The Sheikh's Captive Mistress (5 page)

Munir bowed his head, and he hated himself for doing that. His father was no longer the towering giant of his childhood, no longer the overbearing dictator with the whip in his hand to discipline his errant son. No pain would come to him here. Hell, the man was dying and, within the year, his heart would give out. The best doctors in London had told them all that. Still, this was his father, and no matter how hard he tried to break against the mold, no matter how hard he wished things weren’t true, he wanted to please him still.

That sad part of him was still eleven and felt he’d never be the powerful successor his dad railed about day after day.

Hell, the part of him that just a few months ago had hoped his father would smile back at him during Munir’s own coronation, but only found grim resignation instead.

So Munir kept his head bowed and his tone contrite. “I have misled you, Father.”

“I understand that. What I don’t understand is how you could be so confused. They’re infidels, my son. The Americans care not for our people; they bomb them daily as collateral damage in their other wars. They don’t respect or bother to understand our ways. And you’re presuming to take one for your harem?”

He swallowed and tried to force away the feeling of cotton blocking his throat. It was worse than that, as if cactus needles were actually embedded there. But if he were forced to be honest with his father, he needed to be honest with him the whole way. After all, the wedding would take place soon, once everything with the treaty was settled. His father would know then anyway, how deeply he was taken with Westerners.

“She’s not going to be in my harem.”

Another wheeze and yellowed eyes bore into his own, as if his father could read his very soul. Maybe the sheikh could. After all, he’d always seemed to know every time as a child that Munir had tried lying to him.

“What? You are not saying what I think you are, my son.”

“Indeed I am,” he said, his tone shaky even to his ears. “I love her, Father.”

The former sheikh stood up, jumping forth with a speed that Munir had assumed his father could no longer produce. “Oh, Allah! You are not saying what I think you are.”

He rushed forward, already noting how badly his father was swaying without his cane to steady him, as well as the way his breath rattled. The old sheikh’s tubes had fallen out of his nose and soon he’d pass out from lack of oxygen. “Father, please, let me get that. You’ll hurt yourself.”

The older sheikh swatted at him and hit his hand. Suddenly Munir was eleven again and the slap bit into him far more easily than it should have. “Blasphemy! You cannot take her as a bride, even if it didn’t ruin our treaty ploy…she’s an
infidel
. She’s not one of us.”

He stepped back and started to pace. Fuck his father. If the old man passed out right there, it would be the best thing for all of them. “She’s amazing, and I want her as my Sheikha.”

“Unacceptable.”

“It doesn’t matter what you want anymore, Father.”

“It matters that we convince that dog Alan James to comply with us.”

“My point is that I’m the acting sheikh now, you’re dying, and Yoman has to change if we’re going to survive, to be more than some of our neighbors.”

“So becoming Western will do that? Taking that American pig as your bride will fix everything?”

He took a swing at his father, but, in the last minute, made himself swing wide. Even as furious as he was, he couldn’t hurt a man that ancient and frail. It would be without honor, no matter how much his father infuriated him.

“I don’t know, but I know that I can’t take a harem of forty women and string the good ones like Basheera and my mother along. I know that I can’t afford to never compromise on anything international, and I know deep down in my bones that there is no woman more perfect for me than Emma James. So, Father, either adjust to the idea that Emma is my true
habbibi
or go ahead and do the whole kingdom a favor.”

“And what favor is that?”

“Die,” Munir replied, spittle flying from his lips with his inflection. “I doubt your people will mourn you, not after the mess you’ve left me to clean up after decades of fulfilling your fantasies over serving your people.”

“You mean that you won’t miss me,” the other man wheezed, slipping into his chair.

“You’ve given me nothing to miss.”

***

The palace was cool at night. Emma had never been to a desert area before. She knew the Boy Scout type facts that at night the temperatures in a desert could plummet. That lack of sunlight mixed with the high stone walls of the castle made sure that every corner was cool and breezy at night. She was stretched out on a soft mattress covered in the most luxurious silk sheets in a bright coral. They felt wonderful sliding against the bare skin of her arms and legs. As the future sheikha, she had her own room aside from the full harem. It was a kindness afforded to only her, Basheera as the senior harem woman, and Abdalla, who, rumor had it, was the birth mother of Kashif. Considering Abdalla’s large, bulbous nose and tendency to sneer at everything she saw, Emma was sure that was true.

After all, Kashif’s winning personality had to come from somewhere.

She was lucky that he wasn’t the actual sheikh, that somehow the old sheikh had found a woman somewhere who had helped raised Munir to be overall a surprisingly soft and generous man. Part of her could almost forgive the kidnapping. Again, maybe it was the strange land or the fear she felt near Kashif’s presence, but Munir was definitely an ally here and being beyond kind to her in her treatment. At the same time, she felt that he, too, was trapped in his role in life, in the expectations that were grinding him into the ground. His people needed their king to be strong, to have a sheikha by his side. They also needed peace, respite from the accidental bombings and “civilian casualties” that came from Americans being careless when dropping bombs on the borderlands with Omai.

She knew about duty, about expectation so heavy it felt like it was crushing you from the inside out. Maybe if he could see her, she could see glimpses of him, too.

Sighing, Emma lay back in her sheets and tried to sleep. It was getting easier to rest, as well, to think of this odd place as her home. She was scared about what that said about her, but it was no less true.

***

“You are beautiful, my
habbibi
,” Munir purred, his voice a delightful rumble as always. His scent permeated her bedroom, a musk of the powerful male he was, highlighted with a hint of sweat and that ever-present jasmine herb.

She blinked back at him and drew the sheet to her breasts. In the night, she’d felt itchy in her night kaftan and slipped it off. There literally was nothing between them but the flimsy fabric now draped over her chest.

“I thought I made it clear that I don’t want this.”

He nodded, but strode into the room anyway, shutting the door behind him. Her heart quickened – not with fear, but with need. She recalled the kiss they’d shared with each other when she’d slapped him and then the passionate make out hours earlier on the damn dinner table. Her pussy was wet, overflowing already with her juices. She was so very torn. The good girl – no, correction,
daddy’s
girl – that Emma had been before being taken would never sleep with Munir. No, she would fight and protest and try and appeal to him to release her. She would be everything the proper American girl was supposed to be.

But she was no longer just that girl.

She’d tried, even if she’d failed, to fight off an entire wet works team repurposed and sent for her. She’d been initiated into a harem and slapped a world leader in his face. She was tougher than that unsure girl on the dance floor a few nights ago.

Part of that grit meant she had to face herself, those dark corners and deepest desires she’d sublimated for her all damn life, trying to be so perfect.

Emma wanted him, body and soul. He was driving her nuts, seeping into her veins, becoming the blood pumping through her heart. Tastes of him were no longer enough, so if he was going to be visiting her in the dark like this, tempting her like a demon, then she was going to succumb.

And revel in every damn minute of it.

Munir lay out on the queen-sized bed beside her, his frame overwhelming his portion of the bed, and there were football players at Harvard who hadn’t been as well built – pity for them. Those gorgeous hazel eyes were studying her, devouring every curve and angle of her neck and face. When he settled his gaze on the thin silk sheet covering her breasts, she could even make out those hauntingly lovely flecks of gold in his eyes.

Unbidden, she reached out and traced her hand over the thick sideburns on his cheeks. He groaned and reached down, pulling the sheet back from her chest.

Licking his lips, Munir smiled back at her, dimples forming in the corners of his cheeks, making him look slightly boyish, despite the beard and strong jaw of his. It was endearing. “You have the most confusing way of saying no, my princess.”

“I…then it’s not ‘no.’ I get so tired of fighting everything, of fighting myself. You’re not wrong. I wanted adventure,” she said, pointing to the view of the swirling sands outside of her window. “I wanted more and you’re giving it to me.” Emma offered him a lascivious smirk and reached down, tracing the outline of his bulge through the fabric of the pajama pants he wore. “Hell, I’d say, you’re giving me more than most women can dream of.”

“Is this about my palace or my cock?”

She chuckled, feeling bold, feeling like she’d always wanted to. It was always Alexis and Parker who had been the tough ones, the ones who knew exactly what they wanted and took it. She’d been the girl at the bar drinking club sodas normally and happy to be the spectator – a designated driver of life.

Now it felt like she was in a Ferrari doing 190 on the straightaways.

She squeezed his length through his pants again, enjoying the way his eyes rolled back in his head and he bucked against her grasp. “It’s about you. I don’t want to think for tonight. Tomorrow, you can be the king of a country embroiled in treaties and I can be the senator’s daughter. Tonight? Make love to me, Munir.”

“I thought you’d never ask me that,
habbibi
,” he rumbled again, stripping off his clothes with tantalizing slowness.

His pajamas were navy blue silk and the top was a button down. Inch by inch, he unbuttoned his shirt. As he did, teasing it out, she was treated by a growing visual of his rugged olive-skinned chest. The strong pecs there were so overwhelming, not comically large like a body builder, but solid. He could put Vin Diesel or Chris Hemsworth to shame, that was for sure. Passion flowing through her, making her vagina practically drip with desire and need, Emma grazed her fingers over his chest.

It was everything she wanted – firm and warm, almost unyielding with the strength of the muscles underneath. Leaning down, she ran her tongue over his chest, tasting the hint of sweat there, relishing the taste of her sheikh. As Munir finally threw off his shirt, she was free to explore the expanse of dark flesh before her. She ran her hand over the ridges of his rock hard abs, amused as he flexed them and chuckled a bit for her.

“Do I not please you,
habbibi
? Am I not a fine specimen for a future husband?”

“Mmm,” she said, biting her lower lip. “You’ll do, I suppose. Maybe Kashif would be better.”

His nostrils flared even at the attempt at a joke and he grabbed her wrists with his hands. “Do not even jest, my princess…Emma. I’m all here for you, all you’ll ever need. Let me show you.”

“Do your worst, Sheikh.”

Munir licked his lips and dropped her wrists. With determination, he pushed her shoulders down and arranged her on the bed, pulling the sheets away from her. He then started to give her body loving attention. While his hands sought the wetness of her folds, of her most intimate flesh, his lips found her collarbone. He kissed her there, small pecks at first that sent even more wetness flooding from her and making it easier for his hands to stroke her below. She bucked a bit against him, flexing her hips and enjoying the feel of such strong, capable hands feeling all of her. Meanwhile, his kisses had changed their focus, going from small innocent pecks to much deeper. He was sucking at the skin of her neck, raising hickies there and goosebumps all over the rest of her body. Eventually, he changed his style again and began to graze his bottom teeth over her clavicle.

Emma raised her neck closer to him, so that she could feel both the scrape of his teeth against her neck, as well as the scratch of his beard against the tender skin of her upper chest.

“More!” she demanded, even has his long and delicate fingers were fingering her with an expertise she’d never felt, exploring her folds and the depths of her core, gradually, but with firm purpose.

“I can do anything you want,
habbibi
, tonight and every night hereafter,” he said, trailing kisses then over her throat, sparing time to lave at her nipples. His tongue flicked quickly against her breast, making her left nipple a rigid peak that flexed and flicked with his movement. She felt her clit began to throb, the rhythm building there, too. She could feel her very heartbeat in every corner of her body, with every fiber of skin and every nerve. “I know exactly what you need.”

She didn’t have time to ask before she felt the breeze and displacement of his body and the heft of him from covering her torso to nothing at all. Emma opened her eyes and was about to complain about the lack of kisses when she realized where Munir was: perched over her wet folds, ready to pleasure her.

“You don’t have to,” she said, blushing and falling into her old insecurities. “I know most men don’t like to do that.”

“The idiot American boys you’ve dated don’t know what truly can move a real man,” he said, highlighting his point by withdrawing his hand and licking her juices off of it, one finger at a time. “The finest wine on Earth has nothing on a woman’s arousal. Let me work, my
habbibi
.”

She nodded and bit her lip, not wanting to scream or alert the palace to the rest of what they were doing, to let everyone know the American had given in so easily to the Sheikh’s pleasure.