Chapter 16: The Hotel Suite Celebration
The hallway smelled like jasmine and expensive carpet cleaner. Layla's heels clicked against marble that gleamed under chandeliers the size of her mother's kitchen table, and she kept her hand tucked into the crook of Tarek's arm because her legs still felt like they belonged to someone else.
Someone who'd just eaten lamb shank and crème brûlée and laughed so hard at Tarek's impression of the maître d' that she'd nearly choked on her sparkling water.
"You're quiet," Tarek said.
"I'm full." She pressed her palm against the curve of her belly. Twenty-two weeks now, and the bump had gone from secret to obvious to something she couldn't hide even under the loose sweaters she'd been living in. Tonight, she hadn't tried. The red dress hugged every inch of her—the swell of her breasts, the round of her stomach, the flare of her hips. She'd felt exposed at first. Then she'd seen Tarek's face when she'd walked out of the bedroom.
Worth it.
"Full and beautiful," he said.
"Full and tired."
"Full, tired, and beautiful."
She laughed. The sound echoed down the empty corridor, and she pressed her hand to her mouth, suddenly aware of how loud they were. How late it was. How the hotel seemed to hold its breath around them.
Tarek stopped in front of a door at the end of the hall. Room 1214. He slid the key card in, and the lock clicked green.
"After you," he said.
She stepped inside.
The suite opened up like a held breath. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the Milwaukee skyline, all those glass towers glittering against the night like a crown someone had dropped and forgotten. The lights were already on—soft, warm, golden. A king-sized bed dominated the room, dressed in white linens so crisp they looked like they'd never been touched. A jacuzzi sat in the corner, steam curling off the surface.
On the nightstand, a bottle of sparkling cider. On the desk, champagne.
"You planned this," she said.
"I planned this." He closed the door behind them. The latch clicked. "You deserve nice things."
"I deserve you."
"You have me." He walked to the minibar and pulled out two glasses. "But tonight, you also deserve this."
She watched him pour. The cider bubbled and hissed, catching the light. The champagne was pale gold, almost clear. He handed her the cider first, then lifted his own glass.
"A toast," he said.
She waited.
"To you." His voice dropped. "To the woman carrying my child. To the woman who makes me want to be better than I am. To the woman I've loved since I was fourteen years old and too stupid to know what to do about it."
Layla's throat tightened.
"To us," she said.
"To us."
They drank. The cider was sweet and sharp, and Layla felt it fizz all the way down to her stomach. Tarek set his glass down. Then he took hers and set it down too.
And then he kissed her.
His mouth was warm and tasted like champagne. He kissed her like he had all the time in the world—slow, deliberate, his hands coming up to cup her face like she was something precious. Layla melted into him. The hotel room disappeared. The city lights disappeared. Everything disappeared except his mouth on hers and his hands in her hair and the low sound he made in the back of his throat when she pressed closer.
He pulled back just enough to look at her.
"I've been thinking about this all night," he said.
"About what?"
"Getting you out of this dress."
She laughed. "You've been thinking about that since I put it on."
"Since before that." He kissed her jaw. "Since we left the house."
"We left the house four hours ago."
"Four hours too long."
His hands found the zipper at the back of her dress. He pulled it down slowly, tooth by tooth, and the sound was loud in the quiet room. The fabric loosened. Cool air kissed her skin.
"You're shaking," he said.
"I'm nervous."
"Why?"
"I don't know." She swallowed. "I'm bigger now. Different."
He stepped back. Looked at her. The dress hung open, revealing the curve of her back, the line of her spine, the swell of her hips. He reached out and traced one finger down her side.
"You're pregnant," he said. "With our child. And you think I'm going to want you less?"
"I don't know what I think."
"Then let me show you."
He pushed the dress off her shoulders. It pooled at her feet in a whisper of red silk. She stood there in her underwear—black lace, nothing fancy, the only pair that still fit—and let him look.
His eyes went dark.
"Fuck," he breathed.
"Tarek—"
"I mean it." He reached for her. "Fuck. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
His mouth found her neck. Then her collarbone. Then the tops of her breasts, spilling out of the lace. He kissed every inch of skin he could reach, and Layla's head fell back, her fingers finding his hair.
"I want to take my time," he said against her skin. "I want to kiss every part of you."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to."
He reached around and unhooked her bra. It fell away, and her breasts spilled free—heavy now, sensitive, the nipples dark and pebbled in the cool air. He took one in his hand and lowered his mouth.
Layla gasped.
His tongue was hot and wet, circling her nipple, and she felt it all the way down to her core. She gripped his shoulders. His hair. He sucked and licked and kissed like he was starving, and every pull sent a jolt of pleasure straight to her clit.
"Tarek—"
He switched to the other breast. His hand kneaded the first, thumb stroking her wet nipple, and Layla pressed her thighs together because she was already so wet she could feel it soaking through her underwear.
"Please," she said.
"Please what?"
"Please stop teasing."
He pulled back. Looked up at her from under those dark lashes, and his mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"You think I'm teasing?"
"You know you are."
"Then let me make it up to you."
He hooked his thumbs into her underwear and pulled them down. She stepped out of them, and then she was naked—completely, impossibly naked—standing in the middle of a hotel suite that probably cost more than her father made in a week.
Tarek knelt.
"Lie down," he said.
"What?"
"Lie down." He gestured to the bed. "On your back. I want to taste you."
Her face burned. "You don't have to—"
"I want to." His voice was rough. "I've been thinking about it all night. Every time you leaned across the table. Every time you laughed. Every time you looked at me with those eyes." He swallowed. "Please."
She lay down.
The sheets were cool against her back. She propped herself up on her elbows, watching as Tarek positioned himself between her legs. He kissed her knee. Her thigh. The inside of her ankle. He took his time, working his way up, and by the time his mouth reached her inner thigh, she was trembling.
"Please," she said again.
"Please what?"
"Please just—"
He licked her.
One long, slow stroke from her entrance to her clit. Layla's hips bucked off the bed. He held them down with one hand, pressing her into the mattress, and then he did it again. And again. His tongue was relentless—flat and hot, circling her clit, dipping into her entrance, sliding through her slick folds like she was the best thing he'd ever tasted.
"Fuck," she gasped.
He grunted in response. The vibration made her toes curl.
He sucked her clit into his mouth, and Layla saw stars. Her vision went white at the edges. Her hands fisted in the sheets. She was making sounds—loud, obscene sounds—and she didn't care. She was so close. So close.
"Tarek—"
He pushed two fingers inside her.
She came.
It hit her like a wave—hot and sudden and overwhelming. She felt her walls clench around his fingers, felt her release coat his tongue, felt everything narrow down to the point where his mouth met her cunt. He didn't stop. He kept licking, kept sucking, drawing it out until she had to push his head away because she couldn't take anymore.
He sat back on his heels. His mouth was shiny with her. His eyes were wild.
"God," he said. "You taste so fucking good."
She couldn't speak.
He stood up. Unbuckled his belt. His pants hit the floor, and then his boxers, and then he was naked too—hard and thick and already leaking at the tip. He stroked himself once, twice, looking at her the whole time.
"How do you want it?" he asked.
"From behind," she said. "I want to be on top."
"On top?"
"No. I mean—" She rolled over. Got on her hands and knees. "Like this. I want you behind me."
He groaned.
The bed dipped as he climbed on. His hands found her hips, warm and solid, and she felt the head of his cock press against her entrance. She was still wet from coming, still sensitive, and when he pushed inside her she gasped.
"Okay?" he asked.
"More than okay."
He pushed deeper. Slow. Careful. Her body stretched around him, and she felt every inch—the length of him, the thickness, the way he filled her so completely. When he was all the way in, he paused.
"I can feel the baby," he said.
She laughed. "You can't feel the baby."
"I can. I swear." He pressed his palm flat against her belly, and she felt the heat of his hand through her skin. "He or she is right there. Between us."
"You're ridiculous."
"I'm serious." He pulled out slowly, then pushed back in. "This is the closest I've ever been to you."
"Tarek—"
"I mean it."
He started to move. Slow at first, then faster. His hips slapped against her ass, and the sound was obscene in the quiet room. Layla gripped the headboard. The wood was smooth under her fingers, and she held on like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth.
"Fuck," he grunted. "Fuck, Layla."
"Harder."
He gave her harder.
Each thrust pushed her closer to the headboard. Closer to the edge. She could feel him in her throat—or maybe that was the pressure of the baby, the fullness, the way everything was so much more intense now that she was pregnant. Every nerve was on fire.
"I'm going to come," he said.
"Not yet."
"I can't—"
"Not yet." She pushed back against him. "I want to come first."
He reached around. Found her clit with his fingers. Circled it in tight, fast strokes, and Layla's world narrowed down to the point where his cock split her open and his fingers teased her to the edge.
"Come for me," he said. "Come on my cock."
She did.
The second orgasm was different from the first—deeper, longer, rolling through her like a wave that wouldn't stop. She cried out. Her walls clenched around him. And he followed, thrusting once, twice, three more times before he buried himself deep and came with a sound that was half-groan, half-sob.
They stayed like that for a long moment.
Then Layla's arms gave out.
She collapsed onto the bed, face-first into the pillows, and Tarek rolled off her, both of them breathing like they'd just run a marathon. The sheets were wrecked. Her thighs were slick. She could feel his come leaking out of her, and she didn't care.
"Holy shit," he said.
She laughed. Or tried to. It came out as a wheeze.
"I think I'm dead."
"You're not dead."
"I'm definitely dead."
He propped himself up. Looked at her. His face was flushed, his hair a disaster, and he was grinning like an idiot.
"You're crying," he said.
She reached up and touched her cheek. Wet. She hadn't noticed.
"I'm happy," she said.
"That's what crying means?"
"No. I mean—" She touched her belly. "I'm happy. I'm so happy I don't know what to do with it."
He kissed her forehead.
"Then let me help with that."
They lay there for a while. Long enough for the sweat to cool on their skin and the post-sex haze to fade into something softer. Layla's eyes drifted to the jacuzzi.
"Are we allowed to use that?"
"We paid for the room. We can do whatever we want."
"Then I want to use it."
He helped her up. Steered her toward the bathroom, his hand on her lower back. The jacuzzi was already filled—steam rising off the surface, the water a perfect, shimmering blue. She stepped in.
She hissed.
"Too hot?"
"No. It's perfect." She sank down until the water reached her collarbone. "Oh my God. This is the best thing that's ever happened to me."
"Better than the sex?"
"Don't push it."
He climbed in behind her. His legs bracketed hers, and she leaned back against his chest, letting her head drop onto his shoulder. The jets pounded against her back in steady pulses. The city lights glittered beyond the window. The champagne sat forgotten on the counter.
"I'm proud of you," she said.
"For what?"
"For everything." She traced a finger along his forearm. "For finishing school. For getting into medical school. For working at the hospital. For being here."
"I'm not a doctor yet."
"You're going to be. That's what matters."
He was quiet for a moment.
"What about you?"
"What about me?"
"I'm proud of you too." His arms tightened around her. "You're carrying our child. You're dealing with my family and your family and the whole mess that comes with being married in two countries. You're—" He paused. "You're doing all of it."
"I'm not doing anything special."
"You're growing a human being."
"People do that every day."
"They don't do it like you." He kissed her shoulder. "You do it with grace. With kindness. With love."
She felt her eyes sting again.
"Stop making me cry," she said.
"Never."
They sat in the jacuzzi until the water started to cool. Then Tarek reached for the soap—lavender and honey, something fancy that probably cost more than their entire grocery budget—and washed her. Her back. Her shoulders. Her chest. His hands were slow and gentle, and by the time he reached her thighs, she was trembling for an entirely different reason.
"Tarek—"
"Shhh." He kissed her neck. "I'm not done yet."
He wasn't.
He helped her out of the tub. Dried her off with a towel the size of a small blanket. Led her back to the bed—the same bed they'd just wrecked—and laid her down on the dry side of the sheets.
This time, when he entered her, it was slow.
Slow and deep and deliberate. He kissed her while he moved, swallowing every sound she made, and Layla wrapped her legs around his waist and held on. The angle was different. Softer. She could feel everything—every inch of him, every shift of his hips, the way his pubic bone ground against her clit with every thrust.
"Look at me," he said.
She opened her eyes.
His face was close. So close she could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the tiny scar by his eyebrow from when he'd fallen off a bike at twelve, the way his mouth curved even when he was trying to be serious.
"I love you," he said.
"I love you too."
"More than anything."
"More than the baby?"
"Never." He kissed her. "More than life. More than breath. More than anything in this world."
He came with her name on his lips.
And then he collapsed beside her. Pulled her close. Buried his face in her hair.
"Two months," he said.
"What?"
"Two months until the next doctor's appointment. Two months until we find out if it's a boy or a girl."
"Does it matter?"
"No." He kissed the back of her neck. "But I want to know. I want to know everything."
She smiled into the dark.
"Me too," she said.
They fell asleep tangled together. And for the first time in weeks, Layla didn't dream of uncertainty. She didn't dream of the pregnancy test she was still too afraid to take, or the unanswered questions, or the future she couldn't control.
She dreamed of nothing at all.
When she woke, it was morning. The sun was coming through the windows, and the city was waking up below them. Tarek was still asleep. His arm was draped across her waist, and his breathing was slow and even.
She reached for her phone.
No missed calls. No messages.
Then she opened the text from Mama.
Did you take the test yet?
Layla stared at the screen. The words blurred. She closed her eyes. Opened them again. And then she typed her response.
Not yet.
Then take it today. I'll go with you.
Layla looked at Tarek. At his sleeping face. At the arms that held her like she was the only thing in the world worth holding.
She thought about the test sitting in her bag. The one she'd bought three weeks ago and never used. The one she was too afraid to take because what if something was wrong. What if the baby was fine but her body wasn't. What if—
She typed: Okay.
And then she put the phone down, pressed her face into Tarek's chest, and closed her eyes.
Today.
She would take the test today.
She would take the test today.
She said it to herself three times while Tarek slept. She said it while tracing the line of his jaw with her thumb, while counting the freckles on his shoulder that she'd memorized a year ago, while the sun crawled across the hotel ceiling and the city woke up below them. She said it so many times the words turned into white noise.
But the truth sat in her chest like a stone she'd swallowed. She didn't need the test. She'd known for three months—since the doctor in Phoenix confirmed it with a blood draw and a soft smile. She'd known since before the flight back to Wisconsin, since before Mama's lecture, since before the wedding in Aleppo when she'd held Tarek's hand and thought about forever.
Her belly didn't lie. The nausea didn't lie. The flutter of movement she'd felt for the first time two weeks ago—like a butterfly trapped under her skin—didn't lie.
She reached for her phone. Typed: I already know, Amma. I've known since Arizona.
She sent it before she could second-guess herself.
Tarek stirred. His arm tightened around her waist. His breath came warm against the back of her neck.
"You're awake," he mumbled.
"I've been awake."
"What time is it?"
"Seven. Maybe eight."
He groaned. Buried his face in her hair. "We don't have to check out until noon."
"I know."
"Then why are you awake?"
She turned in his arms. Faced him. His eyes were still closed, his lashes dark against his cheeks, and he looked younger than twenty-one—softer, somehow, like the weight of medical school and marriage and fatherhood hadn't found him yet.
"I'm pregnant," she said.
His eyes opened.
"I know."
"No. I mean—" She swallowed. "I've known for three months. Since Arizona. Before we came back. I took a test there. A blood test. The doctor confirmed it."
He stared at her.
"You knew?"
"I knew."
"And you didn't tell me?"
"I was scared." She felt her throat close. "I was going to. I had it all planned. I was going to wait until we got settled, until you started at the hospital, until—"
"Layla."
"—until I knew for sure that everything was okay. That the baby was healthy. That I wasn't—"
"Layla."
She stopped.
He cupped her face. His thumb brushed her cheek, and she realized she was crying. Again. She always seemed to be crying now—hormones, probably, but also something else. Something bigger.
"I know you're pregnant," he said.
"You just said that."
"No. I mean—" He took a breath. "I've known since the day after our wedding."
She blinked.
"What?"
"The night we got married. In Aleppo. I knew." He kissed her forehead. "Maybe not for sure. Maybe it was just a feeling. But the next morning, when you were sick, I thought—this is it. This is the beginning of everything."
"You didn't say anything."
"Neither did you."
"But I—"
"I know why you didn't tell me." His thumb found the corner of her mouth. "You were scared. You were waiting. You wanted everything to be perfect."
"I did."
"I did too." He smiled. "We're idiots."
She laughed. Wet and broken, but real.
"We're married idiots," she said.
"The best kind."
They lay there for a while. The sun rose higher. The city got louder. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed and faded.
Then Tarek's hand slid down her stomach. Rested on the curve of her bump.
"Five months," he said.
"Twenty-two weeks."
"Can I feel anything?"
"Not right now. She's asleep."
"She?"
"Or he." Layla shrugged. "I don't know yet. But I call her she in my head."
"Wishful thinking?"
"Maybe." She covered his hand with hers. "What do you hope for?"
"I hope for healthy." He kissed her shoulder. "Beyond that, I don't care."
"You're lying."
"I'm not."
"Everyone cares." She poked his ribs. "Tell me."
He sighed. Dramatic. Long-suffering.
"A girl," he said.
"Why?"
"Because I want to watch you teach her how to be kind." He paused. "And because I want to spoil her rotten and make you mad."
"You already spoil me rotten."
"You're my wife. That's different."
"How is it different?"
"I have to spoil you." He kissed her neck. "It's in the contract."
She laughed. Real this time. The sound filled the room and pushed back the shadows, and for a moment she forgot about the test and the fear and the months of silence.
Then he shifted. His hips pressed against hers. And she felt him—half-hard, already stirring—and her laughter turned into something else.
"Tarek."
"Mm."
"You're not subtle."
"I'm not trying to be."
She reached down. Wrapped her fingers around him. The heat of him, the weight. He sucked in a breath.
"I want to try something," she said.
"What?"
"Something new."
"New?"
"The jacuzzi." She sat up. Pulled him with her. "Come on."
They stumbled across the room. The water was still warm from the night before, and Layla stepped in first, letting it rise around her thighs. Then she turned. Pushed Tarek down onto the tile ledge. His cock bobbed against his stomach, slick and ready.
"Layla—"
"Shut up."
She knelt.
The water hit her at the waist. Warm and swirling, lapping against her skin. She positioned herself between his legs. Wrapped her hand around him again.
"Fuck," he whispered.
"I haven't even started."
"You just—"
She licked the tip.
His whole body jerked. His hands fisted against his thighs. His head fell back, and a sound came out of him—low and guttural, like he was dying.
"Fuck, Layla."
She smiled. Then took him in her mouth.
He was thick. Warm. Salty with the remnants of the night before. She slid her lips down his length, taking him as deep as she could, and felt him hit the back of her throat. She swallowed.
"Jesus—"
She pulled back. Licked the head. "You swear a lot."
"I'm sorry—"
"Don't be."
She took him again.
This time slower. This time deliberate. She worked him with her mouth and her hand together—sliding up and down, tongue flat against the vein that ran along the underside. Every time she pulled back, she tasted him. Every time she went down, he moaned.
"You're so good at this," he gasped.
"You have a baby mama who swallows." She licked her lips. "Get used to it."
"I—"
"I'm not swallowing yet."
"Fuck."
She went back.
Wet sounds filled the bathroom. Saliva dripped down her chin. Her jaw ached, and she didn't care. She felt powerful—watching him come apart, watching the way his thighs tensed, the way his knuckles went white against the tile.
"I'm close," he warned.
She pulled back.
"Not yet."
"Layla—"
"Not yet."
She stood up. The water ran down her body, over her belly, over her breasts. She climbed onto his lap. Guided him inside her with one hand.
This angle was different. His cock was wet from her mouth, and she was wet from everything else. He slid into her easily. Deeply. She pressed her forehead against his and started to move.
"Look at me," she said.
He did.
His eyes were dark. Wild. His hands came up to grip her hips, helping her ride him, and the water slapped against the sides of the jacuzzi in a rhythm that matched their thrusts.
"I love you," she said.
"I love you—"
"Tell me about the baby."
"What?"
"Tell me about the baby." She ground down. Slow. Hard. "Tell me what you want."
He swallowed.
"I want—" A thrust. "—to hold her—" Another. "—for the first time—"
"And?"
"I want to count her fingers." His voice cracked. "I want to see her eyes. I want to know if they're brown like yours or brown like mine."
"And?"
"I want to teach her how to laugh." He was shaking now. "I want to teach her how to love. I want to show her what it means to be good."
Layla leaned in. Kissed him. Swallowed his moan.
"Then come," she said.
He did.
She felt it—the pulse of him inside her, the way his fingers dug into her hips, the broken sounds he made against her mouth. She didn't come. She didn't need to. She just held him. Rode the wave.
When he finally went still, she climbed off. Wrapped her arms around his neck. Pressed her face into his shoulder.
"Holy shit," he whispered.
"Mm."
"You—" He laughed. Gasped. "You just—"
"I love you."
"I love you too."
They stayed in the jacuzzi until the water went cold. Then they dried off, got dressed, and packed their bags. Layla checked her phone on the way out the door.
Mama had texted back.
Then I'll see you at dinner. Bring Tarek. I'm making kibbeh.
She smiled.
"What?" Tarek asked.
"Nothing." She tucked the phone into her pocket. "Just my mother. She wants us to come over tonight."
"She's going to interrogate me about the baby."
"Probably."
"She's going to ask about the apartment."
"Definitely."
"She's going to—"
"Tarek."
"What?"
Layla stopped in the middle of the hallway. Looked up at him. The same boy who'd chased her through his grandmother's garden when they were kids. The same man who'd crossed an ocean to marry her.
"Whatever she says," Layla told him, "whatever she asks—it doesn't matter. We're going home. We're having this baby. We're going to be fine."
He kissed her.
Then they walked to the elevator, hand in hand, the weight of the city pressing down on them from every side.