Chapter 7: Forbidden Silk
The chilled air of the boutique hit my bare arms after the Manila heat, thick with the sterile scent of new fabric and expensive perfume. Nasser’s hand remained a warm, proprietary anchor on my lower back, guiding me past racks of impossibly soft silks and crisp linens. Sales associates materialized and dematerialized like ghosts in monochrome uniforms, their practiced smiles flashing, eyes assessing the cut of his bespoke suit, the weight of his watch.
"Anything," he repeated, his voice a low rumble close to my ear, his breath stirring my hair. "The entire store, if it pleases you." His fingers flexed subtly against my spine, grounding me, claiming me amidst the gleaming chrome and glass.
My gaze snagged on a bolt of crimson silk draped over a mannequin near the window. Not just a dress – a statement. Halter neck, plunging to the navel, backless to the curve of my ass. Perfect for the gallery opening tonight. Perfect to showcase exactly what he’d been devouring the night before. I moved towards it, drawn by its bold slash of color.
My fingertips grazed the cool, slippery fabric. Just a fraction away. "This one—" I started.
Nasser moved instantly. A smooth pivot, his other arm sliding around my waist, pulling me flush against the hard lines of his body. His lips brushed the shell of my ear, the contact sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. "Except that one," he murmured, the possessiveness in his tone a velvet-wrapped command. His gaze swept over my shoulder to the scandalous red silk. "That view?" His hand slid lower, cupping the swell of my ass possessively through my linen skirt. "That view belongs only to me. Tonight. Tomorrow. Always." He inhaled the scent of my hair. "Pick another. Something that hints… without giving the whole damn desert away." His chuckle vibrated against my skin. "Let them imagine. Let them envy."
I arched an eyebrow, a slow smile playing on my lips. "Possessive bastard," I murmured, not protesting as his hand lingered on my ass in the middle of Greenbelt’s most exclusive boutique. I let him steer me towards a rack draped in midnight blues and deep emeralds, feeling the phantom ache he’d left between my thighs last night. My fingers brushed past flowing chiffon, stopped at a column of jersey knit.
"Here," I said, plucking a dress the color of storm clouds off the rack. It was deceptively simple – sleeveless, knee-length – but the fabric hugged every imagined curve. I held it up against myself, meeting his gaze challengingly. "Hint enough for you, Sheikh?"
His eyes darkened appreciatively, raking over the imagined outline. He gave a low, sharp whistle that cut through the boutique's hushed atmosphere. "Perfect," he growled, the approval rough in his throat. "Shows what’s mine without giving them a map." A nearby associate flinched slightly at the sound.
I grinned, turning back to the rack. My hand found another one, this time in a deep forest green. It was cut similarly, tight across the bodice, flaring slightly just below the hip, promising to cling sinfully. "And for later?" I held it up, knowing exactly how it would frame my ass. He didn’t speak, just let out another approving whistle, lower this time, primal. His knuckles brushed the small of my back, possessive heat blooming through my thin blouse. "Exactly," I confirmed, handing both dresses to the hovering associate whose polite mask barely hid a flicker of shock.
"Those," Nasser stated, his voice brooking no argument. He pulled his champagne flute from a passing tray. "And nothing else." He took a slow sip, his gaze never leaving me. "You look better naked anyway." My laugh was rich, echoing slightly, as I accepted my own flute.
"Careful, Prince," I teased, clinking my glass against his. "Buying me dresses might give me ideas." I took a sip, the bubbles sharp and cold. His eyes promised retribution, dark and delicious. "Tsk tsk," I murmured, tapping his chest lightly. "Save it for the penthouse."
The crisp rustle of garment bags followed us as we exited the boutique, the afternoon heat hitting us like a wet towel. Nasser’s hand slid possessively back to my lower back, steering me effortlessly through the Greenbelt crowd. "Penthouse patience is wearing thin, habibti," he murmured, his thumb tracing circles through my thin blouse, igniting sparks low in my belly. "But first, reinforcements." He nodded towards a discreet entrance further down the arcade, its windows glowing softly with peach light, displaying wisps of lace and silk against velvet mannequins. "La Perla," he stated, the name rolling off his tongue like an expensive promise. "Your arsenal needs replenishing."
I arched an eyebrow, a slow smile spreading. "My arsenal, Sheikh?" I teased, stepping through the door he held open, the air inside thick with the scent of expensive florals and new silk. "Or yours?" The boutique was hushed, intimate, racks of delicate temptation lining the walls.
He followed close, his presence filling the small space. "Both," he countered, his gaze already sweeping the displays, dark and hungry. "I saw what that harness did last night." His voice dropped lower, rougher. "Imagine that... underneath the storm cloud dress tonight." The image – the sleek grey jersey clinging to my curves, hiding the intricate leather straps beneath – sent a familiar, delicious throb through me. "Pick pieces that make you feel powerful," he commanded, his eyes locking onto mine, the possessiveness now edged with raw anticipation. "Because watching you wield that power?" He leaned in, his breath hot on my ear. "That’s my real addiction." The sales associate approached, her smile polished, but her eyes widened slightly at the intensity radiating off us. "Show me your fiercest pieces," I told her, meeting Nasser’s challenge head-on. "The ones that bite back." His answering grin was pure, predatory satisfaction.
The associate scurried away, returning with armfuls of sleek boxes and delicate hangers holding whispers of silk and lace. "Fierce, you said?" Her eyes flickered between us, sensing the current. She laid out pieces: harnesses disguised as elegant bodices, bras with intricate straps that promised restraint, briefs cut to showcase everything and conceal nothing. "Show us," Nasser commanded, his voice rough, leaning against a velvet display stand like a king surveying offerings. "The matching sets. The ones designed for two."
His gaze landed first on a set of deep plum lace – a bralette for me with plunging neckline and straps suggesting bondage, paired with briefs for him cut scandalously high on the thighs, the pouch sheer. "Too tame?" I challenged, tracing the sheer panel meant to cradle his cock. He shook his head slowly, eyes burning. "Try it." He pointed decisively at another set: black mesh reinforced with thin strips of supple black leather. "That one. The leather accents. Reminds me of last night." The harness. The control.
The associate lifted the hangers reverently. My piece was a longline bra, the mesh almost transparent, the leather tracing a harness-like pattern over the ribs and converging dramatically under the bust. His was a brief, the mesh pouch framed entirely by thin leather straps, leaving nothing to imagination. "Powerful enough for you, Sheikh?" I asked, holding the hanger up, imagining the leather cool against my skin, the mesh revealing everything beneath. He stepped closer, his heat radiating. "Try it on," he breathed, the order laced with desperate want. "Both of us. Now." His hand settled possessively on my hip. "I need to see it on you." I met the associate's flustered gaze. "The fitting rooms. Together."
The associate blinked, cheeks flushing crimson, but gestured wordlessly towards a larger fitting room tucked discreetly at the back. Nasser’s grip tightened on my hip, propelling me forward before the flustered woman could protest. He slammed the heavy velvet curtain shut behind us, plunging us into soft, intimate light.
"Strip," he commanded, his voice thick, already shrugging off his jacket. The small space amplified his presence, the scent of his expensive cologne mingling with the boutique’s floral perfume and the lingering musk of our penthouse exertions. My fingers trembled slightly, not from nerves, but anticipation, as I unbuttoned my blouse.
The cool air kissed my skin as I let the linen skirt pool at my feet. Nasser’s gaze burned over my curves, lingering on the faint marks his teeth had left last night. He was already shirtless, his gym-honed torso taut, fingers fumbling with his belt buckle. "Hurry," he growled, kicking off his polished loafers.
I pulled the black mesh and leather bra over my head, the cool mesh settling against my flushed skin. The thin leather straps traced a possessive harness pattern across my ribs, converging dramatically under my heavy breasts. "Like it?" I murmured, turning slightly, letting him see how the leather framed my nipples through the sheer mesh.
"Fuck," he breathed, stepping closer, his erection straining against his trousers. He peeled them down, stepping free, his cock thick and flushed against his thigh. I handed him his briefs, the mesh pouch framed entirely by thin leather straps. He stepped into them, pulling them up, the sheer mesh doing nothing to hide his arousal.
The leather straps bit slightly into his hips, framing his cock obscenely. "Powerful enough?" I asked, running a fingertip along the leather edge near his groin. He shuddered. "Perfect," he rasped, his eyes devouring me in the mirror. "You look like a fucking queen ready for war."
I smoothed the longline bra down my stomach, the leather cool against my skin. "Good." I met his reflected gaze, a slow smile spreading. "Later," I added, my voice dropping conspiratorially, "Mommy wants to have lunch." His brow furrowed momentarily, surprise flickering before dissolving into dark amusement. "Mommy?" he echoed, a predatory grin spreading. "Consider it done." The curtain rustled softly as the associate cleared her throat outside. "Ready?" Her voice was tentative. Nasser’s hand slid possessively over my ass clad only in the harness-like briefs I hadn’t yet changed into. "Almost," he called back, his eyes never leaving mine. "We need another minute."
“We need another minute,” Nasser called out, his voice rough as his gaze devoured me in the mirror, tracing every strap. His hands slid possessively around my waist under the mesh, fingers splaying wide across the leather accents on my belly. “Fuck, you look lethal in this,” he breathed, teeth grazing my shoulder. I watched our reflection: his powerful frame caged by the sheer straps, my curves harnessed and displayed, two predators barely contained. The air hummed with the charge between us.
“Get dressed,” I commanded, stepping away from his heat reluctantly. My skin prickled where his touch had been. We moved quickly, shedding the provocative lingerie, pulling our street clothes back on over the phantom pressure of leather and mesh. He handed me the sets – plum and the black leather-accented mesh. “Both,” he stated, no room for argument. “The bill, habibti.”
We emerged from the fitting room, our dishevelment subtle but unmistakable. The associate’s polite mask slipped again, a blush creeping up her neck as she took the lingerie, her eyes darting between Nasser’s slightly tousled hair and my smudged lipstick. She scanned the tags with trembling fingers. Nasser barely glanced at the astronomical total flashing on the discreet screen. The sleek black card appeared in his hand, a casual flick against the reader. “Done,” he murmured, pocketing the card as the machine chirped acceptance. The rustle of thick, embossed shopping bags joined the earlier garment bags.
He reclaimed his place at my back, hand sliding possessively low. “Lunch,” he growled into my hair, steering me firmly towards the exit. “Now. Before I forget we’re in public.” The boutique’s chilled air vanished as he pushed the heavy door open, replaced by the humid Manila afternoon thrumming with chaotic noise and heat. “Hungry, Mommy?” he asked, his voice rough with promise, the loaded word sending a jolt straight through me. I grinned, feeling the weight of the bags bumping against my thigh. “Starving, Prince. Lead the way.” We melted into the bustling Greenbelt crowd, the hunt for sustenance just beginning.
The humid chaos of Greenbelt pressed around us as Nasser steered me towards a discreet restaurant entrance, its awning promising cool air and quiet. "In here," he murmured, his hand a brand on my lower back, the heavy La Perla and dress bags bumping against his leg. Inside, the temperature plunged, the noise muted to a sophisticated murmur, the air rich with garlic and seared steak. A hostess recognized him instantly, her practiced smile widening as she guided us past gleaming tables to a secluded booth draped in shadow.
"Peroni," he ordered without looking at the menu, his focus entirely on me as I slid into the plush leather. "Same for Mommy?" His gaze held mine, dark and intent, using the title like a secret code sparking between us. I nodded, the cool leather a relief against my skin. "And sparkling water. Lots of ice." The hostess vanished.
He leaned forward instantly, elbows on the table, the intensity radiating off him almost physical. "So," he began, his voice lower now, rougher, the penthouse echo still in it. "Manila." He gestured vaguely, encompassing the city, the property hunt, us. "It's... more than I expected." He paused, searching my face. "You're more." The waiter deposited our beers silently, beads of condensation already forming. Nasser took a long pull, his eyes never leaving mine over the bottle's rim.
"I like it," he stated, setting the bottle down with a soft thud. "The chaos. The heat. The... opportunities." He traced a bead of water down the glass. "The people." The emphasis landed heavily. He took a breath, his usual effortless confidence momentarily fraying. "This... us... it isn't just about penthouse games or beachfront deals for me, Tina." He reached across the table, his fingers brushing mine, a surprisingly tentative gesture from the man who demanded I smother him with my ass hours ago. "I don’t want this to end when I sign the papers on some sand. I want... more. Official." He held my gaze, vulnerable beneath the dominant heir. "Would you? Be mine? Properly?"
The question hung in the chilled air, stark amidst the clink of cutlery. My pulse hammered, a counterpoint to the soft jazz. I saw the raw sincerity warring with the heat in his dark eyes, the echo of his submission tangled with this bold claim. I squeezed his fingers back, a slow smile spreading. "Official, huh?" I mirrored him, leaning closer, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur thick with promise. "Define 'yours', Prince. Because mine involves keeping you exactly where I put you." His breath hitched, his fingers tightening around mine. "And that harness?" I added, letting the threat hang, rich and dark. "That's definitely still part of the contract."
The chilled Peroni bottle sweated in my grip, condensation slick against my palm. Across the booth, Nasser’s gaze held mine, dark and unwavering, the raw vulnerability beneath his usual command both startling and intensely erotic. My slow smile widened, predatory. "Official, huh?" I mirrored his lean across the polished tabletop, my voice dropping to a husky murmur thick with promise. "Define 'yours', Prince. Because mine involves keeping you exactly where I put you." His breath hitched audibly, fingers tightening around mine on the cool surface. "And that harness?" I added, letting the dark implication hang rich and heavy between us. "That's definitely still part of the contract."
A slow, answering grin spread across his face, erasing the fleeting uncertainty, replaced by pure, heated understanding. He leaned even closer, his voice dropping to a low, resonant rumble meant only for me, cutting through the restaurant murmur. "Exactly," he breathed, his eyes locking onto mine with fierce intensity. "Outside these walls? We walk together. Equals. Partners closing deals, navigating Manila." His thumb traced a possessive circle on the back of my hand. "But behind closed doors?" The heat in his gaze intensified, a familiar, delicious command radiating from him despite the submissive promise. "I serve. At your feet. Under your harness. Your sweat my perfume." He paused, letting the stark, beautiful dichotomy sink in. "Bedroom service," he stated, the words rough and final, "and a normal couple everywhere else. That’s the deal I want."
Goosebumps prickled down my arms, unrelated to the restaurant’s AC. The sheer audacity of it, the perfect, illicit balance, sent a jolt straight to my core. My pulse hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing the phantom weight of the harness straps settling onto my hips. "Normal?" I echoed, my voice thick, leaning in until our foreheads nearly touched, drowning out the clinking silverware around us. "With you kneeling? Begging?" The image flooded my mind – him polished and sophisticated at a gallery opening later, then later still, stripped bare, pleading under my strap. "Deal," I breathed, the word tasting like victory and dark honey. I squeezed his hand hard, sealing it. "Now pay the bill, Sheikh. Mommy needs to test-drive her new lingerie… and her servant." His low growl vibrated through the table as he signaled the waiter, his eyes already promising exquisite, devoted retribution.
Nasser’s sleek black card flashed against the reader, a silent dismissal of the astronomical lunch tab. He didn’t wait for the receipt, already rising, his hand finding the small of my back, propelling me towards the exit before the waiter could murmur thanks. The humid Manila afternoon hit us like a wall as we stepped onto the shaded arcade, the rustle of expensive garment bags loud against the city’s din.
"Car’s close," he muttered, steering me through the throngs of shoppers, his grip firm, possessive. The heat radiating off his body through his thin shirt felt like a promise, contrasting sharply with the cool air we’d left behind. Our driver materialized near the curb, holding open the door of the gleaming black Mercedes.
We slid into the chilled leather interior, the heavy bags deposited beside us. The partition slid up instantly, sealing us in our own humid, charged bubble. The engine purred softly as we pulled into the sluggish Greenbelt traffic. Nasser’s hand slid onto my thigh, fingers tracing idle, incendiary patterns through my linen skirt.
"Reinforcements acquired," I murmured, nodding towards the La Perla bags. "Ready for inspection?" His thumb pressed harder against my inner thigh. "Later," he growled, eyes fixed ahead, but the tension in his jaw betrayed his impatience. "Penthouse first."
The car crawled past gleaming storefronts. I watched the blur of faces outside, the familiar chaos of Makati. "You know," I began casually, turning slightly towards him, catching his profile – the strong line of his jaw, the dark beard, the intensity simmering beneath the surface. "My best friend Ben would lose his mind if he saw me rolling out of La Perla loaded down like this." I kept my tone light, conversational, testing the waters.
Nasser’s gaze snapped to mine, sharp, instantly alert. "Ben?" The name hung in the air, a single syllable loaded with sudden, unexpected weight. His hand stilled on my thigh. "Who’s Ben?" The question was deceptively calm, but I saw the flicker in his dark eyes – possessiveness instantly piqued, a predator scenting potential intrusion on his territory. The air between us crackled, thick with unspoken questions and the sudden shift from simmering lust to wary assessment.
The Mercedes finally surged forward, escaping the gridlock. The sleek towers lining Ayala Avenue blurred past. "Just Ben," I said, meeting his probing stare head-on, a slow, knowing smile playing on my lips. "My oldest friend. Practically family." I let the implication hang, watching the subtle tightening around his eyes, the way his fingers flexed slightly against my skin. The penthouse loomed ahead, its glass facade reflecting the harsh afternoon sun, a beacon promising resolution to this sudden, delicious tension.