Sheikh's Revenge

The door shut behind him with a clang and the woman turned to him. Her dress was amazing, something she’d clearly made herself because he could imagine no place that would sell a gown with a medieval patterned corset that led to silk skirts with slits up both sides. The mask she wore was just as exquisite and clearly no cheap costume-store afterthought. It was comprised of a silvery metal that glinted in the moonlight and decorated with rhinestones and intricate etchings in the metal. It even had cat ears at the corners, making the woman before him an engaging catwoman, to say the least. The highlight to all of this were her soft red curls, hanging in long tendrils down her back.

“I’m sorry, miss. I thought I was the only one who’d be here,” he said. “I can leave if you need a minute.”

This place was so desolate that Zahir figured only people who needed to think or, well, brood would be the ones using it. It was such a quiet space, a contrast to the raucous pounding of the rest of the building beneath them as the party blasted into full force downstairs.

She surprised him by shaking her head and leaning carefully against the high balustrade around the roof. “I don’t own the roof, and I’m alright.” She frowned back at him, the lines around her face pulling low in her confusion. “Seriously, if you want to be out here, my sheikh, then you can be.”

He chuckled, remembering the robes he wore, and then gave her a courteous bow. “Then I appreciate that completely, kitten.”

“Meow,” she replied, winking at him as he came to stand next to her. “You smell like half a Scotch bottle.”

Zahir shrugged and offered her a bit of honesty. “I probably smell like a bit more than that. I haven’t had the best of days, to be honest. I thought the party may lift my spirits, but it hasn’t done at all for me what I thought it would. What about you, miss?” he asked, trying to see if she’d give him a name. To be fair, he hadn’t given the redhead his name either, but he answered to “sheikh” often enough in real life that the difference was negligible.

She shook her head and smiled back at him, her cheeks dimpling beautifully as she did. “I think that ‘kitten’ works well enough for right now. So, my sheikh, what brings you up here besides a bit too much of ye olde ale?”

“Well, I don’t feel I’m the only one. Was there a bit of Vodka in your cream?” he queried.

“I’ve had a few cosmos, I can admit that,” she said. “Alright, I can admit that I’ve had more than a few,” she added, sighing. “Maybe I did have one of those days, but do you want to tell me about yours?”

He shrugged. “I had a business deal fall to hell. I guess I should have known better than to trust a snake like the one I lost out to, but that’s the way it goes.”

Zahir surprised himself by being that honest with this stranger, but there was something about this delicate kitten that drew him in. Maybe it was her obvious vulnerability and her own wounded nature calling to him, or maybe it was her beauty—that pale skin and auburn hair under the moon and city lights.

“Then I’m sorry for you. That sucks, but at least you’re still a titan of industry or whatever,” she added thoughtfully, scratching a bit under her mask. “I don’t even have a job anymore.”

“Is that a new thing?”

She nodded. “It’s my own fault, too. I spilled coffee all over my boss like a complete idiot, and now I’m back to the job hunt but with the scarlet letter of ‘I’ over my chest for ‘idiot.’”

Zahir couldn’t quite help himself when she spoke like that, mentioning her assets. His eyes roamed lower and he spied the curves of her cleavage, lifted up high by the corset she wore. If she really did have a scarlet letter there, then no man would be able to look away. She had curves in all the right places, and maybe that was also what had drawn him to her over the parade of stick-thin blondes. So many men in America seemed to revile a real womanly body, but it had always turned Zahir on. This kitten was no exception.

“I doubt you’re an idiot. Sometimes accidents happen, and there are other jobs out there.”

“Not always in this economy,” she said, her voice high and reedy. Her shoulders heaved a bit, and Zahir rushed forward to wrap his arms around her shoulders.

This woman was clearly falling apart and she needed contact, anything to help keep her going.

“Well this is a huge city. I’m sure there’s something out there.”

“You sound like my brother,” she said, her breath still hitching, even as she buried her face deeper into his shoulder. “He’s trying to be optimistic but it took me so long to get this one crappy job. I mean, my boss sounds a little like the guy who backstabbed you. He was an arrogant jerk and I was getting ulcers from working for him, but at least I had a paycheck and such. I have so many classmates in my design program who can’t get a job outside of doing custodial work. I mean, being a verbally abused personal assistant isn’t much, but it is still better in some ways than being a janitor. I just….I know Mom and Dad will give me an ‘I told you so’ about studying art and such. Right now? I can’t say I’d think they’re wrong.”

He shushed her a bit, reaching one hand higher to stroke her soft, red curls. “So you’re an artist? Do you paint or is it graphic arts?”

“Clothing,” she said. “I know, how dumb is that? I should be in New York or something for fashion.”

“Did you make your dress?” he asked, and he found his hand straying over the soft velvet of her corset, then the smooth silk of her skirt. He let it rest there on her left side, just inches from the slit by her thigh. “It’s exquisite.”

She nodded and suddenly she seemed breathy for completely differe

nt reasons. “This and the mask. I have so many sketches and pieces I’ve made. When I get really stressed, my automatic reaction is to sew.”

“Again,” he said, letting his hands caress the soft skin of her white, creamy thigh, “it’s amazing, just like you.”

“I…” she hesitated for just a moment. “What are we doing here?”

He grinned back at her before squeezing her thigh and then running his fingers higher to trace under her skirts and at the edge of her panties. “We’re doing anything we want.”

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