Sold to the Sheikh (8 page)

But what could someone like Sheikh Bashir possibly see in her? Was she just deluding herself?

She wanted to cry, she was so angry. There was no way a man like Creighton would ever understand any of that, especially not if Stella wasn’t sure she did, herself.

“Go to hell,” she said.

“I’ll double it,” Creighton said, spreading his arms wide. Like he was doing her a favor. Being reasonable.

“Seriously, go to hell,” Stella said viciously. “I’m not for sale, you…unbelievable
pig
. And not even if you were the last man on earth.”

Oh, that was probably not smart.

Creighton’s face darkened. Stella could see the rage building in him, slowly, as all the little thoughts and insults and entitlements took more time to knot together, to grow, fighting through the haze of alcohol to join together into one massive cumulus cloud of fury.

“What did you just say?” he whispered.

But Stella didn’t need to repeat it. It looked like Creighton’s wounded pride was gushing anger and bile, filling him to the brim, and Stella’s silence only seemed to make it worse. His face grew bright red, and his eyes bulged. He knocked over an end table that stood between them, shattering empty glasses on the floor.

Oh God,
Stella thought.
He’s really crazy
.

“What did you just say, you little bitch?” Creighton hissed, and he darted forward, putting himself squarely between Stella and the door. There was a terrible, still moment when neither of them moved. And then Stella made a break for the exit, running around the other side of the chair. But even drunk, Creighton was quick, and the room was not large, and there were too many things in Stella’s way.

He caught her. He grabbed her by the arm, his hot fingers digging painfully into her flesh, and he threw her back against a wall of books. Stella lost her balance and fell to her knees, crumpled in a heap of old books, too shocked to even cry out. Was this really happening? Did people really do things like this to each other?

“Now how much?” Creighton sneered, standing over her.

“Please don’t hurt me,” was all Stella could say.

But she was certain he would.

Or would
have
. They both turned at the sound of the sliding doors opening: Sheikh Bashir stood at the other end of the room, his eyes burning.

“Did he hurt you?” he said, very quietly.

“Not really,” Stella said. “But I think he was going to.” She’d be damned if she would lie for Creighton. She would knock him out herself if she could.

Like he could read her thoughts, Sheikh Bashir turned on Creighton, a nimbus of pure malevolence swirling around him. He looked positively murderous. Creighton fell back, away from Stella, as if he could somehow wash his hands of it.

“Bashir—”

“Shut up,” Sheikh Bashir said, and then he pounced.

Creighton dashed behind a side table, but Sheikh Bashir simply tossed it aside. Stella covered her ears and her head against the flying books and glass and alcohol, and when she looked up, Sheikh Bashir had Creighton by the wrist and throat.

The Sheikh forced the cretin to his knees.

“You are scum, Creighton,” he said. “You are entitled scum, and you are not fit to be in the same room with her. That I allowed this to happen…”

Sheikh Bashir inhaled deeply, and twisted Creighton’s wrist away from his body. Creighton blubbered, unable to cry out through his strangled throat.

“Apologize, Creighton. Crawl, on your hands and knees, and apologize. And if she accepts, I’ll let you leave here in one piece.”

“Sheikh Bashir,” Stella said.

Startled, the Sheikh relaxed his grip on Creighton’s throat, and let the drunken, would-be assailant fall to the floor, choking. The Sheikh himself lurched sideways, his face twisted with emotion as he tried to switch gears.

“Stella,” he said, and stopped. It seemed the first time Stella had seen him at a loss for words. He looked at her blankly, his helplessness here in stark contrast to the way he physically dominated the room.

“I just want him to leave,” she said quietly.

Slowly he nodded. “As you wish,” he said, and he bent down to grab Creighton by the back of the neck. The Sheikh dragged the still-blubbering Creighton to the doors, pausing only to say something Stella couldn’t quite hear. Whatever it was, Creighton nodded visibly—gratefully, even. And then he fled from the room.

Sheikh Bashir closed the doors after him. He took a deep breath, his broad shoulders rounding under his silk suit, and turned around. His handsome face was stricken.

“There is no apology I can make for having failed you so completely,” he said.

What?

Stella was almost annoyed at him. Pretty much every stress hormone in her body was bouncing around chaotically inside her, and she felt like a shaken grab bag of emotion, but she was still pretty sure that none of things she was feeling was anger towards Sheikh Bashir. In fact, she was feeling pretty damn grateful to the tall, incredibly strong, gorgeous man who’d just defended her.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” she said.

He shook his head. “I left you alone,” he said, crossing the room in a few long strides. “I showed you off to a man I didn’t know well, and then I left you alone and unprotected. It is unforgiveable.”

He stood so close, and yet, he seemed lost in himself. In a kind of self-loathing. The sight of him, standing before her, opening and closing his fists, jaw clenching, full of recrimination and regret, pushed every panic button Stella had. This was what people looked like just before things got bad. Just before they wanted to leave. All she wanted to do was make it better.

She said, “Really, it’s fine.” But even to her, it sounded shrill, brittle, fragile.
Maybe I’m more shaken up than I thought
. But why would Sheikh Bashir want anything to do with someone who was so much trouble? Wasn’t this supposed to be a fun weekend?

“Be still.” He interrupted her thoughts to hold the side of her face, and took a moment to inspect her arm. He frowned, then locked his eyes with hers. “A Dominant doesn’t just assume control, Stella. They assume responsibility. You are under my control, and thus your safety is my responsibility. I came very close to failing you.”

His fingers brushed lightly over the red marks that Creighton had left on her skin; Stella could tell she would probably bruise. “I did fail you,” he said sadly.

But his touch electrified her. Every point of contact between them provided a focus for the nervous energy that bubbled inside her, for all the fear, the adrenaline, the anger. It all rushed to the surface where he touched her, much like the blood forming a bruise under her skin, and suddenly, she wanted him. She wanted him to want her. She wanted him to know it.

“You came back,” she said. “And you protected me.”

Stella paused; that wasn’t what she’d meant to say at all. It just came out. She had never expected anyone to do either of those things, and yet, a man she’d only just met had done them, and now she was piling on the pressure like some kind of clinger. She looked down at her feet, ashamed.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, “I didn’t mean—”

Sheikh Bashir’s hand, moving down from her face to her breast, silenced her. He pushed his warm hand under her dress, brushing his thumb over her nipple, kneading the full, swelling flesh. Stella felt her back arch slightly as her breath hitched.

“Only apologize when you have done something wrong, Stella,” he said.

Stella closed her eyes. She could feel the Sheikh’s eyes on her, could tell they once more saw more than she ever wanted to reveal. She didn’t want to be the bitter, wounded, broken divorcée with him; she didn’t want to be the little girl everyone was always leaving. She wanted to be the glamorous, sexy, daring woman who could sell herself for a weekend and not give a damn.

The Sheikh pushed her against the bookcase, kicking the books at his feet out of the way, and pulled her breast free of her too-expensive dress. He took her wrists gently in hand, and pinned them above her head.

Then he just looked at her. It felt like her whole body seemed to shake and shiver, pulled taut for him, like a string he could pluck at his leisure.

“Stella,” he said, and his voice had gone deep, guttural. He ran his hand down the length of her body, up and down, returning to her aching breast, and claimed her mouth with his.

Stella arched into him, needing to feel his body against hers in as many places as possible. She’d never wanted anyone so badly, never felt the need for completion more in her entire life. There were too many things built up inside her, and they needed release.

“Please,” she said.

He kissed her neck, and she felt it in her clit. She felt everything in her clit.

“Tell me why you would apologize for that, Stella,” he murmured into her skin.

God no
, she thought.
Don’t make me be that person. Just…please…let me be…

“Please,” she said, feeling completely helpless. “Please just take me back to the hotel. You can do anything you want.”

I can’t believe I just said that,
she thought.
Have I begged? Is that good enough?

He laughed, and hefted her leg up around his waist, running his hand up the underside of her thigh.

“No, Stella,” he said, tightening his grip on her wrists. “I do not need your permission, remember? I will do anything that I want. I will do
everything
that I want. But first, I want you to answer my questions.”

Stella shook her head, and then moaned as he rolled his hips against her swollen clit.

“Please…” And she had to stop herself, because suddenly, insanely, she felt like she might cry from the frustration, and the stress, and everything that had happened to her in the last six months. Actually cry, in front of him. And that was unacceptable.

“Stella,” he said. “Look at me.”

She breathed deep, and obeyed. He looked into her, and she felt naked. All of the things she struggled to hide—her anxiety, her nervousness, her desperation to hide every bad thing she felt—all of them betrayed her, rose to the surface, showed themselves in her face. She turned away, trembling with tension.

“You need to come,” he said.

“Oh God, please, yes,” she breathed. “Take me back to the hotel.”

“No. Here. Now,” he said, pushing her dress up over her ass.

She startled, even though her hips ground towards him. “I can’t,” she said, wishing it weren’t true. “Not here. I won’t be able to—”

“You can and you will,” he said, and pushed off the wall, dragging her over to the back of the low leather chair.

“No, you don’t understand,” she said, but he ignored her and pushed her against the chair. He stood right behind her, trapping her with her belly pressed against the dark leather, and let his hands roam all over her body. Stella felt herself gush, the wetness sliding between her thighs, and then she thought of the party outside, of all the people congregating out there, of Creighton—Creighton, who was sure to tell someone that something had happened. Any minute now, someone was sure to come through those doors…

“Sheikh Bashir, I don’t think I can,” she said. And then she moaned as he pulled her dress down, exposing both breasts. His hands were relentless, ruthless, pulling at her nipples and rolling the flesh between his fingers, mixing just enough pain with pleasure. But what if someone came in? What if…

“Bend over,” he said into her ear.

What?

But Sheikh Bashir already had her dress bunched up in one hand, and he pushed her down over the edge of the chair, hard enough that Stella had to catch herself on the arms. She looked back over her shoulder, about to object.

“Look straight ahead,” he ordered.

Stella hesitated. Then he thrust two fingers into her.

“Stella,” he warned.

Oh God
, she thought.
What is happening to me?

Her body melted around the feeling of him inside her, and she was done, past being able to find the words to object. She gripped the armrests and held her head up, her entire awareness folding around the intrusion of his fingers. From somewhere far away, she thought she heard him chuckle.

“Good girl,” he said.

He began to move his fingers inside her, around and around, slowly working her wider and wider. She was so eager for him that she felt her vagina open, and willed him in further. She wanted all of him. She no longer cared where they were; she wanted him to mount her right then and there.

She tried to say “please,” but it only came out as a mewl. Again, he chuckled.

“Then let us see how much you can take, Stella Spencer,” he said, and he pushed another finger into her.

Stella gasped, but already she knew she wanted more, her ass angling up to him of its own accord, her leg lifting to spread for him and gain purchase on the back of the chair. He felt so
good
. She could already see her orgasm, like some distant, shining jewel, getting bigger and brighter all the time. His lazy strokes built it up to the point of bursting and then pulled back, again and again, until it seem to envelope her entire consciousness with the need to come.

“P-please,” she said.

He lifted her left leg a little more against the chair, and steadied himself on the small of her back. He pulled out of her long enough to spread her wetness around—she was so wet, so wet—and she heard the tearing sound of plastic, and the cool spread of a lubricant, and then the tips of his fingers were back at her entrance, but all of them this time, pushing against her opening, forcing their way in.

“Unnhh,” she moaned, and instinctively tried to pull away, even though there was nowhere to go; it was too much, too much. Her body threatened to shut down.

“No, Stella,” he said behind her. “Relax.”

And with his other hand he began to rub her clit, pushing down and side to side with a gentle, insistent pressure, keeping to the rhythm of the twisting thrusts of his hand, pushing and straining against the walls of her entrance until…