37
But the Sheikh did not truly allow himself to think on it. He could not allow himself to think on it. That other brother had a death sentence on his head as far as Bilaal was concerned, and he did not even want to revisit the topic in his mind. The only remaining questions were how he would die and when he would die.
Still, in the weeks following that confrontation with Irene, the Sheikh could not deny that she’d had an impact, that she’d gotten to him in a way that no one had. She’d said things that took root in his emotional depths, and though he could bury them with the sheer power of his will, he could not stop them from growing to the point where they broke through to his conscious mind, forcing him to confront himself, the man he had turned into . . .
The king you want to be . . . a man who gets what he wants by violence, not love.
His mind swirled every time he played with his young son, who was full of joy, always smiling, always happy. Although they were living in a well-equipped, spacious cabin bigger than most people’s primary homes, Sage did not have much in the way of material possessions. The few toys were hand-made from wood or improvised out of cloth. There was a television system, but Irene had converted that room into her sewing studio, and she forbade any of them from camping out there and flipping through channels. She’d told him that when she was raising Sage alone in Wyoming, she’d made a decision to not expose him to television until it couldn’t be helped, and now at four, the child had no interest in watching cartoons or other nonsense. All Sage wanted was to be around his mother and his father.
His father.
Is this what love feels like, the Sheikh had asked himself in those weeks after Irene had threatened to leave him if he went ahead with his plan to kill the other brother. That her threat actually made an impact on me, actually made me feel fear in a way I did not when killing warlords in Mogadishu or Uzbekistan? Or is it a sign of my weakness that I gave in and agreed to think about it, when I should have shut her down and said she could go to hell, that I will not yield to blackmail? Ya Allah, what is the answer?
The Sheikh wrestled with that question over and over again, sometimes driving himself close to madness as he lay awake in the dark, wondering how he could even consider not killing this other brother. Was he gambling with his niece’s life by allowing himself to be swayed by Irene? Was Irene being selfish by asking such a thing of him? Was it possible that Irene’s motives were deeper, darker? Was the woman thinking ahead, to when Sage was a man, a prince, a Sheikh in waiting? Was she worried that Mala might have some claim to the throne before Sage, perhaps because Sage was only half-Arab while Mala’s bloodline was pure?
The thought ashamed him, and the moment it entered his mind he knew he was spinning away from reality and into the world of paranoia. It terrified him at first, but then, one morning, after a sleepless night, the Sheikh looked at his sleeping wife, her soft hand draped over her belly, what looked like a peaceful smile on her face.
Just talk to her, came the thought. Tell her your fears. Confess your doubts. Confront your own vulnerability. That is the meaning of love, of marriage, of looking into a woman’s eyes and telling her she is yours and you are hers. You have already told her of the darkest things in your past, and she is still here. So just talk to her.
He woke her that morning, in the stillness of dawn. She opened her eyes immediately, blinking and smiling up at him, sitting up quickly when she looked upon his face.
“What is it?” she’d said, touching his cheek. “Talk to me, Bilaal.”
He’d taken a breath and exhaled slowly. “You do understand that Sage will be my heir, do you not?”
Irene had frowned like he was speaking in tongues. “Uh . . . OK. Sure. I mean . . . are you talking about money? Because I’m fine as far as Sage’s expenses go. I have it planned all the way up to—”
“Not money. Rather, not just money. I mean Sage is my heir. My royal heir. He will be Sheikh when I am no more.”
Irene’s frown went deeper, and she cocked her head like it wasn’t so much the impact of what he’d just said as much as why he’d said it. “You woke me up to tell me this? Why? It’s not going to be relevant for decades—I expect both you and I to live long lives, you know.” She tried to smile but it didn’t work. She stayed quiet for a moment, looking past the Sheikh. Then her eyes went wide, and she sat up all the way and glared at him. “Wait,” she said. “Does this have something to do with your niece? Are you worried that I’m . . . oh, God, Bilaal! Are you seriously asking me if I’m . . . what, hoping to get your niece out of the way so my son has no challengers to the throne?! Is this seriously how your mind works? I don’t know if I’m insulted or terrified!”
The Sheikh closed his eyes and shook his head. “No, Irene. I mean, I am sorry. In my heart I know I do not believe that for even a moment. But in my mind . . . ya Allah . . .”
Irene had taken a breath, and he could see her trying to control her own anger at what he’d dared to suggest. She closed her eyes and smiled, and when she looked at him again, the Sheikh saw not anger, not hurt, but pity. Pity and love.
“Oh, Bilaal,” she whispered, cradling his face in her warm hands as she leaned close. “You know what? I’m not insulted, and I’m not scared. I’m grateful, and I’m hopeful. If you were able to admit to me that your mind took you to that dark place where you wondered if you could trust me, then I know we’re on the right track. Now I know our marriage has a chance. If we’re willing to be brutally honest with one another, then nothing can tear us apart. Nothing. Oh, Bilaal, I can see how hard it was for you to admit this. And I can see that in your heart you don’t believe it, not for a moment. Thank you, Bilaal. I love you. I love you so much, with a madness that makes me want to scream!”
The Sheikh stared at her, frowning like now it was she who was speaking in tongues. “I must be truly going mad,” he muttered as the relief poured in so quick it threatened to drown him in a flood of emotion. “But to hell with trying to understand it with my mind when I know in my heart what I feel. Ya Allah, woman, I love you with the same madness . . . the same madness which makes me want to roar and wake up the entire forest.”
She giggled and kissed him, raising her eyebrows and whispering, “Maybe we hold off on the screaming and roaring for a bit, love. Sage is still asleep in the next room, and I think perhaps you could use a few hours of peace to quiet your mind.”
She kissed him again, and the Sheikh felt her hand slide down his hard body and rest on his heavy crotch, just like it had the first time they’d ever made love, when they were strangers in a rainstorm together. Now they were husband and wife, seeing their way through a different kind of storm. And yes, perhaps he did need some peace. The kind of peace that only her womanly touch could bring to him.
“Yes,” he whispered, groaning as she pulled the sheets away and gripped his cock in her hand, jerking him up to full hardness in a matter of moments. He could feel the tension melting away already, and he shuddered and almost came right then and there when he felt her cup his balls tenderly with her other hand as she jerked him back and forth, rolling her thumb over the massive head of his cock, spreading his own juice along his shaft to lubricate her motion. “Yes,” he groaned again as he saw her change position, deftly holding his cock and balls firmly as she did it, massaging and moving him close to ecstasy as she slowly straddled his legs.
He looked down past his body, past his cock that was standing straight up as she jerked him. Irene was bent forward, her face flush with her own rising heat, her eyes wide and honest, her breasts full and heavy. The loose cotton gown was hanging open, and the Sheikh groaned again as he saw her boobs swing with her steadily increasing pace. Her already ample breasts had swelled to the size of melons, large and beautiful in a way that turned the Sheikh on to the point where he was coming to orgasm a lot faster during sex.
The Sheikh reached for those smooth globes, and Irene smiled and moved forward so he could grab them. She moaned as his hands closed around her breasts, fingers clamping tight, and the Sheikh grinned when he saw her arch her neck back and position herself above his ramrod-straight cock, her pregnant belly softly pressing against his rippling abs as she leaned forward on his erection. Slowly she sank down on him, like she’d done the first time, and the Sheikh almost let out that roar when he felt his cock slide easily into her cunt that was so hot, so wet, so perfect that he would have come if he hadn’t gritted his teeth and clenched his balls to hold back.
“Ya Allah,” he groaned, pinching her nipples. “I feel so good in you. Ride me, my woman. Slow and easy now. Ride me as I suck your beautiful breasts.”
“They’ve become so big,” she muttered as she moved back and forth on his body, slowly riding his cock as he grabbed fistfuls of her asscheeks and started sucking her right nipple with extreme force, a desperate need, a deep hunger for her sex. “Much bigger than when I was pregnant with Sage.”
“Good,” the Sheikh gasped, pulling his wet mouth away from her right nipple, staring at the erect red point of her left breast and taking in several breaths before preparing to ravage that other nipple. “I like it this way. I will make sure I get you pregnant every year for the rest of our lives. At eighty you will be carrying my heirs, your beautiful boobs rubbing up against my face as you ride your king to our one billionth orgasm together.”
She giggled and then gasped when he advanced on her left nipple, licking it all shiny and pink before taking it into his mouth and beginning to suck. “I’m not sure what’s different this time, why my boobs feel so much heavier. Maybe it’s because . . . oh, God, that feels good. Oh, God, Bilaal. That feels so damn good!”