He releases my wrists purely to dispense with our clothes, a swift, capable undressing, the rustle of soft fabrics hitting the floor. His every movement stirs me to a higher pitch of need. He rips the top off a foil square, sheathing his length in a condom before coming to hover over me. I stare up at him, and there is silence everywhere, a deadening softness that leaves room for the cacophony of my blood’s frantic rushing. An ancient drum beats within me and as I look into his eyes, I know he feels it too. Yet I need to grab hold of something to tether myself to reality. I press my hand into his chest, my throat thick, emotions welling in my throat.
“This doesn’t change anything.”
In response, he drives into me and I cry out, welcoming his length, my muscles tightening around him in a spasm of euphoric relief, my body his completely.
He moves and I move – as though we are dancers taking part in an urgent, important ballet, a dance defined by our souls. I wrap my legs around his waist, holding him deep, releasing him, kissing him, craving him even as he takes possession of me piece by piece, until I am no longer sure who I am.
In the caves, he pleasured me, but now it is mutual, a shared falling apart, a joint surrender. I am barely conscious of him and at the same time I am aware of his every movement, as though each shift creates a ripple in the fabric that surrounds us. I feel his pleasure, his drowning sense of need and as I tip over the edge of sanity and reality, he releases a guttural oath and joins me, his body wracked with pleasure, his chest moving rapidly, his eyes shut as he rides that delirious, joyous wave.
Our breathing is a rough orchestra, hawing in the silence. He drops down on me, his body melded to mine, my breasts crushed beneath his torso, the hair on his chest sending me into a tailspin of sensation. Every nerve ending is quivering with awareness; contact only exacerbates it.
My heart is racing, the physical exertion of our pleasure making my blood run hard and fast.
It is the only reason my heart races.
“This changes nothing,” I say, once more, needing to hear those words myself as much as I need him to.
He pushes up to look at me, his eyes hooded and impossible to read. His cheeks are dark, slashed with colour. “I am aware of that, azeezi.”
* * *
“Stop here.”
His command draws my attention to his face and the second my eyes connect with his autocratic profile my pulse fires in my veins. God, he’s handsome. Utterly, indescribably hot. My body throbs with remembered pleasure. The way we’d made love in the early hours of the morning is imprinted in my mind. I cannot look at him without remembering the feeling of his body on mine, his command of my sensations, his ability to drive me wild with a single touch.
He speaks with every expectation of being obeyed. That power stokes a flame in my belly.
The car draws to a halt and I look beyond him, to the view beyond his window. “Where are we? I thought we were going straight to the airstrip?”
“Not quite.” His smile is tight, and for no reason I can think of, tension radiates from him.
“No? Is there something else you have to do?”
His brows knit closer together and I sense his hesitation. “Not me. You.”
He jerks his head in the direction of my window. Instinctively, I pivot in my luxurious leather seat, looking beyond the car. It is a hot day, with waves of steam rising off the side of the road. I cast my eyes over the phenomenon lazily, before my gaze focusses higher. A large shrub stands sentinel over a grand, but very old, house. Built of clay with faded orange walls and a brown roof, and a path running from the street to the front door, it takes a second for memories to lock into place. My heart clutches and my stomach rolls. A bead of sweat breaks out on my forehead.
I remember this.
I remember it. My hand fumbles for the door but before I can open it, a guard appears, drawing it wide for me to step out. The day’s warmth hits me hard in the face. My eyes sting with tears and heat.
Zahir is beside me a moment later; I feel his presence, reassuring and brick-like. How ironic when he’s the man that took this from me in the first place.
The shrub bursts with red flowers; I remember the way they smell. As a girl, I used to pick them until my skirt was full, carrying them to the house in a makeshift basket of fabric. I’d sit on the lounge room floor – cool tiles beneath bare legs – and weave the stalks together to make a crown. I remember the fragrance as it sat on my head, sweet like vanilla.
I can’t form words. I turn to look at him, my lips parted, eyes moist.
His gaze runs over my face, a grim expression on his. “Go on.”
I swallow hard. “Is there time?”
He frowns. “Of course.” He gestures to the house. “I presumed you’d want to see it.”
I turn back to the house. I do, but at the same time… “I’m nervous.”
“Why?” His response is almost too q
uick.