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Jamsheed put his head back in his hands and kneaded at his temples. His headache was pounding in his skull now. Hardly surprising. Abir had that effect on him most days, and on a day where his life felt like it was in the toilet, Abir’s taunts were just more gasoline on the fire.
Sighing, he stood up and headed toward his shower. He hadn’t cleaned up since before the party, and he needed to destress. Once he entered his bathroom, he slipped off his suit and set it aside and then slipped into the shower.
Turning on the water to as high a heat as he could stand, Jamsheed stood under the jets and let the water pound into his skin. Closing his eyes, he picked up some body wash and lathered up his hands. Then he brought those to the hard length of his member and began to stroke.
His motions were slow at first, just teasing his member, urging it to spring to full attention. Even if he had a few rounds last night with Megan and Christina—at least, he thought those were their names—he was hardly satisfied. There was a reason he’d only gone to bed with brunettes and blondes of late, a reason that he felt empty night after night no matter how beautiful the women he took to bed were. He didn’t want a single damn one of them. Ever since he hired Brenda McKann some months ago, the only woman on his mind had been the fiery redhead with her haunting emerald eyes and perfect, pouty mouth.
A mouth he imagined wrapped around his hardness so many times.
He moaned as he let his imagination wander, let his mind’s eye envision Brenda’s soft hands wrapped around his length instead of his own. They were so delicate, despite the labor she did. He’d noticed that today; noticed the way they were still manicured. Yes, dulled by her job, but the hint of the French tips and the line of white across the tip of her nails that drove him wild. Those hands would feel like velvet over his member, would fondle him with such skill unlike his hands that were just too large to feel as good as he wanted.
Lathering up his right hand even more, he let it roam down his body until it caressed his testicles, cupping them in one hand. He stroked them even as his left hand moved at a fevered tempo over his shaft. It wasn’t him alone. No, of course not. It was Brenda’s hands and Brenda’s greedy smile driving him to ecstasy.
His nerves sizzled, feeling like thousands of tiny points of heat and light as he continued pumping as hard as he could. If Brenda were here, he’d stroke her hair as she cared for him, admire the shining fire of her locks. Just thinking about her touching him, about the time coming for her mouth to take him…
That was enough.
He came then, spurting into the corner of his shower and struggling to stay upright on buckling knees. Fire danced over his skin, turning into a living, blazing inferno the more he thought about his perfect goddess with her mouth over his length, her eyes begging him for even more.
When he was done, he cleaned himself off and then stood under the shower head long after the water ran cold. Even with all the exertions of his shower and the chill, he was still at half-mast, still desperate for the woman he craved. For the one he’d so terribly offended and most likely blown his chance with.
Finally, when the water felt like shards of ice against his skin, Jamsheed stepped out and put on his robe. It wasn’t yet six o clock in London, but he was too tired to go out. Tomorrow, Brenda would be back to clean the apartment at eight a.m. and he had until then to think of a way to make everything up to her.
If he had a year, it wouldn’t be enough time.
***
Jamsheed’s phone blared loudly at two in the morning.
His heart stopped. That was already six o clock in Zomelia, and with his father’s declining health and advanced age, there was one distinct possibility for the call. When he turned on lights enough to see that his father’s main attendant, Basheera, was on the other end, Jamsheed tried to calm the frantic beating of his heart.
“Basheera, what’s wrong?”
“My sheikh, your father’s alive.”
He let out a long, shaky breath. “All right, but what happened?”
Basheera paused on the other end.
“Please,” he asked, his tone firm. “Delaying it is only worse. What happened to Father?”
“He had a stroke last night. He survived it, but he’s in a coma on life support. You have to come home to Zomelia right away. The doctors say he could die at any time. You’re needed now by your people.”
“Of course, anything that’s needed.” He said, his throat feeling dry.
“Then there’s one other thing.”
“I don’t understand. Is there something else I need to know about Father’s condition?”
Basheera sighed on her end. “There are certain rules about the succession in Zomelia, things your father was trying to change with parliament in the last few months as his blood pressure and other conditions worsened.”
“Huh?”
“To be declared a sheikh, you must have an heir.”
His hand clenched more tightly on the phone. “What? Why didn’t Father tell me?”
“He thought the rule was archaic and wanted it gone, especially since…”
“I have no children but Abir has several legitimate heirs already.”
Basheera hissed under her breath. “That weasel. Yes, they were working to try and undo it. Technically, parliament ruled that under current law you only need a pregnant mother, and the child growing inside of her counts as an heir.”
“I can’t just get any random woman pregnant before Father dies. He needs me and so does Zomelia. I’ll just come home, and we’ll get everything settled, make sure rules are changed accordingly.”
“They can’t be changed when the ruling family and line of succession is actively in flux. That was why your father was working to change that over the last few years as his health declined.”
“Dear Allah, so you’re saying I do have to pick the nearest random woman and just hope?”
“No, but you need an heir, Jamsheed and you needed one yesterday!”
