Chapter 17: Claiming the Prize
The suite door clicked shut, muffling the city’s distant hum. Before the latch settled, Saman’s hand shot out, fingers tangling in Olivia’s blonde hair as she slammed her against the cool, textured wallpaper. Olivia gasped, the sound swallowed by Saman’s bruising kiss—a collision of lips and teeth, urgent and claiming. Saman’s other hand shoved the short cocktail dress up Olivia’s thighs, fingers pressing hard against the damp lace beneath, a rough, possessive exploration. Olivia arched into the touch, a ragged moan vibrating against Saman’s mouth.
Saman broke the kiss, her breath hot on Olivia’s throat. "Off," she commanded, voice low and frayed. Her fingers hooked into the dress’s thin straps, yanking them down Olivia’s shoulders. Olivia scrambled to comply, the fabric pooling at her feet. Saman’s hijab followed, unwound swiftly, revealing dark, sweat-damp hair. Her own clothes—a tailored silk blouse, elegant trousers—were discarded with impatient efficiency, joining Olivia’s on the plush carpet. Within moments, they were naked under the penthouse’s recessed lighting, Olivia trembling visibly, Saman radiating controlled heat.
She pushed Olivia backward onto the vast bed, following her down with predatory grace. The Feeldoe, already nestled securely within Saman, its dual nature hidden until now, pressed against Olivia’s inner thigh, slick and insistent. Saman positioned herself, knees nudging Olivia’s legs apart. Olivia’s eyes widened slightly at the first deliberate pressure, then squeezed shut as Saman sank into her, deep and unrelenting. A sharp cry tore from Olivia’s lips. Saman muffled it with another kiss, swallowing the sound as her hips began a relentless rhythm.
Muscle rippled across Saman’s torso as she pinned Olivia beneath her weight, savoring the tight heat surrounding her, the friction igniting her own core. The strap-on’s inner bulb shifted with each thrust, amplifying sensation. Olivia’s hands scrabbled at Saman’s shoulders, her back, nails digging crescent moons into sweat-slicked skin. Saman drove harder, faster, pressing Olivia deeper into the mattress, the bed frame creaking softly in protest. Olivia’s moans became fractured gasps, her hips lifting desperately to meet each plunge. Saman watched her unravel, the flush spreading from Olivia’s chest to her throat, her eyes glazed, mouth slack. A shudder ripped through Olivia, her body clamping down, a choked sob escaping. Orgasm. Saman didn’t slow. She maintained the punishing pace, fucking Olivia through the tremors, her own climax building—a low, internal tightening, then a sharp, pulsing release that made her hips stutter briefly before regaining their brutal cadence. She rode it out, the pleasure secondary to the driving need for control, for possession.
"Turn," Saman rasped minutes later, her voice thick. She withdrew abruptly, leaving Olivia gasping. Olivia rolled onto her hands and knees, presenting herself, her back arched, skin gleaming. Saman knelt behind her, aligning herself. One hand gripped Olivia’s hip bone, fingers digging in possessively. The other tangled in her hair, pulling Olivia’s head back sharply, exposing the elegant line of her neck. Saman thrust forward again, deep and hard. The angle changed the sensation—deeper, somehow more invasive. Olivia cried out, pushing back eagerly, meeting Saman’s force with her own. The slap of skin against skin echoed in the opulent silence punctuated only by their harsh breathing and Olivia’s raw, fractured moans. Another climax seized Olivia, buckling her elbows briefly, her body shaking violently. Saman held her up by the hip and hair, never breaking rhythm, her own second peak hitting moments later—a wave of heat and tension that she channeled directly back into her thrusts.
Saman eased Olivia down flat onto her stomach, pressing her firmly into the duvet. Prone bone. Olivia’s face mashed into the pillow, muffling her cries as Saman’s weight settled fully over her, pinning her legs together beneath her own. Saman resumed thrusting, slower now but with grinding, deliberate pressure. The intimacy was suffocating, total. Olivia’s whimpers were helpless, continuous. Saman’s breath puffed hot against Olivia’s shoulder blade, her own sweat dripping onto Olivia’s back. Time dissolved. The city lights blurred outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, irrelevant. Only the raw mechanics of their bodies mattered—the push and pull, the heat, the slick friction, the building pressure and release. Olivia came again, a shuddering, silent convulsion. Saman followed, a low groan escaping her clenched teeth, hips snapping forward compulsively even as the pleasure peaked and ebbed.
Forty-five minutes bled into the room’s tense stillness. Olivia lay spent beneath Saman, breathing shallowly. Saman hovered above her, still buried deep, her own breath ragged, skin sheened. The sudden buzz of Saman’s phone on the bedside table cut through the haze. Sharp.Insistent. Twice. A text. Saman didn’t move, didn’t disengage. Olivia whimpered softly at the renewed stillness. With her free hand—the one not pinning Olivia’s hip—Saman stretched, fingers fumbling blindly for the phone. She pulled it close.
The screen glared: Mariam.
Message: Done? Aamir asking where u r. Getting persistent.
Saman’s gaze flickered. A muscle jumped in her jaw. Her thumb stabbed the screen, clumsy but deliberate. Olivia shifted, a questioning whimper escaping. Saman tightened her grip in Olivia’s hair, pulling sharply, silencing her. She kept thrusting—slow, deep, claiming pushes—as she typed:
> Still fucking Olivia. Be a while.
She dropped the phone carelessly back onto the rumpled duvet. It landed face-up, the stark message glowing briefly before the screen dimmed. Saman’s hand returned to Olivia’s hip, grip tightening anew. Her hips snapped forward, hard and sudden, reclaiming the rhythm. Olivia gasped, arching beneath her. The thick strap stretched her anew. Saman drove deeper, faster, the bed resuming its rhythmic protest. Her focus narrowed back to the heat beneath her, the trembling body pinned beneath her own. The city lights blurred again. The interruption vanished. Only the relentless, consuming rhythm remained.
The relentless rhythm consumed them, drowning out the city’s hum and Mariam’s forgotten text. Saman’s hips pistoned, driving the thick strap deep into Olivia’s trembling core, each thrust sharp and unforgiving. Olivia’s cries were ragged gasps now, her body limp beneath Saman’s muscular frame, utterly spent yet still yielding to the brutal pace. Sweat slicked their skin, mingling where Saman’s torso pressed down, pinning Olivia flat against the damp sheets. The air hung thick with exertion and salt, the only sounds the slap of skin, the creak of the bed, and Olivia’s choked whimpers.
"Still… so… tight," Saman growled, her voice rough, breath hot against Olivia’s ear. Her fingers dug into Olivia’s hips, holding her steady for the relentless penetration. Olivia could only manage a weak moan, her cheek mashed into the pillow, her world narrowed to the punishing stretch and the weight holding her captive. Saman’s control was absolute, her focus razor-sharp, driving Olivia relentlessly towards a peak she couldn’t possibly reach again. The friction burned, a raw, overwhelming sensation that blurred the line between pleasure and pain. Saman’s own tension coiled tighter, a low thrum building deep within her pelvis, demanding release. Her thrusts became shorter, harder, a frantic, jerking rhythm chasing the inevitable.
Finally, a guttural groan ripped from Saman’s throat. Her body locked, rigid above Olivia, hips grinding deep as the internal wave crashed over her. She shuddered violently, once, twice, her grip on Olivia’s hips bruising. Then, like a puppet with cut strings, she collapsed forward, her full weight pressing Olivia deeper into the mattress. The sudden stillness was profound, broken only by their harsh, ragged breathing. Saman lay unmoving, her face buried in the crook of Olivia’s neck, her body still intimately connected. Olivia remained pinned, utterly drained, her limbs heavy as lead. Minutes stretched, thick and silent, the adrenaline ebbing away leaving only profound exhaustion. Ten minutes passed in a haze of shared heat and spent energy.
Saman stirred first, pushing herself up slowly, disengaging with a soft, slick sound that made Olivia flinch. She swung her legs off the bed, padding naked to the minibar. The clink of glass was loud in the quiet room. She filled a tumbler with cold water, draining half in one long pull. Her throat worked, Adam's apple bobbing. She refilled it, walked back, and nudged Olivia’s shoulder. "Drink," she commanded, her voice still husky but softer now. Olivia pushed herself up weakly onto her elbows, trembling fingers reaching for the glass. She gulped the water down, the coolness shocking against her overheated throat. "More?" Saman asked, already turning back towards the minibar. Olivia shook her head mutely, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
Olivia set the empty glass down with trembling fingers. The silence stretched, thick with spent energy and evaporating sweat. Saman watched her, eyes unreadable, already distant. "Get dressed," she said, her voice flat, the command devoid of its earlier heat. She turned towards the en suite bathroom without waiting for a response. Olivia flinched at the dismissal but moved quickly, gathering her crumpled dress and underwear from the floor with clumsy hands. Her legs felt unsteady, the ghost of Saman’s possession still making her muscles tremble.
The shower hissed to life behind the frosted glass door. Olivia pulled her dress over her head, the fabric scraping against oversensitive skin. She didn't look back at the rumpled bed, the evidence of the last hour stark against the pristine white duvet. Slipping into her heels felt like stepping into a different world. She paused at the suite door, one last glance towards the bathroom’s opaque glow, then slipped out silently. The heavy door clicked shut behind her, sealing the encounter away.
Steam billowed around Saman as the hot water sluiced over her skin, washing away the scent of sex and exertion. She scrubbed methodically, focusing on the physical sensation, the ritual of cleansing. The tile was cool under her feet. She emerged minutes later, toweling her hair briskly, the hijabi’s practical efficiency replacing the predator. She dressed swiftly: fresh underwear, tailored black pants, a soft cashmere sweater, the silk hijab wound precisely around her head and neck, restoring the composed professional façade. The transformation was complete.
A soft chime announced the suite door opening. Ghazal stepped inside, her sharp gaze instantly cataloging the disarray – the discarded tumbler, the indentation on the duvet. She wore a perfectly fitted, dark pantsuit, her expression neutral. "Ma'am," she acknowledged Saman with a slight nod. "The cleaners are outside." Saman waved a hand towards the bedroom, already gathering her handbag. "Handle it." Ghazal didn’t flinch. "Of course." She moved with quiet authority, opening the main door to admit two discreet hotel staff clad in crisp uniforms, pushing a cart laden with fresh linens and cleaning supplies. They moved with practised efficiency towards the bedroom.
The suite door chimed again. Ameera entered, radiating effortless poise in a cream trench coat over tailored trousers, a silk scarf artfully draped around her head and shoulders. Her eyes flicked from Saman, now impeccably put together, to Ghazal directing the maids stripping the bed. "Cutting it fine, habibti," Ameera remarked, her voice low and smooth, a hint of amused reproach in her tone as she surveyed the controlled chaos. Saman met her gaze, a flicker of something unreadable passing between them – understanding, complicity. "Olivia needed convincing," Saman replied, her tone casual, almost bored. She checked her watch. "I have to go. Home beckons."
"Convincing looks exhausting," Ameera murmured, a knowing curve to her lips. She moved to the bar, pouring herself a sparkling water. "Catch a breath before you face the domestic front?" Saman shook her head, adjusting her bag strap. "No time. But… breakfast? Tomorrow? My place. Nine." The invitation was a statement, not a question. "The kids have that robotics exhibition; Amir will be taking them. We’ll have the house." Ameera took a sip, considering. "And Mariam? Is she joining the North America tour reconnaissance?" "She’s in town," Saman confirmed. "She’ll be there. Needs the details." "Good," Ameera said simply. "Nine it is. Safe drive home."
Saman’s house felt different at this hour – quieter, warmer, smelling faintly of baked pasta and the lavender cleaner Mariam favoured. The sound of cartoon theme songs drifted from the family room. "Auntie Saman!" Eight-year-old Zayan yelled, launching himself off the sofa before she’d fully closed the front door. Ten-year-old Idris followed more sedately but with a wide grin. "Hey, monsters!" Saman laughed, catching Zayan in a hug, ruffling Idris’s hair. "Did you terrorize Auntie Mariam too much?"
Mariam appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She looked vibrant in a practical tunic and leggings, her hijab slightly askew. "They were angels," she announced, though her eyes, bright with unspoken questions, scanned Saman’s face. "Mostly. Homework conquered. Dinner consumed. Movie time now." "You’re a saint, Mariam," Saman said, squeezing her shoulder with genuine affection. "Truly." Mariam leaned in, lowering her voice. "So? How was the… gala?" The slight pause spoke volumes. Saman gave a small, tight smile. "Productive. Very. Breakfast tomorrow? Nine. Here. Ameera’s coming." She saw the eager understanding flash in Mariam’s eyes. "Details?" "Details," Saman confirmed. "After breakfast." Mariam nodded, practically vibrating. "Done. I’ll head back to the hotel now. See you in the morning!" She grabbed her bag, waved to the boys, and slipped out into the night.
The next morning arrived bright and crisp. Saman bustled in the kitchen, the scent of Turkish coffee strong and rich. Freshly baked manakeesh warmed in the oven. The doorbell chimed precisely at nine. Ameera stood there, looking effortlessly chic in soft grey linen, carrying a small box of delicate pastries. Mariam was practically on her heels, buzzing with contained energy in dark jeans and a flowy top, her hijab neatly pinned. "Coffee?" Saman asked, leading them to the large, sunlit breakfast nook overlooking the backyard. "Please," Ameera said, settling gracefully. "Yes, please! I need it," Mariam added, pulling out a chair. The atmosphere was comfortable, familiar, but charged with anticipation. Idris and Zayan had already been whisked away by Amir, leaving the house a quiet sanctuary.
Plates were filled – warm bread, creamy labneh, olives, pastries. Small talk about the weather, the flight logistics for D.C. tomorrow, Mariam’s classes, filled the initial minutes. The coffee did its work. Finally, Mariam couldn’t contain herself any longer, leaning forward, her voice dropping conspiratorially. "Okay. Spill. Olivia." Ameera sipped her coffee, watching Saman over the rim of her cup, an eyebrow slightly raised. Saman took a bite of manakeesh, chewed slowly, swallowed. She dabbed her lips with a napkin. "It was straightforward," she began, her voice calm, matter-of-fact. "Met her at the school, retrieving a permission slip. That incidental brush… it was enough. She remembered me from the gala." She paused, meeting their gazes. "I invited her for a ‘drink’ at the Four Seasons. Ghazal had the suite prepped." She took a sip of coffee. "She was… receptive. Eager, even. Nervous, but willing. Very willing once we were alone."
Ameera gave a low hum of approval. Mariam’s eyes were wide. "And…?" Saman set her cup down. "I fucked her. Thoroughly. Against the wall. On the bed. She came hard. Multiple times." She stated it plainly, a clinical report devoid of embellishment. "Took what I wanted. Ghazal handled the exit." A faint, satisfied smile touched Saman’s lips. "It’s done. I’m satisfied." The raw pronouncement hung in the air for a second. Mariam exhaled, a sound of pure vicarious thrill. "Wow."
"Efficient," Ameera commented, selecting a pastry. "As expected. One less loose end for Ghazal to worry about." She turned the conversation smoothly. "D.C. tomorrow. The private terminal at Pearson, 3 PM. Ghazal has the manifests and security briefings. We’ll go over them on the plane." Saman nodded. "The senator’s wife, Elizabeth Vance. The charity dinner is the target?" "Primary target," Ameera confirmed. "Ghazal’s already laid the groundwork. We’ll finalize the approach en route." They discussed flight times, meeting points at the airport, the schedule for the first two days in D.C. – meetings that served as legitimate cover, venues that provided opportunity. It was all business, the subtext clear beneath the mundane details. Desire mapped onto logistics.
Breakfast wound down. Mariam helped clear the plates, still radiating residual excitement. "I can’t wait for D.C.," she confessed, loading the dishwasher. "New city, new… prospects." Ameera smiled faintly. "Patience, little sister." They said their goodbyes at the door – a brief hug for Mariam, a firm hand on Saman’s arm from Ameera. "See you at the terminal," Saman said. The house felt larger, quieter again once they left. The scent of coffee and pastries lingered.
Saman spent the afternoon deliberately present. She took the boys to the park, pushing Zayan on the swings, listening intently to Idris’s detailed explanation of his robot’s upgraded sensor array. They built an elaborate city with Lego, Saman fully immersed in their world, the plastic bricks grounding her. They ordered pizza for dinner, a chaotic, cheesy affair on the family room floor. The simplicity of it, the sticky fingers and loud laughter, was a necessary counterpoint to the penthouse suite and the whispered plans of the morning.
The front door opened just as Saman was wiping tomato sauce off Zayan’s chin. Amir entered, looking tired but smiling, loosening his tie. "Daddy!" the boys chorused, abandoning the pizza crusts to swarm him. He scooped them up, one in each arm, planting kisses on their heads. His gaze met Saman’s over their shoulders, warm and welcoming. "Hey, you," he said, his voice softening. "Hey," she replied, her own smile genuine. The sight of him – solid, familiar, hers – eased a tension she hadn’t fully acknowledged. "How was the exhibition?" "Zayan almost took out a judge with his 'accidentally' overclocked motor," Amir chuckled, setting them down. "But they loved it. Came third!" Applause and demands for ice cream ensued.
Later, after the sugar rush subsided, Saman marshalled the boys towards bedtime. "Early night, you two," she announced, her tone brooking no argument. "Big day tomorrow, remember? Mommy’s trip." There were token protests, quickly quelled by Amir’s firm "Listen to your mother." Baths were quick, stories shorter than usual – Saman read Goodnight Moon with uncharacteristic speed. Zayan was asleep before the bowl of mush. Idris followed soon after. The house descended into a deeper quiet.
Saman moved through the downstairs, dimming lights. She lit tall, vanilla-scented candles on the dining table, replacing the pizza boxes with crisp white linen, gleaming cutlery, and the good crystal glasses she rarely used. Soft jazz played from hidden speakers. She’d ordered in from Amir’s favourite Persian restaurant earlier; the aromatic scents of saffron rice and slow-cooked lamb filled the air as she transferred the takeout containers to elegant serving dishes. She changed into a simple but flattering deep blue dress, the fabric soft against her skin. When Amir came downstairs after changing out of his work clothes, he stopped short. "Whoa," he breathed, taking in the transformed room, the candlelight glinting in her eyes. "What’s all this?"
"Date night," Saman said, walking towards him, a slow smile spreading across her face. She took his hand, pulling him towards the table. "We have the house. We have food. And I’m leaving tomorrow." She poured them both a glass of sparkling pomegranate juice. "I wanted… us." Amir’s expression melted into pure affection. He pulled her close, kissing her forehead, then her lips, softly at first. "I like ‘us’," he murmured against her mouth. Dinner was unhurried, filled with easy conversation about the kids, his work, her upcoming trip – the sanitized version. They laughed. They touched – hands brushing, feet tangling under the table. The connection was deep, comfortable, a well-worn groove. The candles burned low.
Later, clearing the plates, Amir’s hands slid around Saman’s waist from behind. His lips found the sensitive spot below her ear. "Leave them," he whispered, his voice rough. His arms tightened, lifting her off her feet effortlessly. She gasped, then laughed, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Where are we going?" He didn’t answer, carrying her through the dim house, his stride purposeful. He nudged their bedroom door open with his foot and set her down gently beside the bed. His kiss this time wasn’t soft. It was deep, claiming, full of the pent-up desire simmering through dinner. His hands were already pushing the straps of her dress down her shoulders.
The dress pooled at her feet. Amir’s gaze swept over her, intense, appreciative. "So beautiful," he breathed. He pulled her flush against him, the feel of his clothed body against her bare skin electric. They kissed again, urgently now, hands exploring, rediscovering familiar territory with fresh hunger. Clothes fell away. He laid her back on the cool duvet, his mouth trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down her neck, her collarbone, taking a nipple into his mouth, sucking deeply. Saman arched, a low moan escaping her. His hands, calloused but familiar, mapped her curves, slid between her thighs, finding her slick and ready. "Amir," she gasped. He replaced his fingers with his mouth, licking, circling, thrusting his tongue inside her with a focused intensity that shattered her thoughts. Her back bowed off the bed as the first wave crashed over her, sharp and sudden.
He didn’t let up, riding her through the tremors, his tongue relentless until she was whimpering, pushing against his shoulders, oversensitive. Only then did he surge up, covering her body with his own, his weight a solid comfort. He kissed her deeply, letting her taste herself on his lips. Then he was pushing inside her, a slow, deliberate stretch that stole her breath. "Look at me," he commanded, his voice gravelly. Her eyes, dark with desire, locked onto his. He began to move, deep, measured strokes that filled her completely, the friction exquisite. The connection was profound, primal. He held her gaze as he moved, thrusting harder, faster, the bed groaning softly. His hands gripped her hips, then slid under her to cup her backside, angling her up, driving even deeper. She cried out, wrapping her legs tight around his waist, meeting his thrusts, the rhythm building, relentless.
He rolled them over. Saman straddled him, taking control, riding him with slow, grinding rolls of her hips that made him groan her name. She leaned forward, bracing her hands on his chest, increasing the pace, taking him deeper still, gasping as the angle hit perfectly inside her. He gripped her thighs, his eyes glued to where their bodies joined, then flicking up to her face, mesmerized. She threw her head back as another orgasm ripped through her, less sharp than the first but deeper, spreading warmth through her limbs. He flipped her again, onto her hands and knees. Pulling her hips back, he entered her from behind, one hand tight on her hip, the other tangling in her hair, pulling gently. His thrusts were powerful, driving, each one jolting her forward. The slap of skin, their harsh breathing, her choked cries – the room filled with the raw sounds of their joining. His pace became frantic, desperate. "Saman... I'm... close..." he gritted out.
"Inside," she gasped, pushing back against him fiercely. "Now, Amir. Please." The permission, the demand, was all he needed. With a guttural groan that seemed ripped from his chest, he slammed into her one final time, holding deep as he pulsed inside her, a hot, liquid rush filling her. She clenched around him, milking every pulse, a shuddering sigh escaping her as the intensity peaked and slowly ebbed. He collapsed forward over her back, both of them breathing raggedly, slick with sweat. He withdrew slowly, the loss of connection making her gasp. They tumbled onto their sides, facing each other, limbs entangled, hearts pounding against each other's ribs. No words were needed. The shared heat, the profound intimacy of his release inside her, the utter physical exhaustion