Chapter 50
Rheadur
Former Sheikh Kamran Blessing Ceremony
Her father gives us his final blessings, but to be honest, I only catch one or two words of what he says.
It has nothing to do with his English being heavily accented, just like the rest of the family’s. Who am I to talk about someone else’s pronunciation? Americans think we Scots have a language of our own.
What keeps me from paying attention to the old sheikh is his daughter.
This is the first time I’m seeing Jazmina in her own environment. Dressed like a princess—a princess bride—of her people. No skin exposed, her hair covered.
As impossible as it sounds, I find myself even more fascinated by her. The wife who, after I agreed to her unusual proposal, was supposed to be one of convenience, but who never accepted my rules from the very beginning. My beautiful wife, carrying our child inside her.
Now we are not married only before a judge but also with the approval of her relatives.
She smiles at me, unaware of how grateful I am to God for this second chance. And I don’t mean only in relation to my past, but because I could have lost her forever in that attack.
At night, in bed, sometimes I watch her while she sleeps, just to make sure she’s all right. I don’t need the light. I already have every single part of her memorized.
As her father brings the ceremony to a close, I feel her restlessness. I know that by the rules of her country, Jazmina shouldn’t look at me openly, but she does. She shines, happy, looking fulfilled. Her true nature, laid bare.
An important moment arrives. The one in which the groom presents the bride with a gift in front of everyone.
I asked Kaled to guide me about the mahr. I already gave it to her at our civil wedding in Scotland, but traditions are fundamental to her people and to her as well, I believe, even if she won’t admit it.
My friend taught me step by step how to shut up those who still doubt my love for her.
To me, gold or any gift I give Jazmina carries no weight—it’s all just things.
What truly counts is what I gave my wife from the moment I realized she is the love of my life: trust, love, and the desire to share the future.
So this mahr she will receive now has nothing to do with any idiotic macho notion but everything to do with allowing her to experience a full traditional wedding of her people.
This time, the gift will come in a real chest containing pieces purchased from Vicenzzo, whose principality, Amasitano, is known for producing the most exclusive jewelry in the world.
“Your husband wishes to present you with a gift, my daughter,” the former sheikh announces when the servants arrive carrying the surprise.
She looks at me in shock, and I know she’s dying to say something, but she doesn’t want to give them any more reason to treat her as different. Here, Jazmina is not the vibrant woman I know but the girl who learned to control her nature so she wouldn’t be criticized.
Although the ceremony is exclusively for close family, there are still many people present, and some of them, I notice, look at us with contempt.
The anger I keep buried inside me makes me want to tell everyone to go to hell, but what is enduring others’ judgment for a few hours when afterward I’ll have a lifetime by her side?
“Thank you, my husband,” she says, playing the role of the submissive princess. Only I know the fire that hides beneath her skin.
The servant opens the chest, and the guests murmur.
I know why.
Besides gold holding special symbolism for her people, the mahr is usually not so generous. It typically corresponds to one month of the future husband’s income, which in my case would be a fortune anyway.
This gift has a special meaning. It is a kind of financial security for the bride in case of divorce. The beginning of her emancipation and independence.
What most of them probably have no idea about is that at the time of our civil wedding in Scotland, Jazmina was granted several properties around the world, as well as cash in the bank.
She could leave me, end our marriage, and still have the means to support herself for the rest of her life. I never want her to stay by my side out of necessity, but rather because she loves me.
Kamran brings the ceremony to an end, and after we speak with the guests, Kaled and Adeela approach.
“Congratulations, my sister and my friend,” the current sheikh says.
“It’s a shame the others couldn’t come,” Adeela says, looking embarrassed, as if apologizing.
We are leaving later today, which means our wedding night—the second one—will take place in the air. Kaled doesn’t want us taking unnecessary risks. Every day in Rheadur right now could be dangerous for my wife.
Besides, everyone is worried about the fact that she is pregnant.
“We’ll meet in Kindubh in two months,” I say, calming my wife’s best friend.
“I don’t want to be a killjoy, but the plane is ready whenever you wish to depart,” the sheikh says.
While her relatives head to the dining hall, we say goodbye to the closest family.
Jazmina spends a few minutes speaking softly with Adeela, then kisses Tajj, who has woken up and been brought over by one of the maids.
“Ready to leave, my husband,” she says, restrained, but I can see her poorly concealed smile.
I’m dying to have her in my arms, so those words sound like music.
I lean down to whisper in her ear. “I can’t wait to be alone with you.”
On the plane
The pilot puts the seatbelt sign off, which means I’m free to touch her however I want.
Deliberately, I haven’t done more than brush my hand against hers since we left the celebration.
I can feel the electricity between us growing. Hot, boiling, like water when it reaches its highest temperature.
I slowly unfasten my seatbelt, but when I go to stand, she shakes her head no.
“Wait here until I call you.”
I smile, even if I’m a little impatient. Still, I know that whatever she’s planning is going to be delicious.
Minutes later, just as she promised, she opens the bedroom door of the plane, wearing nothing but a silk robe. I instructed the flight attendants to give us privacy, and that’s why she’s acting so boldly.
I move toward her, already fully aroused. Jazmina is the only woman who can make me lose control like this.
Face to face, we stare at each other.
“You can choose the armchair or the bed,” she says, bold and very much in control of herself.
I mask a smile. Let’s see how long she can keep up this dominant act. I know my wife, even with her fire and temper, is submissive during sex.
To my surprise, she goes to the remote control and turns on the music. A memory comes rushing back. The song reminds me of what was playing the day I saw her dancing on top of the table on Vicenzzo’s yacht.
What are you up to, Jazmina?
She opens the robe, and my jaw drops.
“I’m a princess of a thousand and one nights, and I’ve never danced for you, my husband.”
She’s wearing a skirt full of veils and a bustier that leaves her entire abdomen exposed. It’s covered in small sparkling stones and barely conceals her beautiful breasts.
I’m no expert on the Middle East, but I know this outfit is typical of odalisques.
I stand up again.
“What are you doing?” she asks when she sees me taking off my clothes—shoes and socks—leaving only my boxer briefs.
“Getting comfortable. If you’re going to dance for me, I want to enjoy the experience properly.”
She blushes, and I love her mix of wickedness and modesty.
I sit and wait. “I’m ready for you, wife. Use me as you wish.”
“You can’t touch me until I allow it, or I’ll forget the dance,” she says, hands on her hips. “You’re irresistible to me.”
Damn it. She seems to know exactly what to say to drive me crazy.
I devour every inch of her body with my eyes.
From her bare feet to her thighs barely covered by the veils, her belly where she carries our child, the breasts I intend to suck on all night long, and finally, her angelic face.
“I don’t want to rush you, love, but if you expect me to keep my promise of staying still and only watching, be quick.” My voice comes out harsh, rough, because not touching Jazmina is almost painful.
As if she’s affected too, consumed by the same fever, she starts to dance.
“Do you know the name of this performance?” she asks, perhaps trying to keep some control over herself.
“No.” Not a single brain cell of mine is working right now. I’m pure instinct, and all of it is locked on her. On the sway of her hips.
The first veil falls.
“It’s called raq? bládi, which literally means ‘dance of the region,’ but Westerners know it as ‘belly dance.’”
I swallow hard. “I can imagine why.”
Slowly, the veils fall to the floor, until only one remains.
“I doubt it. You probably think it’s something purely seductive, but the truth”—she pauses, holding the last veil—“is that its main purpose is to prepare a woman, through religious rites, to become a mother.”
In seconds, I’m on her.
I pull away the remaining veil. “You can’t tell me something like that if you expect me to behave. Naked, sexy as hell, and carrying my child inside you, you’re more temptation than I can handle, duchess.”
“I can dance another day,” she says, breathless. “Right now, I need you inside me.” She reaches behind her back and removes the bustier.
I scoop her up and take one of her breasts into my mouth.
“We already had a sweet wedding night. Tonight, I need you to take me hard.” Her hand is between our bodies, inside my boxers, stroking me with just the right pressure to drive me insane. Jazmina has learned my body over these past months, just as I’ve learned hers.
“Ask me for whatever you want me to do.”
“I don’t use dirty words.”
I rip her panties apart with a precise movement. “Tell me you want me to eat this pussy.” I brush my thumb against her entrance.
She lifts herself in my arms, trying to fit herself onto me, but I don’t allow it.
“Say it.”
“Please, I want you inside me. I may not have the courage to ask for filthy things, but there’s nothing more perfect than you inside me.”
Her words break me. Purity mixed with desire. The courage to give herself to me completely.
I enter her, invading her walls, and set a hard rhythm.
Maybe it isn’t a perfect fuck. Because it’s a special night, I probably should go slow, but that’s not who we are.
We don’t follow protocols or manuals.
Our love is lustful, dirty, wild.
Minutes later, satisfied, I lie down with her on the bed.
“I don’t want you to change,” she says, over my body, her hand stroking the back of my neck.
“I don’t know if I understand.”
“I love you, and I don’t want you to change the way you are with me.
I feel like a princess by your side, not because I hold a noble title but because you value and respect me.
When I said you needed to deal with your past, it was because I want you to be free, Rodrick.
For us to move forward, you need to free yourself.
That even means working through your hatred toward Gilroy. ”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. He lied in front of my father, fully aware that I was telling the truth, both about the abuse and later about the beatings, claiming I had disobeyed Iona and that she punished me so I’d learn to respect her.”
“I didn’t bring this up to upset you,” she says, never stopping her caresses despite my harsh tone, “but because when we land in the United Kingdom, I want a fresh start for both of us. Without so much resentment.”
“Your intention is admirable, Jazmina, but he and I will never be friends.”
“I know, and I never expected that, but keep in mind that Gilroy was a victim too. I’m not a psychologist, but since he was the son of your former stepmother and was vulnerable to that wretched woman from the very beginning, his mind must be deeply damaged, to say the least. I’m not saying you should become friends, only that you should be able to think about him without so much hatred.
Forgiveness isn’t about others, husband; it’s about us.
The moment you grant it, you’ll be free. ”