Mikhail arrived to dinner, dressed in a Western suit. His dressy jacket and slacks stood out among the crowd of traditional Eastern robes.

Aware of their gazes tracking him across the room, Mikhail zeroed in on Kamar and the rest of the world fell away into oblivion.

“You look dashing,” Kamar murmured, his appreciative gaze tracking hotly over Mikhail’s body. “I like the suit, too.” He winked and grabbed Mikhail’s hand, leading him into a few minutes of introductions.

Mikhail squeezed Kamar’s hand as he had them greet crooked ministers in different offices of Zhebair’s government. The names blurred together. It reminded him all too much of the many dinners as King of Djanna. Only the comforting company of Kamar kept him from shrinking back from the meaningless small talk.

“And this, you remember, is Prime Minister Mustafa,” Kamar said, steering Mikhail to the heart of the room. The host himself, surrounded by his closest confidants it seemed, if closed heads and wary glances their way spoke volumes.

Mustafa scowled at them, and then he smoothed the lines of disapproval from his face. “Son, I’m glad you’ve thought to grace us with your presence.” Turning to the small group of men around him, he raised his voice, jowls jiggling fiercely, “Gentlemen, I can’t fault him for shirking my company. His young soul, like those of his peers, is restless.”

Kamar’s hand tightened in Mikhail’s hold.

Mikhail held himself tall under the scrutiny of the prime minister.

“You’re the merchant from yesterday,” the light of recognition burned in his narrowing gaze. “What did you say your name was, merchant?”

Kamar beat him to it. “His name is Malik, Father.”

“Yes, yes,” Mustafa trailed off. “And what do you trade in, merchant?”

This time, Mikhail spoke for himself. “Fruit for now, but I’m beginning to build on my wares.”

“Fruit?” this seemed to thrill Mustafa greatly. He chuckled, the sound derisive when coupled with his crinkling, red nose. “Fruit can’t be very lucrative.”

This had the other men in the prime minister’s entourage laughing.

“No, you’re right,” Mikhail said. He could sense the wariness wafting off Kamar. Unconsciously, perhaps, Kamar tugged at his hand like he’d like nothing more than for them to let his father cow them into submission.

“Well, of course I’m right,” Mustafa practically growled. There was the note of dismissal in his eyes as they tracked over the room, likely searching out his next victim. The rumors of the old fart being a bully were true then. For shit’s sake, he made his own son cry.

“I assure you that my fruit is one of a kind,” Mikhail said, earning himself more laughter. He smiled their jeers off. “And there’s the whole matter of being reliable to my customers. They know they get quality product for a good price. That, in its own right, is rare. Wouldn’t you say, Mr. Prime Minister?”

Kamar was gripping his hand so hard that Mikhail gritted his teeth through the wide, fake smile he reserved for the Prime Minister and his cronies.

“We’ll see you at dinner, Father,” Kamar said, pulling Mikhail from the group.

He cornered him out in the hall, around the grand stairwell, offering them what little privacy they could get in the middle of a dinner party with two dozen some other guests.

Mikhail leaned against marble stringer, one of his arms looping around a gold-gilded baluster. “What?”

Kamar scowled at him. “Don’t ‘what’ me, don’t do that.”

“I have no clue what you’re talking about.” Mikhail sighed, realizing Kamar expected an actual answer. Feigning dumb wasn’t going to work, fine. He was brave enough to face this. “Your father’s a jerk.”

Kamar’s palm surprised Mikhail when it flattened over his mouth. “Shhh,” he whispered hotly, pressing into him, their bodies flush. Mikhail groaned around his hand, his lust roused by the revelation of Kamar’s hard, hot shaft straining through his finely-threaded, mauve-colored robe.

Mikhail tried to concentrate on the intricate, looping designs in darker purple on the robe. When that failed, he focused on their immediate background–really anything that distracted him from Kamar’s hand groping him over his pants, his palm kneading the bulge aching to be freed from its confines.

Kamar kissed his throat, his rough tongue darting out and lashing against his flesh.

“Mhm, you know how long I wanted to touch you like this. Too long,” Kamar purred, his nose nuzzling Mikhail’s frantic pulse. “I need you…”

Yes, I need you too. Mikhail groaned, unable to form the words to reciprocate. God, but Kamar had to know. He wore that sexy little mischievous smile from when he climbed Mikhail’s cock in the bath house and ripped through his virginity as if it were nothing but Mikhail’s to take in the first place.

Mikhail shuddered at the memory. Slowly and surely he was losing his composure. Fuck, the dinner party, he was beginning to think. Fuck whatever the reason we’re here.

He opened his mouth, about to suggest they find the bath house or someplace where they could mate roughly, loudly, and without interruption of the parental kind this time.

“I’d like you to meet someone first,” Kamar cooed, his lips brushing Mikhail’s. “He might be able to help us track Jibril.”

“Sure,” Mikhail grunted, his hips working faster under Kamar’s hand. Honestly, as long as he stroked him, Kamar could have asked Mikhail to cut off his right hand at this point and Mikhail would have done it. He was putty in Kamar’s grasp, clay to be molded in whatever shape or fashion.

In other words, he was stupidly in love.

Kamar’s face brightened. “And then we fuck,” he said, his tongue caressing the crude word. “All night long,” he stretched each syllable, squeezing Mikhail’s sex in time. Then he moved back, helped Mikhail straighten the front of his suit before doing the same for himself.

“Shall we?” he insisted, snaking his arm around Mikhail.

“Let’s,” Mikhail agreed. The faster they found whoever this person was, the quicker Mikhail could get Kamar under him.

“There he is,” Kamar said when they re-entered the party area. “He’s the man standing in front of the appetizers.”

Dressed in a tux, the short, slight man with the head of silver hair looked displeased about being bothered from his hunt for more food. Not that he looked like he packed a lot. Glowering at them, he waited through Kamar’s introductions. His lips attempted a semblance of a smile before they gave up and fell back in a long, unbroken line of disappointment.

“Malik, this is General Ishmael, the leader of Zhebair’s police force in the citadel.” Kamar stroked a hand over Mikhail’s arm. Turning up his face and looking radiant while doing it, Kamar gushed, “Isn’t that impressive?”

Seeing what he meant, Mikhail nodded. “It is.”