Sheikh's Desert Desire: Carrying the Sheikh's Heir. Maisey Yates
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began pacing like a caged beast. He was wearing his desert robes today, complete with the headdress held in place by a golden igal. He was regal and magnificent and breathtaking. She watched him pacing, her hand over her stomach, and tried to come to grips with the fact she was having his baby.
“We’ll marry immediately. The council will have to be informed and then we can sign the documents. We can have a wedding ceremony for the public, but that can be done in a few weeks. You won’t be showing by then and—”
“Stop.” Sheridan was on her feet, her blood pounding in her throat and temples. She didn’t know why she’d spoken, but she felt as if her entire life was altering right before her eyes and there was nothing she could do to stop the tidal wave of change.
Rashid was looking at her now, his dark gaze dangerous and compelling. She reminded herself that he was capable of tenderness. He had touched her tenderly only last night when holding her hair and rubbing her back. And then there was the night he’d made love to her, so hot and intense and, yes, tender in his own way.
“You’re making all these plans without asking me how I feel about any of them.”
His brows drew down. “This is the way things are done in Kyr. How would you know what the arrangements should be?”
She dug her fingernails into her palms. She was sweating, but not from illness. From shock. And fear.
“I wasn’t talking about how things are done in Kyr. I’m talking about this marriage.”
As if she could refuse it. She was here, in his palace, and he was a king. This child had to be born legitimate. And he’d said he would pay for Annie’s treatment. What more could she want?
Love. Yes, she could want love. She could want to marry a man because she loved him, not because she had to.
His gaze narrowed. “You are pregnant—this marriage will take place.”
She held her arms stiffly at her sides. “Maybe I want to be asked. Did you ever consider that? Maybe I wanted to get married in an old church somewhere, with my family surrounding me, and maybe I wanted to be in love with the man I marry.”
Oh, why say that out loud? Why let him know what a hopeless romantic you are?
His expression grew hard. “Life does not always give us what we want. We have to take what’s offered and do the best we can with it.”
Her heart fell. He was infuriating. Cold and calculating and arrogant. She wanted him to care, at least a little bit, about what this meant for her. To him, she was a woman who carried a potential king. He wanted to order her about the way he ordered Daoud or Fatima or Mostafa.
And she knew, if she knew nothing else, that she couldn’t allow him to do that without protest.
“I didn’t say yes yet. You’re making plans and I didn’t say yes.”
There was a huge lump in her throat now. Huge. It was like she’d swallowed all the pain she’d ever felt and was about to choke on it.
He picked up a pen on his desk and flipped it in his fingers as if he needed something to do. As if he was irritated. “You are carrying my child and we are going to marry. There’s nothing to say yes to.” He fixed her with a hard stare. “But if you could say no, would you? Knowing what’s at stake for everyone involved, would you say no and deny your child the opportunity to be my heir? Or your sister the chance to have her own child?”
Sheridan’s throat hurt. “I didn’t say that.”
He threw the pen down and sank into his chair again. “Then I fail to see the problem. You will be a princess consort, habibti. You will have a life of privilege. And you will be the mother of our child, which is what you’ve assured me you want. Or am I mistaken? Would you rather leave the child with me and return to America once he is born?”
Sheridan clenched her fists in her lap. Once more, it was a good thing there were no weapons handy. “This baby might be a girl, you know. And no, I don’t want to leave her with you.”
“Then we will marry immediately and be done with this matter.”
This matter. As if marriage and children were the equivalent of deciding where to go on vacation or which carpet to order for the new house.
“Thank you for settling that.” Sheridan got to her feet. She was shaking with rage and fear, and sick with the helplessness she felt. “I guess I’ll return to my rooms now and await your next command. How I got through life for twenty-six years without you to tell me what to do is quite the mystery. I’m pleased I don’t have to think for myself a moment longer.”
“Careful, Sheridan,” he growled.
A sensual shiver traveled down her spine at the sound. Oh, what was it about him growling at her that turned her on? She’d just told him off for being autocratic, so why did part of her thrill at the edge in his voice?
“Why? If I make a mistake, you’ll just tell me what to do to correct it.” She sank into the deepest curtsy she’d yet done and then turned and strode toward the door. He was there before her, his arm shooting out and wrapping around her before she could escape.
Her breath caught as he spun her around. “You dare to walk out on a king?”
“You aren’t my king,” she said hotly. But her body was melting where it touched his and that inconvenient fire was beginning to sizzle through her.
“Maybe I am,” he said, his voice heavy and angry at once. “Maybe I am utterly your king.”
Her reply was lost as he ripped the hijab from her hair. “You’re mine now, Sheridan,” he said hotly, backing her against the wall and pressing his body to hers. “And I keep what’s mine.”
And then he brought his mouth down on hers. Sheridan stiffened. She was determined to fight him, to keep her mouth closed to his invasion, to push him away.
But she did none of those things. Of course she didn’t. Rashid al-Hassan was an unstoppable sensual force and he had a power over her that she couldn’t deny. His tongue slid between her lips, demanding her response—and then they were kissing each other frantically, hotly, with all the pent-up passion of the past few days of deprivation. She’d never had such a physical connection to a man before. A connection that went against sense and reason and just was.
His hands spanned her rib cage, his thumbs grazing her nipples as he pinned her body to the wall with his own. Her pulse raced as her nipples tightened painfully. Her breasts were so sensitive now and they both knew why.
He found the closures to her dress and opened them deftly. Then he was pushing the garment off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. She wrapped her arms around his neck and arched into him until he growled again and stepped back to rip her panties down her legs. She stepped out of them as she fumbled with the soft trousers he wore beneath his dishdasha, trying to free him.
He helped her and soon she had her hands on his hot erection. But he didn’t give her a chance to play. His broad hands went to her bottom, lifted her high against the wall—and then he plunged into her as they both gasped.
“Sheridan.” His voice was a hot whisper in her ear and her heart twisted tight. “I need you.”
“Kiss me, Rashid,” she begged. Her skin was too tight, her belly too hollow, her body too hot. She needed the things he gave her, needed the connection and release. She didn’t understand it, but she craved it. Craved him.
He fused his mouth to hers—and then he began to drive up into her, harder and faster and deeper than before, until her body was alive with sensation, until she had to wrench her mouth from his and sob his name as she splintered apart in his arms.
He didn’t release her, though. He took her again and again, until she was a quivering mass of nerve endings, until her body couldn’t take another moment’s pleasure, until he finally let go of his rigid control and came, his seed filling her in warm