He touched her cheek lightly and nodded as if he understood, holding her gaze for a long moment before blinking and looking past her, into the blue sky beyond the metal railings of the ship as it pushed its way through the wind and the water.
“No words for now,” he said, nodding again and glancing at her once more before smiling and looking down, taking her hand and squeezing it, pulling her close now, pulling her into him, holding her against his body as they both leaned against a metal supply cabinet that had been bolted to the deck.
She leaned against him as she felt the wind whip around them. The sun shone on her outstretched legs now, and she sighed as she felt warm all over, comfort sinking in, relaxation taking over. They sat together for many minutes, listening to one another breathe, taking in the sound of ship cutting through the deep blue sea, the roar of the wind above them. Finally she felt Rizaak take a deep breath and exhale. Then he began to speak.
“Abdul bin-Khawas is my mother’s younger brother. Her only brother. Both he and my mother were orphaned at an early age, and they were raised in the orphanage founded by my grandfather in the capital city of Khawas. When my father married my mother and made her his queen, he gave her the name Begum Al-Khawas. Begum means queen.” He sighed. “And at my mother’s request, my father allowed Abdul to be called Abdul bin-Khawas to designate his connection to the royal house of Khawas,” Rizaak said.
“Abdul bin-Khawas,” Cristy said. “Uncle Bin.”
Rizaak smiled. “Yes, Uncle Bin. I think he did not like the name, but as a child I called him Uncle Bin and the name stuck.”
“Well, that explains why he wants to make sure you’re hunted down by the CIA and tortured to death,” Cristy said. “Serves you right for calling him names.”
Rizaak laughed. “He was always an overly traditional man. Much more so than my mother, and perhaps even more so than my father, the Sheikh himself!”
“More traditional than you?” Cristy asked, not sure if she was teasing him or not. After all, she knew so little about this man whom she felt so close to, so connected with, so much a part of, now that they had . . . now that they had . . .
Rizaak laughed. “It is safe to say that, yes. I am traditional in many ways—I do not drink alcohol, and I say my prayers most of the time. I fulfill all the religious and ceremonial aspects of my role as supreme Sheikh. And I do believe that I can reform the Islamic laws in a way that keeps the traditions intact.” He sighed now. “But Uncle Bin would disagree. Ten years ago, shortly after my mother passed, he questioned the direction of my leadership, expressed some doubt in the way I was exercising my power as Sheikh.” His chest rose against Cristy’s body, his torso tightening. “I was younger then, and although I responded with respect and patience, I made it clear that he was in no position to question my authority, second-guess my methods, doubt my vision for the land of my ancestors, the nation of my people, the country of my God.”
Cristy shivered in his arms as she heard him speak, as she felt his deep voice resonate through her body. She barely knew anything about him, but she felt like she knew him better than anyone else, that she knew him better than any woman could ever know a man. The feeling made her tremble as panic and confusion tried to push its way through, that feeling of being in a dream and a nightmare at the same time, that sense of something unfolding around them, around her, within her . . . within her.
Stop it, she told herself. Stop thinking about what you felt when he touched you, when he took you, when he called you his queen and came inside you . . . oh, God, stop it, stop it, STOP IT!
“In some way I knew I had created an enemy in him,” Rizaak was saying when Cristy managed to refocus on his voice, on his words. “I sensed it then, and I have somehow known it for the past decade, even though Uncle Bin and I have been on very good terms, even affectionate terms through the years.”
“But if you thought he was an enemy, why agree when he asks you to fly to Baltimore of all places?” Cristy asked, regaining her focus, her need for clarity, for control.
Rizaak shrugged. “I do not know. I suppose I did not question it.” He looked at her with a meaningful glance before blinking and staring past her. “It seemed like I almost had to do it. I do not know how to explain it.”
You don’t need to explain it, Cristy suddenly thought as she felt a catch in her throat. But she kept talking, trying to make things light. “OK, so you didn’t think it was odd that your uncle is asking the Sheikh of Khawas to act like a bank customer at one of the crappiest branches of Midland Bank—which, by the way, happens to be one of the crappiest banks in America. Even the employees don’t use the bank! They charge us fees, you know! Can you believe it?”
Rizaak laughed. “Of course I believe it. Uncle Bin runs a tight ship. Even when it comes to charity! You should see the scrutiny he performs before even a simple donation to a beggar while on pilgrimage to Mecca! He will decide how much to give based on how malnourished and underfed the beggar appears!”
Cristy laughed. “But isn’t he rich? I mean, he must be . . . what . . . a millionaire or something.”
Rizaak was quiet for a moment, and Cristy could feel his eyes turn towards her, his face opening up into a smile, as if he was delighted at her innocence. “Cristy,” he said quietly. “In Khawas we have so much oil money that even the goat-herders are millionaires. In fact, I think it is fair to say even the goats might be millionaires!”
Cristy giggled as she pictured the goats (with goatees, of course) driving sports cars through the desert, sunglasses on, music blaring as they rocked out. “How about the camels?”
“Now the camels are not so interested in money,” Rizaak said, trying to stay serious. “They take great pride in their history of suffering hardship and traveling through miles of endless desert. They are the most trustworthy means of transport in the desert, you know.”
“So are they insulted that the goats are all driving BMWs now?” Cristy quipped, still giggling.
She felt his chest move against her cheek as he laughed spontaneously, and again that lighthearted feeling came through, giving her the sense that she was in a garden with her lover, the wind teasing them as the sun warmed their intertwined bodies. She tried to hold on to that feeling, but it passed through her and disappeared into the wind even as the sun hid behind a cloud.
“Rizaak,” she said now, pressing her face against his hard chest as reality came storming back in like the wind on her bare legs.
“Yes?” he said.
“I’m a suspect too, aren’t I?”
She felt him look down at her, his breath catching. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “Yes. But Tom has agreed to let you go immediately once we get to Ireland, and so when you turn yourself in, it will be easy to explain how—”
“Excuse me, what?”
“What?”
Cristy turned her face up towards him. “We’re BOTH turning ourselves in, right? The deal you made was to give Tom and the others a bunch of cash and then they just let us go. Let BOTH of us go, right? We’re useless as hostages, because we’re suspects too, and so nobody’s going to negotiate to get us set free. Then Tom and Jane and the others can take the cash and make a run for it, and the two of us will turn ourselves in and just explain that your uncle is the guy behind all of it, and—”
“Oh, Cristy, listen to me,” Rizaak said, his voice urgent but betraying a tenderness that made Cristy curl up tight against him. “I cannot turn myself in. You know that I cannot.”
“Why not? You said you’ve worked with the CIA before, when you were in the military. And surely you have some authority as supreme Sheikh of a country! They’ll believe you, won’t they? Of course they’ll believe you! I’ll back your story! Worst case, you can volunteer to take a lie detector test!”
Rizaak laughed now. “Cristy, it is not about whether the CIA believes me or not. It is not about my reputation or my history. All that no longer matters. What matters is that I have been publicly branded a terrorist now,
and the easiest thing to do would be to simply make sure that I stay a terrorist. The public’s attention span is limited: it will be too complicated to convince the American public that I am innocent. It would be easier to simply put me away publicly, and then back my uncle privately as he takes over as Sheikh.”
“I don’t understand, Rizaak. It doesn’t make sense! If the CIA believes you, how can they do that? How is that justice?”
“Justice? Hah!” Rizaak laughed and shook his head. “My uncle is smart, Cristy. He knows how the CIA thinks, how they work. This is beyond the realm of the American justice system. It is beyond justice and truth. It is about strategy, power, and influence. And it is about perception.”
“I still don’t understand,” Cristy said, even though she was starting to understand. She just didn’t WANT to understand right now—didn’t want to even THINK about being separated from him, not now, not ever! She pouted into his chest as he squeezed her tight and continued to speak.
“To the CIA it is simple. My past cooperation notwithstanding, they know that I am a Sheikh who does not yield to anyone’s influence, does not submit to anyone’s authority, does not deviate from his own path, his own vision,” Rizaak said, his voice low and unwavering. “But my uncle is someone who can be controlled—or at least the CIA will see it that way.”
“But you’re a modern Sheikh, a progressive ruler! Weren’t you telling me how you’ve been changing the laws to allow women freedoms that are unheard of in the Islamic world, and that you’re—”
“CRISTY, goddamn it! It does not matter! Do you not understand how the world works? How politics works? It is not about right and wrong! It is about CONTROL! My uncle has forced the CIA’s hand. The CIA now knows that they must choose either my uncle or me to blame, and the way things are set up, it is in their interest to blame me!” Rizaak shook his head again, forcing a smile once more. “You are too innocent, Cristy. Justice? Right and wrong? Ah, you have the innocence of a child, my Cristy! So much innocence!”
Cristy frowned as he laughed, and now she allowed her understanding to push its way in, and she knew at once that Rizaak was right. She understood well enough that the CIA probably had to make all sorts of questionable moral choices to maintain control and influence in the Middle-East, the seat of Islamic extremism. And she knew her history well enough to know that sometimes these underground games of strategy ended up taking down good rulers and replacing them with not-so-good rulers who would be indebted to the CIA and the West.
She nodded now, pressing her cheek against his chest again. She could hear his heartbeat—a steady, even rhythm that sent goosebumps down her bare arms, up her naked legs. She kissed his chest between the open buttons of his shirt, smiling away her dark thoughts as she felt his heart beat faster.
“Not that innocent,” she whispered as she kissed his chest again, now running her warm, wet tongue against his flat nipple, flicking it as she felt his body stiffen against hers. “Not that innocent at all,” she said again, not wanting to think about what would happen after they got to Ireland. She COULDN’T think about that now. She WOULDN’T think about that now. Who knew if they would even be alive in two weeks? No. Shut it out. SHUT IT OUT!
“Oh, you are innocent like a little girl,” he whispered now, running his hands through her hair as she licked his dark, tight nipples. “So much to learn about the big, bad world. Perhaps I will have to teach you a thing or two. For your own good, of course. Yes, I will have to teach you about power and influence. About control. Control.”
Cristy giggled and kissed his chest again as she felt her fear and apprehension slip away as that primal heat rose inside her, that magnetic current flowing strong between their two bodies once again. Instinct began to take over, desire began to seize control, and now she was running her hand down towards his crotch as she listened to his heart speed up so fast that she could feel her own arousal spiral upwards at an alarming rate. She shifted against him as she placed her palm against the front of his pants now, gasping as she felt him rise and harden under her soft touch.
Her heat ratcheted up as she turned her head up just in time to receive his kiss, his lips pressing hard against hers, his tongue sliding into her mouth as she grasped his cock through his pants and held on tight, gasping now at the sensation of his tongue in her mouth, his erection in her hand.
Control, she thought as she pulled at his cock through the cloth, shivering as she felt his hands move up beneath her skirt again, parting the cheeks of her naked buttocks, his fingers sliding into her rear crack and spreading her, groping her, clawing at her.
Control, she thought again as Rizaak sat up against that metal tool cabinet and hiked up her skirt, spreading her thighs and forcing her to sit on his peaked lap, the back of his hand rubbing her matted triangle for a moment, her naked crotch pressing down on his erection now, her juices flowing free onto his trousers, her self control and inhibitions disappearing as she felt the sun on her neck, the wind in her hair, his hands on her body.
Control, came the word again, whispered into her mind. Control.
“Control me,” she muttered as she felt Rizaak’s hands part her buttocks again, his fingers running up and down her crack, teasing her rear hole in a way that felt so filthy she almost choked as he kissed her. “Control me,” she mumbled, without truly understanding what she was saying but not giving a damn. “Control me.”
Rizaak’s hands tightened around her bottom as she spoke, and suddenly he GRABBED her from below and LIFTED her to her feet as he stood, his muscular thighs and legs pushing up so quickly she almost swooned in surprise.
He was on his feet now, his strong arms firmly clutching her rear cushion as he lifted her clean off her feet, his lips feverishly kissing her face. Cristy’s skirt was hiked all the way up now, and she was bare bottomed in the sun, the wind teasing her naked crotch as she wrapped her legs tight around his waist. Now her full weight was supported by his muscular hips, his strong arms, and Rizaak effortlessly walked across the rusty green metal deck, cradling her in a way that made her feel light as air.
“You want me to control you, Cristy?” he whispered as he hungrily kissed her mouth, licked her cheeks like an animal. “Be careful what you ask for, little American girl. You do not know me so well. You do not know that if you ask me to control you, it could make me lose control of myself. And I think you are not ready to handle Rizaak Al-Khawas when he loses control.”
“Teach me to handle it,” she gasped as she desperately rubbed her wet, naked crotch against the hardness pushing through his rough trousers. “I can handle it if you teach me.”
He growled against her face now, and the sound was so guttural, so deep, so raw, that Cristy shivered for a moment as a sliver of panic ripped through her. Their two encounters had been the wildest, craziest, FILTHIEST sex she’d ever had . . . but had Rizaak actually been holding back? While Cristy had completely let herself go with him, had Rizaak been holding his desire in check, stopping himself from getting everything he needed of her, wanted from her, CRAVED from her?
No, she thought, and now she felt the wind pick up as Rizaak carried her to the very front of the ship, pausing at the short metal staircase leading up to the narrow ledge that jutted out over the frothy waters below the point of the bow.
No, she thought again, but now the wind carried the thought away as Rizaak took her up the stairs one by one, finally setting her down on the ledge itself as he stood before her.
The sun-baked metal felt warm beneath her naked buttocks, and the sun was scorching but somehow just right. Rizaak stood almost level with her face, his feet firmly planted three steps down as he pulled her blouse open and seized her breasts with such force she almost cried out.
“Are you sure, little Cristy?” he growled as he lifted her bra cups and pinched her nipples, looking her dead in the eye as he did it. “If I let myself go, there is no turning back until I get what I want. Until I do what I want. Until YOU do what I want.” Without warning he SLA
PPED her breasts twice, slapped them HARD, now PINCHING her nipples and holding on as she cried out in pain and surprise. “Will you do what I want, Cristy?” he asked now as he pinched her nipples even harder.
“Yes,” she gasped as she choked back her rising arousal and managed to keep her eyes open long enough to see something in his eyes, something that resonated deep inside, like all of this was part of a plan, like everything that was happening was indeed about the two of them, him and her, man and woman.
This is a test, the thought came suddenly as she felt herself nod once more. A test of faith. A lesson in trust. A test for both of them, perhaps.
“Yes,” she said again. “Yes.”
Now Rizaak released her nipples and stood back for a moment, and Cristy just stared up at him as he watched her in silence. His erection was immense, and Cristy reached for him but he swatted her hand away, grinning for a moment before grabbing her wrists suddenly.
“Not until I say it,” he said now, taking one step up the metal stairs, now another until his waist drew level with her face as she sat there on that ledge, her back to the railing that overlooked the open ocean, protruded out over the bow of the gigantic ship. “Not until I say it.”
Cristy stared at his peaking hardness as Rizaak let go of her wrists, and now she looked down at herself, at her white thighs spread out as she sat, her crotch shining in the sun, her pink slit already glistening with her wetness, her need, an arousal that scared her.
Look at me, she thought wide-eyed as she realized how RIDICULOUS it was to be sitting here in the bright sunlight, her skirt hiked up over her wide hips, her sex displayed shamelessly to the entire goddamn world! It was filthy, sick, disgusting . . . and oh, God, it felt so free, so pure, so . . . so . . . perfect.
Hostage for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 3) Page 13