Slave to the Sheikh:
Read Slave to the Sheikh: Online
Authors: Nadia Aidan
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #United States, #African American, #Romance, #Contemporary, #Multicultural, #Erotica, #Multicultural & Interracial
Slave to the Sheikh
The Men of Sharjah, Book 1
Nadia Aidan
A Nadia Aidan Publication
Slave to the Sheikh: The Men of Sharjah, Book 1
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Slave to the Sheikh: The Men of Sharjah, Book 1 Copyright © 2014 Nadia Aidan
Cover Art by (Nadia Aidan) ©Copyright (September/2014)
Nadia Aidan, LLC Publishing
Electronic book publication September 2014
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Nadia Aidan, LLC Publishing.
The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork. Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Warning:
This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers.
Dedication
To my fans who waited patiently for me to start writing again. Thank you for all of your messages of encouragement and support.
Slave to the Sheikh: The Men of Sharjah, Book 1
Nadia After Dark-Taboo Collection
The Sheikhs of Sharjah….
Arrogant, wealthy, and dominant, the Sheikhs of Sharjah will stop at nothing to get what they desire, especially when it comes to claiming their women.
Slave to the Sheikh
When Sheikh Amir al-Aziz sets his sights on the lovely and brilliant professor, Dr. Daniella Hamilton, she is ill-equipped to handle the handsome Sheikh's forceful seduction. Yet, Daniella is adamant—Amir is the last man she would ever get involved with, even if he was the last man on earth. Nothing but an arrogant, wealthy playboy, the full-figured beauty refuses to be another woman on his endless list of conquests just because she’s a novelty to him. But in rebuffing him, Daniella has no idea the danger she’s put herself in. With her vehement protests and denials, she has just aroused and now awakened the dominant beast within.
When Daniella finds herself in a tenuous predicament that threatens not only her reputation, but her professionalism, and ultimately her career, she also finds herself at the Sheikh’s mercy. Amir is willing to overlook her transgression, but on one condition—she surrenders her body to him. And not just for one night, but for as long as he desires. Faced with a humiliating, career ending dilemma, Daniella has no choice but to accept his offer, and the Sheikh is clear, she will belong to him—completely owned by him—her body his slave.
But when she surrenders to his skillful domination, will it ultimately be Amir who finds himself the one enslaved?
CHAPTER ONE
I hated these weekly meetings. Today especially, with the temperature creeping ever closer to one hundred degrees. My work as an archaeologist often took me to remote areas with unbearable climates, but the small desert nation of Sharjah, nestled off the Arabian Gulf had to be the worst. I recalled the year I spent in Niger along the Saharan Desert and immediately recanted that thought. It wasn’t Sharjah that was the problem, or even its extreme climate, it was its ruler—the arrogant, overbearing insufferable, Sheik Amir Rashid al-Aziz.
Just the thought of the Sheik brought forth an image of the man, tall, dark and brooding, with skin the color of desert sands, and hair as dark and rich as the rivers of oil running beneath Sharjah.
Despite the fact that I couldn’t stand the man, I had to admit he was sculpted perfection, full sensual lips, piercing copper hued eyes and a taut, muscular body seemingly honed by God himself, instead of the daily hour he spent in his private gym.
I shivered then at the telling wetness that now stained the delicate fabric of my lace thong. And as I entered into the Sheikh’s palace, greeting the guards as I passed, I knew a frown marred my features. Probably more than I despised the Sheikh, I despised myself for being attracted to him. He was the epitome of a sexist, chauvinist, plucked straight out of the 1950s, but my sex starved body didn’t seem to care. It wanted him.
Flashing my credentials as I passed by another pair of guards, I stepped into the private elevator that would take me directly to the Sheikh’s office. The welcome chill of the air conditioning cooled my heated body, at least my exterior. It did nothing for the pulsing heat that throbbed between my legs causing my pussy to grow wetter. I bit back a frustrated sigh, while I struggled to right my clothing. The short journey from my living quarters on the Sheikh’s expansive estate had left me a sweaty mess, and now my blouse clung to my full breasts and my skirt kept twisting and riding up my damp thighs.
I’d chosen the soft, silk white blouse and linen pencil skirt because it flattered my ample curves, making me appear slimmer, even though I knew there was no miracle dress out there that would ever make me
actually
slim. It had taken me less than a week to realize the Sheikh obviously had issues with full figured chicks, although I should have known. Every photo I’d ever seen of him, if there was woman on his arm, she was tall and slender with curves bought off the surgeon’s table.
At our first meeting, he’d taken a long, leisurely look at my abundant curves and immediately the welcoming warmth in his eyes had turned cold. It should have hurt my pride, but I was used to reactions such as his, especially from handsome, wealthy men. They could afford to surround themselves with the perfect woman, and while I considered myself attractive, I was also realistic and knew my size fourteen hourglass figure was not everyone’s standard of ‘perfection’. So the next time I met with the Sheikh, I’d practically poured all my curves into a Spanxx and worn a minimizing bra beneath a form fitting black sheath dress, not because I was ashamed of myself, but because my research in Sharjah depended upon the support of Sheikh Amir, so if appearing slimmer in his eyes made him more amenable, then a girl just had to do what a girl had to do. For a month my tactic had seemed to work.
If not entirely pleasant, he’d at least been cordial as he inquired about my progress, but then something had changed. The last two meetings he’d been downright ornery, his disposition seemingly made worse because they’d dragged on way longer than usual. And today’s meeting suggested I could expect more of the same, given that it had been called at the last minute on a Friday, when we weren’t scheduled to meet until the following Monday, but when his secretary had called, I’d reluctantly agreed, despite my annoyance.
The elevator doors slid open, and I walked past the last pair of guards. As soon as I entered the outer office, I was instantly greeted by his warm and friendly secretary, Fatimah. The soft age lines along the corners of her eyes and mouth seemed more pronounced today, and I knew then that something was wrong.
“Dr. Hamilton, good afternoon,” Fatimah greeted.
“How many times have I told you, it’s Daniella.”
The lovely middle aged woman smiled, but the way she looked at me, with trepidation in her eyes, really worried me. “And you will just have to keep on telling me,” she replied saucily. “You worked hard for those degrees and as young and beautiful as you are, I know it wasn’t easy.”
I could feel my cheeks heating, a mixture of embarrassment and pride at Fatimah’s praise. I parted my lips to thank her, but the Sheikh chose that moment to step out of his office.
“Dr. Hamilton, you are here—
finally
.”
I bristled at the reprimand, clenching my hands into fists at my sides to keep from cursing him out. The glare I shot him would have caused any other man to hesitate, but he’d already dismissed me, as if expecting me to scurry past him into his office like the scolded child he so clearly believed me to be.
“Mrs. Raoud, you have the rest of the day off. Enjoy your weekend,” he said to his secretary.
“Malik, Hassan. You both can go home as well.”
When all three started to protest, he shook his head, his expression stern. “You have the rest of the day off,” he said firmly. “Lock the doors and the elevator behind you.”
And that was that. His word was final. Fatimah shut down her computer and grabbed her belongings, flashing me a wary look as she left for the day. I followed her departure with my gaze, watching as the guard, Malik closed the door behind her. Seconds later there was the distinct sound of a key turning in the lock.
That small sound snapped me out of the trance I’d been in and I turned toward the Sheikh, my hostile gaze clashing with his.
Annoyance darkened his features as he narrowed his eyes. “My office, I would like a word.”
He never said please or thank you. He barked commands and everyone around him jumped. I’d held my tongue for so long. The funding I’d received from the University of Sharjah, the approval I’d secured to excavate the lost city of Dilmun, an ancient Mesopotamian commercial center, it all hinged on
his
approval. One word and years of research, countless hours spent just trying to convince my university that the city was even located in Sharjah, and then the effort and money I’d put into convincing the Sheikh and the University of Sharjah, to allow
me,
a foreigner, a woman, to lead the excavation, it would all be for nothing if he kicked me out of his country, and we both knew it.
But I was also tired of being bullied and pushed around. He called meetings and I came running. I had things scheduled for today that I’d put aside to meet with
him.
Yet, he barely tolerated me, questioned my professional judgment at times, and was dismissive of me as a woman, and if I was honest with myself, I think that was what rankled me the most. I wasn’t so conceited that I thought he needed to find me attractive, but since coming to Sharjah, most of the men had been quite appreciative of my curves, flattering and complimenting me with sincere words. Whereas the Sheikh, he
never
looked at me. Most of the times I squirmed uncomfortably in my chair across the desk from him while he flipped through the weekly report I submitted to him every Friday, and if he had a question, he would ask it with his nose still buried in my damn report. The few times he did actually look at me, his eyes locked with mine, never once straying. I could have been a lump of clay that’s how much attention he paid me.
“Dr. Hamilton.”
He called my name again, and that’s when I noticed I hadn’t moved an inch. I nodded stiffly, brushing past him. I tried to ignore the crisp smell of his cologne mixed with his natural scent. It reminded me of sandalwood and all man. My arm struck the door jam that was how wide a berth I was giving him.
“Are you alright?” He reached for me, concern in his eyes, his fingertips skimming my forearm before I came to my senses and jerked away.
“Fine,” I managed to get out, but I was far from it. Just that brief touch had hardened my nipples, and a fresh wave of wet heat now flooded the swollen lips of my cunt. One glance at my chest and it would be obvious that I was either cold or aroused so I folded my arms across my torso.
“Have a seat.” Again, another order. I started to protest, but the warning look in his eyes, as if he could read my mind, along with the desire surging through my veins made me a bit unsteady. I sank down into the chair, draping my purse across the back. Crossing my legs, I desperately tried to ignore the dampness between my thighs, even as I swore that the pungent scent wafting through the air was most definitely
not
that of my arousal.
The door closed then, but it was the sound of it locking that stiffened my back. I wanted to turn around but it was as if ice had replaced the blood in my veins, trapping me firmly into place. Muffled footsteps and the soft whir of the air conditioner filled the silence.
Moments later, the Sheikh stalked across the room to stand behind his desk, his piercing gaze boring into me. That’s when I noticed his attire was different. Most of our meetings he was clad in some designer suit perfectly tailored to his muscular frame, the epitome of professionalism. Twice, he’d worn the traditional
dishdasha
with the
keffiyeh
covering his head when our meetings fell on the days he would be entertaining dignitaries from neighboring countries. Today, however, I noticed he was casually dressed in khaki slacks and a short sleeved white polo, his muscled biceps straining against the confines of the garment. He’d left the collar unbuttoned, giving me glimpses of curling black hair dotting his solid chest. My reaction to all that bare flesh, and his corded, rippling muscles, was overwhelming. My nipples beaded painfully and my clit pulsed harder. The physical response was purely instinctive and I silently reprimanded my traitorous body for reacting to a man who didn’t even like me, much less, desired me.
Swallowing the lump clogging my throat, I glanced away only to have my gaze return to him seconds later when he bent down to pick up a box at his feet, only to drop it unceremoniously onto his desk.
It took me five seconds to realize what he had before him, and I shot out of my seat, trying to snatch the open box away, but I was two seconds too slow.
I stood there immobilized by a sickening combination of fear, dread and humiliation, watching helplessly as he removed the contents from the box, one at a time, and laid them atop his desk.
“Would you care to explain these?”
I stared at him, my thoughts hovering somewhere between shame and indignation.
“You had no right—”
“I had every right.” The arrogant arch of his brow was enough to erase the lingering traces of embarrassment, leaving in its wake the full weight of my fury.
I stared him down, my hands on my hips. “This is my mail. You have completely violated my privacy and my, my—“
“And your what, Dr. Hamilton?” That stupid arrogant brow lifted higher. “You live in
my
country, on
my
estate, at the courtesy of
my
word, and
my
expense. Nothing you do here is private.
Nothing.
”
The way he said that last word, the intense look he gave me sent a shiver down my spine. I realized then that he probably knew. No I was sure of it. He knew
everything.
