He doesn’t react. I have the sense he’s not listening to me now. His eyes lock to mine, a silent question in their depths, as his fingers move to the strap of my singlet, threading through it. I hold my breath, my own questions forming, waiting, watching him, as he moves the strap in place. Frustration zips through me. He drops his hand to my side and before I can question the wisdom of my actions, I reach for the bottom of my shirt and pull it over my head, leaving me half-naked in bed.
A hiss emerges from between his teeth.
A primal need is driving me now. It’s as though the idea of a baby has stirred some ancient, possessive desire, an ownership of this man completely at odds with the individualism he was just espousing.
“We’re born alone, and we might die alone, but we don’t live alone,” I say moving infinitesimally closer.
“Don’t we?” His look pierces my soul, and an ache spreads through my chest. What am I doing? He’ll never trust me, never care for me, never love me. Zahir won’t feel those things for anyone. He’s told me that from the beginning. His focus is on his kingdom, nothing and no one will ever derail that, let alone the daughter of a man he believes capable of such betrayal.
The most I can hope for is the physical relationship we’ve developed.
And the love and affection of children?
And the happiness of my father.
Is it enough?
Can I live with those compensations while knowing Zahir’s heart is cold to me, and my own heart, towards him, is…I bite down on my lower lip, realisation throbbing through me, panic spreading to the tips of my fingers.
A pulsing throb of comprehension threatens to blind me, but I ignore it, refusing to grapple with the question of my emotions at this point. Other instincts are driving me, other needs paramount.
“Zahir?”
His cheeks are slashed with colour, his eyes grim as he stares at me long and hard.
“What do you want from me, little one?”
I arch a brow, my mind spinning. “Isn’t that obvious?”
He shakes his head once. “You hate me.”
I should hate him. I want to hate
him. What he did to my father ruined his life. I spent a long time thinking I would want to throw this man off a bridge if we ever came face to face, and yet I don’t.
Guilt is inside of me but I ignore that too.
“And I’m glad. This is so much easier, and better, if you hate me.”
He kisses me before I can respond, and I surrender, the complexity of our situation a tangle in the pit of my stomach that I will deal with later, after. For now, there is only this, and as opposed to everything else between us, sex is easy. It’s right. There’s a perfection to our coming together that is ancient and beautiful. There is no need to speak or examine what we feel when we make love, it’s a chemical reaction that is necessary and important. I dig my nails into his shoulder, drawing him on top of me, his body weight reassuring and perfect, as he runs his mouth over my décolletage to my breasts, tormenting my nipples one by one until I’m calling his name at the top of my lungs, uncaring if anyone – even the whole country – hears me. His mouth runs lower, over my stomach, then lower still, finding the velvety skin of my inner thighs, whipping it with his tongue as his fingers swirl across my hips. When his mouth lands on my sex I explode, the pleasure impossible to navigate, my heels digging into the bed as I arch my back, my legs moving to give him more access. I am riding a wave and just like his proverb, I’m alone, just me and the heavens, euphoric and primal.
His fingers move to spread my thighs and I groan low in my throat, my heart a frantic beat in my chest as I wait, knowing what pleasure comes next and needing it more than I can describe.
I whimper at the delay; what’s taking so long? But when I open my eyes, he’s moved away from me, his back to me. I bite back a sob – just – then experience a rush of gladness because he’s only moved to find a condom.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say with a shake of my head, betraying far, far too much of myself in that moment, my feelings terrifyingly exposed to his scrutiny. He turns to look at me, his eyes unreadable, his body tense once more, his arousal so strong and powerful. I hold an arm out, reaching for him, but my words seem to have rendered him statue-like.
“I’m sure,” I answer the question he hasn’t posed.
“Amy –,”
“Zahir,” I respond with firmness. “Don’t treat me like a child. I know what I want.”
His eyes flash to mine, heat in our veins as he stalks back to the bed.
“And what is that?”
He needs to hear me say it? Fine. “I want you. Now.”