8
Jan couldn’t have moved if she wanted, the Sheikh’s hold on her was so firm. She was completely immobilized, spread face-down on the soft mattress that seemed to occupy the entire width of the plane. His fist was coiled in her thick brown hair, down near the roots at the base of her neck. With his other hand he’d stuffed her own torn panties almost down her goddamn throat, ramming his beast of a cock into her from behind after spreading the lips of her vagina with his fingers.
She’d felt her own wetness drip down onto his hands as he teased her slit before entering, and although she could have spat out her panties and screamed for him to stop, she didn’t. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t.
“You wouldn’t be much of an evil Sheikh if you drugged and kidnapped me and then wimped out when it came to raping me,” she’d said when he offered to back off.
Oh, my God, who was that woman who said that? Where did those words come from? Did I actually challenge this stranger, this man who’s twice my size, a king in his own territory, a man who’s abducted me and is basically above the law right now? Did I goad him into doing what he’s doing? Am I a slut? A whore? A damaged, sick, twisted creature who deserves to rot in hell?
She heard her own muffled moans as he fucked her from behind, his powerful hips drawing back and pushing in with a force that sent ripples through her body each time he re-entered. Jan was so wet she thought she might have peed herself, but the aroma was pure sex, pure heat, pure madness.
“Oh, God,” she mumbled through her gag as she smelled his naked body behind her, felt his left hand rest on her ass, strong fingers digging into her soft flesh, his right hand still firmly gripping her hair. “Oh, God, yes.”
Yes, she thought again. I’m saying yes even though I know I might still be feeling the effects of that drug, that my judgment might be compromised, my instincts dulled. Just because I’m allowing him to rape me doesn’t mean it isn’t rape. It’s still rape.
But then again her words came back to her, and she smiled as she heard Darius grunt and begin to seize up behind her, his thrusts becoming erratic as his grunts grew louder. Jan could feel her own orgasm building in her depths even as she felt his heavy balls slapping against her skin as he pumped her like a goddamn animal. Now she understood the mad arousal they were both feeling. Somehow the professor in her was still observing herself, even as the woman in her was moaning and shuddering as that orgasm drew closer like a killer in the night.
There’s a reason the rape fantasy is still alive in today’s women, she thought as she felt the first wave of her climax hit. Along with the open sexual relationships of our past, there’s no denying that men took what they wanted back then, hard and fast, with force and power. The history of humankind is written in violence and rape, and those genetic memories are buried in our subconscious, coming alive only in the most private of moments. No woman wants to be raped. But the thrill of the fantasy still lives in the darkness of the feminine mind.
This man awakened that in me, she thought as her climax began to escalate and her head began to spin. Perhaps this entire charade of the kidnapping and the psycho behavior was part of his act to awaken those dark emotions of fear, emotions that are feeding my lust, feeding his need, making me wet, making him hard. But at the bottom of it all, I must feel safe with him, mustn’t I? Otherwise there’s no way I’d be . . . I’d be . . . I’d be—oh, God, I’m coming!
Now the full force of her climax hit, and Jan spat her panties from her mouth and let out a scream as she felt the Sheikh ram himself in one last time and then explode deep inside her.
“Ya Allah!” he roared, pouring himself into her as Jan’s orgasm hit her so hard she almost passed out.
She felt the blast of his semen like a jet against the far walls of her vagina, and she gasped and drooled as she shuddered through her own climax. She was so stretched, so filled, so wet, so wild that the professor in her had long since given up analyzing and observing. It was only when she felt the Sheikh’s viselike grip on her hair slowly loosen as he pumped the last of his semen into her depths that she felt her senses slowly crawl back into her.
“Oh, God,” she muttered as she lay flat on her stomach, the Sheikh collapsing on top of her, his weight feeling wonderful, warm, even familiar. “What did we just do?”
“Kthyr jiddaan,” he muttered into her knotted hair as he petted her head and kissed her cheek. “We did what was not supposed to happen until later. But now it has happened, and the game has changed. God help us all.”
“All?” Jan whispered, frowning and smiling at the same time as she turned her head and received a warm kiss on her open lips. “There’s just the two of us here, Darius.”
“Not for long,” the Sheikh said softly. He rolled off her and turned her body so she lay on her side, facing him. Again she saw that look in his eye, that combination of grave seriousness and deep conflict, that look of determination mixed with an undercurrent of vulnerability. “But none of this can work unless it is genuine, unless it is real, unless you are willing to consider what comes next. Unless you are willing to experiment, to experience.”