“Open for me, my love,” he begged her. “I promise to be more patient next time.”
She wrapped her legs around his waist as he thrust in, and the discomfort from four years of non-use was only momentary as he waited until her body accepted the heated fullness of his length inside her. He kissed her as he waited, raising her passion back to fever pitch as he nibbled and sucked and licked her, moving down to her breasts, until she was squirming beneath him, moaning and wishing he would move.
“Amir, please,” she whispered finally, when he remained still between her legs, torturing her with kisses and love bites.
He pulled out slowly, making her hiss as he withdrew, and she tightened her legs around him. He slid back in, and she gasped. Hi9s movements were slow, deliberately teasing her, tormenting her, and she growled as she held him inside her, tightening her strong walls around his invading shaft.
“Oh love,” he breathed into her mouth, and thrust in harder, deeper, making her grunt.
Over and over he plunged into her, and she welcomed him, holding him with trembling arms to her chest, and biting him wherever her teeth landed. He lost it, speeding up and taking her wildly, all his control lost to her urgency and his need for her. She felt herself falling apart beneath him and screamed his name as she came, and Amir followed her almost immediately, howling out his release into her neck, his big body shaking above hers as he came.
Even now, thinking about their first time made her warm, and when he walked out, dressed in loose-fitting cotton shorts and a t-shirt, she felt her heart race. Her cheeks were warm, and she sipped her own water, trying to cool herself down, and hoping he didn’t notice. This was the second day of their two-week-long honeymoon, and he had not let her out of bed until late last night, taking her with him to the hot tub where they had both soaked away the soreness of their sexual marathon. She had been surprised that he was able to get up and go for a run so early. She had taken the opportunity to soak again, because she had a sneaking suspicion that she was in for another marathon, and she wanted to be ready. She never wanted to refuse him.
He surprised her, not doing more than kissing her senseless every chance he got all day. They went horseback riding, a skill he had taught her once they had returned to Mubaira. They played a little tennis, at which she sucked, and there was consequently a whole lot of laughter. They played in the surf and swam and sunbathed. By evening, they were pleasantly tired, and she was horny. She had had no idea that she could be so needy for a man, until Amir had showed her how it could be between two people who love each other.
She turned to watch him as he dozed before dinner, his long lightly furred legs stretched out, one bent at the knee. She rose from her seat and went to where he lounged, and knelt beside him, needing to touch him, to assure herself that after all, he was hers to touch. His t-shirt clung to his six-pack and biceps, and his shorts left nothing to the imagination. She reached out to touch the part of him that had owned her since the first moment that he had thrust it into her. It twitched when she touched it, and she smiled. It seemed that even in his sleep she owned him, too. She stroked him lightly, loving the way he twitched beneath her palm. Feeling emboldened, she slipped her hand beneath the waistband of his shorts to touch the steel and silk of his hardening length.
His eyes snapped open and, embarrassed at being caught violating him while he slept, she tried to pull her hand away, but he grabbed her and sat up, pulling her up and settling her on his lap.
“Is there something you need, Princess Alexandra?” he inquired. “Something I can help you with?”
She blushed, and Amir chuckled, delighted with her. “Tell me, habibti. Tell me what you need.”
To help her, he pressed her hand over his now fully erect rod, and squeezed it. She swallowed, and finally admitted in a hoarse whisper, “I want you inside me again, please, Amir.”
He put her gently on her feet, and stood up. “Undress me,” he ordered her, and lifted his arms so she could remove his t-shirt.
Then, when she hesitated, he took her hands and placed them on either side of his shorts. “Take them off, my love.”
His voice had gone raspy, and she shivered as she pulled them down his thighs. He stepped out of them, kicking them aside, and stood before her, naked and aroused.
“I am yours, my sheikha,” he declared. “Do what you will with me.”
Alex took him by the hand and led him indoors, pushing him onto their bed while she did a slow striptease for him. He held his breath as she removed each article of clothing, and when she was as naked as he was, she climbed onto the bed and slid one leg over his middle until her delicate lips were covering his erection. He hissed, and she moved back and forth on him, not taking him in, just pleasuring herself on his cock. She leaned down and kissed him, pushing her tongue into his mouth, kissing him hungrily. He gave her his tongue, and slid his hands to her hips so he could help her hump him. And when she released his lips to catch her breath, he bent his head and took a stiff nipple into his mouth. She hissed, and he suckled her slowly, while she rode him to her first orgasm, her cries echoing around their bedroom,
Shaking, she collapsed against his chest, and he smoothed her hair away from her face. “I love you so much, habibti,” he whispered, and flipped her, plunging at once onto her depths, making her cry out again and again as he took her back up to the peak of pleasure.
His hips rocked into her, and she raised her legs, which he placed on his shoulders, plunging deeper into her, changing the angle of his entry when he found just the spot that hit her nerve center and made her wail as she came again. He didn’t stop, but kept plowing her, pushing into her, withdrawing, stroking her sweet spot, and as he felt himself building to his own climax, he reached a hand between them and pinched her clitoris. Alex came so hard she lost herself for a moment, and when she returned to her senses, Amir was growling and shaking above her, plunging into her body until he stiffened and smothered his roar of completion in her neck.
They hugged each other, and Amir rolled to the side so he could hold his love to his heart without smothering her. As they lay, catching their breath, he remembered their first time on the jet, on their way to this idyllic spot. They had managed to make it to the jet on time — his Alexandra abhorred being late — and after a sumptuous luncheon, the hostess disappeared, leaving him alone with his wife. He stood and drew her to him.
“Come, my sheikha,” he had whispered in her ear. “I need you now.”
The bedroom on the jet was elegantly decorated, but Amir only had eyes for the woman clad in the red dress, her hair piled on top of her head, the jewels he had bought her gleaming in her earlobes and at her throat and wrists. He had wanted that dress off her. He wanted to make love to her with only the jewels on, and then he would strip her of those and have her again before they got to the island. He drew her into the room, closing the door behind her, and slid his arms around her waist.
“You are the most beautiful creature in the world, habibti,” he said, kissing her temples. “The most beautiful, and the most highly treasured.”
And then he had slowly ravished her, starting with removing that dress, managing not to rip it, though he wasn’t as successful with the lace panties she wore underneath. He had tasted her, from her head to her toes, coming back up to feast where she needed his mouth and hands and hard staff. Then, after he had made her call out in passion with his mouth, he had used his fingers to bring her to a second orgasm, before he took his own pleasure, flipping her over and taking her from behind, with Alex on her knees, her hands gripping the sheets as she moaned and whipped her head from side to side like a mad dog.
Now, she stirred in his arms, and he kissed her cheek and whispered, “Lie still, my love. I’ll be right back.”
He left the bed, and after he had cleaned up, he returned with a wet washrag to bathe her skin, and clean their combined juices from between her thighs. Then he threw the rag aside and climbed back into bed beside her, shifting their bodies
so that she was not in the wet spot. She settled deeper into his body, and fell asleep. Amir smiled. He loved it when he wore her out, and he could see doing that until the day he died.
“I love you,” he whispered, hugging her closer to his heart. He had the rest of his life to show her, and to enjoy her showing him. He smiled, kissed the top of her head, and followed her into sleep.
THE END
Prince of Bahrain
He was trying to decide which brothel to try this time when Misha, his assistant-bodyguard, who followed him like a shadow, got the call. “Bashir,” Misha said, after a moment on the phone, “you’ll have to take this.”
Bashir sighed and scowled. He’d just caught the eye of a blonde woman, covered only in pasties, svelte yet tantalizingly curved in all the right ways, arching her back over a chair. Amsterdam’s Red Light District wasn’t really as glamorous and decadent as it was said to be, but Bashir had always liked the free-wheeling sense of giddy no-holds-barred freedom that he had when he came to visit. He was aware, though, that if anybody recognized an Armani suit and bespoke shoes from a distance, it would be the Dutch, and the girls that were on display now were probably chosen specifically to cater to his tastes. He’d acquired somewhat of a reputation by now, for being generous with his tips as long as the house was generous with the girls.
The problem with Amsterdam, though, was that the Dutch were substantially taller than he was. He was five feet, ten inches—eleven if his shoes had a lift—which put him right on the average with the British, but here he was flat-out short. But he did have large, liquid-gray eyes and thick black hair that he kept neatly trimmed, both of them working to his advantage, especially with the women. Mention of his doctorate studies in International Law from Oxford, with his mild and vaguely-French accent, drove all but the most adamantly lesbian of women into his arms.
But it was too easy to fall into bed with a stranger, and much harder to extricate himself from the misunderstanding that invariably ensued: he wanted sex, she wanted love—though the reverse was just as true, just as frequently. Still, it’d happened often enough that when he discovered that Amsterdam was just a short flight from London and tickets were cheap and the euro-pound exchange rates were in his favor, weekend jaunts to the city of narrow houses and murky canals became a regular thing for him. Misha had taken to having a bag packed every Friday after his meeting with Professor Parker, his adviser. He sometimes wondered what Misha must think of these visits to the brothels—he’d offered to pay for a girl or two for him—but Misha always declined.
Bashir took the phone, glaring at Misha. His bodyguard—tall, blonde, with steely blue eyes and a catlike grace when he moved—maintained the same inscrutable blank look he always had. Misha was so coldly professional there were times when Bashir wondered if he had a pulse, but on the other hand he’d also had his share of bodyguards who tried too hard to be chummy and only made things awkward. There was no awkwardness with Misha, at least—he was just a job to the guy, which was both a blessing and a curse sometimes. “Hello?” he said.
It was his father. At first Bashir was annoyed—when the semester began he’d told his father that he would not be flying back to Bahrain for every official ceremony, but the King still called every now and then, asking him if he wanted to do the meet-and-greets for the King of Saudi Arabia, or the Ayatollah of Iran. They were largely frivolous affairs, fun in their own way if smiling for cameras and kissing hands and having you hands kissed was your idea of fun, but Bashir had been doing it since he was four, and while the thrill of meeting foreign dignitaries was still there, the wonder was gone. They were, after all, merely men—old men, dour men, who thought that they could rule their people like sultans of days past—and he’d met enough of them to know that he preferred women. His idea of fun these days was getting high on Ecstasy (purchased in bulk from his dealer here, concealed amongst the legitimate lactase pills he carried so that he could eat at finer establishments without suffering diarrhea later) and clubbing the night away, but even that had gotten old recently.
And, of course, there were calls about the marriage proposals—some sheik or other in some country or other wanted to marry some daughter or other to the Prince of Bahrain, even though he was last in line for the succession and had neither the interest in ruling, nor the ruthlessness for removing his brothers. Bashir sighed and covered his face with his hand, now, wondering why he had to be the last son. He was twenty-eight, and still his wishes to be left alone and not pestered with the idea of marrying strangers were routinely ignored.
“—and you must come back immediately,” his father was saying.
It’d been something about a marriage, and Bashir could feel his eyes rolling as he protested, “But I have a thesis draft due on Tuesday—” I wonder which daughter of what sultan is up for offer now, he thought.
“You always have something due,” his father snapped. “Now I am telling you to come home. And anyway, you are the only one of my children who has yet to meet your new mother.”
“My new—” Did he say mother? He had, Bashir realized. That was why he was calling. “Wait, when did you get engaged?”
“As I said, a lot has happened since you went to England. Come home, Bashir. Let’s talk.”
Bashir found himself agreeing to fly home as soon as possible. “What are you staring at?” he asked, as he handed the phone back to Misha. He felt bad right away—Misha, always the picture of decorum, hadn’t been staring—and there was no reason to lash out at the man like that, except out of his own peevishness about having his plans for the weekend thwarted. Not that they were very good plans—spend Saturday whoring, Sunday drinking, and fly back to England before classes on Monday—but they were his. Still, he supposed he could make an exception, this one time, for his father. “Change of plans,” he said. “We’re going back go Bahrain. Do you have a tuxedo?”
***
He was last in line for the throne, but the Prince of Bahrain still had some official duties to fulfill, and amongst them was welcoming his new stepmother to the family. It wasn’t until he was on the flight to Dubai that he got his first warning that something wasn’t right about this. He tried to call his brothers and sisters, but his eldest brother was in Jordan and not picking up his phone, his sisters were in Bahrain but ignoring his calls, and the one brother that answered professed to know nothing about the marriage.
If this is a scam, he thought angrily, as he he collected his luggage and headed towards the smaller plane that would fly him home. It was too late now—the people he knew to be based in Dubai were all business types, and more often than not were out of the country, making their millions or billions. They were not the kinds of friends you called up five minutes before you arrived at their pristine, sparkling penthouses and asked to crash on their couch.
They got into a cab at the airport. “The Royal Palace,” Bashir said, quickly. He’d been too preoccupied on the way over to call the house ask them to send a car—and he’d found, while living in London, that he’d grown to like the quiet anonymity that taxis could give.
The driver smiled nervously and chuckled. “Only the royal family goes there,” he said.
“And who do you think I am?” asked Bashir, equal parts amused and irritated. Amused, because he could probably call the guard and have a literal army descend on this cab within minutes, and it would be funny to see the man piss himself. Irritated, because he’d rarely been disobeyed before.
“We have business with the royal family,” said Misha, before either of them could get snippy. “Security arrangements for the coming wedding.”
“Ah, yes—very important,” said the driver, as he drove off, chattering about the wedding of a second cousin’s seventh grandchild that he’d just attended. Bashir was too peeved to think of anything to say at all—and anyway he couldn’t decide whether to lash out at Misha for his impertinence or the driver for daring to disobey a prince. Which, he had to admit, was mostly his own fault. He’d been livi
ng in London since he was twenty, after all.
On the long drive to the Royal Palace he remembered why he’d only been back once in those eight years: for his mother’s funeral. She was a lovely woman, even as she neared sixty—time did not ravage her looks, they only softened her features. She had a beautiful smile, was always decorous and correct, and he could not ever remember having heard her yelling. His sisters used to joke that she’d given all of her beauty to him because Dr. Farsid made a mistake when they did the ultrasound and told her he was girl. She’d died three years ago; Dr. Farsid had told him it was most likely a heart attack, but autopsies were forbidden by Islamic law, and in any case there was no reason to suspect foul play.
Now that they were out of the glitzy high-rises of Manama the scenery turned into dreary-beige buildings in the midst of a dready, beige desert. He’d never understood why people said they loved the desert so much. It seemed ridiculous, to persist in living in a place that was trying to kill you all the time. Even now, despite the cab’s tinted windows, he was thankful he hadn’t taken off his sunglasses, because the sand outside was bright enough to burn his eyes. Even the light is deadly, Bashir groused silently.
SHEIKH'S SURPRISE BABY: A Sheikh Romance Page 105