The Sheikh's Pregnant Employee Page 4

  “Who will I report to?”

  He paused. “Me.”

  She laughed bitterly, shaking her head. “Why do I feel like I’m in some horrible rom-com movie right now?”

  Zahir shoved his hands back in his pockets, finding himself desperate to get closer to her. He needed to exit, immediately. “I’ll let you get settled in. Let me know if you need anything.”

  He left quickly, a dull headache sprouting. Would this be how life was from now on? Headaches because the most erotic and satisfying sexual encounters of his life came from the woman just out of his reach in his own building?

  Now that their relationship had been unexpectedly thrust into quicksand, he needed to re-lay the foundation. Build up a formal, colleague-based trust. One that had nothing to do with the fact that his fingers, tongue, and dick had been buried inside of her within the past forty-eight hours.

  He clenched his fists as he paced his office. Office fraternization was one thing. But if it got out that they’d been sleeping together before the job, there would be no limit to the blowback.

  He’d start slow. He’d make pointed, platonic gestures.

  And he’d do his best to avoid looking at her, thinking about her, or remembering anything about the magical two nights they’d shared. Because if he allowed himself to indulge in those memories, then he didn’t have a shot in hell at keeping things business-only.

  By the end of their first week as colleagues, Zahir couldn’t label it a failure, but neither could he call it a success. It just was. A stilted, awkward, functional-pretenses charade at getting into a work groove. They came into contact far too often, and sometimes he wondered if some evil puppeteer was orchestrating their sudden encounters in the hallway or crossed lines on the phone. They even seemed to leave the office at the same time, despite Zahir trying to leave early or late to miss her.

  The fact was he couldn’t stay out of her way, even when he tried. And every night back at his penthouse, his fingers twitched with thoughts of sending another text, just to see where it might lead.

  By the end of week two, he felt consumed with thoughts of Layla. In some ways, it grew easier: they had a certain kind of rapport, at least, and he could stop seeing tantalizing flashes of their time together when his mind wandered. They’d elbowed their way into a somewhat-normal conversational pattern, even bordered on joking around at times.

  But he was dying for more of her, and that desire consumed him. Their short yet entertaining interactions begged for a deeper exploration. Even if they’d never met before her interview, he’d be entranced by her.

  On Friday evening, a light rap sounded on his door. It was her—he knew because she had a delicate way of breaking his solitude, but also because the hairs of his arm stood on end. The unmistakable sign that Layla was nearby.

  “Hey boss.” She strolled into his office, holding folders in her hand. No doubt the drafts of the newest policies she’d been working on. “I have the information you requested.”

  He hated how she always reminded him of their professional standing at work, because it was the one thing he was desperate to forget. “Excellent. Any issues?”

  He took the folders from her outstretched hand, sneaking a glance at her outfit for the day. A black blouse with a light gray skirt. Smart and simple, that was her style. But the roundness of her breasts and the curve of her hips made every smart and simple style too tempting to bear.

  “None at all. I think I’m getting the hang of how things work around here. I’ve even mastered the email client.”

  “That deserves a celebration.” He grinned up at her, a suggestion to grab drinks heavy on his tongue. But he stilled himself before he added it on. It would only reek of desperation.

  “I hardly think so. Unless your bar is actually that low.” She smirked.

  He smiled. Sometimes, he could feel that energy pulsing between them. The energy that had been there from the second they locked eyes at Echo.

  “Some employees require adjusting the bar,” he replied.

  She feigned offense. “I see where you’re heading with that comment.”

  He laughed. “Isn’t that part of the cultural sensitivity training you’re developing?” He pressed his tongue into his cheek, loving the banter. He didn’t joke with anyone else like this at work. Not even his brothers. “I’m just recognizing part of your American heritage.”

  Layla narrowed her eyes, but a laugh escaped her. “You jerk.”

  He shuffled papers on his desk, fighting a grin. Triumph pulsed through him; this was the type of interaction he wanted to cultivate more of. Because it seemed the only way he could get near her, to take her in.

  “Any plans for the weekend?” He tried to sound offhand, even peered inside a desk drawer so he might seem non-committal.

  “Oh, nothing major. Just my best friend’s wedding…”

  Her words slithered through him, and he sat up straight, dragging his gaze to meet hers. “That’s right.”

  She cackled. “You forgot!”

  “I didn’t forget,” he protested. I was simply too caught up in trying to insert myself in your weekend path somehow. But this was even better. He’d at least be near her. “I was just seeing if you remembered.”

  “Oh sure.” She cocked a grin, strutting out of his office. “See you tomorrow, boss.”

  His gaze riveted on the sway of her hips as he left his office, his cock twitching in his pants. Two weeks in and this set-up was torture, pressure building every second. How would he last a year? Some pressure had to be let out or he’d explode.

  Maybe the wedding would be the perfect place to let off a little pressure.

  6

  Layla arranged Marian’s bouquet one last time as she perched on the edge of the clawfoot bathtub, waiting for Marian’s makeup artist to finish. The ceremony would begin in a half hour, and Marian was the calmest bride she’d ever seen in her life.

  “You like the veil?” Marian looked up at her, indecision flashing across her face. She’d opted for a vintage-style cream gown and pearl-dotted veil.

  “I love it. And everything else.” Layla took a sniff of the navy blue and soft pink blooms. “Your wedding is already the most epic affair I’ve ever attended.”

  “Why didn’t you invite your Arabian stallion?” Marian squeezed her eyes shut as the makeup artist applied a setting spray to her face, and then blinked rapidly.

  “Oh, he, uh…I don’t know.” Layla gnawed at the inside of her mouth. “I guess the stallion turned out to be more of a…pony.” Except he’s still a stallion, and he’s definitely here.

  Marian frowned. “Dang. I thought you’d already found your Mr. Parsabad.”

  Layla laughed, but it rang hollow and forced. “I’m sure there are plenty others.”

  “Maybe some at the reception, too!” Marian wiggled her perfectly plucked eyebrows and then swooped to standing. Her gown rustled as she reached for the bouquet. With one last look in the mirror, the ladies headed out into the fray, where plenty of Parsian and American women were finishing their own preparations.

  Annabelle cooed when she saw Marian. “You look stunning.”

  After some phone pictures, it was time to go downstairs for the ceremony. Marian had opted for a laid-back fusion of the two cultures. Which meant that her wedding hung somewhere between traditional American and traditional Parsian. There’d be a bridal party and the first dances, which were common in both countries, but no garter or flower tossing, since that pushed the envelope for Parsabad.

  What they wouldn’t skimp on, Marian had told her, was the wine. It would flow like water from the mountaintops, and this part had Layla more excited than almost anything else. Because if there was one thing she liked about weddings, it was open bars and the chance to find a fun companion for the evening.

  Even though she already knew exactly who she’d like her companion to be. The one man she shouldn’t talk to, or even look at, once she was drunk.

  Zahir.

&nb
sp; His close proximity had her nerve endings on fire. Just knowing he was on the premises, dressed to kill, was enough to have her thighs quivering. Working side-by-side with Mr. Sex-On-Legs was hard enough. The informal situation might be the death of their platonic ruse.

  Because Layla severely doubted she’d be able to keep the cork on if wine got involved.

  Marian and Omar had rented out a centuries-old villa for their wedding and ensuing reception. The ceremony itself would happen outside on the sprawling lawn, where an imam waited beneath a golden arch near a sprawling backdrop of orchids and rose bushes. The air was fragrant and warm, and conversation drifted toward her as she neared to take her place in the processional. She and Annabelle were the bridesmaids, and Marian’s father would walk her down the aisle.

  Which meant of course Zahir would be at her side down the aisle.

  He gave her a cheeky grin as she approached, his gaze traveling wantonly up and down her body.

  “You look lovely,” he said quietly, offering his arm. The conversation of the seated audience dulled to a roar, and a string quartet played near the imam.

  “Thank you,” she responded, feeling her cheeks heat up as she slid her arm through his. “So do you.”

  And he did. The man’s suit probably cost thousands of dollars, and nobody could fill it out as well as he did.

  He cinched her close to him, his cologne clouding her senses. Something had to be wrong with her, that she couldn’t get over their hookup. He just…he was too good. She needed just a little bit more.

  They took their place in line as the music waxed, behind Annabelle and Imaad. Omar stood at the arch, grinning from ear to ear, no doubt awaiting that first glimpse of Marian.

  “Just know I’m not flattering you,” Zahir whispered, leaning down. “You look so sexy I don’t know that I’ll be able to walk straight down this aisle.”

  Her breath caught in her throat, and her gaze snapped up to meet his. His dark eyes swirled with mischief.

  “I thought we said—”

  “We’re not at work, and it’s a fact.” He smiled smugly.

  “You’re bending the rules.”

  “Perhaps.” They took a few steps forward, the music signaling their cue. “But I certainly haven’t broken them.”

  Hours later, Layla nursed her third glass of wine, her mind still making circles around Zahir’s words. The ceremony had been lovely, pictures fun and efficient, and now the reception was moving along without a hitch.

  Everyone was shiny-faced and happy, the villa roaring with conversation and laughter. Layla needed a time-out. She’d reached that part of the equation—extroversion plus social niceties multiplied by cake and wine—where she needed to wander to a quiet spot, get some fresh air, remind herself who she was in this whole mix.

  She slipped away from her table, where Annabelle and Imaad had been conversing with old friends of the family. She wandered down a carpeted hallway, the music and conversation fading slightly. Dragging her fingers along the floral wallpaper, she headed toward the kitchen and then down a different hallway.

  After a few turns, the chatter of the party was no longer evident. A breeze reached her from somewhere, and she turned one last corner. At the end of the darkened hallway, someone stood looking out an open bay window. Layla started to turn, until she realized who it was.

  Of course it’s him.

  She froze in her spot, unable to decide if she should disappear or make herself known. He seemed to be having a private moment, much like her. She’d be intruding. Horribly.

  “Layla.”

  His smooth voice soothed her rattled nerves, and she deflated a bit. She moved toward him as though by instinct.

  “Why are we always running into each other?” His words were pensive. He watched as she walked toward him, his hands buried in his pockets.

  “Seems we just can’t help it.” She rolled her lips inward, gaze skating over the view from the window. Rolling lawn, manicured bursts of flowers, statues lining the paved walkway.

  “Or maybe you wanted to find me.”

  She swallowed hard. “Trust me, that wasn’t my intent.” She swept her hand back toward where she’d come from. “I don’t even know how I got here. I just needed to take a minute.”

  Zahir leaned against the wall, his gaze raking over her. “Hopefully you’ll stay longer than a minute.”

  She laughed nervously. Testosterone rolled off him in waves. Memories flooded her of their night together. Her pussy clenched in response.

  “You’re blushing,” Zahir said a moment later. “What are you thinking about?”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. Stop betraying me, fair skin. “Nothing. I just…blush.”

  “Hmmm.” He shifted closer, his spicy cologne reaching her. “I think I know what you were thinking about.”

  Oh god. Here we go. They were diving head first back into the fire, and she was powerless to stop it. “Oh yeah?”

  “You were thinking about us.”

  She huffed with a laugh, trying to feign something easygoing. “Please. Don’t be so full of yourself.”

  “Was I wrong?”

  She opened her mouth to shut him down, but his sexy grin distracted her.

  “Exactly.” He stepped closer, his voice lowering a notch. “I know—I suffer the same. I think about you all the time.”

  Her eyes fluttered shut. What delicious torture this was. She wanted to surrender. “Do you?”

  “Mm-hmm.” He sidled behind her, his breath hot on her ear. “Sometimes, I want you so bad I have to do the job myself.”

  She inhaled sharply as his hand slid over the dip of her waist. She stiffened, desperate for more. He nipped at her earlobe, shivers chasing goose bumps up and down her arms.

  “God.” She gripped the wooden ledge of the windowsill, suddenly unsteady. He hooked her around the waist, bringing her solidly against the sturdy frame of his body.

  “I can tell you more…if you want to hear it.” His lips brushed her ear, and she made a noise, something she hadn’t even permitted to escape her lips. Desire stormed her, staining her panties, making her weak.

  “Tell me,” she whispered, keeping her eyes shut. As if maybe that would make it okay. Less of a breach of propriety and more of a fantasy that hadn’t happened.

  “Sometimes I have to touch myself right there in my office,” he growled, rocking his hips against her. The hard ridge of his cock jutted against her lower back. “Especially when you wear those gray pants that show off every last curve of your ass.”

  She gulped. This was like bringing their sexy phone talk to life, and it was a million times hotter this way.

  “I always picture you in my head,” he whispered. “One time you almost caught me.”

  “Mmm.” She rubbed her ass in a slow circle against him, pressing her head against his neck. “More. Tell me more.”

  “I think about bending you over my desk and pushing up your black skirt all the way to your waist. And then I’ll take a big bite of each ass cheek before I press myself between your legs, all the way until there’s nothing left to bury.”

  She gave a shuddery moan. “Jesus, Zahir. Is this still bending the rules?”

  He chuckled low, suckling at her neck. “No, I broke them.”

  His words seared through her like a lightning bolt. They’d broken the rules—there was no putting this rule back together. For today, at least. They could resume the pact next week.

  “Listen.” Clarity struck her like a slap on the face, and she spun to face him. She grabbed his face in her hands, his barely-there scruff tugging at the sensitive pads of her fingers. “We break the rules today, but only today. Got it?”

  He nodded, his eyes glinting black, as if he himself was the precipice to the dark side. Oh, how she wanted to go over him.

  “Clearly there’s some…pressure, here. And we should release it.” She tugged his shirt out from his pants and slid a hand up to meet the warm skin of his belly. She sighed—he was
rock solid under there, pure lines and abs. “Fuck. Why do you feel so good?”

  He smiled lazily. “I could ask you the same.”

  “But after today, we’re back to the agreement. This is a…one off. One sanctioned slip. Okay?”

  Zahir nodded, and then Layla pressed her lips to his so hard they tingled. Needy kisses erupted, turning sloppy and then lewd, kisses that rooted her to her spot and made her mind’s eyes turn blinding white. Zahir held her against the windowsill, his cock pressed to low belly, and then his strong hands swept beneath her, hoisting her up to sit on the ledge.

  She gasped through a kiss and then rocked back and forth to hoist her dress up to her waist so her legs could wrap around him, never breaking the seal. He smiled as he smoothed a hand up her thigh, the touch of him sending a wave of heat rippling through her.

  “I missed you,” he murmured.

  “We see each other every day,” she said between kisses, but she knew what he meant. She missed him in a way that didn’t make sense. Their working relationship was only a fraction of what she craved from him.

  “It’s not the same.” He ground his pelvis against her, and then reached down to open his fly. A moment later he fished his cock out of his briefs, giving it a long pull. Then he rummaged in his coat pocket, revealing his wallet. He was going for the condom.

  Layla ran her hand over the silky skin of his cock, desperate to feel him inside her again. The clock was ticking. This was an outlandish and inappropriate thing, to fuck in the hallway of a villa during Marian’s wedding. But they had to. Their passion demanded it.

  A moment later he rolled the condom on, and then Zahir nudged himself between her legs, the swollen head of his cock pressing past her panties into the slick cleft of her pussy. She gasped and hooked her arms around his neck, never breaking his gaze as he eased himself into her, so slowly that she had to bite back a groan.

  “Layla.” The breathiness in his voice told him exactly what she needed to know—that this sensation was off the charts for both of them, not just her. He slid into her with intolerable slowness, her pussy pulsing and clenching around him. He let out a guttural noise as he buried himself deeper. She arched toward him, starbursts blooming behind her eyelids. She wanted this all the time. She wanted him all the time.