Free Possession of the Sheikh: (Interracial BWWM Erotica) (The Men of Sharjah Series Book 2) by Nadia Aidan Page B

would pretend for as long as she could that he didn’t sit just a few inches away from her, that  he wasn’t now her husband, and that he didn’t have every intention of making love to her tonight.
    She was frustrating in her denial of the inevitable, but he’d expected nothing less.  In the weeks leading up to their wedding, she’d been indifferent in the planning of it, to the point that he’d finally given into her demands and hadn’t forced her to be involved. Khalil had no doubt that it had been better that way, because from the wedding planner, to the florist, to the cake designer, Sabeen’s chilly demeanor had made it obvious to everyone that theirs was far from a love match.  The irony; however, was that they were wrong.  He knew the depths of his feelings for her, just as he knew Sabeen wouldn’t be so determined to keep him at a distance if she didn’t still feel something for him. 
    The morning they’d been together in her boardroom had proven what he’d suspected all along—if given the opportunity her body would betray her heart.  And now as her husband, he would have many opportunities to bridge the chasm she’d put between them.
    As he slid his gaze over her, drinking in her beauty that was only rivaled by the enmity that poured off of her, Khalil admitted that he did not fault her for her behavior these past weeks, or the ill feelings she still harbored, because he deserved her hatred.  After all he’d eventually come to hate himself for what he’d done. 
    He’d never forgotten the words she’d hurled at him as he’d turned his back on her and the love she’d offered—she’d certainly never forgiven him, and whatever love she still had for him, it was buried so deep, that had it not been for what had happened in her boardroom, he would have been convinced that indeed she would never love him again.  Her final words had haunted him, and locked within his own prison of misery, almost as soon as he’d returned to college after leaving her, he’d spiraled.  His grades had slipped, and it was still a miracle that he’d managed to pass his classes just enough to graduate with honors. 
    From the clubbing to the drinking to the endless women—he’d tried to distract himself and when that didn’t work he’d tried numbing his pain, until eventually he’d settled for whatever escape he could find in the arms of other women.  At first he’d found comfort with women that reminded him of her, until the day she’d shown up at his apartment.  The anguish in her eyes, the raw pain across her face, the memory of how she’d looked that day was worse than her final words. If he’d been haunted by what she’d said, every time he recalled the moment the light in her eyes had flickered and then disappeared, was akin to a slow death.  Even now, he recognized the distinct burning in his chest.  After that day, he’d avoided any woman who looked like her, sounded like her, who even smelled like her or wore a similar perfume.  His relationships, if one could even call them that, had been empty, so empty in fact that he’d long ago stopped finding any satisfaction in sleeping with women who only pretended to care for him because he was rich.  The times when he needed to dominate his lovers, he sought out the discreet underground establishments that catered to his urges, but eventually, even those places, and the submissives who were so eager to please could not bring him any pleasure. 
    Fifteen years had passed.  Time should have tempered his desire for her, but instead it had only fed it. And his yearnings had only worsened each and every time he’d been forced to witness her throwing herself at Amir every chance she seemed to get.  She, nor Amir, would ever know the lengths he’d gone to maintain a semblance of restraint, along with his sanity.  That he’d never attacked his cousin over her, spoke volumes.  But it had done things to him, things he’d never wish on his worst