until the guy broke down sobbing on national television. That moment became a meme, and now Dad is more popular than ever, but still—it isn’t the sort of thing you want on your genetic resume when you’re trying to get checked on by the classiest boy ever.

  Which is why I nearly choked on my own spit when I spotted Asir heading my way in the library last week. Sylvie and I were studying for the last of our finals when he strolled over and asked if I wanted to meet up at Holt Calson’s party because if so, he could put me on the list. That’s Holt Calson, as in the heir to the Cal-Mart fortune. He went to Beaumont, too, but four years before Sylvie and me got there as freshman. And believe me, even if he had gone at the same time, we definitely wouldn’t have been hanging in the same circles.

  So yeah, whatever, Sylvie. Like I’m going
to blow this chance! Plus, I know she’s too true blue to leave without me. So, after promising her we’d only stay for an hour, I cut out and dive into the crowd, searching for Zahir.

  The main room is a kind of large sunken den filled with people in various “look as us being crazy, sexy, and cool” poses. It’s so dark, I can barely make out the guest’s faces as I walk through the crowd searching for Asir. And things do not improve even after I reach the top of the steps on the other side of the room and stand on my tiptoes to scan over the entire party.

  I curse myself for being too shocked as hell by Asir’s invitation to get his number. Now, I can’t even text him to say I’m here. I’m about to give up when I see a tall guy with Asir’s same muscular build heading to another part of the penthouse.

  “Asir! Asir!” I yell. But of course, he can’t hear me over the thumping bass and he disappears down a hallway. I end up running in my dead mom’s party heels to catch up with him.

  At least the hall is well lit, and I get there just in time to see a really hot guy with dark hair and light eyes disappear into a room with a giggling blonde. They close the door behind them. But on the other side of the hall…

  My heart speeds up at the sight of Asir disappearing into another room. And unlike the really hot guy, he leaves his door wide open. Like an invitation.

  One I should not hesitate to accept, I remind my suddenly fluttering stomach. I’m starting at Princeton next fall which will mean even more studying to keep up with the rich kids whose parents aren’t a now-deceased former party girl from Minneapolis and a high school dropout from Trenton.

  This is my chance. Maybe the only chance I’ll ever get to hook up with someone like Asir.

  So taking a deep breath, I follow him through the door into what turns out to be a dimly lit room…with no one inside. Uh...

  “Where are you?” I ask aloud, too confused to be cool.

  As if in response, the door suddenly slams shut behind me. At the same time, Asir pushes me, chest first, into the closed door, causing me to drop my mom’s vintage clutch. This is right before a large hand captures my wrists and pins them above my head as his much heavier weight pins the rest of my body to the door. He’s still dressed, but I can feel the weight of his cock against my ass, heavy and very, very hard.

  Da hell? I buck on instinct, trying to get away, and he answers with a delighted laugh, easily holding me right where I am.

  “Oh, I’m going to like this.” I can feel his hot breath on my neck. And with a ferociousness I’m definitely not used to, his free hand steals under and up the short hem of my vintage dress before deftly slipping inside my panties.

  What the—?

  I yank my left arm out of his wrist hold and buck again, this time sending an elbow into his gut.

  He oofs with a slight intake of breath. And then he locks my body down, releasing my other wrist and barring a muscular arm across my chest so neither of my elbows have space to maneuver if I want to try that move again.

  “Good, good…” he croons, his lightly accented words filling up my ear as he begins full-on kneading my pussy with his fingers while the ball of his hand works circles around my clit. “Usually the girls Luca sends me don’t understand his instructions and they give in too quickly. But you’re a fighter, I can tell.”

  Luca who? I wonder, even as his hand begins to produce sensations I have only ever felt with a vibrator.

  “I’m going to have fun sinking my dick into your wet pussy when you finally give up,” he continues. “If you fight me hard enough, I’ll let you tell me the number of times you wish to come tonight, and I’ll grant that wish as your reward.”

  Okay…it appears Asir has a kinky side. One I never would have guessed at based on the warm and polite way he behaves at school. But I take inventory of my emotions like the Beaumont therapist told me to do after my mother died. Shock, anger, confusion—no surprise there. The next two feelings, however, are a surprise: curiosity and desire, the latter of which is building so fast, the first three emotions are starting to matter less and less by the second.

  How many other girls has Asir done this with at school, I wonder. He never had an official girlfriend at Beaumont—believe me, I’ve been checking his status for four years straight. But he must have been putting in some serious work behind the scenes and during the breaks because he’s working my pussy so adeptly, I’m nearly on the verge of coming…oh, God…already?

  But…nope. This is way too weird, way too soon. And since fighting him only seems to turn him on, I remember what I learned during sex-ed at Beaumont and say, loudly and clearly, “Asir, stop! I don’t want this. This is too fast and you do not have my consent.”

  The hand pauses, Asir’s heavy body stiffening behind me, and for a moment, I wonder whether or not he’ll continue even though I’ve clearly said no.

  But his arm quickly falls away and his hand drops from my pussy as he takes a step back. “I am not Asir.”

  Wait…what?!

  Sure enough, when I turn I find…well, a guy who looks a lot like Asir but isn’t. Same olive complexion. Same dark eyes. Same classy accent. Just enough in common to trick the eyes when viewed from a distance in a crowded, dim room.

  But now that I’m studying him up close, I can see the differences. Asir is slightly taller than me and, like, the fittest guy at school. This guy towers over me with muscles slabbed on top of muscles in a way that makes his physique impossible to ignore even though he’s wearing a casual suit with a collared shirt. Asir has a warm, open face and a laugh that always seems to linger right beneath the surface. I can’t imagine this guy ever smiling, much less laughing. His dark eyes are set so deep in his striking face, I wouldn’t be surprised to discover he’s carved out of sandstone.

  Asir is always happy to meet new people. So much so that Beaumont added him to their prospective student tour rotation before he even completed his first semester of school.

  But this guy? He is not happy to meet me. At all. He glowers, hard and sinister, as he asks, “Who are you? And how are you associated with my brother?”

  “Ah…I’m Prin Jones,” I answer, checking the guy out in a new light now that I know his relationship to Asir. “Sorry for the mix-up.”

  I apologize—you know, like a decent human being even though I wasn’t the one throwing random girls into doors as soon as they walked into the room.

  But instead of returning the apology, he blinks hard and asks, “How are you associated with my brother?” Again. In such a frigid tone, it sounds like a statement instead of a question.

  No, not a statement, a voice inside me suddenly corrects. A command. Everything about this guy is commanding. From his suit to his icy expression. He doesn’t look much older than me, but I get the feeling he’s been telling people what to do for at least as long as I’ve been alive.

  “Um…we went to school together,” I answer. “He invited me here to meet up with him. That’s who I thought you were…which is why I followed you in here. But obviously I was wrong…”

  I trail off because this guy is not like most guys I know. He hasn’t interrupted me and doesn’t attempt to pick up the conversation when I trail off—which isn’t so bad. But the way he fixes his eyes on me, narrowed and assessing as if he’s running every word I say through some kind of mental scanner…well, let’s just say it makes talking to him feel awkward. Like, really, really awkward. So much so, I feel as if I’ve run out of air by the time I’m done talking.

  “So yeah, wrong guy,” I finish, fumbling behind me for the door knob. “I, um, I’ll go look for Asir now.”

  “No,” he says.

  “No?” I repeat, not understanding.

  “You and my brother. No.”

  My eyes flare. Da fuck this guy think he is?

  “What do you mean ‘no?’”

  “I mean you should leave this party now, Prin Jones, and forget about any rendezvous with my brother.”

  “Hold up,” I say, raising both hand
s with 100-proof pure outrage. “You trying to say I’m good enough for you to throw against a door and fuck dirty, but I can’t get with your brother?”

  “I am saying my brother has a bright future in front of him,” he replies, giving me a cool up and down look. “One that does not involve you.”

  And that’s when I catch my own wrist. Clasping it tight so I won’t give in to my baser instincts and punch the straight hell out this guy. But, you know, four years of Beaumont. I’m supposed to be classy now.

  At least, “some class” was what I told my dad I was after when I used my allowance to apply to boarding school, so I wouldn’t have to take part in his farce of a reality show with the lingerie model/wannabe singer he all but hired to replace my mom. And Lord knows, this guy isn’t the first racist rich dude to suggest that going out with a girl like me would not be a good look for his perfect white bread future.

  To Asir’s credit, he has never once made me feel like I am worth less than all the other girls at our school just because I was one of the few rich kids at Beaumont with skin darker than his.

  But this isn’t Asir looking down his nose at me right now. Different guy. Different opinions. And I can see every ugly one in the hard set of his cold eyes.

  “Okay, well, I think Asir and I are old enough to make up our own minds about one another, thank you very much. So, I guess that means you and your ‘no’ can go fuck yourselves.” I could leave it there. Really, I probably should leave it there. But you know…Jersey. I throw up both middle fingers and add, “Just like you tried to fuck me against the door.”