“Losing yourself?”
“Can I speak frankly?”
“Yes.”
“You’re used to experienced women. I have sophistication, and I was well-educated because, as you know, my family was very wealthy until recently, but I haven’t truly lived yet. I don’t know how to play the game. When you say those things to me, I fear they will end up imprinted in the wrong place in my head. You can have any woman you want, so I only ask that we keep our relationship professional.”
Once again, I gaze at her, searching for any sign that she’s just playing hard to get, but she’s not. Madeline doesn’t react to me like any other women I’ve been with. I have no doubt that we both want the same thing—to have each other—but she doesn’t veer off her path or what she has envisioned for herself. Against my will, my admiration for the woman grows.
“I won’t play games with you. You have my word. But you’ll keep this dress. I don’t give a damn what people think.”
She looks at me as if she’s about to protest, but at the last second, she nods. “Okay, Kamal. I’ll wear it the way you want.”
After she returns to the dressing room and closes the door behind her, I sit back in the same spot. Her contradictions fascinate me. She tries to act grown-up, to stand on her own two feet, and at the same time, she shows a submissive side that drives me wild.
Does Madeline have any idea how her refusing me only makes me desire her even more?
Despite that, I will keep my word. I won’t play games with her anymore. I didn’t lie about that. That won’t be our dynamic. I know that whatever happens between us will be different from anything I’ve ever experienced. I will have to find an alternative route.
I feel like a voyeur as Madeline steps out of the dressing room and sits in an armchair to put on the sandals she wore to work.
If I were a better man, I would give her privacy. On the other hand, if I can’t touch her, I can at least look.
She bends forward, giving me a full view of her pink bra. I remember how big and perky her breasts are, and my body reacts.
With any other woman, I would think she’s doing it on purpose, but I know she has no idea how delicious she looks in her unconscious display.
She seems to be struggling to fasten the sandal, and unable to control my desires, I step closer to her and kneel down, taking over the task.
“You don’t have to,” she says, and when I move her hands away, her fingers are trembling.
“Let me do it.”
She withdraws, and satisfied, I observe the goosebumps on her skin as I finish lacing her sandals.
“A Sheikh kneeling at my feet?”
I stop what I’m doing and lift my eyes to her. “Are you really that innocent, Madeline?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Has no man ever knelt before you?”
It takes her a few seconds to understand, and when she does, her face and neck flush.
I know I crossed the line, but I need to know if she’s as inexperienced as she appears.
“This is one of those moments when I should tell you that you can’t ask things like that.”
“The question has nothing to do with my culture. This is me. Rough most of the time. I don’t beat around the bush when I want to know something.”
“It’s an intimate question.”
“Answer it.”
“No,” she says.
“No, what?”
