One Night with The Sheikh: An accident of fate brought them together, and it would bind them for the rest of their lives.

by Clare Connelly

  “I am not hurt,” he pointed out. “Not really.” He thought of his time in the Elaminar armed forces, when he’d seen true carnage. A simple scratch was nothing.

  “You’re so brave,” she said with a small, melodramatic sigh.

  “I am,” he responded in kind, shooting her a look that sent arrows darting along her spine. Did he feel it, too? This bone-tingling awareness?

  “I’m just over here,” she nodded towards a brightly-painted blue door, in the middle of an old brick townhouse.

  “This is a nice street,” he observed conversationally as she fished her keys from her bag.

  Color crept into Grace’s cheeks. She was used to people making snide remarks about the house her father had bought her. She knew they said she was spoiled. And perhaps she was. At the time, she’d justified her acceptance of the gift as a sort of penance from her father in return for the divorce. He had, after all, left Grace’s mother for a much younger woman, and from that time onwards, Dickie’s family had held very little importance to him. At least the house proved, in some way, that he loved her.

  Only Sam hadn’t sounded judgmental. It had been a factual observation, and she relaxed her shoulders as she surveyed the neat row of six houses on either side, with a paved road in the middle.

  She pushed the door inwards and bent to retrieve the stack of letters from the middle of the floor. “My flat mates,” she said with a small roll of her azure eyes. “They seem to think the postman puts this stuff on the ground for them to see how long they can step over it.”

  His laugh was rich and smooth.

  “Come on in,” she held the door open as she simultaneously tossed the pile of letters onto the hallstand without looking at them.

  Sam stepped into the hallway and immediately it felt smaller. As he brushed past her, her whole body felt sort of tingly and flushed. Grace had limited experience with desire, having always kept her admirers at arms’ length, and so she had no skills at hiding her feelings. When Sam turned towards her, her pupils were dilated, her cheeks pink, her lips full from where she’d been biting on them, and lower, her nipples stretched against the fabric of her top.

  That she wanted him was obvious. And with a slow, lazy smile, Sam promised himself that before the night was out, he would have her.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Who do you live with?” Sam asked, as he let his gaze drift around the eclectically furnished lounge. Enormous, colorful paintings hung from every wall, and each surface boasted a clutter of framed pictures.

  “No one,” Grace denied hotly, desperate that he not think she had a boyfriend hidden away somewhere.

  “I think you referred to flat mates?”

  “Oh, right,” she winced in embarrassment as she poured a little antiseptic onto a cotton wool pad. She crossed the room and sat beside Sam on the sofa, trying desperately to ignore the way her body reacted to being so close to him. “Stay still,” she said quietly, lifting the cotton wool pad to his forehead and dabbing gingerly. Not so much as a wince from this iron man in front of her, though she was sure it must have stung. The wound, up close, was actually quite deep. It was hard to concentrate when she could feel his eyes boring into hers. “My flat mates,” she said, in an attempt to keep things on a relaxed footing, “are two of the messiest, most aggravating people in the world. But I’ve known them most of my life and I love them like brothers.”

  “They are men?”

  “Oh, right. I guess where you’re from that seems kind of improper.”

  His smile was intoxicating. It immediately relaxed her. “Actually, I’ve spent much of my life in the United Kingdom. I went to secondary school and university here.”

  “Did you?” She dropped her gaze to his eyes and felt her tummy clench as their eyes met. She looked away. “Where?”

  “School in London, and university in Oxford.”

  “What did you study?” She returned to dabbing the wound, though now she knew it was just a pretense. An excuse to be near him and touch him.

  “International Law.”

  She pulled a face. “Sounds dull.”

  His laugh, again, sent her senses skittering. “I suppose it was.” He reached up and wrapped his fingers around her wrist, pulling her hand away from his head and into her lap. He didn’t loosen his grip, though. “Too dull for someone like you.”

  “Someone like me?” She murmured, her eyes trapped by his. “And what am I?”

  “Fascinating. Vibrant. Exuberant. Stunning.” With each word, he leaned closer and closer towards her, so that his face was only inches from hers when he finished. “You are shaking like a leaf in the breeze.”

  She nodded. “I know. I can’t stop.”

  Sam felt a thud of compunction at what he’d narrowly avoided. “It’s from the accident. You’re in shock. You need a warm shower.”

  He unfolded himself from the sofa reluctantly, all visions he’d held of ravaging her senseless evaporating in the face of her obvious state of shock. He held his hands down and pulled her up. “I will make you a tea while you shower.”

  “You don’t have to stay.”

  “I intend to stay until I know you are all right. All night, if I have to.”

  A thrill of anticipation coursed through her. She would shower, only because she knew he would still be there when she returned.

  “Grace?” She paused just outside the door to her bedroom and spun on her heel. “How old are you?”

  She wasn’t sure why she lied, padding an extra few years onto her actual age. A sixth sense had told her that a man like Sam would never be interested in a twenty two year old. “I’m twenty four,” she lied with complete aplomb. She was, after all, on her way to becoming a well-known stage actress.

  “You look about fifteen,” he said with a frown she didn’t understand.

  Grace shrugged her slender shoulders and disappeared into her bedroom, her mind filled with thoughts of Sam as she undressed and showered in her ensuite.

  Sam, by a process of elimination, found the kitchen easily enough, and set about making a pot of tea. He rarely did such menial tasks now, as heir apparent to the crown of Elaminar. But as a university student, he had been reasonably self-sufficient, even with an armed security presence always hovering. He flicked the kettle and then, seeing the familiar white cable beside it, pulled his flat mobile phone from his pocket and plugged it in to restore its charge.

  When Grace emerged from her bedroom a little while later, his heart slowed to a thud at the sight of her. She had been stunning before, but now, in a pair of loose, grey tracksuit pants and a simple white t-shirt, she was achingly divine, like a fragile angel.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Better,” she said with a small smile.

  “I’m glad.” He nodded towards the coffee table. “I could only find peppermint tea bags.”

  “I’m a coffee girl. The peppermint tea bags are Rupert’s.”

  “Rupert?”

  “Roommate number one. The artist.” She gestured towards the colorful canvasses that surrounded them.

  “I see.” He poured peppermint tea into the two mugs and handed one to her. His own, he lifted to his lips with a small frown of disdain.

  “You don’t like it either?” She said with a laugh.

  “No. Like you, I prefer coffee.”

  “I’ll make some.”

  He followed her into the kitchen, unable to put any distance between them whatsoever. He had never been so completely captivated by a woman so early on in an acquaintance. He had known this woman for less than an hour, since she’d literally crashed herself into his life, but he already knew that he wanted more and more of her. He had never believed in the concept of love at first sight. Hell, he didn’t believe in love at all. But a woman like this could make you believe in all sorts of things.

  As she brought the kettle back to life and ground some beans, she was all the while aware of Sam’s big, bulky frame in the doorway to the kitchen. Unconsciously, she hu
mmed while she worked, a song that had just popped into her head that moment. She didn’t pause to analyze why one of her most adored love ballads would have surfaced out of nowhere. Even the singing which she loved didn’t eclipse her feeling of delicious apprehension, though.

  “You sing beautifully.” He observed, leaning against the doorjamb.

  “Thank you.” She flashed a bright smile in his direction. “I hope so. It’s what I do for a living.”

  “I knew it. You’re a pop star.”

  She laughed. “Hardly.” Grace poured some steaming water into her French Press and waited a moment for the coffee to steep. “I’m a performer.” It still felt strange to say it aloud. After all, it had been a long held dream that was finally turning into a reality. She didn’t want to jinx it by going on about it too much. Like Dickie, she was superstitious when it came to casting decisions. “And you?” She asked, deftly moving conversation on.

  He wondered what kind of performer at the same time as wondering how to answer her question. Sam dragged a hand through his hair, not precisely certain why he was so hesitant to tell this beguiling woman who he was. “I’m in management,” he said casually. It was a very rough approximation of what he did on a daily basis. As heir apparent to the throne, he oversaw all sorts of government matters. His father’s had been tired lately, and Samir’s ascendancy to the throne was a mere technicality. For the most part, he was already ruling Elaminar, and all its interests.

  “You don’t look very managerial,” she said thoughtfully, running her eyes over his body and marveling at his broad chest.

  “Don’t I? It’s a family business.” He took a step closer towards her, and just like that, her body reacted violently. She felt her insides slick with moist heat as his exotic handsomeness hit her like a sledge hammer.

  “I just can’t picture you sitting behind a desk all day.” She was babbling. Nerves sometimes had that affect on her.

  His smile was teasing. “How do you picture me?”

  She gulped. Sex on legs? She couldn’t help it. Of its own volition, her hand rose to his head, and stroked near where he’d been cut in their accident. “A warrior? I’m being ridiculous, I know.” She whispered throatily. It was ridiculous, but he reminded her of some mythical, Herculean soldier. She sighed as the image of him in armor popped into her mind.

  His laugh was thick with emotion. “Not so ridiculous. I served in the Elaminar Armed Services for twelve months. Does that count?”

  And somehow, her hand had dropped from his head and was now pressed against his chest, fingers splayed against the wall of muscles. Eyes wide as she realized how over-familiar she was being, she cleared her throat and took a step back, only Sam’s hand clamped down on hers firmly, holding it in place. His chest was hard and warm beneath her palm and she could feel the steady, strong beat of his heart. Her eyes flew to his, and what she saw their made her want to whimper. Desire, unmistakable, flared between them like a flame in a gas corridor.

  She fought to contain it. “I don’t believe in war. I’m a pacifist.”

  The corner of his lip lifted at her obvious attempt to move their conversation to less incendiary ground. “Pacifism is all well and good until a war looms.”

  Grace knew she should object when he brought his hands up and clasped them behind her, in the small of her back. It was a simple enough gesture, but it brought her body into close contact with his, and this was a man she had only known for a very short time. But it felt so good. He felt so good. So right. “Wars wouldn’t loom if no one was trained for battle.”

  He shook his head slowly. “War has been a fact of life for as long as humans have lived. The emotions that lead us to war are just the same as we are feeling now.”

  Grace knew it was a moment of truth. She could deny that she was feeling anything, except exhaustion and shock. But she wouldn’t lie to herself, nor to him. “What are we feeling, Sam?”

  He brushed his thumb along her lip, causing her to gasp in surprise at the sensations that assailed her. “Passion.” It was the last thing she heard before submitting completely, body and mind, to this beautifully strong, interesting man.

  His lips crushed down on hers, and his kiss was just as firm and demanding as she’d hoped it would be. She moaned, low in her throat, as desire sapped her body of any strength. She ran her hands through his hair, feeling the thick coarseness of it, the curls just above his collar.

  And though she was tall, he made her feel petite. He dwarfed her, in height and breadth, and pressed into the circle of his arms, she felt protected.

  “I don’t need coffee,” he murmured against her lips, as he slipped his hands in the waistband of her tracksuit pants and cupped her buttocks.

  She nodded feverishly, pulling at his shirt. She wanted to feel him, too. To feel his skin, his body. “Nor do I.” She let out a noise of relief as finally she pulled his shirt free from the confines of his pants and made contact with the smooth, warm skin of his chest. As she pushed her hands upwards, her fingertips delighted in the sensation of him. His chest was ridged with muscles, and, as she let her fingers slowly encircle his nipples, she was aware of just a sprinkling of chest hair.

  “Your flat mates?” Sam wasn’t in public displays of affection. Just because Grace hadn’t recognized him, didn’t mean her flat mates wouldn’t.

  It was a thought that, were she any less turned on, would have made her cold to the bone. But she had one thing, and one thing only, on her mind at that moment. “Not here. Don’t care.”

  He let out a small sound of amusement. “Well, I do. Let’s move to your bedroom.”

  Grace nodded and laced her fingers through his, pulling him in the direction of privacy. “I could say you’re being presumptuous.”

  “You won’t, though.”

  “No.” She agreed, turning her head around to face him. “I’m honest like that.”

  “And I admire honesty.” A small twinge of guilt assailed him as he realized he was being anything but.

  And yet, what did it really matter? He’d never met a woman like Grace before. His whole life had been laid out for him, and his future was still. Soon, he would return to Elaminar and set about the business of naming a suitable wife, though he suspected that choice too was mapped out for him. This night with Grace would be his last opportunity to choose his own bed partner. And, he thought, as he kicked the bedroom door shut behind them, he had chosen very, very well.

  Grace’s hands were on her shirt, and she was in the process of desperately, hastily lifting it. She wanted him with the kind of hunger that could consume a woman, and the knowledge of her need made his chest puff with answering lust. But Sam had learned a long time ago to savor delights. Pain and hard work were far more common. True pleasure was rare, and deserved to be treated with respect.

  “Wait,” he commanded, and she obeyed, dropping her hands to her side instantly. Perhaps she knew, even then, that he was someone to be obeyed. On some basic level, her body was ready and willing to answer to his call. “You are mine to explore.”

  Grace’s heart trilled like a parrot in a glass box. But she was a feminist to her core, and the idea of letting him dictate terms went against the grain. Or she wished it did. Actually, she wanted to lie down and pant, and let him do whatever the hell he wanted to her. She raised her chin defiantly, and more as a reminder to herself, said, “I don’t usually like bossy men.”

  “You will like me,” Sam said with a twist of his lips. Even his confidence – bordering though it was on arrogance – was an aphrodisiac.

  “I suspect I will,” she said honestly. She put a hand on her hip and stared across the carpeted floor at him. “Well? What are you waiting for?”

  His eyes flared at his temptress’s sassy invitation. It took two steps to unite their bodies, but he didn’t give in to his craving and kiss her. Not yet. There was so much he wanted to feel with her. So much he wanted to do. Reverently, he gathered her shirt in his fists and lifted it, up, over her just wa
shed breasts and shoulders, exposing her naked torso to his hungry eyes.

  He left it, then, covering her face in darkness.

  “I can’t see you!” She said impatiently, causing Sam to let out a small laugh of pleasure.

  “Grace, you do not need to see in order to feel.” He pushed her gently on the shoulder, so that she stumbled and fell backwards onto her bed, with a small squawk of indignation.

  Her hands rose to her shirt but he stilled them. “Do you trust me?” And before she could answer, he took one of her nipples in his warm mouth and rolled it with his tongue, flicking at her pleasure receptors there. He felt her suck in a deep breath of air and his groin stirred answeringly.

  “Yes.” She responded, and inside the cotton warmth of her shirt she knew that inexplicably, she did.

  He brought his body down onto hers, straddling her tracksuit clad legs with his own strong thighs, so that she was aware of the force of his arousal. She rotated her hips hungrily, and though he wanted her, he was nowhere near ready to bring this to an end. Beneath her perfect, rounded breasts, was a dip in her abdomen, and he traced his tongue to it now, leaving his fingers to take over pleasuring her dusky aureoles. Grace was almost purring beneath his ministrations.

  “Please, Sam, I want you,” Grace called into her bedroom.

  Sam’s answering chuckle was both infuriating and arousing.

  “No, Grace, you want to come. And I’m going to make you come.”

  She was glad then, that her face was covered, as it hid the vibrant shade of raspberry her cheeks had begun to glow.

  “Did you know,” he asked, moving his mouth to her other breast, “that stimulating your breasts can make you orgasm?”

  Grace frowned and, because he couldn’t see her, shook her head exaggeratedly. Another chuckle. “Would you like to feel it for yourself?”

  A big nod. She was way past being self-conscious. If this God like man wanted to amuse himself by pleasuring her body, who was she to stand in the way?