I tell myself that over and over again, an incantation I’m desperately trying to inject into my bloodstream, in the hope it will cool the thoughts that have overtaken my mind. I replay our conversation on repeat, frustration at his attitude – and deep down at the doubts that have begun to cloud my mind – stretching parts of me beyond my recognition. Damn it, I want to hate him. I need to hate him.
If I don’t hate him, I’m honestly terrified of what will happen. I roll onto my side, drawn to face him despite the torrent of thoughts hammering through me. In sleep, he is no different. Strong and powerful, an aura of uncontained power emanating from him even with his eyes closed and his breathing rhythmic. I have no doubt he could wake and spring into action, arguing with me, seducing me, negotiating foreign policy – whatever is required of him.
He is magnetic and fascinating, compelling and intriguing. These are not adjectives I want to use to describe my husband.
When I embarked on this marriage, I didn’t give it too much thought. I acted on im
pulse and instinct, the lure of my father’s return all I needed to guarantee my cooperation. But now I understand the difficulties here. I’m playing with fire and being burned seems inevitable. Marriage isn’t a business arrangement. Not when it’s like this.
“You should sleep.”
His voice is muffled, and I startle. His eyes open, locking to mine, and rational thought becomes impossible. Not for him, of course, if his earlier comments can be believed.
“I’m trying.”
He sighs, pushing up on one elbow. “You’re angry with me.”
Oh, how I wish I were. I bite down on my lower lip, shaking my head.
His eyes flare. “Then what?”
I’m the opposite to Zahir. Passion runs through my veins, dictating almost everything I think I want. Right now, I want him, and it’s hard to talk myself out of that, because of the strength of my need. My own body is betraying me.
He moves quickly, his hands grabbing my wrists, pinning them to my sides, his body coming over mine, big and heavy and exactly what I desire.
I bite back a groan, but I’m sure he must feel it reverberate through me.
“I need to hear what you want.”
A command. It fires through me, sparking something deep in my gut.
“Isn’t it obvious?”
He drops his face closer to mine, brushing our lips. I can’t hold in my moan any longer; it’s a soft sound of utter surrender.
He rolls his hips, pressing his arousal between my legs, our clothing a frustrating barrier to what I desire.
“Tell me what you want.”
Another command.
I stare at him, needing my heart to listen to my mind, needing to retain some control over what’s happening between us. My surrender is inevitable, but this has to be on my terms.
“I hate you.”
Surprise is obvious on his features and instantly regret stirs in my chest. I know I can’t have hurt him – that’s simply not possible – but I wish I hadn’t spoken so plainly.
“Whatever you think your justification was, I will never forgive you for what you did to him.”
His expression is inscrutable, his physical presence unrelenting, and I’m glad for that.
“But I don’t want to fight this anymore.” It’s a simple admission, drawn from deep within me. “It’s not rational. It’s not perfect. But I need you, Zahir.”
His breath is one long exhalation. His eyes read mine, scanning them intently.
“It’s just sex.” I’m determined he understands that – that I understand that. “It changes nothing about what I think of you. Got it?”
He doesn’t acknowledge that. He simply kisses me, a kiss that sparks a flood of fireworks in my body, a relief and an agony. My hands are rendered immobile by his touch and I lift my back in a silent, ancient invitation, a plea for him to take me now. Memories of our coming together in the cave haunt me – but they’re insufficient. I want more of him, and I want his own surrender and release, proof that this desire flooding between us is bigger than him, and me, and our mutual control.