by Donna Alam
As he stands, he pulls me against him, arms circling my waist. ‘Am I doing this properly now?’
‘Shush,’ I whisper, pushing back against him, wanting to be absorbed into his skin. ‘Don’t talk.’
‘No?’ he taunts, entwining his fingers with mine, and raising them to the back of his neck. My breasts rise and tighten. ‘Just look at how good we are together.’ He runs the backs of his fingers down my arms until my breasts are full in his hands. ‘Something as good as this should never be fought. I want. You want.’
His reprimand washes over me, and I raise my eyes, taking a good look at the girl in his arms. Skin flushed, her chest rises and falls slowly as she stares back; desirous, carnal and hungry-eyed. His luxurious hair in my hands, I pull on the ends. He grinds into me, his breath harsh and eyes avid as he watches our reflections, the pads of his thumbs rubbing my hard nipples.
‘Because I want to be buried in you,’ he rasps.
‘Now,’ I demand. His words, slick and dark, pulse through my insides as he bends forward, the momentum leaning my body over the dresser.
‘Palms flat,’ he growls, so commanding. So fucking hot.
With no further thoughts of resistance, I place them wide, the wood warm beneath my hands.
Pushing the weight of my ponytail over my shoulder, he holds my hips firmly.
‘Good,’ he whispers. ‘Now widen your stance.’
I so don’t need to be told twice.
A hand dips between my legs, caressing my now slick ribbon of flesh. I exhale a shaking breath against the mirror, the misting as obvious as my need and desire for Kai. Lowering my head, I don’t watch as his hands pull my hips back. I fall against my forearms, the wood unforgiving against my right elbow.
His hands leave me for a moment; the loosening of cloth, the tearing of foil. All the while, I am very still.
Feather-light strokes draw down my back, skimming over my skin and dipping lower as he bends his knees. He enters me without preamble, hard and fast. The feeling is intense and I call out, the pressure overwhelming. I’m deeply filled, expanded, my trembling muscles clenching around his stillness.
‘See how good you look. Under me,’ he rasps. He holds my hips, almost painfully so, the tips of his fingers digging into my flesh.
As he withdraws almost fully, I mourn the loss aloud.
‘Did you enjoy having him here,’ he growls, propelling forward.
Fingers press into me deeper as he thrusts; I’m on my toes, pushed forward by the momentum of his body as my insides continue to clench and pulse. Lost in his words, his action, maybe my response should be anger, but the dark recesses of my mind are empty of recrimination. For both of us.
‘You wanted this, wanted to make me jealous,’ he rasps.
‘No,’ I groan and push back against him, lowering my head.
‘Look at me,’ he demands. ‘Who do you want?’
‘You.’
This one word has a licentiousness all of its own as I thrust back against him.
‘And who belongs here?’ With a collision of flesh, he highlights his point.
‘You,’ I moan loudly, driven forward once more. I strain to stay high, despite my platform heels as pushed onto my toes as my calves begin to sting.
‘Look,’ he growls. A sharp tug at the base of my skull causes my head to shoot up—his reflection holds my ponytail in his curled fist. I’m not sure whether I’m more shocked by his action or where the tug resonates, but the mirror reflects a truth on my face, so pure and raw it’s startling. It amplifies all sensation as his hips begin to flex once more. Lost, I push back against him, my body imploring him for release.
The noises I make are unrecognizable as my own, the heavy sensation building inside. It rides me, drives me on. As he withdraws almost fully, I verbalise my frustration, the sound leaving my lips as a whimper.
‘This is no duel, but a duet. You want this as much as me.’ His words are fervent, the cadence of his voice seductively hot.
My expression is an affirmation as he fills me once more, my eyes rolling closed. I keep them closed for a moment and just revel in the sensations, the confusion, the absolute release of it all.
‘Open your eyes,’ his bass growl demands. ‘When you come, it will be me you see.’ His brows draw together, jaw clenched tight. ‘Because,’ he thrusts forward, punctuating again. ‘You . . . Are . . . Mine.’
Knee’s weak and fingers hanging onto the wood, I fracture. Shatter into a million pieces. My body implodes as it follows orgasms’ surge, his name the only coherent word from a mouth filled with the unintelligible.
Kai’s rhythm alters, stuttering, almost pulsing behind me as he reaches his own release.
Cognizance returns slowly. My cheek is flush against the wood, Kai’s body covering my own. Uncurling his fingers from my hair, he kisses my temple.
‘I warned you once before I was green.’ There’s a smile in his voice behind laboured breath. ‘You’re not the only one.’
‘What,’ I ask languidly, still not quite cognisant.
‘You aren’t the only one to experience jealousy, I just prefer to be more upfront about it.’
Green? Oh, jealous green. Am I the jealous type, too? But, hell if this was my punishment maybe I should learn to flirt properly.
My rapidly beating heart settles into a more stable rhythm and my thoughts begin to clear. Lying across the dresser, naked save for Kai, I suppose I have a bit of an epiphany. A watershed moment. Maybe more like a bit of an admission to myself.
I love this man. I need this man. And I definitely like a little slap along with my tickle.
Christ on a bike. I might even laugh if I weren’t so full of c-c-chemical release.
‘Kate,’ Kai breathes heavily above me. ‘Come back.’
‘I’m here,’ I whisper.
He pulls me with him as he walks backward, falling gently onto my bed. As I lie against his chest, he settles me better into the crook of his arm, one relaxed hand draping my hip.
‘And this was a surprise.’ His hand dips lower to my smooth and almost fully de-forested crotch.
‘Good surprise or . . . ’
On the edge of laughing, he asks, ‘You aren’t really asking that, are you?’
‘I think I just did.’
‘Well, it’s a ridiculous question,’ he exhales in a sigh.
‘But one I’d like answering.’ If he’s not interested either way, I’m not going to be in a hurry to endure that pain and humiliation again. Madame needs to stand on bed like dog now, yes, thank you; bottom up.
‘I feel rather like I’m being set-up. Answer the wrong way and I’ll be banished from entering the golden temple again.’
‘Every few weeks it’s more like the temple of doom,’ I say through my giggles. ‘Come on, it’s not a trick question. I’m curious, that’s all.’
His hand is suddenly between my legs, fingers slick against my still wet skin. ‘It’s all good. Retro was good and I like the barely there look, too.’
‘Retro. Niamh seems to think every man would prefer deforestation over . . . well, the other. She reckons it’s an evolutionary leftover and that most men have forgotten what it’s supposed to look like. Especially out here, what with traditional sugaring and stuff.’
‘Ah, the great Arab depilatory debate.’
‘Yes, that.’ Here supposedly, the women—and lots of the men—prefer to be hair free with regards to most bodily places. Yes, down there as well. Obviously, it’s a huge assumption, I think as I snuggle into Kai.
My hand crosses over and edges his soft trail of hair. ‘I’m pleased you don’t,’ I whisper. ‘I love this here.’ Not to mention, I’d hate to imagine him bent over a wax therapist’s bed. I’ve seen the male ‘back, sack and crack’ waxing advertised at home. It doesn’t sound very pleasant and I can’t imagine what positions you have to get into to remove all the hair from those bits.
His hand continues to move over me feather-soft. ‘I’m not
sure about evolutionary leftovers. A woman’s hair is at least shaped naturally, pointing the way home to the unexperienced man—’
‘I bet it’s a long time since you needed pointing in the right direction,’ I say with a giggle.
‘But this does,’ he continues, ignoring me, ‘feel so soft like this.’
‘Hmm, yeesss.’ Soft and sensitive and oh-so . . . ‘No map of Tassie for me, I think.’
Kai props himself on one arm suddenly, eyes twinkling down at me. ‘Map of what?’
‘Hey, don’t stop,’ I complain, lightly bucking my hips. ‘Map of Tasmania, ‘cos of the shape.’
‘You really are quite odd.’ He laughs softly, his eyes moving across my body. ‘And you’re going to bruise.’ It’s a statement rather than an apology as his fingers move to trail the curve of my hip
‘No need to ask if you’ve ever gone the full Brazilian. It’s bloody painful. Thankfully, it’s settled down now.’ Until the regrowth begins, as I recall.
‘Topiary talk over,’ he says quietly, ‘I want to know how you feel.’
I lift my head to where his fingers trace the distinct fingerprints against my hip, settling back against the pillow with a small, ‘Fine.’
‘That’s not very specific,’ he murmurs, his hand moving up and over the swell of my breast.
Turning, I burrow my head into his chest, aiming for invisibility. I’d prefer not to think about what just happened. Not the sexing part, definitely not the sexing part. I don’t want to dwell on the bit where I was seduced by his command again. His demands. I know I liked it, but I have trouble with the why.
From silly to serious in the blink of an eye. I swallow the thoughts and attempt to lower the volume of my consciousness.
‘I’ve never had sex like I have with you,’ I whisper.
His chest rumbles against my ear with a breath of a laugh. ‘Somewhere in that statement there might be a compliment.’
‘Hard,’ I continue, ‘Dominant.’ I bury my face further into the warmth of his chest as I mutter the words.
‘You think I’m dominant?’
‘Don’t you?’ I tilt my head, questioningly. His smile is kind of wry.
‘Maybe, just a little. But I don’t think you find it intolerable. Find me intolerable.’
I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. I close it, along with my eyes.
‘No.’ His response is quick, as quick as the arm he tightens around my waist. ‘Don’t belittle this, how I make you feel. How you make me feel. The reason we fuck is because of how we feel for one another. The how we fuck isn’t a reflection of that. It doesn’t always have to be satin sheets and soft kisses. Don’t confuse the why with the how.’
Oh, fuck. Hot, dirty, raspy. I like it.
‘This . . . it’s all new to me, the rough stuff.’
He laughs, bending forward and kissing my head. ‘Sweetheart, this isn’t rough.’ I don’t have a response because if this isn’t rough, then yikes. As his arm tightens, I try not to think about the implications of his words. ‘Did you want to go back to the pool?’
‘Do you?’ I ask, twisting my head to better see him.
‘Not at all.’ Thank God. My cheeks would create enough warmth for a further global warming, having to face all those people, those knowing looks. ‘I’ve no desire to be anywhere but here with you.’ As usual, he knows just what to say.
‘You’ll stay, then?’ I try to force the tension from my shoulders, breath held waiting for his response.
‘For a while,’ he murmurs with a melancholy sigh. ‘I have an early meeting in Riyadh tomorrow and I’ve still to prepare.’
‘But tomorrow’s Saturday, it’s still the weekend.’
‘Saturday’s the first day of the work week in Saudi, actually.’
I lift my head and peer at him sceptically. ‘Saturday and Sunday are both the first day of the week in the Middle East?’
‘Not that it should concern you, I can’t see you moving to Saudi anytime soon. I’ll be back by the evening. Can I see you then?’
‘I’m seeing Niamh tomorrow night.’ Then I voice a ridiculous thought. ‘Why don’t you join us?’
‘You wouldn’t mind?’ he asks, peering down at my upturned face. ‘My tagging along, eating into your time with your friend?’
‘I’d love to see you and seeing as how she gave you my key, I guess she approves.’ At least I hope so. ‘I’ll let you know tomorrow. At worst, I can see you later. Afterwards, here or at the hotel?’
‘Is that what’s known as a booty call?’ A brow rises to match his tone, his very proper accent relating the phrase more to a pirate’s loot. ‘Can I expect to be used?’
‘Only if you’re real lucky,’ I chuckle. ‘Might even get you to walk the plank.’
‘So you’ll be drunk?’
‘What do you take me for?’
‘Perfect. Just my type.’
His words fill me with an internal glow and I nestle my head back against his chest with delight. ‘What’s Riyadh like?’
‘Oppressive. No music, no alcohol. No fun.’ As he answers, he runs his hand through the strands of my hair. ‘You and I wouldn’t be allowed to sit in a restaurant together, unmarried and unrelated. Women also aren’t allowed to drive.’
‘I’d heard about that. It doesn’t sound like a fun place at all. Still, no girl’s going to get a chance to steal my boyfriend if you can’t even be in the same room as the opposite sex.’
My hair, once in his fingers, falls across my cheek. ‘Beirut,’ he says after a beat. ‘Now that’s a fun place. We’ll have to go there one weekend, not this weekend,’ he adds hurriedly, ‘that’s not on the agenda.’
‘Okay, Mr secret-keeper,’ I say on the breath of a laugh. ‘Sure, let’s hop over to Beirut. No biggie, because everyone’s got a jet stashed in their garage.’ On this side of the looking glass, at least it seems.
‘Very droll. It’s a company jet, I wouldn’t be too impressed, if I were you.’
‘Oh, I’m not. It’s just like having a bike for your paper round.’
‘Exactly. A means to an end.’ Turning me in his arms, he fits his body behind mine. ‘Sleep thou, and I’ll wind you in my arms.’ Kissing the crown of my head, he smooths my unruly mop of hair against my scalp.
‘Mmm,’ I murmur sleepily, ‘You do have such a way with words. Shakespeare and filth. I love them both.’
Muted voices drift up from the pool as the sun sets. With his hand draped across my waist, I feel Kai’s form settle against the bed.
‘Jayyid,’ he whispers with a soft exhale. ‘Just perfect.’
Smiling, I drift off into happy oblivion.
Ten
I bury my head under the pillow, the dawn call to prayer interrupting my subliminal ramblings. So much for it becoming a background noise. Taking a peek at my alarm, I can’t believe the time; I’ve been out almost eleven hours!
Sliding my hand across the mattress, I find only cold where another lay. In the dark, he’d slipped from the bed murmuring softly spoken words I wasn’t quite conscious enough to grasp. Rolling over, I clutch the pillow that had earlier held his head, recalling his touch on my skin, his whispered words as elusive as summer mist.
Outside, the prayers melismas draw out, the light growing stronger in my room. I take my hat off to the pious of the neighbourhood, for sure. I can’t imagine anyone encouraging me out of bed at this hour with the words prayer is better than sleep, no matter how beautifully it’s sung. I love my sleep, can’t imagine anything better. Though that’s not quite true lately. Sex is certainly better than sleep, or at least it is with Kai.
Stretching out across the bed, each vertebra unlocks and presses into the mattress, the embers of Kai’s touch flaring and igniting a blaze of pleasure across my skin. It’s so much more than just sex with him. His commanding words pull me into deeper realms, my body responding to his call. Something so seductive that, just reflecting on it, renders me into a boneless mass.
&nbs
p; Here, in the warmth of my bed, I know I want more. And that’s a thought as scary as all hell.
A faint scent of coffee in the air catches my attention, and I pull myself up against the pillows. On the nightstand is a small, brown take-away bag with the words ‘Eat Me’ jotted on the front in a masculine hand. The bag contains a pastry and a note, the writing indented on the thin napkin and showing through from the other side.
Habibti,
Do you live in some kind of kitchen commune or is there a food thief in your building? Are you even aware your kitchen is bereft of food?
There is, now, coffee in the kitchen. You may thank Rashid for braving the drive-through at 4am, though the idea was mine. My choice of beverage reflected how I felt this morning, leaving your bed. Dark and bitter. Yours, on the other hand, should be sweet, hot and creamy, and a bit like yourself. Hopefully, it will still be palatable by the time you leave your state of hibernation.
Sweetheart, you are exquisite and my day will be consumed by images of last night. Your body’s soft curves and stretches, your sweet skin and lips. As I watched your back arch, your hands grasping for purchase against the wood, my heart twisted into impossible shapes.
You will be my undoing, of that I’m sure.
K
P.S. The croissant is a sweet for my sweet and the key is also for you.
P.P.S. I’ve booked a table for this evening. Rashid will collect you at 8.
Sure enough, on the nightstand is a key-card, his hotel’s logo emblazoned across the front. It may not be the key to his heart, but it’s definitely a commitment. Of sorts. Tearing into the end of the croissant, I smile. If I’ll be his undoing, maybe it’s time to tell him I’m already undone.
I drag myself out of bed eventually, popping the remainder of the cold croissant into the microwave, the almondy aroma making my mouth water before the thirty seconds are up. My coffee is cold, but that’s no surprise. I can heat that, too, because, yes, I am a philistine. I flick idly through my phone as the cup revolves on the glass plate. I have a text from Shane’s number, which I delete without a second glance, secure in the knowledge he’s out of my life for good. I also have one from Niamh; an opportunity to tease me about our not so subtle exit yesterday. I find I don’t care what was said for a change. It’s almost liberating.
