Chapter 4: Bent Over the Couch
The magazine lay open on Amira's lap, its glossy pages glossy with advertisements for perfumes she would never wear and watches she would never own. She wasn't reading it. Hadn't turned a page in eleven lminutes. The words blurred together into meaningless shapes while her mind drifted somewhere far less innocent.
Her body still hummed.
Not just from last night—from this morning, from the shower, from the way Tariq had looked at her when of he'd pushed inside her and called her beautiful. Every muscle ached with a sweet, unfamiliar soreness. When she shifted on the couch, a dull throb pulsed between her legs, and she had to bite her lip to keep from smiling like an idiot.
Across the room, Tariq was doing that thing he did—puttering. He'd already reorganised the minibar twice, folded and refolded the complimentary robe hanging in the closet, and adjusted the thermostat three times. Now he was standing by the window, one hand shoved in his pocket, staring out at the city like it held the answers to questions he hadn't figured out how to ask.
He was nervous.
She could tell by the way his shoulders sat—too square, too still. The same way he'd looked at the wedding ceremony, right before the imam had asked if they consented. Like he was waiting for someone to tell him he'd done something wrong.
"You're pacing," she said.
He turned. "I'm not pacing."
"You're standing."
"Standing isn't pacing."
"You've been standing in the same spot for six minutes."
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Glanced at the window, then back at her, and something in his expression shifted—a crack in the calm, steady facade he wore like armour.
"I'm restless," he admitted.
Amira set the magazine down.
"Come sit."
He didn't move.
"Tariq."
Still nothing. Just that dark, unreadable look in his eyes, the one that made her stomach flip in ways she was still learning to name.
"What?" she asked.
He shook his head. "Nothing."
"Liar."
That got a smile—small, crooked, almost shy. He crossed the room slowly, like he was giving her time to change her mind, and dropped onto the couch beside her. Close. Not touching. The space between them crackled with something electric.
"I'm not used to this," he said.
"To what?"
"Wanting things."
She understood that. Better than he probably realised. Wanting was dangerous. Wanting meant admitting you weren't satisfied with what you had. Wanting meant risk, meant vulnerability, meant handing someone a weapon and hoping they wouldn't use it.
"What do you want?" she asked.
He looked at her.
Just looked.
And the heat in his gaze was so direct, so unguarded, that she felt her face flush from her throat to her hairline.
"You know what I want," he said.
Her breath caught.
He was still sitting perfectly still—hands on his knees, back straight, the picture of composure—but his eyes told a different story. They were dark. Hungry. Trailing down her body like he could see through the thin cotton of her house dress.
"We shouldn't," she heard herself say.
"Why not?"
"We just—this morning—"
"I know."
"We should rest."
"I know."
"Tariq."
He leaned closer.
His breath was warm against her cheek. She could smell the coffee on his tongue, the soap from their shower, something underneath that was just him. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
"I can't stop thinking about you," he murmured. "Every time I close my eyes, I see your face. The way you looked when you came. The sounds you made."
She should have been embarrassed.
She wasn't.
"Say it again," she whispered.
"What?"
"Say my name."
He smiled—slow, dangerous, entirely aware of what he was doing to her.
"Amira."
A shiver ran down her spine.
"You're going to be the death of me," she said.
"Probably."
He kissed her.
Not gentle this time. Not careful. This kiss had teeth, had heat, had the kind of hunger that made her forget everything she'd ever been taught about restraint. His hand found her waist, pulled her closer, and she went willingly—climbing into his lap before she could think better of it.
He groaned against her mouth.
She felt it everywhere—that low, desperate sound vibrating through her chest, her stomach, the heat pooling between her legs. Her fingers tangled in his hair. Her hips rocked against him, grinding down without conscious thought, chasing friction.
"Fuck," he breathed. "Amira, we should—we should slow down—"
"No."
"But you're still—"
"I don't care."
He pulled back. Looked at her. His eyes were wild, his breathing ragged, his hands shaking against her hips.
"I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't."
"I did last night."
She grabbed his face. Forced him to meet her eyes.
"That was last night. This is now. I'm not going to break."
For a long moment, he just stared at her. Searching. Looking for the lie, the hesitation, the fear. She knew what he was doing—checking, verifying, making sure she meant it.
She did.
She held his gaze without flinching.
"Okay," he said.
She kissed the corner of his mouth. "Okay."
He moved.
One second she was on his lap, the next she was airborne—lifted like she weighed nothing, deposited on the couch cushions with a soft thud. Before she could react, he was standing over her, chest heaving, eyes dark with something that made her stomach clench.
"Stay there," he said.
She stayed.
He turned away. Walked to the other side of the room, where a room-service menu lay abandoned on the floor. Bent to pick it up.
Amira watched him move. Watched the way his shirt pulled across his back, the way his trousers hugged his thighs, the way his jaw tightened when he straightened and glanced over his shoulder—
And saw her.
She was lying on the couch in her thin house dress, one strap slipping off her shoulder, hair spread across the floral cushions like ink. Her cheeks were flushed. Her lips were parted. And her eyes—her eyes were fixed on him with a hunger that matched his own.
He dropped the menu.
Crossed the room in three strides.
Gripped her hips.
She gasped—not with surprise, but with the sudden electric shock of his hands on her body. He pulled her up, forward, until her palms hit the cushions and her knees found the floor. Her face pressed into the fabric. Her ass arched high, a perfect curve of invitation.
"Tariq—"
He yanked her dress up.
The fabric slid over her back, over her hips, over her head until it pooled around her shoulders. Cool air hit her bare skin. Then his hands were on her again, rough and demanding, dragging her underwear down her thighs, her calves, until it caught around her ankles.
She heard him groan.
Not the soft, tentative sound from last night. This was raw. Primal. The sound of a man who had been holding himself back for too long and was finally, finally letting go.
"Oh my God," she breathed.
His hands found her cheeks. Spread her open.
She felt the rush of air as he spat, felt the wet heat of it landing exactly where she was most sensitive, and before she could process the shock, he was there—the thick head of his cock pressing against her entrance.
"Wait—"
He drove into her.
One stroke. Deep. Bruising. So much deeper than before—an angle she hadn't known existed, a fullness that stole the breath from her lungs and left her gasping into the cushions.
"OHHH!"
Her fingers clawed at the couch. Her knees slid on the polished floor. He didn't give her time to adjust—just pulled back and slammed into her again, and again, and again, until the rhythm obliterated every thought in her head.
"UGH! TARIQ! OH MY GOSH!"
He was growling—low, guttural sounds that vibrated through his chest and into her back. His hips slapped against her ass with every thrust. Sweat slicked their skin. The room filled with the sounds of their bodies colliding, her broken cries, his filthy groans.
"You feel that?" he rasped. "You feel how deep I am?"
"YES! Ohhhh, yes—"
"Fucking hell, Amira. You're so tight. So fucking wet."
She'd never heard him talk like this. Never imagined he could. But the words sent lightning down her spine, made her walls clench around him, made everything more intense.
"Say it again," she begged.
He fucked into her harder.
"Wet. Fucking. Tight." Each word punctuated by a brutal thrust. "And all mine."
She screamed.
The climax hit her without warning—a sudden, shattering wave of pleasure that made her vision go white. Her body convulsed around him. Her sobs were muffled by the cushions. She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Could only feel.
"FUCK!" he roared.
His hips stuttered. His hands clenched her hips hard enough to bruise. And then he was coming—spilling deep inside her with a guttural curse that sounded like it was torn from his soul.
He collapsed over her back.
They lay there, tangled and gasping, sweaty in the afternoon light that streamed through the windows. His weight was heavy. His breath was hot against her neck. She could feel his heartbeat pounding against her spine.
Neither of them spoke.
The city hummed outside the window. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn blared. Life went on.
Slowly, carefully, he pulled out. She felt the loss immediately—the emptiness, the cool air against wet skin. His hands found her waist, helped her turn, pulled her up until she was sitting on the floor with her back against the couch.
He kneeled in front of her.
Wiped her tangled hair from her face.
"Okay?" he asked.
She laughed. Actually laughed.
"You keep asking me that."
"Because I keep needing to know."
She cupped his cheek. Ran her thumb along his jaw.
"I'm okay," she said. "Better than okay."
He smiled.
Not the cautious, careful smile from earlier. This one was real. Bright. Unburdened.
"Good."
He kissed her forehead.
"Because I think I need to do that again."
Her eyes widened.
"Already?"
"What can I say?" He shrugged, but his eyes were gleaming. "You make me greedy."
She smacked his chest.
He laughed—loud and genuine and entirely unguarded. And as he pulled her to her feet, as she let him lead her to the bedroom, as their bodies tangled in sheets that were still warm from earlier, Amira felt something settle in her chest.
Something that felt like certainty.
Something that felt like hers.
Something that felt like hers.
She carried it with her into the bedroom.
Tariq's hand was warm against her lower back, guiding her through the door, past the dresser, past the mirror where she caught a glimpse of herself—flushed, disheveled, eyes bright with something she didn't recognize. Her hair was a disaster. Her lips were swollen. There was a mark on her shoulder where his teeth had been.
She looked like someone who had been thoroughly fucked.
She looked like someone who wanted to be fucked again.
The bed loomed in front of them, still rumpled from earlier, the sheets twisted into knots that told the story of everything they'd done. Tariq stopped at the edge. Turned her to face him. His hands found her waist, slid up her ribs, cupped her breasts through the thin cotton of her dress.
"You're sore," he said.
It wasn't a question.
"A little."
"We don't have to—"
"Tariq." She pressed her palm flat against his chest. Felt his heart hammering underneath. "Stop trying to protect me from myself."
He huffed a laugh.
"That's not—"
"I know what you're doing." She stepped closer. Let her hips brush against his. Felt him twitch against her belly. "You think I'm fragile. You think I'll break if you push too hard."
"I don't think you're fragile."
"Then stop acting like it."
His jaw tightened.
For a second, she thought he might argue. Might launch into another round of careful questions, gentle reassurances, that maddening habit of checking and rechecking and making sure she was absolutely, positively, one hundred percent certain.
She didn't want certain.
She wanted him.
"Lie down," she said.
He blinked. "What?"
"Lie. Down."
He didn't move.
So she pushed him.
His knees hit the mattress. His back hit the sheets. And before he could recover, before he could ask another goddamn question, she was climbing on top of him—swinging one leg over his hips, settling her weight against his stomach, looking down at his stunned, beautiful face.
"Oh," he breathed.
"Yeah," she said. "Oh."
She could feel him underneath her. Every inch of him. The hard planes of his chest, the ridge of his ribs, the thick, insistent pressure of his cock pressing against her ass. He was already hard. Already desperate. Already looking at her like she was something sacred and profane all at once.
"I want to try something," she said.
"Anything."
She lifted her hips. Reached between them. Found him with her fingers—hot, thick, slick with the evidence of everything they'd already done.
He hissed through his teeth.
"Amira—"
"Shh."
She positioned him at her entrance. Held him there. Let herself feel the stretch, the pressure, the anticipation of what was coming.
Then she sank down.
Slowly. Inch by inch. Her body opened for him like it had been waiting, like it had been built for exactly this. The fullness was immediate—overwhelming, consuming, so deep she felt him in her throat.
"Fuck," she whispered.
Tariq's hands flew to her hips.
His fingers dug into her skin. His eyes rolled back. His mouth fell open on a sound that wasn't quite a word and wasn't quite a scream.
"Amira. Amira, wait—"
She didn't wait.
She moved.
Up. Down. A slow, deliberate rhythm that made her breath catch and her thighs tremble. He filled her so completely—stretched her, split her, made her feel every ridge and vein and pulse of him.
"God," she gasped. "God, Tariq—"
His hips bucked up.
She slammed down to meet him.
The angle was different like this. Deeper. She could feel him hitting something inside her—a spot that made stars explode behind her eyes, made her toes curl, made her forget how to speak.
"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck—"
She wasn't sure which of them was saying it.
Maybe both.
She rode him harder. Faster. Her hands braced on his chest, her nails digging into his skin, her hips moving in a rhythm that was pure instinct. She'd never done this before—never been on top, never taken control—but her body seemed to know what to do.
"Amira." His voice was strangled. "Amira, I'm—"
"Not yet."
"I can't—"
"Not. Yet."
She wanted this to last. Wanted to feel him inside her for hours. Wanted to memorize every second of this—the way he looked underneath her, the way he felt, the way his breath came in short, desperate gasps.
But his hips were jerking.
His hands were clenching.
And she could feel him swelling inside her, could feel the telltale twitch that meant he was seconds away from losing control.
"No," she said. "No, not yet, I'm not—"
He came.
Violently. Immediately. His whole body convulsing underneath her, his mouth open on a silent scream, his fingers leaving bruises on her hips that she would wear for days. She felt it—the hot rush of him spilling inside her, pulse after pulse after pulse.
"TARIQ!"
He didn't stop.
Couldn't stop.
Just kept spilling into her, his eyes squeezed shut, his chest heaving, his hands gripping her like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
When it was over, he went limp.
She stayed on top of him.
Her body was screaming. Not with pleasure—not anymore. With frustration. With need. She'd been so close. So fucking close. And he'd finished before she could get there.
"Did you—" He was gasping. "Did you come?"
"What do you think?"
He opened his eyes.
Saw her face.
"Oh no."
Oh no was right.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry, I tried to—you just felt so good, and I couldn't—"
"I know."
"I didn't mean to—"
"I know."
She climbed off him.
The loss was immediate—the emptiness, the ache, the unsatisfied throb between her legs. She flopped onto her back beside him, staring at the ceiling, trying to catch her breath.
He rolled onto his side.
His hand found her stomach. Traced a circle around her navel.
"Give me a minute," he said. "I'll make it up to you."
"You better."
He laughed—soft, breathless.
"I will."
She didn't believe him.
Then his hand slid lower.
His fingers found her—hot, swollen, slick with a mixture of both of them. He didn't push inside. Just circled her clit with his thumb, slow and deliberate, watching her face.
Her hips jerked.
"Oh—"
"Shh," he said. "Let me fix it."
He didn't just use his fingers.
He moved down the bed. Positioned himself between her legs. Pressed his mouth to her and licked—long, slow strokes that made her back arch off the mattress.
"Tariq—"
He kept going.
His tongue worked her clit while his fingers slid inside—two of them, curling, pressing against that spot that made her see white. She was so close. So fucking close. The orgasm was building, coiling in her belly like a spring.
Then he stopped.
"What—"
"Turn over."
She blinked. "What?"
"Turn over. On your stomach."
She was too desperate to argue.
She flipped onto her belly. Pressed her face into the pillow. Waited for him to mount her, to push inside, to finish what he'd started.
Instead, his hands found her hips.
He pulled her up to her knees. Spread her legs. Then he leaned forward, pressed his chest to her back, and hooked his hands under her thighs.
"Ready?"
"For what—"
He lifted.
Her knees left the bed. Her body folded—legs up, ass high, face pressed into the pillows. She was bent in half, literally folded like a piece of paper, her ankles somewhere near her ears and her entire weight balanced on her shoulders and his hands.
"What the—"
"Trust me."
"I don't even know what's happening—"
Then he pushed inside her.
The angle was insane. Impossible. He was so deep she could feel him in her chest, could feel every inch of him splitting her open in ways she hadn't known were possible. The pleasure was sharp—almost painful—and so intense her vision went white.
"OH MY GOD!"
He started moving.
Short, sharp thrusts that punched the air out of her lungs. She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Could only feel him, everywhere, filling her so completely she didn't know where she ended and he began.
"Tariq—Tariq—Tariq—"
He growled against her ear.
"You like that?"
"YES!"
"You want more?"
"DON'T STOP!"
He didn't stop.
He fucked her like that—folded, helpless, completely at his mercy—until she shattered. The orgasm ripped through her like a hurricane, tearing a scream from her throat that was probably heard three floors down.
He followed seconds later.
This time, when he collapsed, he took her with him—both of them crumpling onto the mattress in a tangled, sweaty heap. Her legs were still bent. Her back was still arched. She probably looked absolutely insane.
She didn't care.
"That was—" she started.
"Weird?" he offered.
"Incredible."
He laughed.
"Your legs are still up."
"I know."
"You look ridiculous."
"I know."
He reached over. Gently, carefully, he guided her legs down until she was lying flat on the bed. Then he pulled her close, tucked her against his chest, and kissed the top of her head.
"I love you," he said.
She froze.
Not because she didn't feel it. But because she did.
"What?" he asked.
"Nothing."
"Amira."
She turned in his arms. Looked at him—really looked, the way she'd learned to do. His dark eyes, his soft mouth, the worry line between his brows that she wanted to smooth away with her thumb.
"Say it again," she whispered.
He smiled.
"I love you."
She kissed him.
Soft. Gentle. A promise she didn't have words for yet.
When she pulled back, he was still smiling.
"Okay?" he asked.
She laughed.
"Okay."