Deadlands Heat (Doomsday Lover Book 1) Page 3

  It was a straightforward, albeit meandering, walk to the first gate. It took about fifteen minuets before I rounded the corner and faced four guards sitting at a flimsy folding table, playing cards—a row of shiny black assault rifles leaning on the wall beside them. One got up, snagging a tablet off the table as he trotted over to intercept me. “ID.”

  I tapped the ID scanner and felt the familiar tingle as it pinged my neuronet. I wordlessly approved access; unfortunate but necessary when doing official business these days. Only fools relied on old-fashioned biometrics anymore; flesh and blood—‘wet’ ID—was too easily spoofed. Might as well use a password—or nothing at all.

  “Jenna Malone.” He gave me a look. “You got something to deliver?”

  “Not today. I need fuel and a place to stay for the night.”

  He shook his head. “No. You’re on the list.”

  “What list?”

  “The shit-list. Your reputation precedes you. Entry denied.”

  “There is no way I’ve been banned. You saw my ID—I’m a courier in good standing.”

  “You’re not banned in your official capacity. You can make and receive scheduled deliveries, but you can’t stay longer than necessary and you’re to be escorted at all times.”

  “I’m also here on official business, but I don’t have documentation. The delivery is…personal. Off the record.”

  He shook his head. “Nice try.”

  “No, really. I have a delivery.”

  “Oh yeah? What?”

  “Me.”

  He snorted. “To who? The whore-master?”

  I gave him a slow, suggestive smile. “To Amir Afzal.”

  He blinked and then burst out laughing. “Guys, listen to this, she says she’s here to deliver herself to the sheik!” All four of them fell over themselves in a loud, laughing fit. Jackasses.

  I crossed my arms waiting until asshole-one finally regained enough composure to speak. “You have a sense of humor—and balls—I’ll give you that.”

  “I’m not joking. Take me to Amir Afzal. Let him decide if he wants to take delivery.”

  Chapter Six

  The Pink Room

  I FOLLOWED ASSHOLE-ONE’S broad brown back down the narrow path, while behind me one of his buddies walked the motorcycle. Neither spoke. It hadn’t been as difficult to persuade them as I’d thought it would be. Apparently, they found my offer hilarious and thought the sheik would too. I didn’t like being the butt of their joke, but if it got me fuel, a full belly and a warm bed, they could yuk it up. The possibility of sex with the sheik was just a bonus.

  I’d seen him once before, riding bareback on a dappled Arabian grey. He was…mmm…so yummy. Those dark brooding eyes. That long, sable hair. Body all beveled and bronzed. To say I lusted after him would be an understatement, but I’d never actually considered propositioning the man. After all, he was rumored to have a harem filled with nubile young women, all of them trained in the tantric arts. And even if that was an exaggeration, the fact remained, all he had to do was snap his fingers and he’d have bangable bitches lining up till Doomsday II. It’s kind of hard to compete with that. I sighed. He would probably laugh in my face.

  Oh, well. You can’t blame a girl for trying.

  The main gate came into view. The guards there were alert and waiting—standing at the ready with stupid, barely concealed grins on their faces. They opened the gate without question, exchanging gleeful glances all the while. Apparently the details of our hysterical little escapade had traveled quickly.

  Beyond the gate, the oppressive rock walls opened out into a thriving hidden valley. I was still surrounded by stone, but with the open sky overhead and the basin spread out below, it was like stepping into another world. The plaza opened up in front of us, illuminated by hundreds of hanging lanterns, all strung on wires that crisscrossed over the square like a diamond-studded net. They swayed in the balmy night air, making the shadows dance. Market stalls were arranged in neat rows, organized around a wide central fountain. Behind them, the sprawling tent city stretched down into the vale, all the way to the near edge of the shimmering waters of the oasis spring—and beyond that, surrounded by gardens and adorned with intricate golden lattices, sat the impressive mobile palace of Amir Afzal.

  IT TOOK THREE hours to gain admittance. I’d been given over to a steward—a sour-faced little man, with billowy yellow pants and narrow pointy shoes that matched his narrow pointy head. He confiscated my boots at the door and gave me a pair of soft satin slippers to wear instead. They looked ridiculous paired with my dusty tank top and ratty blue jeans, but at least they were comfortable. Once suitably shod, I was shown into ‘the pink room,’ which turned out to be every bit as pink as one might imagine; satiny pale pink walls, blush rose and gold upholstered furniture, thick crimson rugs on the floor. In the far corner stood a startled-looking pair of stuffed flamingos, backed by spray of pampas grass and a gorgeous tapestry of the ocean at sunset.

  I sat down on the couch, stroking a finger along the gold thread of an embroidered rose. When I looked up the steward was watching with carefully polite disdain. “How may I…serve you?”

  “I’d love some water.”

  “Indeed.” He swept out of the room, leaving me alone.

  Now that I was here, surrounded by embroidered silk pillows and mahogany tables inlaid with mother of pearl, I was getting overwhelmed and a little queasy. This place made me feel…small. Okay, it made me feel worthless. That snooty bastard of a steward hadn’t helped any, but the cold truth was this fancy couch I was sitting on was probably worth more than I made in a year.

  “Water?”

  “Yes, please—” I glanced up and the words died on my tongue.

  The sheik stood in the doorway, robed in flowing black silk and framed on either side by satiny pink walls. He had silver serving tray balanced on one hand. He glided across the room and set it on the table, then poured water from the pitcher and handed it to me with a Cheshire-cat grin. I hardly felt my fingers curl around the cool glass. My mind had gone blank.

  “Your mouth is open,” he said conversationally, and then he moved opposite me, to the matching pink couch. Crossing an ankle over one knee, he leaned back and his robe gaped open, exposing a perfect vee of bronzed chest. “I hear you have a delivery for me.”

  He watched me, dark eyes intent, waiting for me to speak.

  I cleared my throat. “I um…” The cold glass was sweating over my fingers. I took a sip and set it down. This was one of the most surreal, awkward moments of my life.

  He stood and I froze, a flush creeping up my neck as he came closer. He circled me, moving with the self-possession and grace of a dancer…or a jungle cat. His dark eyes roved me in mute appraisal, his expression giving nothing away. He smelled smoky and lush, like moist new growth poking up from the ashes of a forest fire.

  My breathing turned heavy. I tried stay calm, centered, but that only seemed to make it worse. His potent nearness was enough to make my body react. He ran his fingertips lightly down my arm. I shivered—and not from fear.

  “It’s alright, little one.” His teeth were white and even when he smiled. “I don’t bite.”

  “Somehow,” I murmured, “I find that hard to believe.”

  He chuckled, a deep masculine sound that did things to me. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll say rather, I don’t bite without permission.”

  “I see...” My mind refused to form sentences. All my blood was rushing…elsewhere. At this point, I’d consider myself lucky if I could get through the conversation without drooling.

  He caught a lock of my hair and brought it to his lips, inhaling deeply. “You smell like sex,” he said. His voice had gone low, husky.

  Time stopped, along with my heart.

  “You want me to fuck you.” It wasn’t a question, which was good, because I was pretty sure I’d lost the capacity to answer. His words sent a spike of adrenaline through me, making my pulse hammer and my skin pri
ckle as he continued to circle me, taking one slow step after the other. My body throbbed, acutely aware of his position as he moved behind me. He put his hands on either side of me and leaned in, breath hot against my ear, “Say it.”

  A delicious shiver slid down my spine. My nipples were so hard they ached. I swallowed. “I…”

  “Yes?”

  “I want you to fuck me.”

  He chuckled again and stepped away. “Was that so hard?”

  My cheeks flamed. If he was only teasing, I would die of shame. He moved towards the door and tugged on a gold braided pull-cord. A moment later the steward came back in with a bow. “Yes, master.”

  “Show the lady to the guest chamber. The blue one, I think.”

  “Immediately, master. Follow me, please.”

  I took a step to follow, unsure what exactly was happening now. I paused on the threshold and turned back. “I’m sorry,” I stammered, “but are you…?”

  He raised an eyebrow in mock puzzlement, but the glimmer of mischief in his eyes said that he understood perfectly—that he was amused by my discomfiture and unwilling to alleviate it by filling in the blanks.

  I swallowed hard. “Are you planning to…join me?”

  “Join you?” He smiled. “Yes. I’ll be joining you shortly.”

  “I mean will you…” I dropped my gaze to the floor. “Never mind.”

  “So eager and yet, so shy.” He grasped my chin, made me look up at him. “It makes me wonder what you’ll be like. Will you scream? Will you whimper? Will you beg? Oh yes, I am going to fuck you. But first, my dirty little tumbleweed, I’m going to bathe you.”

  Chapter Seven

  Desert Rose

  THE BLUE GUEST chamber had walls hung in pale shimmering satin, embroidered with gold—elegant, swooping vines and little birds in flight chased around the room, flowing like water into the other design elements. There were pillows everywhere, with leaves and feathers picked out in gold against hues ranging from bright ice blue to deep bruised plum. Gilded vines traced the wide mirror above the long mahogany dresser and up each of the tall columns of the massive four-poster bed.

  As in the pink room, this room hosted a pair of matching couches facing off over a fancy table; this one, inlaid with grey and white marble that had flecks of gold to match the omnipresent embroidery. The bed sat off to one side, an island in itself, surrounded by a sea of pillows and thick azure carpeting.

  I took the cylinder out of my jeans and slipped it into the space between the curtain wall and the dresser a moment before four men came in carrying a deep bronze bathtub between them. They set it in the center of the room, adding bucket after bucket of hot, steaming water, until it was nearly full. They placed a tray of bottles and bars of soap on the table and left without comment.

  I was alone again and starting to feel my nerves. The tub seemed to mock me. It was an accusation—mute proof that this arrogant, entitled man essentially considered me a filthy vagabond. Now that he wasn’t here, breathing along my neck and stalking me with his eyes, I’d regained enough sense to be insulted. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to find my boots and tell him that he and his scented soaps could go to hell.

  “You shouldn’t chew your nails like that.” Amir crossed the room towards me. “It will ruin your cuticles.”

  I took the finger from my mouth and hid hands it behind my back like a guilty child. Apparently, this was the affect he had on me. Stupid, stupid Jenna—think with your head!

  He plucked a round purple bottle from the tray and poured a stream of amber liquid into the tub—narcissus and heliotrope wafted up, wrapping me in a warm almond-vanilla haze. “Strip.”

  I blinked at him. “Excuse me?”

  The bottle clinked as he set it down. He removed his robe and tossed it on the couch, leaving him clad only in the matching pants. His feet were bare. I watched them as he padded closer. “I said. Strip.”

  I reached for the hem of my shirt, oddly tremulous again. How was it he could make me want to have sex with him and want to run from him at the same time? I pulled the tank top off over my head and let it fall to the floor. He watched me, waiting. My fingers found the button on my jeans, fumbling as I undid them. I pushed them slowly down my thighs, panties and all, and kicked them aside. I stood naked before him, enduring his silent appraisal. I’ve been naked in front of a lot of people under some truly bizarre circumstances, but this was one of the few times I had to resist the urge to cover myself. For some reason this man in particular made me want to shrink into the plush carpet and disappear—while simultaneously wanting to lock my legs around him and fuck him silly-stupid.

  “Get into the tub.” He offered his hand for balance as I stepped over the tall side and into the soft, fragrant water. “Sit.”

  I sat, sinking to my shoulders in water that slid against my skin like a liquid caress of hot silk. It was glorious. I leaned back and closed my eyes as my muscles relaxed and all the tension seeped out of my body, flowing away like melted butter. Screw the sheik. Heh. This was worth any number of conflicted feelings. “Mmmm…”

  When I opened my eyes he was beside me, lathered poof in hand. He reached in and rubbed it along my collarbone, over the slope of each breast. The slightly rough texture of the sponge chafed against my nipples, making them stand erect. It was like a string had been tied from them to my groin and each time he brushed over the one, I felt the tight pluck in the other. He moved up again, over my shoulders, then across my back and down each arm.

  “Stand,” he commanded quietly, his voice had roughened. Apparently he was enjoying this too.

  I stood and he slowly massaged the sponge down my spine, sliding slowly over the curve of each ass cheek. He scrubbed and rubbed down each leg. His ministrations were a heavenly torment. By the time he paused to re-lather I was practically panting. He resumed with my breasts, working his way slowly south—paying careful attention to every curve and crevice. The sponge traveled down my stomach and over my hips, but when he reached the apex of my thighs he set it aside. “I think this will require a more delicate touch, don’t you?”

  He selected a slim turquoise bottle from the tray and held it out for me to smell—it was musky and sweet. He poured some onto his fingers.

  This got my immediate attention. My body throbbed with anticipation. He’d soaped and scoured, until every inch felt pink and tingling and now the brush of his fingers, finally, where I wanted them, sent a jolt of sensation through me that made me catch my breath. He stroked gently, massaging the fragrant oil into my damp curls, leisurely tracing my intimate contours with his fingertips. A low moan escaped me as he slowly penetrated. I had to grab his shoulder for support as a second finger joined the first. The pad of his thumb centered over my sensitive nub, moving in firm, languid circles. A hot, heavy tension built inside me, pooling and expanding with every stroke.

  My hips jerked against his hand—my body wanted to buck and writhe, but there was nowhere to go, so I clung to him, legs quivering as the orgasm threatened to overtake me.

  “That’s right,” he said in my ear. “Come for me.”

  The orgasm hit hard, spilling through me like sweet heavy syrup, leaving me drowsy and weak. A sleek, satisfied smile plastered itself onto my face.

  “Good girl,” he said. “Lay back.” When I didn’t move right away, he gave me a firm smack on the ass. “Now. I’m going to wash that hair.”

  I obeyed, glad to get off my wobbly feet and too blissed out to care whether or not I should be insulted. The water had cooled, but it still felt glorious on my hot, sensitized skin. Small aftershocks of pleasure were pulsing through me in sporadic bursts like an intimate little fireworks show. I closed my eyes as his long fingers kneaded my scalp.

  “Mmm…” I moaned. “This is heaven.” I twisted to look up at him. “Why are you doing all this?”

  He moved me firmly back into place before answering. “For one thing, I enjoy the noises you make.” He stroked his thumbs up the ba
ck of my neck making me moan again. “I enjoy the way you gasp; how your breath hitches sometimes. The way your skin flushes when you’re embarrassed…or aroused.”

  My cheeks heated. “You couldn’t have known any of that before.”

  “You don’t think so?” He moved to gaze down at me. “You should have seen the way you looked at me when I walked in. The way you’re looking at me right now. That is the reason I’m doing this.”

  “Oh.” Holy shit. What did you even say to that? I cleared my throat, utterly lost for a response.

  “Here.” He pressed a cold wineglass into my hand.

  Perfect! An excuse to stop talking. I took a long refreshing swallow of sweet, chilled white wine and concentrated on slowing my racing heart. “This is really delicious. Like top-shelf, bottle-with-a-label delicious.”

  “I’m pleased you like it.”

  “I love it.” I downed the rest. “I think I’ve just found my soul mate.”

  “I’d help you plan the wedding, but your groom wouldn’t survive the toast.” He took the glass from me and set it aside. “Now, tip back your head so I can rinse you.”

  I put my head back and closed my eyes with a sigh. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Stand up.”

  I stood and he wrapped a fluffy white towel around me.

  “White?” I exclaimed in mock horror. “But this is the blue room!”

  He laughed and scooped me off my feet, carrying me towards the bed. He set me down and I watched his lean bare feet as he crossed the room. My eyes traveled up his long legs, over the contours of his ass and up his bronze back before he reached the wall to tug on the golden pull-cord. A bell chimed and a brightly dressed servant appeared.