by Donna Alam
‘I would not,’ he says thrusting inside me once more. I bite my lip to stop myself from calling out, my nails scratching the wood. Suddenly, his mouth is near my ear, the momentum of his body crushing me to the table. ‘Because for me, there is only you. How many times must I say it?’
As Kai pulls back, I teeter on the pointed tips of my toes, my arse thrust upwards and his grip on my neck almost tight enough to bruise. It’s not a comfortable position, but that isn’t a priority—for either of us—as he begins to move, each controlled thrust lancing deep in my belly, each flex of his hips delivered with his whispered words.
That I’m a fool.
That he craves me.
That he loves to hold me down and hear my cries.
That I love it as much as he.
Because what we are is a duet, not a duel.
A hungry arousal licks its way through me as my hips clash with the table top, each promise of ownership tightening my insides
‘Tell me. Who does this belong to?’ he demands, punctuating his point with a collision of flesh.
Incoherent, I can’t answer as he continues to pound into me.
‘Answer me.’ His hand on my neck tightens, pulling back my head another inch. I cry out his name, his next thrust so deep the table’s feet screech against the floor, my fingertips pushed against the smooth surface to steady myself.
Fast, punishing and deep, and I love it. His absolute control of me is like shedding skin. My thoughts were live wires, uncontrolled and dangerous, and what it takes to counter this is more than his reassurance or words. It takes these moments to ground me. To ground me to him.
Kai’s movements begin to falter as he curses, his hips pressing harder and faster now as he drives me into the abyss. I climax hard, riding out his shuddering thrusts and pushing back into him.
His hand retracts from my neck, his palm resting against the wood next to my head. With his lips pressed into my shoulder, his heart hammers against my back as mine does against the table, we each wait for those muscles to calm.
‘What will it take for you to see?’
In my peripheral vision Kai reaches for a lock of hair, bright against the table’s dark grain. He winds it around his finger, staring at it intently.
‘She’s—’
‘She’s nothing.’ His voice is harsh—there’s to be no argument on this point. Until I carry on.
‘She loves you.’
‘No, Kate, she doesn’t. Do we have to do this now?’
As his deep sigh presses me against the table, I don’t answer, thinking maybe he’s right. Maybe I am a masochist. His fingers loosen from my hair and are suddenly at my bottom lip, my mouth little more than a tight line just now.
‘There is no love. She’s just not used to being told no.’
‘Not surprised,’ I mumble. ‘Only have to look at her.’
‘That’s enough. You are so very beautiful. It just astounds me that you don’t seem to see.’
‘Kai, she’s like a supermodel,’ I say, trying to turn my head to look at him.
‘For each of her ilk, there are another ten just like her. She’s not like you, Kate. She has no heart. No soul.’
‘But—’
‘And to me, she was never more than a cunt. In both senses of the word.’
I inhale sharply, his body separating from mine. ‘Do you know how nasty that sounds?’
‘No worse than the things she said herself—and about me.’ His sigh is only just audible and I can almost sense him pushing his fingers through his hair. ‘This ends now, this self-flagellation of yours.
‘What? I’m just supposed to let you do it instead?’ I mumble. As I straighten, his arms band my shoulders again. Back where we started, although I’m now naked, but for heels. ‘You’re a pain in my arse.’
‘Maybe,’ he answers, resting his chin against my shoulder, the smile in his voice very clear. ‘But only until you take me all the way in.’
Chapter Thirty-One
The days that follow are almost Halycon-esque; glorious days filled with hanging out together, silliness, and sex. It seems an age since we’ve had the opportunity to just be together, and we’re both so much happier for the experience, even if it does only add up to a scant few days.
Kai works from home in the week leading up to the big day, leaving my side only to work from the home office occasionally. Oh, and when he goes for his morning run. On those early mornings he does manage to rouse me—in the most imaginative ways—he heads to the gym instead. I hang out there with him, messing about on the machines while he lifts. Yeah, okay, more like I cop a squat on the stationery bike and perve. After we shower, together usually, Martha prepares breakfast, and I’m pretty sure she’s not spitting in mine while Kai’s home. Just to be sure, I swapped our plates on that first day, and she didn’t look at all perturbed, so that says it all. Actually, it’s all a little freaky as she’s taken to being nice to me. I don’t trust her motives, not really, and expect hostilities and ruined laundry to resume once Kai has to travel again. Up until then, I’m enjoying French toast and a divine fruit salad daily, sans saliva while it lasts.
The ‘rents also seem to be having a blast, tucked in their little love nest across the pool. Most days Rashid drops them somewhere for them to do the touristy thing; souks—gold, spices and anything in between—museums and malls. I’ve gone with them once or twice, but once they got over their fear of the unknown and the worry that “no one would speak English”, they’ve been content to go it alone, which suits me.
The odd lunch or dinner spent in their company is enough, believe me.
It’s such a beautiful house, Katherine. You want to make it into a home, add some feminine touches. Soft furnishings, candles, that sort of thing.
I made your cleaning lady a nice cuppa this morning. Told her to go and put up her feet. If this was Australia, she’d be getting a government pension, not vacuuming someone else’s floors.
No point telling Mum I’d gladly pay Martha a pension if she’d bugger off back to India. Anyway, I mostly manage to tune out her badly veiled criticisms.
The weekend finds us all moving from the house into a pretty swish hotel on The Palm. That’s The Palm, as in the man-made island made to look like a tree sat inside a goldfish bowl.
Only in Dubai.
All of us in the hotel, but Kai. He’s staying home until tomorrow—the big day. I’m instigating the bride and groom shall not set eyes on each other until the day of the wedding rule, and despite Kai’s protestations that the idea is archaic, I’m sticking to my guns. I haven’t had a lot of involvement in our wedding plans—yes, my own fault—but there are certain things I do want, and one of those is to see Kai’s face as I enter the room . . . or wherever we’re having the ceremony . . . if that’s what we’re having.
Honestly? I haven’t a clue.
Anyway, I want him to be struck by this vision in ivory—that would be me—though I wouldn’t put it past Phillippe to turn up in an ivory suit, too. I don’t want Kai to see me until that very moment. I just want to see his expression, that’s all. As I’ve said before, I haven’t a clue what he’s thinking when he looks at me, except when he looks at me like I’m a chocolate éclair. One he’s about to slip his thumbs inside to break in two. Like he’s considering drawing his tongue from end to end, before devouring the pastry . . .
Fun times!
Those times, it’s easier, but mostly he has such a way of restraining what’s going on inside that head of his. The master of non-expression. But it’s the fleeting glimpses of what he’s thinking when he’s free and open that I just love, and those moments aren’t often.
Plus, if he’s hanging around the room, he’ll probably hinder my dressing, probably persuading me the opposite is needed, instead.
Traditions are relative, according to Kai, and as a culturally mixed marriage, he thinks we should make our own. Starting by not having the night before apart, strangely enough. He’d cajoled and
promised faithfully to leave the room at the first inkling of daylight, though I note he didn’t say a night apart was pointless as we’re already married, and that we’ve already shagged. But yes, we are married, and this blessing or wedding ceremony, or whatever it is, felt sort of unnecessary until recently. It’s true the way we married wasn’t of my choosing, and I’d thought the fact we’d wed was enough. But there’s just something about slipping into a wedding gown and a pair of sparkly heels, something about watching those that love you—and those that you love—get all teary-eyed, that sort of changes everything.
So I’d insisted upon the eve of our wedding apart, though I’d almost caved, but managed to be resolute by insisting the anticipation of a night spent apart would most definitely make certain things harder. Which would make for more fun on the wedding night.
Like I said, sticking to my guns, and a Kai weeping at the vision of ivory floating down the aisle. Or stumbling. Which, let’s face it, is likely.
In the meantime, I’m not alone in the penthouse tonight. Niamh’s here keeping me company.
‘Where’d these come from?’
Sat on the floor next to the sofa I’m sprawled across, she reaches up, swiping a chocolate from the pile of daintily wrapped confections by my side, this time not quite grasping one.
‘Ow! That feckin’ hurt.’
‘Good. There’ll be none left at the rate you’re ploughing through them. And they were in the room when I arrived.’
‘Odd. It’s not a little tray of chocs to go with your fruit basket, is it?’
Both of our gazes move to the full size dining table where the large pyramid of white and golden wrapped handmade morsels tower. Minus the ones we’ve swiped from one corner.
‘I hope they weren’t for anything in particular.’
‘Shite.’ Twisting to face me, Niamh looks ashen. ‘You’re going to hate me, but you were anyway. I mean, I would hate me, at any rate. Doesn’t sound like a fun pastime, for a start. I’m not even sure—you see, the thing is—’
‘Niamh. Spit it out, for gods’ sakes. It’s just a few chocolates.’
‘No. You don’t understand. I’m a shit Matron of Honour. I didn’t throw you an awesome hens, or bachelorette—’
‘That’s fine. I didn’t want one, besides we both know—’
‘No, you don’t understand,’ she repeats, this time clapping a hand over my knee. ‘Just shut up a minute, will you? Someone must’ve had the chocolates delivered, rather than bringing them along.’
‘Along for what?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you, if you’d only close your gob for five feckin’ seconds. Tonight . . . it’s your henna night.’
‘My hen night?’ I sit up. ‘We’ve already discussed what a bust that night would be. I didn’t want strippers wiggling their wangs in my face, even if you could get them out here!’
‘Not hen. Henna. Layat al Henna, I think it’s called. The night of the henna. I tried to say to Mishael you weren’t up for a hen night and I dunno if she misunderstood, or what, ‘cos the next thing I know I’d been roped into organising a henna night. Me? I mean, I’m more likely to get you drunk and sort out a few rude games, but a henna night! I’ve had to rope in help.’
‘Like with the tattoos and stuff?’
‘Yup. It’s a bit like a wedding shower, as far as I can tell, but there won’t be any cucumber cock carvings.’
I begin to laugh. ‘So the chocolates?’
‘I think maybe someone must’ve sent them, but honestly, I haven’t a feckin’ clue. Alls I know is, there’s a bunch of women coming later, bringing all the stuff we’ll need.’ She looks over at the chocolates again. ‘We’ll just have to turn the tower around so’s you can’t see the missing bit. I can’t believe I didn’t realise that’s what they were for. I’m such a feckin’ eejit.’
It’s gone eight o’clock when the bell to the suite rings, our female butler beating Niamh to the door and allowing half a dozen women in black abayaat to stream in. Following closely behind is a very regionally glamorous Mishael; regionally glam due to the red and bronze jalabiya she’s wearing. The high-necked and ankle grazing dress may offer full coverage, but here’s no doubting its stylishness. Dark red silk, it’s clasped at the waist and wrists by bronze embroidered cuffs.
‘So early this henna night,’ says one of the women as she trudges in.
‘Ya’allah!’ says another from beneath the gold-coloured mask that many of the older women in the region wear in the place of a face veil, or niqab.
‘Ladies, you can set your things over there.’ Mishael directs the dark cloaked women, simultaneously greeting us with a small wave.
The strangers begin to gather around the dining table, bringing baskets, cloths and small cones from their voluminous bags.
‘Those are the henna artists,’ Mishael says. ‘No, don’t close the door. There’s food to come in.’
And sure enough, trollies filled with an array of dishes are wheeled in. I can’t rightly see what they contain, but they certainly smell fab.
‘Come now, let’s get you into your dress,’ Mishael says, holding up an expensive looking garment bag.
I look down at my current attire. I thought I looked okay. I’ve changed into a clean dress. Brushed my hair. Even slapped a bit of make-up on my face.
‘You look beautiful, as usual, but I thought you might like to go native tonight.’ She says this with a tinkling laugh, no doubt in response to my questioning face. ‘I don’t know what you’re giggling about. There’s a dress here for you, too, Niamh.’
By the time we exit the bedroom, kitted out in our robes—mine white and gold, Niamh’s blue and silver—the party seems to be in full swing. There are more than a dozen women here, and I’m a little bemused until I spot Sadia, my old classroom assistant, by the table, stuffing her face with food.
‘Missus Kate!’ She claps her hands to her cheeks. ‘Soon to be the Missus Kai, marsh’allah!’
‘Sadia! Great to see you, and just Kate, please. How are you—how are the girls?’ God, I miss my class of little rat-bags.
‘Oh, they miss you Missus K—I mean, just Kate. We all miss. The new teacher, she is a most angry person. Always with the sit-down, sit-down.’ Sadia’s expression is mockingly stern. ‘All except for Sadia, who is for the verk, verk, verk! Please,’ she adds imploringly. ‘Come back soon.’
‘I’m trying to.’ And hoping to.
‘All right, cinders,’ says a familiar voice. ‘Stop hogging the bride.’
‘Hala! How are you? It’s so good to see you!’ The last time I’d heard from my fellow teacher, we were arranging to go out for lunch. Around the time I still had a job.
‘I was beginning to wonder,’ she says, half laughing. ‘You didn’t return any of my calls.’
‘When did you—maybe you rang when I was back in Aus?’
‘And you kept all this quiet, girl! Snagging a groom!’ She leans in conspiratorially. ‘And one as fit as him!’
‘Well, he, I mean I—’ more women begin to gather around me, teachers from the school, and others Mishael seems to want to introduce me to.
‘Give me a buzz, yeah?’ says Hala. ‘We’ll catch up later. Do that lunch?’
‘Sure.’
It’s gone two a.m. when the room finally clears out, and I collapse onto the bed. Niamh lies next to me, not yet willing to leave. I think she’s waiting for the intricate henna design banding her ankle to dry.
‘Funny how not many of the younger ones wanted henna,’ she says, sort of dreamily, probably nearing a food coma. There was just so much to try; silver platters piled high with machboos, the local favoured rice dish. Pastas and seafood. The most divine savoury pastries that sort of melted on the tongue. And the desserts—I had to move away from the table for fear of not fitting into my dress! Truffles and tarts, tiny khanfaroush cookies and something that was described to me in English as “floaters”. Round balls coated in syrup, which were much more d
elicious than their name would suggest. And a million and one fruit juices—strawberry and kiwi was my favourite—qawha; cardamom flavoured Arabic coffee, sweet mint tea. The choices seemed never ending. Other than booze, of course, out of deference to tradition and our guests.
‘Christ, my stomach hurts. No wonder they celebrate weddings for days out here. They probably can’t move for half that time.’
‘Mishael says the henna night is still massively popular, but that a lot of the tradition is being lost. Apparently, years ago I’d have had my hair and body anointed in oils by the attendees and my eyes ringed with kohl. Then I’d have to sit on the floor, veiled and eyes downcast through the whole thing.’
‘What? You’d not even get to dance at your own party?’ Because, yes, there’d been a fair bit of that tonight. Jeeze, the women out here can dance; none of this tapping your feet business. They were all hips and sinuous movement—like Shakira having a really good night out. Talk about hips not lying, though I kept mine mostly glued to the chair.
‘Nope. Eyes downcast so no one could put the evil eye on me.’
‘Didn’t see any evil eyes. The woman who did me ankle design had two blue eyes.
‘Did she? That’s unusual.’
‘Yep, one blew east and the other blew west.’ I chuckle, despite the lameness of her joke. ‘Anyway, what did you get?’ Sitting up, she looks at my hands and feet. ‘You didn’t go for the usual stuff.’
‘That’d look lovely with my beautiful dress, wouldn’t it? I wasn’t expected to as that’s one of the dying traditions. Modern Emirati brides are all about the white dress these days. I did get a little something,’ I add casually. ‘I didn’t want to look ungrateful.’
Truthfully, I have gone a little traditional after one of the elderly henna artists told me that it was good luck to have your intended’s name hidden somewhere in a design. She’d sort of winked and said in halting English, though no less meaningfully, that it could be fun to let him try and find it on your wedding night.
‘Well, I had a grand time, but I’m shagged, so I’m gonna head off to bed. Need anything before tomorrow? Knotted sheets to scale the building? A drop of Valium to get you through the night?’
