The Sheikh's Captive American (Zahkim Sheikhs 1)

One gallery’s display seemed to be meant to resemble a desert nomad's tent. Fabric draped the walls, and support poles in the middle of the room held up more fabric and woven hangings. Overlapping rugs lay on the floor as if to cover sand underneath, while pillows, goat-hair mats died with henna, and heaps of cushions had been scattered about. A brass table sat near what might be a small stone hearth, with pots and pans and a tea kettle nearby. A wooden chest held cups and a kerosene lamp, and a mural on the left wall showed blue sky, sand and a hundred or more camels.

"Did your ancestors live like this?" Tess studied a female mannequin in traditional dress—long black robes, headscarf, and a cascade of gold around her neck. She could barely see the mannequin's face under all the swathing fabric.

Tarek waved a hand. "Briefly. My people were exiles from what is now Saudi Arabia. We crossed the Red Sea, wandered over much of North Africa, and eventually came here. Some still believe angels of God led us to Zahkim but this is not what I want you to see."

" I want to look at the art! The weaving is fantastic." Tess dragged at his grip, mostly to tease him and to strike the sparks in his eyes. It worked. His brows furrowed, and his eyes flashed bright. He tugged on her hand, and she followed, laughing.

Two galleries, a curving staircase, and a hallway later, Tarek held aside a black velvet curtain hanging across a doorway and gestured for her to step into the dark room with a bow of his head and a sweep of his arm.

She blinked at the blackness. This had to be some weird art installation that she wasn't understanding.

"Look up," Tarek whispered.

She did. White gems embedded in the dome-shaped ceiling glowed in vaguely familiar patterns. She gave a small gasp.

Tarek's arm fastened around her waist. "They’re called desert diamonds. Geologists tell us they’re a form of quartz, but we prize them more highly than anything so common. Star stones. My great-grandfather was an astrologer, and he had this display made when he was young. It's how the night sky looked above the Amin oasis on the day our ancestors recorded discovering it. It is said to bring good fortune to anyone who visits before an important event. Not that I believe in such things."

She gave a snort. "You don't believe, but you bring me here."

"I thought you would enjoy it. And it’s private." His fingers ghosted over her arms. She had worn a sleeveless dress, and now she was glad she had. His fingers trailed up her arms and her breath hitched in response. She reached for him, found his waist first and couldn't decide whether to move her hand up or down from there. Chest, abs, or ass? Or that delightful beard?

He helped her decide by pulling her against him. No room for her hand between them, now. When his went to her cheek, hers dropped to his rock-hard butt.

He gave a little grunt. His nose bumped hers. She found his mouth by following the sweet sweep of his breath across her lips. He claimed her as if she were his property, as if he knew he could take her any time he wanted. She shivered in shameful delight. A tingle surged into damp wetness between her legs and she'd soaked her panties in short order. She nipped his lips and wrapped one leg over his hip. Tarek slipped his hand between them, found her breast, and pinched her nipple.

With a groan, she rocked her hips into him, determined to feel the press of his cock against her. She found just the right position—thank God she was tall—and sighed. He fastened his mouth on her neck and nibbled, more teasing than his frustrated bites in the kitchen. She surrendered. Utterly. Her head fell back, and she let him walk her backwards until he pressed her against a wall. She'd let him strip her naked right there, if he wanted to, and take her under the star stones.

Reaching under her dress, he dragged down her underwear and then pushed two fingers inside her. She gave another moan and a guttural, "Yeah. There."

Tarek needed no further urging. Three fingers. Then four. She groaned again, her arousal scenting the room with the elemental smell of ocean. Reaching for him, she tried to rub his erection with her palm, but he grabbed her wrist and pinned it to the wall above her head.

"This is for you," he said, his voice a low growl.

"Tarek, please…" She let the words fade. She didn't know if she was begging for more or pleading for him to stop while he could. She couldn't. He pulled his fingers out and pushed in again; his thumb brushed over her clit. She cried out. She was coming apart in his arms. He growled again and finger fucked her slowly and mercilessly. She wiggled her hips, and he pinned her with his body, his fingers pushing in and pulling out, going deeper each time. She gave a small scream, and he put his mouth over hers, stole her breath and fed off her pleasure.

Dragging open her eyes, she stared up at the star-stones. They whirled around her and then exploded into light. Tarek pushed his fingers into her again and again and kept his mouth on hers until she was trembling and ready to sob. He stopped at last, still held her pinned to the wall. His erection still pressed into her hip, and she wanted to fall to her knees and take him in her mouth.

He kissed her neck, and whispered, "I hope you enjoyed your tour. I hope I didn’t take too many liberties."

She couldn't talk. Could barely stand. He stepped back, and Tess staggered at the loss of his embrace and almost fell on her face. She let out a long breath.

"Enjoy is the wrong word for it." She stepped toward his voice and the dark shape of him. Leaning forward, she whispered, "And you're welcome to take whatever you like from me, my king."

He gave her fifteen minutes in the bathroom to try to fix her hair—a mess now—and straighten her dress. She gave up on her panties—they were soaked—and stripped them off. Coming out of the bathroom, she stuffed them into Tarek's trouser pocket, brushing her fingers over his erection as she did. "In case I need them later."

He fixed her with a hot glance, but she danced out of his reach.

For the rest of the tour, Tess kept wanting to touch him. She walked hip-to-hip with him, slipping her arm around his waist, teas

ing him with a brush of her fingertips over his beard. She wanted to drive him crazy for a change but Tarek was made of sterner stuff and kept himself utterly and madly in check.

The star room marked a transition in the museum's exhibits from traditional and historical to modern art, sculptures and paintings. They didn't linger in any one gallery, and Tess only stopped for an extended examination once. On their way back through the main lobby—the closed gift shop on one side, a dark café on the other—she spied a life-size portrait that looked to be of a young Tarek. She stopped in front of it, her arms folded over her chest and her head tipped to one side.

His painted self seemed almost studiously serious, as if the painter had told him to “put on your king face.” He stood in a lush garden, which she recognized as the central garden at the palace, and wore traditional robes and a white keffiyeh held in place by black ropes. A falcon perched on a stand behind him. She would recognize those amber eyes of his anywhere.

Tarek stood next to her, and she asked, "How old were you when that was painted?"

"Sixteen, almost seventeen; right before I went off to university. I always suspected my grandmother didn't want the people to forget what I looked like. It didn't work. I flew home on a commercial flight, and only the customs agent realized who I was, and then only because he stamped my passport. I swore him to secrecy, and as far as I know, he has yet to tell a soul."