The beloved sound of your voice reawakens me. You woke me earlier with heated kisses and greedy hands until I was left quivering with exhaustion and drugged with orgasmic delight.
“You’d tempt the devil himself,” you murmur, nuzzling your nose against my temple as you pull the blankets off me.
Blinking, I roll onto my back as you return to the bed and straddle me. The sun’s light coming through the window tells me it’s still early morning.
My sleepy gaze rakes your naked body. You are a dazzling vision of sleek lines and rippling muscle. Your hair is still damp from a recent shower, and humidity is thick in the air. “You’re one to talk.”
Your grin is a throwback, a flash of cocky amusement from your younger self. You’ve been growing younger by the hour, your face softening and your shoulders’ rigidness relaxing. Sexual excess suits you. You become more energetic by the day as if you don’t need sleep at all, just orgasms.
Your skin is cool, as mine is becoming without the duvet’s insulation, and your face is smooth and soft. You’ve adopted the ritual of rising before me to shave, then returning to the bed and the slick depths of my sex. Making love is now penciled in before your first shower, a scheduled daily activity as obligatory as hygiene. How would you write it out, my love, if you were to? Keep wife cooperative? Or perhaps, Impregnate wife? You’re certainly doing your absolute best to ensure I’m never not soaked with your semen.
I’m not complaining, not only because I’m well-pleasured but because your animalistic nature is a match for my own. When you grow up struggling for a place in this world, bereft of the safety net of parental support, you don’t have the luxury of civility. I know your soul recognizes its mate in me and revels in the knowledge that you can be as feral as you want, and I’ll relish it.
“Tell me the truth,” I say, looking up at your devastatingly gorgeous face and body, “you’re an incubus.”
Your deep, husky laugh reaches inside me and caresses that dark, quiet place I hadn’t known existed before you. More than anything you do or say, it’s the feeling of being touched in the deepest part of my being that enflames me.
I smile. “That’s why you’re growing younger and stronger, and I’m left weak in the knees.”
“That’s the way I like you.” You bend to kiss me with such heat my toes curl.
I’m still trying to process that we’ve had a handful of such days. We’ve wallowed in each other to the point that the ravening need has eased into luxuriant insatiability. You are warm and playful, the very picture of a hopelessly infatuated man.
But I’m not deceived by that guise to any degree. My mother didn’t suffer fools.
Beneath your charming, relaxed facade is calculating predation. I catch those incisive looks you throw my way when you think I’m not paying attention. I understand that while you’re innately a highly sexual man, the frequency of our lovemaking is very much about control, something you’ve suffered without since the day we met. You’re cataloging my response to every caress and position. Each new encounter hones your technique. You were already a consummate lover, but now you’re focused on mastering me in particular.
Even as my mind comprehends your intent, my body has become your slave. When you joined me in the kitchen yesterday, looking over my shoulder at the sandwiches I was putting together, it seemed like innocent curiosity. Then your lips touched my shoulder, your hand slid between my legs, and in less than five minutes, I was quivering in orgasm, my body held upright solely by your hand at my breast and your fingers inside me. Then, as quickly as you’d appeared, you strolled back to your office. I was left sagging against the cool countertop, trying to gather my wits enough to finish making lunch.
It’s a siege. I’ve been pondering to what end you’re strategizing. I expect it’s a blend of pride and punishment. You can’t stop trying to prove your worth to Lily, even as you seek to punish her for leaving you. You’re certainly trying to constrain your obsession within the lens of sexual desire. Between work and sex, you’ve hardly the time to examine what it is that really ties you to me and how utterly terrifying it is.
Now, you look down at me with such love I can’t breathe. Joy suffuses my heart the way sunlight brightens the room. I am cherished, adored and desired by an incredible man.
This perfection can’t last. We exist in a bubble we’ve created, but reality spreads around the periphery in a thin, oily film whose iridescence hides a mounting horror. The whisper of parting is forever between us, the foreboding that we’re stealing moments.
“You’re perfect,” you praise me, a distorted reflection of my thoughts. Your hands stroke my torso, and I stretch sinuously into your warm palms. “I don’t think I’ll ever get over how lucky I am to have you.”
Lowering your head, you seal your mouth over mine.
The sweet stroking of your velvet tongue makes me sigh with pleasure. I melt into the luscious delight of your thorough kissing. Your lips are so firm but soft. Your deep, slow licks savor me. There’s a low hum of pleasure in your throat, like the purr of a big cat. You cradle my head in your hands and take my mouth as if the taste of me is all you need now and forever.
I convey my gratitude for your love with worship, running my adoring hands over every bit of your tremendous body I can reach. You arch into my touch and catch my lower lip between your teeth, tugging.
Stretching over me, you hold on as you turn onto your back, taking me with you. Your chest pillows my cheek. Your fingers tangle in my hair. “If I don’t get up and start working, I’ll end up staying in bed with you all day.”
“Not yet.” I reach over to grab your phone off the nightstand. Settling into the crook of your shoulder, I open the camera and hold the phone high in the air.
You huff out a laugh. “I’m surprised I have any storage left with the number of pictures you’ve taken.”
I snap a picture while kissing your cheek. Then look up and smile wide, not just for posterity but because you’ve got the sexy, satisfied look of a man who’s just had great sex, then you’ve capped it off with a smile so bright with happiness it makes my heart sing. I take a burst of pictures, which makes us both laugh.
“I’m going to get dressed,” you tell me, “and you’re going to review the ECRA+ advertising creative and give me your opinion over lunch.”
It’s not a question. Over the past few days, when you’ve been sated enough to keep your body idle, you’ve caught me up on events both big and small. It’s been a flood of information as if I’m cramming for a quiz you don’t want me to fail.
“I said I would,” I concede, “but I’m still waiting on your reasoning for wanting my opinion. You have employees who handle your marketing; you’ve trusted their instincts before. And this is your sister’s project. I’m sure she’s done a wonderful job. I’m sure your mother guaranteed she did.”
Your chest lifts and falls heavily beneath my cheek. “I want you involved with Baharan. It’s yours as much as it’s mine.”
“I don’t want it.”
“You don’t get to say that,” you retort, with a playful tug of my hair.
“Why not?”
“This was your plan, the reason you groomed me. You –”
““Grooming” isn’t the right word,” I say wryly.
You shoot me a look. “I never even thought of Baharan before you came along. You brought it up and suggested I revive it.”
“I asked if you’d ever considered reviving it.”
“Semantics.”
“Elucidation.”
“That’s fucking annoying!”
I smile. “You know how I am about using the right word.” Crossing my arms on your chest, I set my chin on my forearms. “Sell your stake if you don’t want it.”
“Our stake. And I never said I don’t want it. I want you involved in it.”
“And I said no, and you said I don’t get to say that.”
Your hand thrusts into my hair to grip my neck. “Why wouldn’t you want to work with me? You’re so good at seeing into people, seeing their potential and capabilities. Why wouldn’t you share that gift with me?”
“I’ll share whatever I can with you, Kane. What’s mine is yours, the good and the bad. I’m sorry about the bad. It’s just –”
“Don’t joke.” Your face is hard, the face of the man I woke up to weeks ago. “And get to the point.”
“You don’t need my approval. I’m proud of you for a million reasons that have nothing to do with your job or bank account. You’re doing brilliantly without me.”
“I don’t want to do anything without you, brilliant or not. And are you seriously psychoanalyzing me?” you snap. “I ask you to work with me, and you try to shrink my head. Okay.”
You slide away and move to get out of bed. I fall onto my back and stare at the ceiling.
Marching toward the closet, you pause midway. I lift my head to study you. You’re still for a moment, your hands clenched at your sides. I know you’re irritated, but your backside is so glorious I can’t help but admire it.
Cursing under your breath, you return and sit on the edge of the bed. Your face is austerely beautiful as you ask, “Why me?”
It’s a question I know is one of the most important, and it’s the first you’ve asked me. That you would even wonder why someone would see your potential and invest in your dreams breaks my heart. It also puts me in the terrible position of glorifying Lily.
“You’re a hard worker,” I begin. “You knew to live within your means. You weren’t sloppy with anything – how you lived, cared your body or handled the women you dated. You weren’t intimidated or diminished by successful men like Ryan Landon, his friends or me, for that matter. You always have good ideas. People seek and value your opinions. I could go on, but you get the idea.”
Your gaze has narrowed into a look of menacing calm. “You shouldn’t know anything about how I handled women I slept with because I never slept with anyone after I first laid eyes on you. I didn’t want anyone else.”
Pursing my lips, I gaze back at the ceiling. “You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t.” You lean over into my field of vision. “How long before I knew you existed did you decide you wanted me for yourself?”
I’m as still as you are, wary now. You’re too clever. You grasp a far-reaching but correct conclusion with a tiny slip on my part. Now you’re wearing the keen look of a sniper who’s locked in on his target. “Does it matter?” I answer cautiously. “That’s not the point.”
“Oh, lover,” you croon dangerously, “you couldn’t be more wrong about that. Every minute we could have been together matters. Those are all moments you owe me. That’s time you’ve stolen, and I’m keeping track of every second, so I get my due.”
I shift to pull the duvet over me, feeling too exposed. It’s much easier to hide wearing makeup and clothes. “I’m a boots-on-the-ground investor, so to speak. There’s only so much you can learn from reading. If I find someone interesting, I like to do a little in-person reconnoitering to see how they behave when they’re not trying to impress anyone.”
Your brows lift. “You stalked me?”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
You continue giving me that dubious look. “Well, come on then. Give me your preferred word for following me around on the sly.”
“Scouting.”
“Yeah … okay. Where did you scout me?”
“On shift at McSorley’s. At games. Stuff like that.”
“Stuff like that …” Your eyes are so dark as you examine me. “What did you see?”
“All your conquests and groupies.” I laugh when you wince. “Don’t you have to get to work?”
“How long did you follow me?”
“Not long. A few weeks before we met here at the party.” I sigh. “I knew I was in trouble the first time I saw you. You were flirting with a girl. You laughed at something she said, and you were just … wow. How you looked – relaxed, sexy, confident – knocked the wind out of me. I knew I wanted you to look at me that way, every day, for the rest of my life.”
Rolling away, I move to slide off the bed. You lunge for me, yanking me back under you.
The look on your face breaks my heart. “Setareh … What am I going to do with you?” You sigh heavily. “If you’d caught my attention, I’d’ve started looking at you like that right then and there.”
“I was afraid. You scared the shit out of me.” I brush a wave of your hair back from your forehead. “In a perfect world, I would’ve put myself in front of you and let Fate weave her magic. You wouldn’t have Baharan. We would’ve packed up and left the country. You would probably be a father now, all things considered. Maybe we’d live on the coast somewhere, and you’d work remotely since your sexual appetite doesn’t leave you room to do much else.”
I tease you to lighten the mood, and it appears effective.
Your features soften, and your eyes warm with tenderness. “What would you be doing?”
“Oh, you know, fending off your amorous advances because I’m busy chasing little replicas of you.”
You rest your forehead against mine. “You would go insane. Your ambitions are too powerful.”
“So are yours.”
“No. I’ve never wanted the world. I want answers, and I want you, that’s it. I’m a much simpler man than you give me credit for.”
I disagree with you, but don’t say so. You are the child of a narcissist, and that’s made you an overachiever. You will always strive to be successful and perfect, to earn the validation of a mother who can show pride one day and vitriolic disappointment the next. A complicated, unstable infatuation with a chimera has entangled you for years. Obsession, rooted in insecurity, has consumed you. But once our destiny is determined, you’ll seek other challenges. You’ll need them.
“I wish we’d had all that time together,” you murmur.
“Haven’t you ever wished that we hadn’t met at all?”
“Never. And I know you wouldn’t change that either.” You study me intently. “You said I wouldn’t have Baharan. Were you serious? You wouldn’t care if I sold our shares?”
“Not if it made you happy. That’s all I want. If rebuilding Baharan hasn’t made you happy, get rid of it.”
You kiss me hard. Then let me go. “If I don’t resist you now, I’ll miss all my morning meetings. Maybe even the afternoon ones, too.”
I shake my head, amused. “Go. Conquer the world. I’ll take care of coffee.”
You hop out of bed with boundless energy and head toward your closet with your long, easy stride. “The creative is on the tablet,” you toss over your shoulder, “in the file-sharing app. You’ll find it. Be sure to look at both the marketing and social folders.”
I push up onto my elbows. “Why are they separate? Shouldn’t social fall under marketing and use the same creative for cohesion?”
You stop at the threshold to the closet and face me, leaning into the jamb. You’re unabashedly naked. And why not? You have the most perfect masculine form. You’re a dream realized.
“Two different divisions,” you reply. “Marketing is in-house. Social is, too, kinda. It was Amy’s company, and we merged it into Baharan after she married my brother. We haven’t fully integrated yet, as far as I know, so they’re separate for now.”
My brows arch. “As far as you know?”
One of your powerful shoulders lifts in a careless shrug. “My mother oversees that end of things. As you know, she came up with the Baharan name and logo, so branding is just something I’ve left to her.”
I remember the frosty looks the two women exchanged in the library and Aliyah’s reaction to Amy’s emergency at work. I remember some other things, too. “She has feelings for you.”
An emotionless mask drops instantly over your features, hiding your thoughts. “My mother? That’s debatable.”
“You know I’m not talking about your mother,” I chide.
You scrub a hand over your face.
I wait for you to either say more or turn away. I won’t push you. I don’t need to – I saw how Amy responds to you.
“For a fraction of a second,” you say gruffly, “she reminded me of you.”
I knew it but am still unprepared for the blow of hearing it. I drop onto my back and return my gaze to the coffered ceiling, where my chaotic thoughts latch on to the perfect symmetry. “You don’t owe me an explanation, Kane.”
“I caught her in the periphery of my vision on a rough day,” you go on. “One of those days when you were the only thing on my mind. It was one night. Less than a night. She ended up meeting Darius because of it.”
My disappointment is fierce. But not for the reason you might suppose.
“You’ve every right to be upset,” you tell me.
“No, I don’t.”
“I’m murderous at the thought of you with anyone else.” The words drip with molten fury.
We’re both quiet for a long time. Ages, it feels like, as my thoughts dance with my demons.
“Can you forgive me, Setareh?” you ask softly.
“Kane …” I shake my head. “You’re asking the wrong woman. You should be apologizing to her.”
You exhale in an audible rush. “That’s fair.”
“I can’t offer you absolution, but your wife was dead, and you were lonely. Give yourself grace – you’re human. That said, try not to forget you’re like catnip for women. Tread with care.”
“I hear you.”
I nod. “I find it miraculous that you aren’t married with children.”
“I would never have married again or built a family.”
“You don’t know that.”
Your arms cross. “The hell I don’t. I would never settle for less. I would never raise a child with less.”
I wince. It’s not jealousy in its usual guise that plagues us. We don’t fear alienation of affection; our affinity is too deep. We envy the giving and taking of pleasure because our relationship is defined by pain.
My lips attempt to curve into a smile. “You could be with another woman, but I’m here instead. I’m happy about that. That’s all that matters.”
“I would never bring another woman here or anywhere. There was never anyone special. Who could ever compete with you?”
I look away quickly, hiding my tears.
“The longing for you was crippling. I learned to live with it, but some days were nightmares.” You stop, held for a moment within the memory of agony. “Some days, I couldn’t stop myself from looking for you, searching for you, in every woman I saw. If someone managed to make me look twice, to hope for even a second, I’d go a little insane. The disappointment was infuriating.” You pause. “So, I’d fuck them.”
I inhale sharply and cover my face with my hands. When I met you, you weren’t capable of such callousness. No, that’s not true. We’re all capable of it; you were simply too kind to indulge in cruelty. Heartbreak has twisted and refashioned you.
“Rage sex is cathartic,” you continue, your words singed with temper. “Then I’d hate myself for being weak. I’d hate you for making me weak. For making me settle for women who didn’t smell, taste or feel like you. Women who would never see in me what you do. So, I’d fuck them again because it made me sick to do it, and I deserved to feel my skin crawl for being so pathetic. Then I couldn’t stand to see them again.”
I twist away from you, my legs curling into my chest. A moment later, I feel the duvet lift and the mattress dip. Your cool skin presses against mine as you spoon me, curling your body to match my fetal position. Your heavy arm drapes over me, pulling me into you, and your lips press contritely to my shoulder. You wanted to hurt me as you’ve been hurt, to punish me as you’ve felt punished. That’s the craziest thing about love: it’s hate turned inside out.
You weren’t a man capable of such honest cruelty when we met. Love for Lily has warped you, and I accept responsibility for that; I can do no less. I catch your hand in my own and link our fingers together.
We don’t say anything. The embrace alone is comforting for both of us. We lie that way for a long time. The position of the sun’s rays on the walls and ceiling shifts.
“Are you okay?” you ask finally.
I nod. “Are you?”
“I feel like scum. Other than that, I’ll be okay if we are.”
“We’ll be okay.”
You start to move. “I’ll call Julian and take the day off.”
I look at you over my shoulder. “Don’t do that.”
Your gaze narrows. “Why not?”
“Because I’m okay,” I insist. “We’re okay. Really. And you need to clear the decks so we can take that honeymoon you promised me.”
Your eyes dart over my face, searching. You’re apparently satisfied because you press a quick, hard kiss to my lips. “I love you.”
I take a deep breath, then sigh. “I know.”
It’s a mad, suffocating, vicious kind of love. You once sought softer, gentler sentiments, but you’ve adapted. I grieve for the tender young man you once were, but I’m madly, breathlessly, viciously in love with the man you’ve become.