He slid one shoe off, then the other, his palms possessively skating along my calves. His voice was a low rumble, a vibration I felt more than heard. "I love your legs," he murmured, his gaze hot enough to scorch. "They’re so long, so endless, I could spend a lifetime between them and it still wouldn't be enough." As he rose, his mouth was a trail of fire. A kiss on my dress at my knee, teeth grazing the fabric. Another, higher on my thigh, a slow, open-mouthed press that made me whimper. Then one more over my stomach, his breath searing through the silk, a promise of where he was headed. By the time he stood beforeme, my heart was a frantic, primal throb hammering in my chest. I was no longer just a writhing mess of desire; I was a live wire, completely undone, the world erased until there was only the pressure of his hands and the desperate, aching space he was about to fill.
His gaze swept over my silhouette. “This dress is exquisite.”
“Oh, um, tha—”
“Can I take it off?”
My brain screamedyes—capital letters, neon lights, and embarrassingly eager—but my vocal cords seemed to have temporarily disconnected, leaving me suspended in an unbearably charged silence. All I could manage was a flustered little bob of my chin.
He found the back of my dress, fingers brushing against the zipper. For a moment, he stilled, his lips at my ear. “Tell me to stop,” he whispered, his voice shaking with restraint. “Tell me to stop until I’ve begged for it. Until I’ve earned it. Because I haven’t, Lillian. I’m definitely not worthy enough to see you like this, totouchyou like this.”
I suddenly couldn’t tell if he was still talking or simply pouring warm honey down my throat.
“Don’t stop.” The answer fell out before I could think, before I could talk myself out of it. “You can beg later.”
The zipper slid down slowly. His knuckles stroked the bare skin of my back as he worked, his touch careful, like he knew exactly how much this meant. My pulse thrashed at my temples, my hands clutching at his shirt like I needed proof that he was real, that this was happening.
His lips found the corner of my mouth again, the dress slipping from my body. “Are you sure?”
I nodded, barely coherent. “Yes.”
The fabric pooled at my feet with a soft sigh, and for a long moment, neither of us moved. His eyes traveled overme leisurely, memorizing me piece by intimate piece, my skin flushing everywhere his stare landed. I’d never been seen like this before. I’d always imagined I’d feel small under a man’s gaze, picked apart and exposed in all the ways my mother had warned me against.Don’t eat, Lillian. You could always be skinnier, Lillian. You can’t be too tall and fat, Lillian.
I waited for her voice to come back, to echo in the chambers of my mind the way it always did when I caught my reflection, but there was nothing. The noise was gone. All I could hear was the sound of my heartbeat, and the way he looked at me like I was something ethereal, like he couldn’t relish the idea that I was real. I could see his mouth vibrating, mumbling awed praise in Arabic.
He stepped closer, slow enough for me to stop him if I wanted to—but I didn’t. His hand came up to cup my face, thumb skimming my jaw before he kissed me. “New rule,” he whispered roughly. “No clothes allowed in the loft.God, my wife is beautiful. I can’t believe you’re mine.”
I laughed quietly before his mouth found mine again—deeper this time, urgent, consuming, tongues knotting, teeth clashing. The world outside disappeared, fancy fabric fluttered to the ground, and everything I’d spent so long denying finally gave way.
Chapter Thirty-Five
FOR THE SECOND TIMEin my life, I woke up tangled with Khalifa—except this time, there weren’t any clothes involved.
Sunlight spilled through the curtains, painting gold across skin that wasn’t mine, and for a long, suspended moment, I just lay there, struggling to figure out what universe I’d woken up in.
I didn’t grow up fantasizing about my first kiss, let alone my firsttime. I was the shy and slightly immature girl who turned off the TV when the kissing scenes came on, who thought “fade to black” was merciful and realistic, and yet, here I was, thirty-two years old, freshly deflowered by the human embodiment of a bad decision. Somehow in the chaos of last night, I’d lost both my first kissandmy virginity to a man who couldn’t even say the word “feelings” without breaking into hives.
I stared up at the ceiling, trying to remember at what point I’d decided that was a good idea. Somewhere between “I hate you” and “don’t stop,” apparently.
Now, as his arm lay draped across my waist, muscled and warm and entirely unfair, I had no idea what came next. Was I supposed to...make him breakfast? Wake him up for round three—or was it four? I lost track around the time I forgot my own name.
I glanced down at him—peaceful, infuriatingly beautiful, ridiculously long eyelashes casting shadows across his cheeks—and immediately looked away.
Nope. Not doing that.
Because any breakfast made by me would probably poison him, and my lady parts needed anunpeace treaty, a hot bath, and several aspirin, I decided to do what men had been doing to women for the last century and a half: slip out without saying a word.
I inched out from under his arm with all the stealth of a jewel thief, wincing when the bedsheet rustled. The moment the mattress dipped, he followed instinctively, hand drifting after me until it reacquired my waist like I was a misplaced pillow. He tugged me back in, fingers skimming over what, until recently, had been uncharted territory. He mumbled something in his sleep—probably Arabic for “don’t even think about it”—and I stopped, holding my breath until his chest settled into its steady rise and fall again.
When I finally made it to the edge of the bed, I stood there for a second, staring at the heap of his tux jacket, his watch glinting faintly beside it, his phone face down. Evidence of a night I was definitely not emotionally prepared to unpack. Steve was perched in her fancy nook, very much awake and deeply unimpressed, staring at me like she was the sole juror who’d already reached a verdict.
I found my dress crumpled on the floor, my hijab draped carelessly over the lamp—may it rest in peace—and started gathering the wreckage of my dignity. My legs wobbled, my heart still hadn’t figured out if it should feel exhilarated, mortified, or just plain stupid.
“Where are you going?” His voice came out husky, eyes closed, body perfectly still.
I froze mid-step, clutching my dress like it could shield me from being caught doing the walk of shame. “Um...I have to shower, pray, and go to work. I have an...emergency delivery?”
One corner of his mouth curved. “Wait a minute. I’ll join you in the shower.”
