ROMANCE: Sleeping With The Sheikh (Billionaire Alpha Male Sheikh Romance) (New Adult Forbidden Series Short Stories) (5 page)

Chapter Eight

Farhid slept for maybe an hour, possibly two that morning after returning to his hotel room after his night with Clarice. There was little that could bring down his spirits, but a call from his father tried very hard to do just that.

It came at around eight in the morning. As soon as Farhid knew that it was his father, he understood the gravity of the situation. He didn’t know what he’d been thinking, perhaps he hadn’t been at all, in assuming that sending Djamila home on her own might be a good idea.

But it was all he could do at the time. Now he just had to find a way to explain that to his father without getting himself in a lot of trouble.

“Father,” Farhid greeted in as respectful a tone as he could muster while still preparing himself for the worst. “Your call is pleasant, but unexpected.”

“Is it really, Farhid my son?” came the Sheikh’s reply. His tone suggested that he was sitting on a brewing temper, one he was trying to manage and probably failing rather miserably. Farhid would have a very short amount of time to convince his father that this was the correct course of action before things would take a turn for the worse.

Taking a steadying breath, Farhid prepared to make his case. “It is. It always is. As for unexpected… well, perhaps I considered that you might wish to ask after me.”

“When you sent your new wife home without you perhaps?” the Sheikh growled into the receiver. “What were you thinking? Do you have any idea how it looks to send your wife home like that?”

“Father—” Farhid tried, but the Sheikh was not having it. He had no interest in listening to Farhid just then.

“It looks disgraceful. It looks as though your wife has angered you in some way, as though you are sending her home as punishment. This could damage her and her family’s reputation!”

Farhid clenched his jaw tightly, biting his tongue to keep from saying what he really wanted to say. Which was that all the Sheikh ever cared about was appearances. Did his feelings ever matter in any decision? His wants, his desires, his needs? Did they matter so little to his father?

It seemed the answer was yes, and it aggravated Farhid. It was the reason that his words came out a little clipped and less diplomatic than he would have liked. “She has done nothing wrong and you can tell whoever whispers behind her back just that. And as for her husband, he’ll return home in his own time. Am I not a man to be allowed at least that much to my own discretion?”

“You are a prince, son of the Sheikh and you shall return at your father’s command!”

But Farhid wasn’t listening. In fact, he’d made his decision. There was only one way he could extend his stay now and that was to hang up before his father could say anything else. So long as there was not a direct command, then Farhid was not directly disobeying his sovereign. It was a risky move, but it was the only one Farhid had left.

He had to take it.

The phone rang again, but Farhid didn’t answer. He almost unplugged the hotel phone—his he merely turned off—but realized that he’d told Clarice to call him at the hotel if she needed to get ahold of him. It meant he’d have to be careful as far as when he answered, but he would have to leave it plugged in.

He needed Clarice able to get ahold of him.

Feeling nervous and still very tired, Farhid went to the bathroom and showered, thinking of Clarice. He thought of her soft skin and her long, golden tresses. She was beautiful in a way so unlike Djamila. Her body was an hourglass, sand paused in time for what seemed like forever, frozen in a picture of desire.

He craved her with her bright blue eyes and her soft, milky skin. She was the thing that he’d been wanting for so long, the thing that he had believed he could never have—because of Djamila.

The thought of his wife cooled his rising desire and settled his growing hardness.

Things had not changed in that respect. He was still married to her and to do anything with Clarice was to be unfaithful—but did love count for nothing?

As the water cascaded down through his thick hair and across his broad, thick shoulders he leaned forward and laughed a little at himself.

“Is that what it is now?” he asked himself, his voice mixing in with the echoes of the shower spray. “Are you in love with this woman?”

He meant it to sound ridiculous, incredulous. How could he be in love with a woman he knew so little? A woman who was already taken, had little in the sense of her own independent wealth and authority, and seemed hell-bent on resisting him.

Except for last night.

Things had changed thing. She’d softened and opened up and when they’d kissed, he knew without a doubt that she had wanted him just as desperately as he had wanted her.

In the end, his words sounded soft and tender, not harsh and incredulous. He wondered if maybe this was love. He had yet to experience it, though he had lived for thirty three years, and the thought that perhaps he had found it here in America of all places thrilled him.

But it was too early to place all his hopes with this one woman. He would have to be patient.

Turning off the water, Farhid dried off and began to dress for the day. As he slipped his pants on, still bare chested, the phone rang. For a split second, Farhid worried it was his father trying again and debated not answering it. But Clarice…

He had to take the risk.

“Hello?”

“Farhid? It’s… it’s Clarice.”

His heart swelled as both relief and eagerness filled him. “Clarice, my love. I was hoping you would call.”

“Yes. I know it’s not really appropriate, but—”

He cut her off. “I told you to call me. I wanted to hear your voice. I want to see you.”

For a moment she was silent and he worried that he was too eager, pushing her farther than her limits might allow. He was walking on thin ice, trying to win a woman who was not technically available for the taking.

But Farhid knew now that her husband did not deserve her. She should be treated like a queen and Farhid would do all in his power to make sure that happened.

Finally, Clarice spoke. “I want to see you, too.”

“Today? We’ll have brunch. The restaurant downstairs serves a lovely meal. Shall I send a car for you?”

Clarice laughed and it was a beautiful, perfect sound. “No, that’s alright. Just give me the address. I’ll meet you there.”

Farhid gave her the address and said, “I will count the moments until I might see you again, my love.”

She laughed a little, but it sounded light and giddy. He’d flattered her, as was his goal, and he felt all the better for it. They said goodbye then and Farhid finished getting dressed. When he was sure that he looked acceptable—black slacks and a button down shirt—he headed downstairs to wait for Clarice.

The restaurant was busy, but not packed. Farhid had no troubles finding a secluded table near the back. He told the waiter to bring out two glasses of orange juice and a pot of coffee. By the time the drinks arrived, he spotted Clarice just walking into the lobby.

Waving over a waiter, he told the man, “Invite the woman to sit with me.”

The waiter nodded and immediately scurried off to find Clarice. Farhid watched as they spoke, studying Clarice. She was absolutely beautiful. She’d chosen to wear a dress for their brunch date, a deep red color that created golden highlights in her blonde hair. It stopped just above her knees, modest for an American, but still managing to show off her shapely legs. Whatever modesty there was happened to disappear when you took in how tight it was. It hugged her hips and emphasized her tiny waist, building up to her large bust. It was strapless, a low cut sweetheart neckline that plunged in a curved V that allowed her breasts to create a beautiful heart shape with her cleavage, of which there were ample amounts.

Farhid let out a shaky breath at the sight of her, trying to push down his excitement and need. The hardness that was forming within his slacks would have to be tamed, lest he scare her off before they ever had the chance to quench the fiery thirst that he knew was inside both of them.

When the waiter pointed back towards Farhid’s table, Clarice glanced his way. She caught sight of him and offered a sweet smile. He returned it, picking up a glass of orange juice in silent toast to her.

The waiter escorted her to the table and Farhid rose, reaching for her hand. This time, she allowed him to take it. Her skin was smooth and warm under his touch. He brought her hand to his lips, kissing the back of it sweetly, though what he wanted from her would hardly be considered sweet.

“I am so happy you could come,” he said by way of greeting.

The waiter pulled out her chair for her and she sat down. Farhid followed suit, then the waiter left.

“I… I’m not really sure why I did, to be honest,” Clarice admitted, straightening her already perfectly aligned silverware nervously.

“You wanted to see me,” Farhid said simply.

Clarice laughed a little at him. “You say it like it’s just that simple.”

He reached across the table and took her hand in his. “It is.”

She took in a quick airy breath, but before anything more could be said, the waiter returned again. They ordered something light and kept the chitchat before their food arrived very light and unvested.

When they finished, however, and both began to realize that it would be time for Clarice to leave, Farhid knew that he had to act.

“I understand our situation,” he said, taking the napkin from his lap and folding it neatly on the table next to his plate. “It is difficult. But I need you to know something: It was not my choice to marry Djamila.”

Clarice frowned at him, looking a little confused. “What do you mean?”

“We have been engaged since I was eighteen. She was only ten at the time,” he explained. At her look of utter horror he hurriedly explained the rest. “She was kept away for years. I had no interest in marrying a little girl and we all agreed that we would wait until it was an appropriate time for both parties.”

“So you waited until she was eighteen?” Clarice said flatly, still not sounding very comfortable with the arrangement.

Farhid shook his head. “No. My father pushed at the matter then, but I argued against it. I was twenty six, I told him, and he was neither ill nor senile. There was no need to rush the wedding. Let me learn to be a ruler, let me learn to be a man. He agreed. For a time.”

Clarice frowned again, mulling his words over in her head, trying to decide something. Finally, she asked, “So it was all his idea?”

“It is not uncommon to have an arranged marriage,” Farhid told her genuinely. “At the time the arrangement was made, I cared little either way, but as I grew up, I started to crave something that I could not explain. I thought perhaps it was carnal pleasure.”

Clarice let out a shaky breath and sipped at her orange juice, looking away from Farhid for a moment as her cheeks blushed a rosy red.

“In my wild youth, that pleasure sated me. For a time.” He leaned forward, sincerity seeping into his tone as he said, “But it wasn’t what I was looking for Clarice.”

Sucking her lower lip into her mouth, she bit at it lightly, then asked, “What were you looking for then?”

“I was looking for love. When my father finally insisted I marry Djamila, only a few months ago, I had resigned myself to the fact that I would never find it.” He smiled softly, eyes searching her features. “Then I met you.”

“Oh, Farhid,” she whispered, but shook her head. “This is happening too fast. I… I’ve done this before. I was swept up in promises and a man who wooed me before I could think better of it and—”

He took her hand, held it tightly and said, “You knew it then, though. You knew that what was in your heart for him was not love, but a need to be free. To experience more from life. This, Clarice, this is love!”

Maybe it was the earnest and fierce passion that shone in his eyes. Maybe it was just that her heart finally gave in to its own pounding rhythm, but she nodded her head and when he stood, she stood with him. When he led her down the hall, she didn’t protest. When they went up the elevator to the top floor, she never asked him to let her go back. And when they slipped into his room, the door closing behind them, he knew he had won.

After closing the door, he turned to face her. She was standing in the middle of the living area, her hands clasped behind her back, clutching a small purse. As though sensing he was watching her, she looked over her shoulder at him, her blonde hair falling away to expose one silky pale shoulder.

“What do we do now?” she whispered, looking up at him through full, dark lashes.

“Anything you want, my love,” he replied just as quietly.

She let out a breath, then placed her small purse on the coffee table nearest her. When she straightened again, she swallowed and said, “I want you.”

He walked towards her, needing no more encouragement than that, as she told him, “I want someone to make love to me, to notice me.”

When he reached her, his hands cupped her cheeks and he leaned down towards her lips. When he was inches away from her, he whispered, “I notice you.”

She sighed and he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her body tightly to him. She returned the embrace, tucking her face into the crook of his neck so that her lips were close enough for a kiss.