The Sheikh Surgeon's Proposal

He moaned a surplus of enjoyment and torment. “You know you’re the first to ever shave me?”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Strange. Most men who aren’t sheikhs with hordes of aides shave at some barbershop sometimes.”

“My barber cuts my hair, period.” He drove his hand through it, winced. “On the rare occasions I let him, that is.”

She sighed. “Cutting hair like yours should be outlawed.”

A laugh ripped from him. “You’d like to see it longer?”

Something blazed in her eyes—hunger? Longing? Before he could work it out, she snatched it out of reach, lowering her eyes, a playful smile hovering on her lips. “Mid-back would be nice. So, what have you got against being shaved?”

He brought the urge to grab her and rekindle that lost expression under precarious control, heard his voice thickening as he murmured, “Among other forms of being waited on, it’s too … personal. I’m a bit of a fanatic about personal space.”

Her hand froze after she’d shaved the first swathe down his beard, exposing his grateful skin. “If you’re not comfortable … The whole point is to make you comfortable.”

He grabbed her hand as she moved it away, put it back to his face. “I am far, far beyond comfortable.”

Her color deepened, then she gave a giggle and resumed. “So now you’ll start hankering after getting shaved.”

“Not if it’s not you on the other end of the razor.”

She met his gaze in the mirror, her lips deep red and moist, her eyes radiating azure intensity. Would they look like that, would she flay him with such focus and welcome as he rose above her, spread her, took her silken legs over his hips.

Ya Ullah. So there was such a thing as torture by arousal.

She tilted his head against her breast to gain access below his jaw. The moment her firmness cushioned him, he groaned with the surge of sensations, felt his grip on consciousness slipping.

He jerked to the feel of her hand gliding over his face. He blinked at his clean-shaven reflection. When had she done that?

“The good news is you don’t snore,” she teased.

He sat up, dazed. “It’s getting alarming, these side trips to the twilight zone every time I sit still.”

“Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t cure. But first—a shower. Go ahead as I put things in motion.”

All he wanted to do was rise, press her to the door and devour her, then take her to bed and finish her. Still—to his total shock—this was as satisfying. He needed her gentleness and generosity as much as he did her passion, needed. Needed?

He’d never needed. He’d been born into so much, need had been non-existent. He’d filled its void with purpose, goals, action, achievement. But now, this—this was need.

And it was so unknown he had no way of fighting it. He was sinking in her care and compassion, no thought left in him of denying himself the pleasure and privilege of her.

She skipped out of the bathroom. “And no filling the tub. There’s no way I’m budging you out of there if you fall asleep.”

He followed orders, showered vigorously, trying to wake himself up. He had to savor each moment with her.

He came out feeling as if he’d regained his old skin, and she pointed out the clothes on the bed, said “Saeed” as she rushed past him to her turn in the bathroom.

So she’d called Saeed. He’d bet Saeed’s speed in complying with her request had been for her, not him. During the past week Saeed had fallen under her spell, too.

Suddenly his blood roared in his ears, the lash of hormones an electric current jolting him to full wakefulness.

She was singing in the shower!

Elal Jaheem. To hell with duties and impossibilities. To hell with it all. He’d go in there, snatch her in his arms, let the water inundate them as it had the past week, this time warm, fusing, a medium for ferocity, for delirium. He’d knead and suckle her every inch, her every secret, deluge her in satisfaction, have her weeping for more, for him, and only then would he take her, then take her again.

At the bathroom door his storming steps faltered. He staggered the last one, leaned on the door, his ear to it, his hands miming caresses over her wet satin skin, listening to her emanating magic, feeling her influence tightening over his senses and will.

He knew she’d take him if he went in there. She’d open herself to him with all her fire and magnanimity.

And he couldn’t do that to her. Not when he understood her need, of all people, for nurturing and being nurtured, for stability and continuity, for a total, unconditional, permanent alliance. Everything he could never give her. He’d be beyond dishonorable if he succumbed. He’d be cruel. Criminal.

He turned on his heel, headed for the bed, dressed quickly.

He should leave. He shouldn’t have come in, shouldn’t have let her expose herself to this. He would leave, leave her a note, or just go and call later. No, send Saeed with explanations—no, no explanations, just apologies, and a lifelong offer of any and every service and support he could provide.

“You’re still awake!” He swung around at her soft exclamation, found her walking up to him, flushed, glowing, her hair a wet, darkened cascade over shoulders encased in a sleeveless stretch top echoing the color of her eyes, the rest of her curves cruelly hinted at in the layers of a flowing white skirt. She hurt him with her beauty. Then more when she ran a soothing hand down his back. “Must be the shower’s rejuvenating effect. I feel like a new woman. At least the old one. How about you?”

He hadn’t had time to take the coward’s way out and now had to face her. He tried, began, “Janaan—”

“How about a massage while we wait for food? I evoked my carte blanche with Adnan. Ordered plenty of logmet el guadi so we won’t have to fight over it.”

“Janaan—I’m really tired—”

“Duh. I’m not asking you for a massage, I’m offering one.” She took his hand in both of hers, guided him to the bed.

She pushed him down, tried to maneuver him face down, but he caught her to him, giving up again, knowing that he had to take this from her. But no more. Never more.

“Janaan, I don’t want food, or more coddling, I just want to hold you. Let me hold you, ya habibaty”

She jerked at his intensity, at the endearment. He’d never said it to anyone before. He’d believed beyond a doubt he’d live his life never finding anyone to call his darling, his love. But he had. And she was. She was.