Midnight in the Harem: For Duty's Sake / Banished to the Harem / The Tarnished Jewel of Jazaar

She was moaning and clenching her thighs by the time he’d moved his attention to her calves.

“Such soft, silky skin, but I know a place you will be softer.”

Her breath came in harsh pants and she shook her head.

“I assure you, you are. Soft, delicious and wet.”

Delicious? Did he mean … but her thoughts splintered as he pushed her gown up to expose her thighs to his gaze and that talented mouth.

Words gasped out of her without meanings as she discovered that her inner thighs were far more sensitive than she’d ever realized.

He chuckled, the sound wicked and delicious. “Are you sure it is the right time to be praying, ya habibti?”

“I … what? It …”

That smile that told her he was about to do something naughty creased his sensual mouth. Then, he pushed her galabeya higher and suddenly stopped, letting out a deep sigh of clear approval. “Oh, this is nice.” “You like my panties.”

“Oh, yes, ya habibti, very much.” He stroked a single finger right over her clitoris and pressed down into the silk.

She jolted, arching her body toward that teasing touch.

“I do like these, but I am going to adore what is underneath them.”

“You are so much earthier than I ever expected.” “I told you, I am a traditional man of my people. We celebrate the delight of pleasure.” “Your Bedouin tribes, perhaps.” “You would be surprised.” Maybe she would be. Like Jawhar, Zohra was one of the few Arabic countries whose outlook and culture had always suffered less religious oppressions than their surrounding neighbors or the rest of Eastern Europe. “I’ll take your word for it.” “You should not have to.” It was the first time he had outright criticized her upbringing in America rather than Jawhar.

“So, show me now.” She wasn’t about to get into a discussion on that particular topic right now.

“Oh, I fully intend to.” And he did, caressing her until she was in a fever pitch of desire.

She wasn’t sure how it happened, but she lost the galabeya. Finally. He took a moment to admire her in her lacy bra before removing it. He paid the kind of homage to her breasts that felt almost spiritual, but at the same time was very, very carnal.

Her nipples were aching and her panties literally soaked before he pulled back to ask, “Are you ready for me?”

“I’ve been ready.” She’d meant to yell it out, but her voice was gone it was a barely there croak. “I also.”

But still, he took his time removing her wet panties. And then, instead of covering her with his body like she expected, he pressed her thighs wide apart and began to touch her with careful, knowing fingers.

“Zahir,” she pleaded.

“It will be easier for you if I deal with your maidenhead with my fingers.”

“What?” she gasped in a shocked whisper. And then shook her head frantically. “No. I … That’s …”

But his forefinger and middle finger were already pressing inside, pushing against the barrier that stood between her virginity and their ultimate connection. He rubbed gently, making circles with his fingertips, pressing, pressing … always pressing.

It was a dull ache, not a stabbing sting. The small pain helped bring her to a more alert awareness as Zahir started his preparation of her body for his penetration.

“You are so careful with me,” she breathed.

He gave her that smug half smile that she found more endearing than annoying. “Naturally.”

“Is it a learned trait, or bred into you, I wonder?”

“What?” he asked, but his knowing gray gaze said he had the answer already.

“Your arrogance.”

“You have met my father. It is genetic.”

Yes, she knew the king of Zohra as well as the King of her father’s country, Jawhar, and she would have to concede the point. Supreme confidence was definitely a family trait.

“Khalil and Amir do not seem quite so over the top with it.”

“I am not sure Grace or Jade would agree with you but, aziz, you should not be thinking of other men while I am doing this.” He pressed against her clitoris with his thumb and all thoughts of arrogance and his family flew from her brain.

A long, low moan snaked out of her throat as pleasure intensified in that one spot and then radiated outward. He continued the pressure massage against the thin barrier while caressing her sweet spot with his thumb in a way guaranteed to make her forget her own name.

She felt the stunning ecstasy begin to build again, this time all the more intense for knowing what it would lead to. Her body went rigid with tension, the dull ache inside her drowned in the hurricane of desire.

As the pleasure exploded he pressed through the barrier, her pleasure muting the sting of pain. She still felt it, but somehow it was natural, a moment meant only for them.

He looked into her eyes, his own so dark they appeared black. “Now, I make you mine.”

She didn’t reply. Could not form words to deny the claim and refused to face the truth of its temporary nature.

There was no need for her to respond as he moved between her legs, his engorged, steel-like hardness pushing inside her.

She could feel the stretch as her most intimate flesh strained to accommodate his. His member was much thicker than his fingers had been inside her. The sensation of not only being joined to him, but completely filled by him washed over her.

Neither spoke as he rocked gently with his hips, pressing deeper with each small thrust. Their gazes remained locked, the connection something so much more than physical. But then, she’d never expected anything else.

She loved this man with her whole heart and sharing her body with him was both spiritual and highly emotional.

Despite the obvious need making his muscles bulge from the tension of holding back, Zahir leaned down and placed the gentlest of kisses on her lips.

Tears washed her eyes, but she wasn’t ashamed of them. They seemed an appropriate reaction to this moment. He did not seemed fazed by them, either, merely tilting his lips at one corner as he brushed the moisture away with his thumb. “Are you ready?”

She almost asked for what, but he shifted just that much and she felt a new type of pleasure. Something so intimate and primal that she could do nothing but nod.

He did not smile, though she could sense his satisfaction at her agreement. He did begin to move, starting a careful, steady rhythm that was at once wonderful and not enough.

“More, please, Zahir.”

He shook his head; the strain around his eyes the only indication that holding back was taking its toll on him. “Not this time. You are too new to this. You will have nothing but pleasure from me this night.”

“It does feel good,” she said somewhere between pleading and affirmation.

And they didn’t have a some other time between them.

Rather than answer, he kissed her again, but this time with an unrestrained carnality that revealed how close to losing his control he really was. She responded, losing herself in the joy of their connection.

His movements grew jerky, though he did not let himself go as she was craving. A small voice in the back of her head told her she would thank him for his control later, but right now, she was once again reaching for the pinnacle of pleasure.

When it came, it washed over her in a warm wave unlike the frantic convulsions of the first time. However, his body seized, muscles straining, his neck corded as he threw his head back and let out a primal shout of completion.

A sense of accomplishment washed over her, adding to her happiness. She had given him this, just as he had given her unimaginable pleasure.

“It is done.” His voice held a profundity that touched her deeply.

No matter the cause, she and Zahir had been one for this moment in time.

She wanted to say something, but tiredness overtook her and she felt the room fading even as Zahir whispered words of praise next to her ear, their bodies still joined.

CHAPTER FOUR

ZAHIR lowered himself and Angele into the steaming, fragrant water of the bath. Worthy of communal baths anywhere in Zohra, the traditional mosaic tiled rectangular bath could easily accommodate four adults. It would only ever serve him and Angele however.

As her toes touched the water, she began to stir.

The soft lighting was brighter than the candlelight in the bedroom, but not so bright it should hurt her eyes. Nevertheless, he bent protectively over her as she wakened. He’d never had a lover fall into dozing like she had, a picture of perfect peace and contentment.

It had stirred something inside him he did not want to examine too closely.

“It smells so good,” she whispered as she snuggled her head into the joint of his shoulder and neck.

A small bag of fragrant herbs floated on the surface near them. He had added the vial of specially prepared oils to the steaming water as well. “It is the traditional bathing treatment for after the wedding night.”

“For all of Zohra, or for your family?”

“These herbs and spices are mixed only for the royal family.” He brushed his hands down her stomach, tempted to go lower, but refrained. She needed time to recover before he made love to her again. “They are supposed to help assuage the aches and pains post coitus.”

“They’re doing a bang-up job.” The husky tone of her voice challenged his intentions further.

“I am glad you find it so.”

“Don’t you?” she asked, as if daring him to deny the lovemaking had not been impacting for him as well. He had no desire to attempt such a falsehood. “I do.”

Though he suspected he found the bath slightly more reinvigorating than she did. He could not imagine a more pleasing wedding night. The marriage would have to be organized and dignitaries from all over the world invited, but he had no intention of maintaining chastity with her between times.

He could even be grateful they had this time to explore their sensual relationship without concern of the next heir’s conception. He wondered what form of birth control she had decided on, but did not feel tonight was the one to discuss such mundane matters.

Tomorrow would be soon enough.

Angele was intelligent and highly organized. He had no doubt whatever option she’d chosen it was the best and most reliable on the market. When she planned something, she did it with a thoroughness that impressed even his father, or so the king had told Zahir.

He felt honored she had planned this time for them, no matter what nerves had prompted it.

“Your en suite is huge. Is that a royal thing or a rich thing?”

“It is a Zahir thing.” He spent his life serving his people. When he got an opportunity to relax, he wanted to be able to do so in absolute comfort.

“I suspected, but well … it’s not as if I’ve ever gone into my parents’ en suite or my uncle’s, for that matter.”

“You have refused to live in your parents’ home since their reconciliation.”

“It happened when I was an adult.” She paused as if thinking of the past. “It was time for me to get my own place anyway.”

“Had you been raised in Jawhar, you would have remained with your parents until our marriage.”

She tensed, but her tone was even as she said, “But I was not raised in Jawhar.”

“No, you were not.”

“Does that bother you?”

“No.” While he found her independence somewhat disconcerting, he found he liked the woman floating in his arms.

“You’ve made a couple of comments that implied it did.”

“Mere observations on differences are not an accusation of unacceptability.”

“Sometimes, they feel like they are.” “Feelings are not fact.”

“True.”

“Emotions cannot be trusted.” That reality had been drilled into him from childhood as he trained from his earliest memory to take over leadership of the kingdom of Zohra.

“Perhaps that is true sometimes, Zahir, but the lack of emotion can be just as bad.”

“To control one’s emotions is to control the negotiation.”

She sat up, unexpectedly sliding away from him in the water. “All of life is not a political negotiation.” She settled on the underwater bench opposite, her gaze searching, her expression earnest. “Don’t tell me you use those tactics when dealing with your family?”

“Not telling you would not make it any less true.”

Her lovely brown eyes widened and then narrowed. “You mean that.”

“I do not make it habit to lie.”

“You hid your relationship with Elsa Bosch for years.” An expression of chagrin came over Angele’s features before she bit her lip, clearly wishing she had not said that.

Nevertheless, he would answer the implication. “I kept it private. This is a necessary survival tactic for those of us who spend the majority of our lives in the public eye.”

“Discretion is minimal, subterfuge preferred,” she said quoting something he knew his uncle often said.

“Sometimes subterfuge is necessary, but that does not make me a liar.”

She looked away, her brows drawn together, but then she sighed. “So, you treat your parents like competing world leaders?”

While it was hardly a subtle way for her to change the subject, he did not call her on it. He had no desire to discuss one of the major mistakes of his life.

“My father especially. I successfully negotiated for my first horse.” He smiled at the memory. “I lost the negotiation for a private family-only birthday party when I was ten, though.” “You were shy?”

“Timidity is not an acceptable trait in a world leader.”

“You were ten.”

“Nevertheless, I was not shy.”

“Then why no other children?”

“That option was not on the table for negotiation.”

Her brow wrinkled charmingly. “I don’t understand.”

“I lobbied for a party with my siblings. My father insisted on a state dinner.”

Her gasp was far too adorable. Perhaps even he could be influenced by the emotion of the moment the first night with his bride.

“You mean you weren’t allowed to have a children’s party at all?”

He shrugged and admitted, “I was seven when I had my last children’s party.”

He had continued to try to negotiate for one until his twelfth year, when his father had informed him he was a man and had to put away childish things. It was the way of things for someone in his position. He knew his cousin in Jawhar had been raised with a similar set of ideals.

“That is terrible.”

He shook his head. “You are too softhearted.”

“No child of mine would be forced to have a state dinner for his birthday celebration.” She sounded like she was discussing some form of torture.

And he could not help chuckling. “I learned the importance of my role and responsibilities.”

It had been an effective lesson in putting the needs of his people before his personal desires.

“You learned that you were not allowed to be a child.” Her tone implied she had just discovered something of importance about him. “It wasn’t the same for your brothers.”

“Naturally not.”

She glided back toward him through the water. “Tonight, no one else is here. This is not about duty and obligation.”

Suddenly a stricken expression took over her features. So, she remembered she had made this night a condition of the ridiculous “offer” she had made to let him out of their families’ agreement.

He was tempted to let her flounder simply because the entire premise to this night was so very ludicrous.

However, she was right. “Making love to you in no way feels like a duty.”

Her gaze searched his, as if trying to ascertain the truth of his statement. He knew she would find what she sought. For he spoke the truth.

Which was something of a relief for him, though he would never admit it.

The brilliance of her smile was worth his admission. “Tonight you are simply Zahir, not Crown Sheikh.”

He was never anything less than what he was, leader and servant to his people. Not even during his time with Elsa, though for those stolen hours he had come closest to being simply a man than any other.

It was not a thing Angele could comprehend. Even had she been raised among their people. To know from birth that an entire country depended on you for its well-being was a circumstance known by only a handful in the entire world. And from those he had met, he knew not all were raised from infancy with the sense of responsibility to their people that his father and mentors had instilled in Zahir.

He would not shatter Angele’s beliefs however and they were not entirely false. While not the entire truth, either. This night, he was as far removed from his position as dutiful sheikh as he could allow himself to be.

Fully cognizant he needed to make the night special so Angele would lose her fear of intimacy between them, there was still no denying that making love to her in this way—without the benefit of an official wedding—was not the action of a dutiful, responsible sheikh of his people. An internal voice, that sounded suspiciously like one of his mentors, chided him. Telling him there were other ways he could have allayed Angele’s fears.

The simple truth, as unexpected as it had been to realize, was that Zahir wanted Angele. He found her more sexually desirable than he’d ever allowed himself to realize. The years they had waited to formalize their engagement, much less marry, had taken a toll on him as well. Though he had not known it.

He had forced himself never to think of her sexually. At first, because she had been so young and later because that part of his psyche was reserved for Elsa.

He now accepted that Angele was the ideal woman to share his bed and had been all along.

He pulled her back into his arms. “Are you ready to continue this night out of time?”

Her doe-soft eyes darkened with desire and she nodded before angling her head in a clear invitation to kiss.

It was an invitation he would never reject again.

Angele woke to pleasurable, never before experienced aches in her body. No doubt the pain would be acute but for the two soaking baths Zahir had insisted she share with him the night before.

A night filled with more passion and pleasure than she had ever thought possible.

The temptation to ask him to maintain their status quo as promised for future marriage was so strong, she’d literally had to bite her tongue to keep it back as they said their goodbyes in the wee hours of morning.

Though she would have much preferred waking in Zahir’s arms at least one time in her life, she understood his concern with the possibility their tryst would be discovered if she did not leave while all but the security men on duty slept. So, she had gone, her body sated and her heart filled with longing for what would never be.

Although she had showered with Zahir before leaving his rooms, she took another bracing one in semicool water now. She needed every trick to maintain her resolve.

She packed quickly, leaving out the four envelopes she had prepared before stepping foot in Zohra.

One held a letter to her pseudouncle, the King of Jawhar telling him she was backing out of the agreement to marry Zahir sometime in the distant future. She apologized, pleaded with him not to hold her father accountable for her choices and told him she would understand if he no longer recognized her as part of his family. Her heart would have broken at the prospect, but it had shattered all those months ago when she’d first seen evidence of Zahir’s affection for Elsa Bosch and there wasn’t anything left to break. Or so she told herself.

The second envelope was similar to the first, only the letter inside was written to Zahir’s father. In this one she once again apologized and begged the king to consider her actions her own and in no way a reflection on her pseudouncle or her own parents—as none were aware of her growing discontent with the agreement as it stood.

The third envelope was thicker. It contained a letter to Zahir, this one the only one she had written this morning. She thanked him for their one special night and told him she would never forget it.

She also explained about the enclosed pictures, detailing when she had first received them and how. She gave him as much information regarding the blackmail as she could, including a list of payments she had made and how she had done so. She assured him she had told no one, not even her parents of the pictures or the blackmail monies she had paid.

She hoped he would discover how best to keep them out of circulation, for his sake as well as his family’s. But come tomorrow, or perhaps even tonight, the blackmailer would know that Angele was no longer a pony in this race.

Her eyes flicked to the final envelope, the one that would ensure there would be no turning back. Though, really, it was only symbolic. It held a press release, scotching any “rumors” of a suspected permanent connection between the house of Jawhar and the house of Zohra vis-à-vis a marriage between her and Zahir. She had included a couple of personal quotes. One to the effect that she had no desire to live her life in the public eye as a royal and the other her absolute refusal to make a permanent home outside of her adopted country, America.

After reading it, her father might disown her and her mother would undoubtedly be furious, but Angele wasn’t going to live the rest of her life without love. She just wasn’t.

She might not be American by birth, but she’d been raised around an entirely different set of ideals to the duty-bound royals that led Jawhar and Zohra. While she loved the country of her birth and Zohra as well, at heart? She was a modern American woman.

She wasn’t about to allow Zahir to be forced into a marriage he so clearly had never really wanted, either.

She was under no illusions. He would probably enter another arranged contract, but this time he was older. Zahir would have more input into who his chosen bride was to be. Angele could only hope, for his sake, that it was someone he could develop real feelings for.

She snuck down the secret passageways for the last time and left Zahir’s packet in his room while she knew he was busy with his father. She left each of the letters to the kings with their respective secretarial staff. And finally she dropped the press release off with the PR department.

She had prepared a timed email with a duplicate release to be sent to the major news distribution agencies in a few hours. She would be in flight back to the United States when news hit.

Cowardly? Perhaps, but she preferred to think of it as politic.

Back in the U.S., her denial of a connection to the House of Zohra would constitute little more than a blip in the plethora of social news about drunk-driving celebrities and irresponsible megaconglomerates destroying ecosystems.

Once she was in the car headed to the airport, she pulled out her phone to make the most difficult call of her life. Her parents would not be pleased.

Refusing to take the easy route, she called her father first. That conversation went much as expected, but when he blamed her mother for insisting Angele be raised in the United States, she’d had enough.

“Had you managed to keep it in your pants, I would have grown up in Jawhar. Don’t you dare blame Mom for this.”

His outraged gasp at her crassness had no problem translating across the cellular connection.

“In point of fact, it was your ongoing infidelity that convinced me marriage to Zahir would never work,” Angele added. “I will not put myself in the position of living as Mom did.”

“She never wanted for anything.”

“If you really believe that, then you’ve learned nothing despite your change in behavior.”

“You do not speak to me with such disrespect, Angele.”

“The truth is not disrespect.” He couldn’t even accuse her of a snarky tone, because her voice was as devoid of emotion as her heart right now.