The Sheikh and the Servant Read Free

the perimeter of the room before returning to kneel at the foot of the bed. Noori knew that though already sprawled under the linen, mostly on his belly, the sheikh still watched Noori move about the room through barely open eyes.
    After a long pause, the sheikh folded down the sheet next to him.
    At the unspoken invitation, pale blue silk pooled around slim ankles as Noori slid into the sheikh’s bed. As the situation grew familiar once more, he could feel some of his previous confidence returning to him despite the growing disappointment. This was his element: a plaything for the powerful. He laid a hand on the base of the sheikh’s spine, fingers teasing lightly up the indention in the center of the muscular back until he reached the sheikh’s neck. “How may I please you, Master?” he whispered into the dark.
    Reaching up to one shoulder, the sheikh pulled Noori down to lie next to him. He curled his arm over Noori’s trim waist and rested his chin upon Noori’s shoulder, settling quietly as if to sleep, just holding him.
    Noori was stunned. Was the sheikh refusing his body after ordering him into his bed? The action was unlike that of any man he had ever known. As he lay quietly in the sheikh’s arms, he began to relax. And deep inside him, a new appreciation for the other man began to grow. After some minutes, the sheikh pulled Noori closer, but he immediately stilled, mostly asleep, just drawn by the heat of the other body.
    As the sheikh’s breathing evened out, Noori finally relaxed completely, realizing he would not be used for base pleasure. He felt strangely disappointed, because this had been one man he desired. But simply being held endeared the sheikh to Noori’s ravaged heart. He fell asleep for the first time in years with a smile on his face.
     
    #
     
    From the shadows of the doorway, Noori watched as the sheikh gathered papers and shoved them into his satchel after having returned from the negotiations.
    Two weeks of mindless bickering and self-important lambasting as the lords of several desert kingdoms came together to hammer out trade negotiations for another five years’ time. Two weeks of being plied with fancy, rich food and sweet, syrupy wines that turned all men’s stomachs. Two weeks of soft pillows and silken sheets, gilded walls and golden platters, bejeweled concubines and perfumed slaves.
    Two weeks that would have been much longer had it not been for the sheikh who took advantage of Noori’s sharp eyes and mind, having him read out numbers and figures as well as clean his room and clothing without perfuming or adorning them and serve as a warm, quiet pillow throughout his time here.
    It occurred to him then that the sheikh had not asked his name.
    Noori moved through the curtains with a rustle, holding in his hands a bottle the sheikh would surely recognize. It bore unscented oils, oils of which the sheikh had become fond and requested for his baths.
    “Come,” the sheikh said absently, shoving the last of his papers into the saddlebag. It was the last of his packing; Noori had kept his wardrobe clean and in the bags as instructed.
    Noori advanced across the floor, kneeling as he held the bottle forth. “Amir Qutaibah bid me give this gift to you.”
    The sheikh chuckled softly, took the gift from Noori’s hands, and stuffed the bottle into the saddlebag, cushioning it in his clothes. Then he glanced back to the slave. “Have you packed?” he asked gruffly.
    Eyebrows knitting together in confusion, Noori echoed his words. “Packed, Master?”
    The sheikh raised an eyebrow. “Yes. Packed. You. We ride out within the hour.”
    “I do not understand, Master. All Master’s belongings are packed already.” Noori’s hands picked nervously at the embroidered band of his leggings.
    The sheikh blinked, surprised to be questioned. “I bought you,” he said shortly, turning back to his packing.
    Noori’s heart stopped in his chest, but he managed to draw a needed breath. “I