sexually explicit content warning; you can simply skip the third part of this chapter if you're not interested in reading such content and you won't miss any plot points <33
♥ ♥ ♥
"YOU SURE KNOW HOW TO MAKE AN introduction. I'll give you that," Aryan says, his tone jovial as he grins across at the fourteen-year-old who just called me sis.
I know he's covering until I get a grasp of what the fuck is going on.
However, Naz doesn't appear to be so easily distracted because she only returns Aryan's grin— I'd never seen someone match the pure arrogance of that grin quite as much as this girl— and then she's looking back at me.
My fingers tighten on the cushion below me. I'd never let myself imagine how a meeting like this would go down because I'd convinced myself I'd never let a meeting like this happen to begin with.
Sis.
Really?
I've never had a sister or anything remotely close to one. Dima is the closest thing to a sibling I have but we don't have twin telepathy or whatever. I'm fine with that.
I don't need a sister, I conclude, as the overly-ecstatic teenager beams at me across the table.
Aryan kicks me under the table. Well, he gently nudges my knee with his. But, in my tense state of quiet, it might as well be a kick. I straighten sharply, rattled from my head, and glare at him.
I feel Naz's gaze follow my movement curiously. She has dark eyes, not my father's and mine's. Hers are brown and bright, like darkly brewed black tea, glinting with faint amber in the light, framed with thick black lashes. We have the same eyelashes though, long and feathering. And eyebrows. I didn't realise that I processed all of that in the small space of her having sat down. I pocket it away and ignore her as I'm holding Aryan's stare now. I glower at him for kicking me under the table.
His response is an even look. Earth to Mira, it says.
Fuck off, is my responding glare.
He knows it well enough that his brows lift and his eyes shift to the right, to our table mate. I catch his drift as his lips twitch upwards. There are children present, Mira. Watch your language.
I glare again, a defensive one this time. I won't curse in front of the fourteen-year-old. I have some morals. I think. I didn't even say anything.
"Awwww." A rising coo startles us from the staring contest. I look away first, head whipping toward Nazmiya who has her chin propped on her hands, eyes dancing between us. My jaw tightens and I glance at Aryan tells me that he's mentally recorded his win. "You two have silent conversations. That's so fucking cute."
I blink.
Then, I shoot Aryan another defensive look. I didn't teach her that word. It wasn't me.
"What are you talking about?" Naz presses on.
She's nosy, I note.
Aryan breaks my stare to say, "We weren't talking."
"Yes, you were," counters Nazmiya. I stare at her as she shakes her head. Her curls rustle with the motion. Her black nail polish reminds me of me at that age and I hate that I notice it. Every fourteen year old wears black nail polish, after all. She rolls her eyes at Aryan and it's a very intimidating eye-roll for a fourteen-year-old. He fares well enough under it, wholly accustomed but me— well, I'm intimidated as she accuses, "I know those looks. Daya and I do it all the time. You two were talking shit about me, weren't you?"
Aryan barks a laugh. Naz beams. She's won him over. I'm on my own. Fuck.
I have yet to say a single word, I realise. And she's waiting. And she's kinda scary. And I don't want to be here.
My silence is thick, heavy. I'm locked in it like an insect trapped in amber.
Aryan lets ten seconds pass before he makes the move to throw his arm over my shoulders again. Nazmiya observes everything with those dark amber eyes of hers. She watches me carve a glare into the side of his head for the arm he has over my shoulders. And she watches him peer down sideways at me and roll his eyes in reply.
He tightens his arm and doesn't drop it at all.
I'm not sure whether he's taunting me or comforting me with that slung arm of his but I find myself leaning my shoulder into his warmth just a little as I finally lower my gaze to the younger girl's.
Or you can set yourself free.
"Those will kill you, you know?" I tilt my chin at her.
The brief flash of joy at finally being addressed lights up behind her eyes before she drops it to what I'm referring to. Naz pulls out the pen and twirls it between her fingers. "It's bubblegum flavoured," she defends solemnly. "Could be worse. Could be actual cigarettes, could be meth, or crack—,"
Aryan's voice bubbles with a laugh he's barely holding back, "I think she gets it."
Naz beams and tucks it away again. She leans forward, elbows balanced on the table, eyes dancing with mischief. "I could be pregnant and dying of Ebola."
"Ebola?" Aryan echoes.
Her lips tilt. She thinks she's funny.
"They're actually still bad for you," I say to her, referring to the pen. "You like coughing up blood? And don't even get me started on how bad they are for the environment. The turtles—,"
"You know," Naz interrupts me, grinning, "I assumed you'd be more fun."
"Fuck off." The words leave my mouth before I even think about them. They're my two most used words, especially in the proximity of Aryan Shankar. Honestly, it's his fault. His arm around my shoulders makes me have no filter on my mouth.
His arm is currently shuddering along my shoulders as he rocks with silent laughs at my side. His eyes are closed and he presses a palm to his forehead. I stick my elbow at his ribs to make him shut up. That only makes his quiet laughing turn into real laughter. The sound dances around me like sunshine and when he drops his arm from around me to wipe away fake tears, I still find myself pressing against him anyway, just to be close to that sound.
Naz clears her throat, eyes passing between me and Aryan. "I mean, I was going to say that I thought you'd be more fun since we technically first met while you were toilet-papering my house in the middle of the night," she intones. "But I take it back. I rate you. You're kinda a vibe."
Honestly, I'm not entirely sure what that means and I'm starting to think I might be getting old, or maybe I only know California slang, not European boarding school lingo, but I think it's a good thing.
The vibe dies, however, when a feminine hand closes around Nazmiya's shoulder. Daya is tall and thin, model-esque in her platforms and cream romper. She doesn't look like her sister. Her hair is sleek and brown where Naz's dyed black curls make me wonder if that's what mine would look like if I hadn't straightened it for years. Unlike her sister, her nails are neat nude acrylics. We have the same nose. She has Daniel's eyes, like me. But it's not her arrival that makes me pause.
"Naz," she says her sister's name with warning. It's easy to guess their dynamic. Naz throws caution to the wind so Daya is cautious for them both.
I'm not looking at either of them as they have a silent exchange though. Daniel stands a step behind his taller daughter, a tentative smile on his lips. It isn't his Hollywood smile. I wrack my brain for which smile this is and why I recognise it and when the memory resurfaces, I feel a tight pang. This is the bedtime story smile.
"I see you met Naz," he observes as I straighten. "She's always getting into trouble. That's her thing."
"No trouble here." This comes from Aryan who grins a grin that could buy the entire Hollywood Walk of Fame. "We've all been on our best behaviour." He winks across at Naz and she, in turn, winks at me. I think that's my cue to wink back but I'm slow to do so.
Aryan is annoyingly good with people. Me? Not so much.
Daya jumps in, her gaze skittering shyly across to me. "I like your shoes." Where her sister is sharp-tongued and torrential, she's subdued. Still, I'm intimidated yet again.
Fucking hell. She's not going to bite you, Mira. Though, I'm not so sure about Naz.
But Hidaya probably towers over me if I stood and she's got Vogue-worthy cheekbones.
I glance down at my shoes, remembering that Aryan buckled them for me, then back up again.
Daya clears her throat. "Anyway," she says and clamps a hand down on Nazmiya's shoulder. "Sorry about Naz. Nice to meet you." Naz complains but Daya is clearly the stronger twin, yanking her to her feet and dragging her away.
Daniel watches them go with a chuckle. I zero in on the sound.
When he turns back to me, his eyes are somber. He smiles sideways at Aryan and he returns it. I once again have the petulant urge to call him a traitor.
"Naz is upset you won't accept her follow request on Instagram," says Daniel. "It's all she talks about lately."
I balk. "I don't use Instagram," I lie. Because telling him that I'd been snubbing his fourteen-year-old daughter's follow requests for years now makes me sound as petulant as I am.
Aryan definitely sees through my lie. After all, I view all his stories. Sometimes, I view them more than once during the day but he doesn't need to know that.
"Did you eat?" The perfectly normal question catches me off-guard.
"Yeah," I say, lying again. I pretend Aryan's plate is mine as I push it forward for show.
Daniel clasps his hands together in front of him. I eye the silver wedding band on his finger. He never takes it off, apparently, not even to play his movie roles. They call him a changed man for it.
I keep seeing the man who read my bedtime stories though, who brushed the powdered sugar from one too many ma'amoul biscuits off my nose, the one who taught me to swim and told me about the goat named Badra who had lived in his backyard. He'd wanted to name the goat Emira apparently. To which I'd reply, You named me after a goat? He'd laugh with me and shake his head. No, the goat was Badra and when she got old my mother cooked her, habibti. At that, I'd squealed.
I am having a hard time piecing together the past and the present.
"Coffee? Tea?" He offers, twisting his hands.
"I don't like coffee."
At that, he stares at me like I've committed a great sin.
"I know right." This comes from Aryan.
He really is a traitor.
Daniel laughs a good-natured laugh at the glare I throw at Aryan. I didn't even realised I was glaring at him until my father found amusement in it. I pause.
"How's Dimitri?" He asks, still eager for more conversation.
Of course he asks about Dima. He'd always been around. I'm not even sure how long. All I know is that we learnt to ride bikes together, our houses tucked so close-by in the hills of Calabasas, and that when his older brother pushed him off his bike, I'd been there to push back. Dima had always been around and I like to think he would always be around. I hadn't told him I'd be coming here. I hadn't told him a lot. Its more like, I hope he would always be around.
My answer to Daniel is dry. "He's good."
Not I fucked Ivan Nazarenko when I was fifteen and I still haven't told his brother any of it or Aryan Shankar isn't my boyfriend, he's Dima's girlfriend's cousin who I also happened to fuck and I haven't told Dima the truth about that either. I guess lying to the people we love for years and years is something we have in common.
I swallow hard.
I'm snapped from my head when Daniel clears his throat. Aryan's arm is no longer over my shoulders, but pressed against my arm as we lean nearby on the cushions. I hadn't even noticed I'd been leaning against him for no apparent reason. My pinkie is touching his and when Daniel looks at me, I find my fingers curling around his wrist for no apparent reason. I toy with the seashells and the beads on his bracelets and he pretends not to notice. It's relaxing.
"Mira," my father says my name with great care. He makes sure not to say Emira. Not after I'd blown up at him for it. He treads around me carefully, like I'm a Petri dish he doesn't want to break. "I'm glad you came."
My fingers slow on the seashells. I lift my eyes to my father's matching ones. Aryan is quiet beside me. If I want to tell Daniel to fuck off, this is my opening. If I want to tell him that I think his daughter is a little too impetuous and should mind her own business, this is my opening. If I want to say that Teta Amal is overbearing and if I never see her again in my life, I'd be fine, I can do that.
However, I slowly manage a nod as I twine my fingers around Aryan's wrist. "I'm glad I came too."
A small smile. The bedtime story smile. With a nod, Daniel doesn't push any more and he leaves us, waving a palm at Aryan.
When he disappears and the torches lining the pool start getting lit, the blue of the sky quickly fading, I finally breathe. It's a good breath of air.
The torch nearest to us is now lit, the flame dancing over the pool's water, framing the edges of Aryan. I uncurl my fingers from around his wrist but leave my hand on the cushion beside his. His cheekbones are cast in gold and red as I turn to stare at him only to find him staring back.
He looks good in all light, a fact of which I will never, ever say to his face, but the firelight makes him glow enough that I'm reminded that he kisses like firelight too.
His lips tilt. My eyes fly up immediately. I'd been eyeing his lips, hadn't I?
The arrogant little spark there confirms it. Caught you staring, Zahed.
Naz is right. We really do have silent conversations.
The realisation makes me speak out loud instead. "I don't want to kiss you," I defend.
I instantly regret the words the moment his eyebrows shoot up. Because the last time I'd said that, I'd quite literally dropped to my knees.
His voice lowers to a whisper, just for me, breath tickling my ear like the licking orange flames of the torches against the fading blue sky. "Behave, Emira," he says to me. "Not in front of all of these people."
I push him away with enough force to knock him into the pool. His palm flies out to catch himself and he leans to the side on that planted palm, narrowly escaping the pool. His laugh rises from him as he regards me. I leer over him and snap back, "How about you behave first?"
Aryan pushes himself back up and grins at me. "Never gonna happen."
His eyes sparkle and the little dimple at his cheek appears. I have the sudden urge to kiss him there. I rode this man in the backseat of his best friend's car and yet I'm now overwhelmed with the urge to kiss his cheek? For fucks sake, Emira.
I pull back from him, aware that we'd grown near enough that I can actually kiss his cheek if I try. Aryan watches me draw away with a knowing grin. He doesn't know shit. He can't possibly know that I want to kiss his damn cheek.
I straighten up, evading his grin. "Can we leave?"
His grin only stretches. "I was giving it an hour tops till you asked that question, not gonna lie."
I shift my eyes to his watch and accuse, "You set another timer?"
"No," he replies. "Maybe I was hoping you'd surprise me, Zahed."
We've been here for well over an hour.
Aryan rises to his feet and offers me a hand. I take it before I could think about it then I let go once I'm on my feet. I run my hands down my the skirt of dress as I stand, feeling his gaze lingering.
I'd changed my outfit three times. It's a dark grey number that cascades off my shoulders into loose-fitting long sleeves, tapered at the wrists and waist, soft fabric just grazing my thighs. I look back up to catch him staring.
The warmth of his stare rockets through me but we start toward the path that'd take us back out front.
We nearly make it when there's the tell-tale clink of bracelets that makes me simultaneously freeze in horror and want nothing more than to bolt away.
Aryan and I don't get to escape before Teta Amal appears and proceeds to kiss me on the cheeks again.
Great, I think as she opens her mouth. We're going to be here for another hour.
♥ ♥ ♥
ARYAN HAS LIPSTICK ON HIS CHEEKS THIS TIME. It's the one constellation for me as we finally make towards the gate.
However, he takes it like a champ, brushing a nonchalant hand down his cheek. I glare at him for it.
He tsks as we walk. "Don't be like that, Zahed," he says. "I know the sight of another woman's lipstick on me riles you up but it's nothing. Doesn't mean a thing. If it makes you feel better—," he taps his cheek, "you can put your lipstick right here."
"You are so immensely full of shit," I inform him and walk ahead. His long limbs sail towards me without fail.
"I hope you trip and fall," I add and walk ahead again.
We're nearing the gate and he's in-step once again, just in time to hear me say, "I'll put some damn lipstick on your fucking casket."
The property is large yet, as I step outside the gate, I find Daya and Naz stood on the side of the street. Naz is waving her hands about, Daya has hers crossed across her chest. They look like polar opposites like that. Daya is thin and tall, stretching limbs and slender shoulders, where Naz is shorter, with soft hourglass curves that flare along her cropped top and flared, striped pants. Daya is still where Naz is fluttering. They're so involved in each other that they don't see me so I'm glad.
I make to walk straight past them only for Aryan to slow.
I glare at him when their attention finally catches on us.
Keep walking, I tell myself.
Naz doesn't let me get away that easily. I don't think she lets anything happen easily. She calls over my shoulder, her voice a boisterous echo down the street. "Do you ride?"
I stop.
My cheeks flame. Aryan glances down at me and a slow grin creeps over his lips. I glare.
Not that type of ride, my stare snaps to him.
His response is a wry lifted brow that says You thought it, not me.
I debate ignoring Nazmiya and continuing down the street but she's persistent. "Horses," she continues.
Daya elbows her sharply.
Aryan bites back a laugh.
I turn and glare at the teenaged brat.
She beams, happy to have gotten a reaction at all.
"I think you talk too much for a fourteen year old." My voice is flat.
"At least, I'm not boring. Right, sis?" She winks.
There it is again. Sis.
I debate telling her to fuck off. It's probably not okay to tell a child to fuck off twice in one day. I suppose I'd have to bide my time.
I mentally pause, tyres screeching in my brain.
How had I gone from never wanting to meet these girls to mentally anticipating that I'd end up seeing them again?
Aryan spears past my thoughts, repeating, "Do you ride, Zahed?" He adds, with a grin, "Horses." My glower snaps his way.
I'm going to give him such a slow and painful death it isn't funny.
I refrain from looking at Naz and whether or not she's smirking at that. She's fourteen. And needs to mind her own damn business.
Before Naz can say something despicable, Daya cuts in, saying, "Baba said he took you to the ranch when you were little so we just assumed you'd know too."
He told them about that? What else did they know about me? My eyes narrow.
Daya casts a wary look at that and says, "You don't have to—,"
"You should come," Naz interrupts. She points at Aryan. "He can come too. Since he's like— your emotional support punching bag or whatever."
My lips twitch into a smile at that. I can't help it. Aryan, on the other hand, he makes an indignant sound and says that I probably can't even throw a punch for shit. I never actually tried to punch him, despite thinking about it several times, but that insult makes me strongly consider it.
"You can't say no," Naz presses on, hands falling to her hips. "You owe me. After all, you toilet-papered my house."
Daya gasps. "That was you?"
"No, it wasn't," Aryan cuts in. His voice playfully drops but everyone can hear him as he whispers to me, "They're onto us. Deny, deny, deny." I roll my eyes.
Naz, however, laughs at that but it's cut short when her sister jabs her in the shoulder. "You knew and didn't tell me?"
"Surprise?" Naz offers.
"I hate you," Daya tells her sister.
"Yeah, yeah." Naz waves her off and her dark-eyed attention swivels back to me. "See you there, sis. I'll send you the details once you follow me on Instagram."
Just to spite her, I jerk my chin at Daya. "I'll follow you instead."
Naz throws her hands up in the air. "Oh, come on!"
♥ ♥ ♥
I'M FISHING MY KEYS FROM THE POCKET OF MY DRESS as he bids the girls goodbye.
Dresses with pockets are man's greatest invention.
He catches up, hands slid into his pockets. I catch him eyeing the keys as we approach my car.
I stop on the road and turn to him. "You want to drive, don't you?"
He grins like I've just offered him his favourite toy, eyes lighting up excitedly. There's that dimple again.
I push the keys into his chest before he can even say yes.
He grabs them and falls into the driver's seat with that practiced precision of his.
"Buckle up, Zahed," he hums over to me as the engine whirs to life with a quick twist of wrist on his part.
I buckle up in the passenger seat as we roll down the hill and I keep my mouth closed, refraining from telling Aryan Shankar that I really like to watch him drive.
A beat passes in the car in silence. If he notices me staring, he says nothing.
I slip off my shoes, finding them easier to take off than to put on. I toss them into the back and lean the back of my head against the glass and face him as I draw my leg up under me on the leather seat. His eyes shift my way then back on the road. I play with the anklet and try to find the words.
However, Aryan suddenly draws the car off the road. The setting sun paints the sky in orange and purple but as he turns the wheels and drops his hands to face me, he's all I see, not the colours exploding behind him.
His eyes raze me and I pause.
"Mira," he says my name with utter destruction. "If you keep looking at me like that, I'm going to crash your fucking car, we clear?"
I blink. "I was just looking at you trying to figure out how to say thank you—,"
"Thank you?" He repeats, still eyeing me with that suddenly burning gaze. Had I really been staring at him like that all along? I need to get a grip.
I go on anyway, aware that I was losing it, "For today, for what you said that day too, for the toilet paper—," I'm not even sure what I'm thanking him for at this point. "But thank you."
Aryan stares at me like I've sprouted two heads. I shift on the seat, doubtful all of a sudden.
But he says, "Don't fucking thank me." Then, his seatbelt slides off with a sharp metallic clink as it knocks into the door and he's leaning across the space to kiss me hard.
I don't get a breath. Not a single breath. Aryan's fingers knot through my hair, lips grazing over mine with undaunted intensity. His free hand snakes around my ankle, rocking sparks through me with one single knowing brush of thumb and then he's pulling me across the car, lips never breaking from mine, right down onto his lap.
A breath catches in my throat when I feel the solid press of him between my legs. My body acts on its own accord, knees spilling down on either side of him until I'm basically grinding on him so much so that he has to tear away from my lips to cuss in my ear. It's filthy and vibrant and rakes through me like a struck matchstick. I could do this all day. I could become a poet with the things he says, voice coloured with want.
His hands fist at my hips, drawing me to a halt. I don't even get to complain because his hand is snaking down then up. He doesn't stop, not when my breath hitches as he slides his hand along my thigh, not even when my knees part even more for him, not even when he draws the soaked fabric between my legs aside in a single smooth motion and the cool air washes between us only to, without halt, be replaced by his fingers. Aryan slides two fingers right down my wetness and my knees shake on either side of him when his index brushes tauntingly against my clit.
I cling to his shoulders when he does it again. And again. I shouldn't be surprised. He's wicked and he's enjoying the shudder of my knees against the leather, digging into the seat as I soak his fingers without him even slipping them into me.
But then he stops and before I can complain, he's curling his slick fingers over one of my hands and guiding it right down where he'd left. I don't breathe. Not even when he curves his hand right over mine and presses my fingers to my entrance. My head is half-buried in his neck and the seat over his shoulder. His cologne is tied around me as he says, voice rough, "Look at me."
He's going to kill me. His hand tightens on mine and I look up. I can't breathe. The sky is darkening by the second. Orange fading to blue right outside the window. No cars pass. The stars will be out in no time yet all I can see is the dark haze of his eyes on me. "Don't thank me," he says in that edged voice. God, I feel wetness trail down my fingers just at the sound of it. He must feel it too because he grins a dark grin.
This grin is different from his other grins. There's no sun. The stars are swallowed whole by the dark sky of his gaze. This one is only for me. "Just tell me how you've thought about me this whole fucking week like I've thought about you."
I swallow hard. "I broke a Petri dish thinking about you," I admit.
A pause. My cheeks colour. Petri dish? Really? But then he laughs, making my entire body hum toward that sound. He's smiling when his laughter fades.
I want him to move his hand but he doesn't. He's making me work for it. "Yeah? Mira?" My name floats between us like sweet smoke. "Because I think about you too. Because you're fucking hell with a pretty little mouth." His thumb traces my clit in one smooth sailing circle and my mouth parts with a silent sound but then he's gone again. "Yeah, like that. Just like that."
My hand falls from his shoulder to curl around his wrist between my legs. I'm delirious, fingers digging into his bracelets. But he doesn't budge. "Aryan," I say his name and I swear a shudder rips through him.
He grabs my hand at his wrist and pulls it back over his shoulder, his other hand tightening once more between my legs, both of our fingers so slick. "Show me how you think about me Zahed," he says and it's such a heady, dangerous command flaming through his voice that I cave almost instantly.
His hold slackens on mine just as my fingers twitch. I can't get him out of my head. That's the truth. But I'm no fucking good with words so I settle for pushing my fingers into myself under his stare and letting him measure the little breath that spears past my lips.
The small of my back presses into the wheel behind me as I arch against my own hand. I move slow because I don't want to come on my own hand. I want it to be his and I think he knows that because when my thumb drifts to my clit, he beats me to it. I shudder as Aryan makes lazy circles against me, in rhythm with the movement of my hand, like he can read me like a book.
I don't say a word, my body thrumming. I tilt my hair over my head, let it fall over my shoulder, the air conditioning waving over the hot skin of the side of my neck. My hips jerk forward and my fingers slip out, a moan on my lips. I'm going to come and he hasn't even touched me.
As I lift my hand back up, I realise I spoke too soon. Aryan doesn't even miss a beat, replacing my fingers with his in a single motion that has me rocking right down onto his hand. His fingers curl, his thumb keeps circling and I'm grasping his shoulder for support in no time. He does it better and he knows it.
"Like this?"
He slams me against the wheel and I half expect the horn to go off but it doesn't and he's at the skin of my throat, lips murmuring praise for every cry that crashes from me.
But even though he praises me as he coaxes me near, just as I feel impossibly close, he stops entirely, his hand leaving me.
"Fuck you— no," I'm saying, so wild that my hand even seeks to replace his. He only laughs and grabs my wrist, his other hand reaching below the seat. Then, we're falling and my complaints die on my lips.
The seat now tipped back, I straddle Aryan but it doesn't last long. He flips us with a hand at the small of my back. The leather thumps below me as my back presses into the seat. My heart picks up as he leers over me, settled on top with unadulterated desire clouding his gaze. The sky is blue behind him, nighttime sliding around us.
"My shirt pocket," he explains before sliding his hands up my legs and coming back down with my soaked underwear. I lean forward, understanding as my hand goes to his pocket. I grasp the foil just as he throws my panties somewhere that I don't really care to find.
I keep the condom between my teeth as my hands move rushingly toward his belt and the thick imprint straining there. I'm gone, absolutely gone, no impulse control, nothing. All I know is that I need him.
Then he's there, belt undone, in my hand. His lip is between his teeth when I tear open the condom just like I'd watched him do that night. With my teeth. I'm rolling it on him as he runs a hand below my left knee, draping it across the glovebox. His hands tighten with ever move I make and when they finally drop to my other ankle and skim the gold there, I know there's no damn seatbelt for this.
He tugs my leg right over his shoulder. There's the glint of gold over his shoulder and he eyes it with a twist of lip before looking back down at me, legs spread and breathless below him, my fingers circling his base, wanting nothing more than to pull him close. "Pretty," he comments.
My legs strain on either side of him, my dress ridden up indecently high. I'm desperate as I pant, "Shut up and fuck me."
Amusement mingles with the darkened shadow of his gaze. He's got my chin between his fingers. "Fuck you, Emira?" He asks, "Is that a threat or a promise?"
"Threat," I answer without fail.
He tsks. "You don't get to make threats from down there, Zahed." He grapples with my ankle and leans in close as he whispers, "You're too used to getting what you want."
And yet he gives it to me anyway. In one long, dizzying thrust that has me arching up into him as he fills me completely.
The world blanks. It's just him and those lips of his that cover mine as he pulls out only to pound back in, my hips bucking under him. He picks up a fierce, near punishing rhythm that has my body rocking up to meet his.
I don't get a breath. Not one breath. I can barely keep up. My nails dig into the leather, dig into his shoulder, my teeth catching his lip as his fingers grip my hips hard enough to bruise, barrelling into me with thrust after thrust. He takes all my air and takes even more as his head dips and he kisses me with a pure firelight kiss
He doesn't stop when the sun has fully set and he doesn't stop even after.
The sky is black when he's done with me.
♥ ♥ ♥
i wrote that bh chapter and this chapter in the same 24hours so i actually have no idea what is going on LMAO
i had to ask myself why i was writing smut at 10am tho