The Desert Lord’s Bride

“Mashoogi.”

And she kissed both of his, tears of joy filling her eyes. “I already have it all, ya habibi. I have you, ya mashoogi.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. “And how you do.”

She feathered them open, attempting a teasing smile. “How?”

“I’ll show you how. You have fifty years?”

She sighed, kissed his neck. “For starters.”

“You’re too generous, ya farah rohi. And you’re too lenient. You should have drawn out my torment.”

She gave his jaw a sharp nip, giggled at his indrawn breath of pained pleasure. “You’re into S and M?”

“I want you to get satisfaction.”

“Oh, I did. I do. How I do.”

“Show me.”

She showed him. And as he drowned in her love and pleasure and magnanimity, in her, he knew beyond a doubt. She would always show him. She was the reason he’d been made how he was, so he’d love her, be hers.

He thanked God again for the crisis that had brought them together. For all the things that had conspired to give them the gift of each other.

And now, the miracle of their love had been given new life…

OLIVIA GATES

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