The Sheikh's Captive Mistress by Jessica Brooke, Ella Brooke

“When in Rome, do as the Romans do, yes? So when in Yoman, eat .”
    She grinned at that and scarfed down a second roll. “Yes, ma’am. You don’t have to tell me twice.”
    “Somehow, I doubt you are a girl who actually listens often. Munir may have bitten off more than he can chew with you.”
    She smirked and leaned back against her headboard. “I don’t want this to be easy for him. I care about him, and I get he has a lot of political pressure on him over me, but I didn’t ask to be taken. You can’t just abduct people! He could have started with flowers and a movie back home.”
    Basheera snorted. “He’s under a deadline and those peace treaties won’t wait.”
    “Well, if I stay here as a queen, I doubt Daddy’s going to comply.”
    The other woman cursed in Arabic, something that Emma couldn’t follow. “He is as headstrong as some I could name. This was not part of the original deal. I don’t think any of us, least of all Munir, know how this is going to end.”
    “So what are you saying?” Emma asked, licking the honey off her fingers and blushing when she recalled Munir doing the same thing with her own juices last night.
    “I’m saying, my Sheikha, that you have all the power here, be careful what you do with it. Two countries’ futures are in play here.”
    “Ugh,” she groaned, bringing a pillow over her face. “No pressure, right Basheera?”
    “Not for today,” the older woman replied, voice sturdy as the oak of Emma’s bed. “For today, you’re going to need to just put these on and be careful.”
    “What some genie pants? Maybe I’ll do the Dance of the Seven Veils?”
    Basheera spread out the tan breeches, thick leather boots, and t-shirt for her. “No, today you ride.”
    ***
     
    Munir had always envied the prized Arabians that his father bred. They were a passion that the old sheikh had nursed from his own adolescence. He’d fallen into the habit before he’d even been old enough to join the military at eighteen as was Yomanian custom, especially for members of the royal family. After all, how could you rule a country if you had not bled for her first? Still, he’d always had a talent for breaking them, remaking such rebellious creatures into what he needed.
    Except, when he broke in the horses, when they were no longer green, Sheikh Shadid lavished them with attention, made sure they had the most stress free environment possible, and that they were cared for and well-groomed by their other trainers. He made sure that they were loved.
    He’d never quite mastered doing that for his actual human sons.
    Still, the specimens his father had raised were the fastest of all the horses in Yoman, if not this part of the Middle East. They’d won countless races in the most extreme climates of the world and had a bloodline worth millions. Only Secretariat’s descendants were more prized. They were raw power and beauty under rippling brown fur.
    He was prepping Jarib with his saddle, getting the last bits of old skin and sweat off with the curry comb when his sheikha walked up to him. Munir felt as if his breeches were suddenly a size too small and realized that he’d become hard just by watching her approach. Shifting his legs a bit, he positioned himself differently so his pants draped in a new way. He cared greatly for her, was falling madly in love with his spitfire, but he didn’t need her to see how easily he would crumble for her. It was scary. Realizing another person had total control over him and that if she ever did truly reject him, he’d be crushed.
    Still, it wasn’t hard to appreciate how her own breeches hugged the curves of her ample and enticing hips and complimented her firm, supple calves.
    “ Habbibi , are you ready to ride?” he asked, grabbing the saddle.
    He’d been trained in different styles, but figured for her they’d start with Western, the style of American cowboys, after all. It made it easier to stay in the saddle and she was so new to