The Desert King's Housekeeper Bride

Zakari was growing impatient; he knew that she was here, so why didn’t she just come to him?

Mindful of the gathering wind, he had returned early from the desert and had bathed slowly—appreciative of the luxury his title afforded. That was what the desert did, he reflected, the water coursing down his toned body as he stood up, the rich oils making it bead on his olive skin. It made him appreciate the essentials in life that he usually took for granted.

And sex to Zakari was essential.

He didn’t smoke, or drink, his body was in superb condition and, despite his love of horses and his passion for polo, on unique principle he refused to gamble any of the vast fortune his title afforded him. He would win by more calculated means.

Women were his only weakness.

And a very safe bet they were too, Zakari thought with just a glimmer of discontentment—the cards he held in his royal hand meant he always, without fail, won.

Only one woman hadn’t fallen for his charms.

Princess Kalila Zadar had long been deemed a suitable bride by his father—a woman who had been betrothed to him since she was little more than a child.

And though he far from relished the prospect of marrying, Zakari had realised his people wanted to see their king settled, that at thirty-seven years of age it was time to start producing heirs. Reluctantly he had bowed to pressure, instructing his chief aide, Hassan, to set the wheels for the long-awaited royal wedding in motion and, because he was busy trying to find the missing Stefani diamond he had sent his brother, Sheikh Aarif, to Hadiya to collect his promised bride.

Aarif and Kalila had fallen in love…

Terrified of his wrath, they had tried to deny it, yet Aarif had confessed, stunned at Zakari’s reaction.

Zakari had been overjoyed at the news and had been genuinely pleased to see his brother for once happy, just privately bemused as to why.

Oh, Kalila would have made a perfect king’s wife, but there had not been a flicker of want when finally he had met her, not a flicker of what might have been as she wed his brother. Just genuine joy for his brother’s happiness and the hollow realisation that not once had he ever come close to experiencing those feelings Kalila and Aarif had for each other.

He was a king, Zakari reminded himself.

Kings did not have time for romance.

He did not shave—his strong jaw had several days’ growth. Zakari never shaved when he was on retreat, and, anyway, there was no need to impress Christobel.

His title took care of that.

Soon…He could feel the fire in his groin that made him mortal.

Tonight he could just be a man.

Tomorrow he would return to the desert and carry on being King.

Hearing the chopper, Zakari had picked up a towel and wandered through his desert abode. He had dried his chest as he walked, naked, utterly at ease in his own skin. He had pulled back the drape, he had watched the helicopter land, the temporary sandstorm blurring his vision, but he had seen Christobel’s pale blue suitcase and instantly he had been hard at the prospect of what imminently lay ahead.

Closing the drape, he had then headed back to his opulent sleeping area—a king did not rush out to greet anyone.

She would greet him.

Wandering back, he had considered dressing for about half a second—but why?

It had been a week without release and, now that it was close, suddenly his need was urgent.

His bed was scattered with cushions, and he half sat, half lay on the bed, waiting for her. Christobel would not distract his mind with senseless chatter, or demand a tender reunion—she knew why she was here.

Closing his eyes, he smiled to himself…

Just as she would smile when she walked in and saw him lying there…

Imagining her skilled lips around his length and the sweet release they would quickly bring, he gripped his magnificent member, stroking it to its full impressive length. He could hear the pad of her walking, the swish of drapes as she drew nearer, and he continued to stroke himself slowly, waiting for her soft gasp of approval, knowing that no words would be uttered as Christobel entered …her duties were as urgent as they were apparent…

Effie had thought he was out—the silence, along with Stavroula’s instructions, had indicated he would be in the desert now. As she had walked to his sleeping quarters, her only thought had been the beauty of her surrounds, that here in the desert had been created an abode as stunning in its own right as the palace, but walking into the room she had frozen.

He was beautiful.

It had been her first thought as his raw, naked form had greeted her.

Even the opulent jewel-coloured bed, with its feast of cushions and silks, looked shabby in comparison to his gleaming beauty.

His muscles rippled beneath silky olive skin, his jet hair was wet from bathing. His eyes were closed, his lashes forming shadows that cast down to razored cheekbones as Effie’s own eyes too slowly wandered down.

Wide shouldered, his arms were long yet muscular, his chest smooth, his stomach taut and flat, with an ebony trail that snaked from his umbilicus. One muscular leg was flat on the bed, his knee raised up on the other leg, and then her eyes saw what she never should have.

Oh, a dresser might hold a towel, might avert her eyes.

But she had never been of that status.

And surely a dresser wouldn’t expect to see this.

But in that split second, before her eyes shuttered, she saw long, slender fingers, loosely holding his vast member. He was stroking the taut rigidness in slow sensual strokes that had Effie standing rigid, and for an appalling, shame-filled second she watched with morbid fascination, because quite simply it was the most beautiful, most erotic thing she had ever seen. She knew she should silently leave, should make a discreet exit, and that was what she attempted, but her own body didn’t seem to be working any more. The broom she had been holding so tightly dropped to the floor with a heavy thud as Effie let out a horrified breath.

‘I’m sorry…’ Covering her eyes as his snapped open, she tried to back off, tried to turn around, but her legs were like jelly. ‘Your Majesty, I am so very sorry…’

He was off the bed in a trice, but her hand over her eyes wasn’t going to stop her from hearing his rapid curse, nor the terrifying feel of him thundering across the room towards her.

‘Where’s Christobel?’

‘She couldn’t come, Your Highness…’

She was tempted to fall to her knees to beg forgiveness, but to be on eye level with that…All she could do was stand with her eyes covered and say over and over that she was sorry, so very, very sorry!

‘I should have called out—it was my fault for creeping up…’ She could hardly breathe, the desert heat nothing compared to her flaming face and she was drenched in sweat, just appalled. ‘I will go…’ she pleaded, her legs moving now. ‘You just carry on…’ She wanted to be calm, only she wasn’t, wanted to take away his embarrassment a touch…They would be here for days, after all.

‘Carry on?’ he demanded. ‘Carry on what?’

‘Pleasuring yourself.’ Effie cringed, then attempted a more sophisticated air; actually peeled off her hand from her eyes, relief drenching her as she saw he was at least now covered with one of the bed throws. ‘As you have every right to. I’ll go now!’

She turned, walked quickly, just desperate to get out of there, stunned when a hand grabbed her wrist, when Sheikh King Zakari Al’Farisi spun her around to face him—fury in his inky black eyes.

‘You think I was pleasuring myself?’ he shouted. ‘I am Sheikh King Zakari Al’Farisi—I do not have to pleasure myself.’

‘But…’ Effie frowned, stunned at his rage, as if only now was he embarrassed, only now was he aggrieved, her eyes widening in horror and realisation. When next he spoke that wide mouth she had once seen parted in pleasure was now twisted in contempt.