The Sheikh's Bought Wife

‘Oh, come on. Work it out.’ His black eyes gleamed as if registering the lack of comprehension on her face. ‘I pleasure myself, of course.’

It took a moment for his words to sink in and when they did, Jane found herself blushing again. ‘Oh,’ she mumbled, all her earlier confidence crumbling away.

He studied her, as if he couldn’t quite believe the implication of her reaction, and all at once his eyes were beseeching. ‘Please tell me you don’t deny yourself pleasure, Jane—even though you may have never known true intimacy with a man.’

Her colour deepened because unerringly he had hit on the truth—and how humiliating was that, because in this day and age wasn’t it doubly shameful to be both a virgin and never to have experienced any kind of sexual pleasure? Especially when you lived in a society which was bombarded with sexual imagery. Her teeth dug into her bottom lip. Her reasons were complex and probably seemed stupidly old-fashioned, but sometimes circumstances helped create a situation which was not of its time.

How could she possibly explain that she’d always seen herself as clever Jane and plain Jane, just as everyone else had? That she’d helped care for her sick mother and stepped in when their father had gone to pieces afterwards? She’d cooked and cleaned and tried to dampen down her sister’s wild and unpredictable nature—and in the midst of all that she’d done her best to study and work hard to gain the exams she’d needed. There hadn’t been time for anything else—especially not the boys who’d looked straight through her because they’d been seduced by Cleo’s abundant charms.

And when she’d gone to college, the only men she’d mixed with had been the tutors keen to capitalise on her eager intellect, or the occasional study partner she’d teamed up with in the university library. Her first fumbling experience on the college dance floor had been followed by another couple of dates with men who had left her completely cold. Perhaps she was simply guilty of preferring the fantasy desert lands she studied, which had made her unable to settle and uninterested in the whole dating scene.

She’d sublimated her own sexuality for so long that she didn’t know if she was capable of feeling the things she knew most other women her age experienced. She’d never touched herself in the way to which Zayed was alluding because it had felt somehow...wrong. She was like someone who had never tasted sugar, who couldn’t believe that sweetness existed. And now, with Zayed’s black gaze piercing through

her, she could feel herself start to bristle defensively.

‘That’s none of your business,’ she said.

‘I think it is my business. We’re stuck with each other for six months and I think I need to know whether or not my wife has ever had an orgasm.’

Briefly Jane closed her eyes, telling herself to change the subject before the conversation got even more embarrassing. But reason wasn’t strong enough to stem the suddenly powerful rush of her imagination. She thought about the erotic Kafalahian texts she’d been studying just before she’d come here, which she had read as matter-of-factly as if they’d contained reams of mathematical formulae. Within their heavy and beautifully illustrated pages had been acts which were completely alien to her. Things she’d never imagined would relate to her but which now began to invade her mind because somehow she could imagine Zayed doing them to her. Zayed’s mouth upon her breast and Zayed’s head between her thighs.

And she needed to pull herself together because such thoughts were insane. She needed to protect herself—in all ways. She mustn’t get used to a level of intimacy which could never be sustained. Because within a few short months, she would be history and this man would be gone from her life for ever.

‘I refer you to the terms of our agreement,’ she said. ‘And since we are in a short-lived marriage which forbids sex, I suggest we don’t discuss it.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it would seem to me, even with my vast inexperience, that to do so will make you increasingly frustrated. Wouldn’t you agree? And now I think it might be best if you left me alone so that I can get dressed.’

His mouth twisting, Zayed rose to his feet. Her logic was infuriating but he couldn’t fault it. And wasn’t there a reluctant part of him which admired her cool intellect and powers of reasoning, even if his body was protesting at being kicked out of his honeymoon suite without so much as a glimpse of one cherry-topped nipple? ‘Very well. I will leave you to get dressed,’ he said tersely. ‘Without feeling you have to hide away to prevent me from observing you in a state of undress. Heaven forbid I should see my wife naked!’

Frustration now pulsing through his veins like a fever, he wrenched open the door of the eastern tower and slammed his way out, knowing she had done nothing but speak the truth and not sure why he was so angry. Frustration, yes—but there was something else. Was it the fact that her will was strong? Maybe even as strong as his? That she hadn’t given into temptation, even though she was obviously turned on by his presence? Probably. Or because he’d been left feeling as though she’d been the one calling the shots, when that was usually his role? Something else nagged at his mind too, but he was too full of exasperation to heed it.

Outside, the sun was much higher and he sucked in a breath of clear desert air, his gaze sweeping over the rose-gold of the palace walls, its cobalt domes contrasting with the paler blue of the sky. It was a sunny and beautiful day, but inside he felt as cold as ice. He found himself wondering if he would ever feel truly contented. Not happy, because he knew his limitations and happiness was something he’d never aspired to—for how could a heart know happiness when it had been ripped from his chest and crushed into a million pieces? But sometimes he wondered if he would ever experience the contentment which other men enjoyed.

His stocks and shares were riding high, his country was the world’s fourth biggest exporter of oil and there had been no wars in the region for almost thirty years. His heart gave a savage twist of pain, because wouldn’t his acquisition of Dahabi Makaan ensure that peace was likely to continue until the end of his reign, and beyond? He looked up at a distant bird of prey as it circled slowly in the thin air before poising to make its strike.

So where was this elusive thing called contentment—and why was its absence so glaringly apparent today, of all days? Was it because the strangely poignant words of the marriage ceremony had opened up the floodgates to feelings he’d been suppressing for as long as he could remember? Or because he found himself in uncharted territory—not simply because he was now a married man, but because he was dealing with a woman the like of whom he’d never known before.

He’d guessed Jane was a virgin but had failed to realise how sexually naïve she really was. Mightn’t this bizarre situation have been easier if she had been more experienced? If she’d been one of those faintly cynical women he tended to favour. The ones who would do anything to accommodate his every need. His lips hardened. Perhaps not. It was easy to be bored by women like that. Sometimes he had made demands on them which had been thoughtless and cold. As if he was trying to test them. To push them to see just how far they would allow themselves to be pushed. And those women had always agreed to his requests, hadn’t they? Had Jane been accurate when she’d claimed that people kowtowed to him because he was royal?

Yet Jane did not kowtow to him. She told him things straight. She answered him back, which nobody had ever done before. Part of him resented it but a much bigger part of him was tantalised by it—and surely that was dangerous. But he supposed he should be grateful that the last thing she did was bore him.

Slowly, he made his way back up the steep stone steps of the tower to discover his new wife dressed in some of the carefully selected robes which had been hurriedly assembled before their wedding. A selection of traditional Kafalahian royal garments had been provided as well as couture western clothes and it filled him with unexpected pleasure to note that she had chosen the former. A long, embroidered silk tunic the colour of new leaves skimmed her body—but, despite its relatively demure lines, he couldn’t eradicate the vision of Jane in her wedding night lingerie, the slippery material clinging to every fleshy pore. He concentrated instead on the way she had pulled the hair tightly back from her face and wound it into the habitual bun.

‘No, no, no,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘That will not do.’

He saw a faint look of disappointment cloud her eyes. ‘I thought your people would prefer me to wear Kafalahian clothes while I’m here.’

‘That isn’t what I meant—and just for the record, the tunic suits you very well. It’s your hair which is bothering me.’

She touched her fingertips to the tight bun. ‘My hair?’

‘Indeed. While you are with me, you will wear your hair down. If we want the world to believe in our union, it will be better if I don’t appear to be married to someone who looks like some uptight librarian.’

‘But I am a librarian, Zayed,’ she said. ‘Of sorts.’

‘Not any more you’re not,’ he corrected. ‘As of now you are my Sheikha and you will dress to please me.’