3
TWO WEEKS LATER
THE ROYAL PALACE OF JOHAAR
“Who is that woman?” Sheikh Amir asked his Minister of Tourism as they watched the small group of Americans walk through the Grand Atrium of Johaar’s Royal Palace. The two of them stood on a high balcony, looking down on the atrium from above.
“That is the bride, Sheikh Amir,” came the reply. “Ms. Lora Langhorne. And that is the groom, off to the left.”
But the Sheikh barely heard the last sentence, and his eyes stayed fixed on the view of Lora Langhorne from above. She wore a yellow sundress that could not hide her strong curves, and the sight of her cleavage from above made Amir’s head spin as he felt the blood rush to his cock like a river flowing downhill. He watched as she walked along the central path of the atrium, laughing and chattering away, reaching out and touching the old statues, leaning in and dipping her fingers into the cool waters of the old fountains where Amir had played as a child.
The Sheikh’s breath caught when he saw the outline of her round bottom as she leaned over the low wall of the central fountain, and in that instant he knew he would have her. It was not a conscious decision. It was just something that he knew.
Amir frowned and then backed away from the balcony, a chill running through him when he realized he was aroused to the point where his thoughts actually scared him. He’d always been a sex-driven beast, relentlessly pursuing and dominating every woman who’d caught his fancy. By age sixteen he’d already slept with every female attendant who looked good in a hijab, and by eighteen he’d decided that he could never be satisfied with even four wives because his drive was too strong, too all-consuming, too potent to be denied.
So he’d avoided marriage like a disease, resisting every offer from the neighboring Sheikhdoms, ignoring his mother’s pleas. His father had discouraged the old Islamic practice of a man taking four wives, the old Sheikh himself marrying just once; but he’d made it clear that Amir was free to take four wives if that made it more palatable to settle down and start a family.
“Variety is the spice of life,” Amir had said, dismissing his father’s concession with a wave of his arm. “Four women would keep me satisfied for perhaps a year, Father. And then what? Keep a harem on the side? Lie to my wives and to the world while I satisfy my needs in secret?” He’d shaken his head. “A king does not need to apologize for his needs. I know I can never be satisfied without free rein to do as I please, to take any woman I want.”
“So what is the solution?” the old Sheikh had said. “You are the only heir and you have a responsibility to continue the bloodline. You must marry eventually. Unless your plan is to have bastard children scattered throughout the world, all of them fighting for the throne once your reign is done.”
“I understand my responsibilities,” Amir had answered. “And there is only one solution that will satisfy my own requirements and the duties of my position: I will marry one woman, but she will be a woman who understands my needs.”
The old Sheikh had snorted. “A queen who will calmly look the other way while you put your royal cock anywhere you choose?”
“Why not? That was how it worked in the old world, did it not? All kings had their run of the women in the palace—and the kingdom too, sometimes.”
“Ah, so now you are a fan of the old ways, is it?” his father had said, shaking his head. “When it suits you?” He shook his head again. “Then perhaps you should think about one of the oldest traditions: Find the one woman who will satisfy you, Amir. The one woman who will give you what you need, both in body and spirit.”
“There is no such woman,” Amir had snapped, whipping his flowing tunic around him and walking away from his father. “Trust me, I have looked. She does not exist.”
But now as Amir took a step forward and looked down at the American bride-to-be, his cock leading the way, his mind spinning as if from a sudden bout of vertigo, that conversation came rushing back from the depths of his memory.
Do not be ridiculous, he told himself as he stole another secret glance at Lora’s curves, the way her breasts pushed against the thin cotton of her sundress, the way her rear moved as she walked. What you told your father that day is still true: No woman can satisfy you forever. Even if you take this woman the way you want, the fire will eventually subside, the passion will fade, and you will find yourself looking elsewhere again.
Besides, Amir thought as he backed away from the parapet once again, she is to be married in a few days. I have seduced taken women before, but this is not the kind of publicity I want for myself or my kingdom, do I? Do I?
A smile broke on Amir’s face as he felt a wild rush of adrenaline surge through his hard frame. He thought back to those old, outdated laws of Johaar again, that interesting one in particular coming back to him along with the image of Lora Langhorne and her curves.
“Sheikh’s Privilege,” he muttered, still grinning, still hard, a feeling of recklessness rising up in him as he dismissed his Tourism Minister and paced the empty hallways. “Do I dare invoke that old law? What would happen if I did? What would the world say? What would Father say?”
Amir closed his eyes tight, clenching his fists as he tried to fight the perverse, devil-may-care drive that had gotten him into some very sticky situations before—most recently with Marissa. Sheikh’s Privilege? No, he could not do it. At least not while his father was still alive. Though perhaps the old man would be so furious he’d rise from his bed just to take the throne back from his sex-crazed son! Either that, or he’d give up on Amir altogether and move on to the next world. Besides, Sheikh's Privilege was not all that it appeared to be on the surface. It was a complex law, with subtleties and responsibilities that went far beyond anything he was prepared to undertake.
The Sheikh took deep breaths as he paced, muttering to himself, shaking his head, clenching and releasing his fists. Then he heard footsteps, and when he turned he saw one of his father’s attendants, the oldest and longest-serving of the lot, a man who’d been there since before Amir had been born.
“Forgive my interruption, Sheikh,” the old man said, his hands clasped before him, head slightly bowed. He glanced up with bloodshot eyes, and Amir stopped in his tracks as if he knew what the man would say before the words came. “Forgive me, Sheikh. But your father . . . he is . . . he has . . .”
“No,” said Amir firmly, shaking his head. “It cannot be. I spoke to him just this morning. He looked strong. He looked . . .”
“It is Allah’s decree,” said the old attendant, his voice still unsteady. “He went in peace, Inshallah.”
Amir leaned against the sandstone wall as he let the news sink in. He’d just been thinking about his father’s death, had he not? Did he in some way cause the old Sheikh’s death by thinking about it? Was there a part of him that wanted the old man gone so he could run wild, do as he pleased, be free of expectations? He was thinking about that woman, fantasizing about how it would be if his father were gone and he could do something as insane as invoke the old law of Sheikh’s Privilege, where the Sheikh had the right to take any Johaari woman to his chambers the night before her wedding and decide whether to allow her marriage to proceed!
“Leave me,” he rasped, rubbing his temples and waving the attendant away. “Stand by my father’s bed. No one is to touch him until I make my final visit.”
Amir stood in lonely silence for a while. He’d been prepared for this moment for years, and it was not grief that racked his heavy frame. His thoughts were swirling like the desert winds, sending a collage of images to the forefront of his mind: scenes from his childhood; his mother dying of cancer; sexual fantasies about his nannies; those exploits with his female attendants; Marissa and the broken engagement; and Lora Langhorne bending over and dipping her fingers into the fountain, sending ripples through the cool water, ripples that seemed to pass through the Sheikh’s body as well . . .
Then he heard voices: American accents, women laughing and talking, oohing and aahing. He whipped around and saw that it was the wedding party. Their tour-guide had brought them up the winding stairs to the third floor hallway to look down at the atrium from above.
Suddenly the Sheikh was face to face with the woman in the yellow sundress, and he could smell her floral perfume, her feminine scent. He could hear her carefree laugh, and he thought of Allah’s decree, of how his father had once commented that perhaps his illness was just incidental, just a means to His ends. What ends? Was she the goal here? Was this woman Allah’s decree?
“Miss Lora Langhorne,” he said, his jaw tightening, his green eyes narrowing as he looked deep into her wide baby browns. He could barely see straight as those images and thoughts rushed through his swirling mind. He couldn’t be certain how many others were with the woman in the yellow sundress. Then he realized he did not give a damn. He was Sheikh and supreme ruler now. There was no one and nothing holding him back from doing what he wanted, when he wanted, to whom he wanted.
“Yes?” she said, blinking twice and then freezing, her eyes riveted on him, as if they were the only two people in the world for that moment. “Oh, God. I mean, yes, I’m Lora.”
“Of course you are,” he said, reaching out and taking her hand, the electricity ripping through him as their skin made first contact. He felt her tremble, and although he knew he wasn’t thinking straight, he tightened his grip on her hand.
Then with his thoughts swirling, his head spinning, his body burning with need, he slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her so roughly into him that her soft breasts slammed against his hard body.
And then he kissed her. In front of her husband-to-be, in full view of the bridal party, with his father lying dead in the next room, Allah’s angels gasping, the Shaitan’s demons cackling, he kissed her.
By God, he kissed her.