“Yes. I suppose being married to a king means I’ll want for nothing?”
“Not one single thing.” He pulled her on top of him so that she straddled his thighs. “Anything else?”
“Nothing I can think of…for now.”
“So…does the sex and the respect have to be mutually exclusive?”
She laughed. “Wasim…”
“I’m asking because I need to know how far I can push tonight.” He smoothed a hand under her abaya.
Imani cast a glance inside the house, but the great room was empty. The servants were all gone.
Wasim slapped her right butt cheek.
She flinched—not from pain, but from the delicious pleasure of the blow. “Are you asking if we’re on the sex part of the evening now that the conversation is over?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, we’re on the sex part of the evening,” Imani said softly.
With a wicked grin, Wasim stood with her in his arms, and she wound her legs around his waist. He walked with her back to the master bedroom and brought them both to a shuddering climax.
Wasim reentered the bedroom with a bottle of water. He handed the balance to Imani and she finished it off. He set the empty bottle on the side table, and she cuddled up next to him on the bed.
“I never got to tell you about my conversation with your sister,” she said, looping an arm across his chest.
Wasim rested against the pillows with one arm folded behind his head. “Tell me about it.”
She caught him up on her visit with Yasmin and what they observed with the women and girls. “The only problem is, she needs to get that money, and that’s where you come in. She needs you to get Parliament to include the additional funds in the budget so you can sign off on it.”
“She should be convincing them to do it, not asking me to do it.”
“But how do we convince them? Yasmin can’t get a single member to send a representative to talk to the women about how much they enjoy the program. Could you make them do it?” she asked tentatively. She really wanted the program to get funded to the levels Yasmin needed.
Wasim chuckled softly. “I could, but that would cause resentment and other problems down the line. I’m already in Parliament’s crosshairs, and I have to pick my battles. And though I could dissolve the entire group and start from scratch—like a certain Zamibian woman pointed out—that is the drastic, nuclear option. I think the best way to convince Parliament to invest more in the program is to let the women tell them in their own words what the literacy initiative means to them.”
“How? In a report they probably won’t read?”
Wasim was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Through commercials.”
“Commercials?” Imani raised up on one elbow.
“Yes. Film the women and the girls, and air the commercials on television. Let them tell the whole country how much the program helps them by giving examples. Then present the needs of the budget. Not every member will be swayed, but it’s a good way to pressure the dissenting members of the body to get them to do the right thing, without actually pressuring them.”
“That’s sneaky.”
“Sometimes you have to be sneaky.”
“Okay, but I don’t know if Yasmin has money to do commercials. I have to check with her.”
“If she doesn’t, we’ll find the money from somewhere. There are multiple miscellaneous accounts, or we could shift the money from another program. We’ll figure it out.” His eyes were indulgent as he smoothed a strand of hair back from her face.
“Thank you,” Imani said.
“I’m not doing you a favor. It’s the right thing to do.” He studied her face. “You have something to say?”
Imani wanted to sort through the words before she spoke. Finally, she said, “I have a very odd relationship with my father. He loves me, but he treats me like I don’t matter. Like my ideas are silly—noble, but silly. And why would a woman have to worry about independence when she can have a man take care of her?”
“And you don’t want a man to take care of you?”
“I can take care of myself, and it’s nice to be seen as an equal. But it’s nice to have a supportive hand.”
“Never worry about that. You will always have my support.”
Satisfied, Imani rested her head atop his shoulder, happier than she had been in a very long time.
23
Imani felt the mattress depress as Wasim climbed in behind her. He had already stripped down to his boxers. His bare arms and chest enveloped her in warm, golden skin.
“You never sleep in your apartment anymore,” she murmured, tucking her bottom into the vee created by his hips and legs.
He slid a knee between hers. “I like it better in here. Everything is soft and smells so good.” He caressed her breasts under the silk nightie and nipped her neck.
Imani laughed softly. “I’m glad you like what you find in here.”
Most nights over the past few weeks, Wasim had slept in her bedroom. The only times he hadn’t was when he worked late and didn’t want to disturb her when he came in.
Over the past couple of days, they’d played host to the President of the United States and her husband. A formal dinner had taken place the first night and another one this evening, which wrapped up later than expected. Imani and the president’s husband had retired to bed, leaving Wasim and the president to continue their conversation. She hadn’t expected him to come to her tonight, but she was pleased that he’d broken away early enough to join her in bed.
“The only event on the agenda tomorrow is the breakfast, correct?” Imani asked, yawning.
“Yes, then another photo op, and then the president meets with other officials before she flies out in the afternoon.”
They were quiet for a few minutes and then Imani said, “I saw Yasmin singing to her baby today. She has such a beautiful voice.” Yasmin was now almost seven months pregnant.
“My mother used to sing to us all the time,” Wasim said quietly.
It was so rare that Imani heard him talk about his mother, her eyes popped open and she went still, waiting for more information. When he didn’t continue, she said, “Tell me more about her.”
He resettled at her back and when he spoke, she heard the smile in his voice. “She was happy all the time. She used to chase Yasmin and I around the palace and played with us and kissed us often. I can’t remember her ever raising her voice at me. She might get annoyed or wag a finger, but she always remained so…sweet.”
Imani smiled. “I take it she wasn’t the disciplinarian.”
“No. That role belonged to my father. My mother soothed our fears, kissed our bruises, and comforted us when we were sad.”
“How did she die?”
“She drowned.”
“I know that, but how?” Imani asked gently. She played with the tip of one of his fingers.
“On one of my family’s yachts in the Mediterranean. She and my father had decided to slip away for some private time without me and Yasmin for a change. My mother left first, and he planned to meet her later because he had to take care of some business. The night he was to arrive, somehow she fell over into the water. None of the staff knew it happened, and she couldn’t swim.”