by Lora Leigh
"Bastard," Marty snarled. "I want to cut his fucking dick off."
He stared back at her almost in shock. His ladylike little Marty had a mouth on her that could possibly almost match his own. He'd have to discuss this with her.
If they lived.
God, if they lived.
He narrowed his eyes on the door frame, watching the shadow that moved just outside it. The light spilled over Aman in a way that allowed Khalid to track him by tracking his shadow. His brother still hadn't learned to watch his ass. He had always depended on his father to watch his back. His father wasn't here now.
"We need to distract him," Marty whispered softly behind him. "We need to get him to edge closer to the frame. The P90 will pass through the wall, Khalid."
Khalid shook his head. "It's reinforced. I suspect Aman knows this, as my employees did. It will do no good to shoot anything other than the door. The bullets will be stopped by the layer of steel within the walls."
She sighed heavily behind him.
"My cell phone is in the bedroom," she said. "We're fucked if we have to stay here."
Their ammunition was limited, whereas he had glimpsed the backpack Aman carried. No doubt his brother was fully stocked.
"We'll just have to make every bullet count," Khalid told her quietly.
"I believe before I kill your whore, I want to fuck her." Aman was trying to push every button he thought Khalid possessed. "It was I who cut Lessa's betraying cunt from her body, Khalid. She was alive as I did so. She cried and begged, and in the end she screamed for her depraved husband and her bastard lover. But you weren't there, were you?" He laughed viciously. "Do you think my wife screamed for me when she died?"
"I think she died instantly," Khalid called back. "I doubt she even thought of you, Aman. I would guess she was happy to leave this life and her insane husband behind."
No doubt, Khalid thought, the woman had been as crazy as Aman was. She built many of the bombs that went into the vests of suicide bombers and helped Aman to plot many of the merciless attacks that had been made by the terrorist cell he led.
"Ah, you think you can speak such lies and hurt me," Aman called back, his tone furious. "Allah has sent me to punish you, Khalid. I am vengeance."
"I doubt Allah had anything to do with your insanity, Aman. Your father should have drowned you like a diseased dog when you were born."
Silence met the words. Khalid stayed carefully behind the rim of the tub, praying the sunken design of it would protect them once Aman stepped clear to fire inside the room once again.
"You are a part of Satan," Aman accused him sadly. "Father refuses to believe it. You have bespelled him. But it will not last much longer."
No, it wouldn't. Khalid was going to kill Aman before he ever left this house, then he would go searching for Ayid. He just had to be patient, he warned himself.
Behind him, Marty shifted, a soft curse falling from her lips from the pain the action no doubt caused. The flesh wound on her hip would be a deep one, he thought. The blood that had splattered over him hadn't been minute.
"Check the window," he ordered her softly. "See if anyone is outside."
She moved behind him. The wide windows looked out over the back of the estate and the gardens below. There was a small balcony outside, one for looks rather than actual use, but it would hold their weight if they could slip outside.
"Nothing," she whispered back.
"Khalid, I grow weary of this game," Aman called out to him.
"Then come on, Aman. Let me kill your ass and get it over with," Khalid called back, as he glanced over his shoulder.
Marty was struggling with the lock, trying to disengage the heavy metal latch.
"What are you doing, Khalid?" Suspicion filled Aman's voice. "Do you think you can escape me?"
Reaching behind him, Khalid gripped Marty's robe and jerked her back as all hell seemed to break loose.
Aman threw himself into the room, his body flattening against the floor as his weapon began to spit a rage of gunfire that seemed never ending.
Ducking over Marty, Khalid laid the barrel of the P90 over the tub's rim and began firing himself. He knew the general area. He had only one chance.
Glass showered around them as bullets sliced through the window. He was aware of Marty ducking, covering her head as he lay over her, his heart racing, fear clogging his throat as his weapon began to click.
His ammunition was exhausted.
Holding her to the floor of the tub, Khalid waited.
Silence filled the bathroom as he slowly eased Marty's Glock from her grip, his eyes meeting hers as she turned her head to stare back at him.
"I love you," she spoke silently, her lips moving as her pale face reflected her fear that Aman was only laying in wait to see if his bullets had struck before moving again.
Bracing one hand beside her head Khalid began to lift himself to check.
What he saw caused a breath of relief to ease from his lungs.
Aman lay on his back, his eyes staring up silently as blood pooled around him.
Shayne stood in the doorway staring at the body with icy eyes as Khalid calculated the number of hits his brother had taken.
His aim, despite his inability to do more than lay the weapon over the tub's edge, had been on target.
Shayne lifted his gaze from Aman's body to Khalid.
Rising from the tub, the Glock now held loosely in his hand, he helped Marty up.
"Fuck me," Shayne breathed out roughly. "Do you know how many of these bastards I had to go through to get here?" He indicated Aman's still form. "I bet he had a dozen men in this fucking house."
Stepping over the body, Shayne gripped Khalid's arm and helped him from the tub as Khalid lifted Marty against him.
"We'll need the doctor here," Khalid ordered. "She's been shot. Call her fathers and check on Abram. Ayid was sent to kill him."
"Got it." Shayne moved quickly as Khalid swung Marty into his embrace and carried her to the bed.
Staring up at him, Marty reached out, touched his cheek, then his lips.
"It's over," she whispered.
As he laid her on the bed, Khalid sat slowly beside her, his gaze lingering on her face as Shayne spoke on the phone behind him.
"It's over," he agreed.
A tremulous smile shaped her lips. "Still love me?"
"Like the sun loves the flowers that brighten its day," he whispered. "Like a body loves the heart that beats for its life. God help me, Marty, I love you until I know I would die without you."
He couldn't exist without her. There was no life, no heart, no soul if he lost the spirit that kept him alive. Marty was the life, the heart, the spirit that had kept him reaching for a new day since he'd met her when she had been no more than fifteen.
A part of him had known then. His soul knew now. The pleasure she gave him, the warmth she filled him with, the touch that kept him centered to the earth was more than he could bear losing.
She was his heart. She was his soul. She was a pleasure that held no guilt, no shame. A pleasure that met his, matched it, and heated the coldest night.
His Marty.
"I love you, Khalid," she whispered.
And he smiled. For the first time in more years than he could remember, he truly smiled.
"And I, precious, love you."
Author’s note
Many liberties have been taken in the creation of this book where Saudi Arabia, and Abram’s life there, is concerned.
I hope you can forgive those differences and enjoy the story despite them.
We often wish for so much more.
We look around the lives we live and we question,
What might have been …
Contents
Author’s Note
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
; Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Also by Lora Leigh
Prologue
She should be embarrassed. At the very least, she should be completely outraged, so totally ashamed of herself that she couldn’t look away, and fleeing in fear of her endangered virginity.
She shouldn’t be standing there, eyes wide, her senses so dazed she couldn’t force herself to move, as she watched her half-brother’s half-brother in the act of what appeared to be a very complicated sex position.
A ménage.
She knew what it was called. She knew what it involved. But, Paige had to admit, she hadn’t expected to see the object of her own fantasies involved with one.
She recognized the third, a cousin to the Mustafa family, Tariq. But her entire attention was focused on Abram Mustafa as he lay back on the bed, the woman he was fucking stretched out on top of him, her thighs straddling his hips, her head thrown back to rest against the shoulder of the other male behind her.
The dual penetration was obviously incredibly pleasurable for her. She was moaning, crying out.
Paige dared to allow her gaze to slip down once again, where she could glimpse the glistening, thick erections of the two men penetrating their lover. She swallowed tightly, her heart racing, her senses overloading with the sight, the sounds, the sheer implications of what she was seeing.
The total eroticism of the act drove the breath from her body, and she was still attempting to catch it, even as she fought to find the strength to look away.
She couldn’t.
And she couldn’t decide which she wanted to see more, Abram’s face, twisted into a grimace of sublime pleasure, or the sight of his cock, glistening and slick with his lover’s arousal as he pushed the heavy length home with hard, fierce thrusts.
Paige’s pussy clenched, her thighs tightened. She wanted to moan herself at the sensations suddenly building in her body. She could feel her own juices building between her thighs, easing from her spasming vagina. Her breasts were swollen, her nipples hard and aching, her flesh sensitized as her buttocks tightened at the sight of the engorged cock working itself into the woman’s rear.
She’d never thought of allowing a man to take her there. She’d heard about threesomes. There were rumors of a certain sect of men in Alexandria and its neighbor, Squire Point, who shared their lovers, their wives—and she’d even heard rumors that her half-brother, Khalid, who she thought of as her brother, was involved with this sect. But, she had never really believed it, until now.
No, Abram wasn’t her brother, and the man sharing the lover he was possessing wasn’t her brother. But, she had also heard that Khalid and Abram had often shared their women after the death of Abram’s first wife, Lessa.
Had Abram and Khalid shared Lessa? No one seemed to know for certain. Now, Paige believed that they had.
Abram shared his lovers.
And he did it so well.
As she watched, his fingers curved around the woman’s breast, lifting it as his head ducked to the hardened, straining tip of her nipple.
He brushed aside a heavy swath of long, rich blond hair with his nose before his tongue reached out, curled around the hard tip, then covered it with his mouth.
“Oh, God. Abram. Yes, fuck me. Fuck me harder.” The woman reached back, one hand clamping to the hip of the male behind her as she cried out for more.
Abram’s cheeks hollowed as he sucked at her nipple, his hands gripped her hips, his hips moved harder, faster, thrusting inside her with hard, even strokes as he began to do just as the girl asked. To fuck her harder, to fuck her deeper.
And she could have imagined much more to say, to cry out, if she were the one sandwiched between the two men.
If she were with Abram. If she was the one causing that look of intense and utter pleasure.
Paige would do anything. She would give whatever he asked to see that look on his face for her.
Biting her lip, she had to fight to hold back a moan as she heard the broken male groan that left his lips as he pulled back from the woman’s breast.
Pulling her head to him, he whispered something in her ear, something that had her crying out his name, her body tightening, a wild cry leaving her lips as she seemed to tense to a point that Paige wondered if she would break.
Her head jerked back as the two men thrust inside her harder, faster. She knew the second they began finding their release.
Or at least, the second Abram found his.
His head tipped back against the pillow, lips tightening, his face contorting into lines of pleasure and pain as he arched tighter into her.
Paige almost orgasmed herself. In the years she had been discovering her own body, she’d never known anything as erotic, as sensual as seeing Abram, imagining he was touching her, filling her with his pleasure.
Her thighs clenched, her fingers balled into fists, and she bit off the need to cry out in feminine fury that she wasn’t the one taking the pleasure Abram was giving.
And if she didn’t get the hell out of there, there would be no way to hide her presence.
She was stepping back, her knees trembling, when his head suddenly turned, his black eyes opening.
As though he knew, or somehow sensed her presence, his gaze zeroed in on her. As she slipped out of the bedroom she saw them narrow as his expression turned sensual once again.
A purely primal, feminine part of her psyche raised its head, previously hidden, unaware, that part of her was suddenly certain that look had been for her, and for her alone.
Rushing into her bedroom Paige closed the door, her hand pressing into the panel as she drew in several hard, deep breaths.
“Abram.” She closed her eyes, his name slipping past her lips in what she recognized was a moment of pure sensual agony.
She was going to have to change her panties. She could feel her juices soaking the thin silk she wore beneath her jeans. Her clit was swollen, demanding attention and the clench of her thighs did nothing to help the pulsing ache centered there.
Paige was tempted to use the toy she had been given by one of her best friends.
It would ease, perhaps, the sensual pain flooding her, but she had been saving that last veil of innocence.
For Abram.
Her hands slipped beneath her white silk oversized blouse to find the hard tips of her nipples beneath the thin lace of her bra.
The touch of her own fingers had a gasp passing her lips. The pleasure was incredible, but still she knew, not as intense as the pleasure Abram would give her.
She cupped the mound and let her thumb stroke against the sensitive tip.
She was aching. So desperate for his touch.
She closed her eyes as a moan whispered past her lips.
Within seconds she had her jeans off and her panties sliding over her legs. She lay back on the bed she kept at Abram’s apartment. Her fingernails raked through the silken curls between her thighs as she spread her legs further and fought to pretend it was Abram. To pretend that it had been her laying in that bed with him and Tariq, that it was her body accepting such pleasure.
He wouldn’t touch her gently. She had a feeling he wouldn’t touch her lightly. Each touch would be firm, determined, dominant. It would border erotic pain, and agonizing pleasure.
He would control her body.
Her fingers returned to her breast, nails rasping her nipples before gripping it and pumping it erotically. Her head thrashed against the bed.
It wasn’t enough.
She needed more.
Parting the folds of
her pussy she ran her fingers over her heavily juiced slit, moved upwards, circled her clit and ran a trail of pleasure around the bundle of nerves.
And still, it wasn’t enough.
Desperate, muffled breathy cries were stopped in her throat, the sounds almost silent as she caressed her flesh, sliding downward, circling the entrance and dipping shallowly inside.
And once again, it wasn’t enough.
The need was growing worse with each visit Abram made to Virginia, and now, she would never be able to forget the sight of him sharing his lover, or the pleasure that had contorted her face, as well as his.