Chapter 3: The Taking
Tariq pulled his hand out again. On his fingers, the wetness of Marie's pussy was still visible, glistening under the café’s low light. He held his hand up between them, a vulgar exhibit. “See that?” he said, his voice low and thick. “That’s you. That’s proof.”
Marie stared, her face hot. She couldn’t look away.
“You want this,” Tariq stated, wiping his fingers slowly on the napkin. “You’ve wanted it. And I’ve wanted to fuck you for a long time.” He leaned in, his breath against her ear. “Ever since last summer. That short blue dress you wore to the staff meeting. The one that hugged your ass so tight I thought the seams would split. I watched you bend over the photocopier that day. I’ve thought about it every day since.”
The memory flooded back—the dress, the heat, the feeling of being watched which she’d dismissed as paranoia. It had been him. All along.
“You’re going to text your husband,” he continued, his tone leaving no room for debate. “Tell him you’ve just had a big problem at the library. You have to stay late to sort it out. Then you’re going to follow me home.”
He didn’t ask. He told.
Tariq got up, pushing his chair back with a scrape. “You have five minutes to send that message. Don’t disappoint me.” He walked toward the back of the café, toward the restrooms, his broad shoulders moving with an infuriating certainty.
Once he was gone, Marie felt the cage of normalcy snap back into place. She should get up. Walk out. Go home to Mark, to her children, to the life she had built. It was as simple as that.
But she didn’t move.
Tariq was right. A dull, persistent throb between her legs confirmed it. She could feel her own slickness seeping into her panties, a humiliating, thrilling betrayal. The touch of his fingers on her lips, inside her under the table, had excited her more than she’d been in months. More than she could remember.
Her phone felt heavy in her hand. She unlocked it, the screen blinding in the dim café. Her messages. Mark’s name at the top, his last text a simple “Dinner?” with a smiling emoji.
Her thumbs hovered. The lie constructed itself, clinical and cold.
Sorry, darling, but I just had a big problem at the library. I’ll be home late. Don’t wait up for me.
She sent it.
The whoosh of the message leaving her phone felt like a door slamming shut behind her.
Just as she looked up, Tariq returned. He moved through the space with a predatory grace, his imposing stature impossible to ignore. All eyes, she imagined, would be drawn to him. He dropped a few bills on the table, a smile playing on his lips as he saw the phone in her hand.
“Good girl,” he murmured.
As he turned to lead the way out, Marie’s gaze, almost against her will, dropped. It landed on his crotch. And stalled.
A huge bulge distorted the fabric of his trousers, a stark, unmistakable outline against the dark material. It could only be the shape of his penis, but the sheer size of it seemed impossible. A part of her brain, the rational librarian part, tried to logic it away—a trick of the light, a fold in the fabric. But the rest of her knew. The visual confirmation of her most secret fantasy sent a fresh, sharp spike of desire straight to her core.
The mere thought excited her even more, shortening her breath.
“Time to go,” Tariq said, not looking back. He knew she would follow.
She did. She stood on legs that felt vaguely disconnected and followed him out of the café into the cool evening air. The walk was a blur of streetlights and shadows. It wasn’t more than five minutes before they arrived at the bottom of a modest brick building, a walk-up with a faded green door.
Tariq unlocked it and gestured for her to enter the foyer. “You first,” he said, his eyes dark. “I’ve been enjoying the view of your backside under that dress since we left. I want to enjoy it a little longer.”
She climbed the stairs to the second floor, acutely aware of his presence behind her, of his eyes on her hips, on the swing of her skirt. Each step felt like a further descent.
He unlocked another door, number 2B, and pushed it open, letting her step inside first.
Surprisingly, Marie found Tariq’s place rather pleasant. It was clean, sparsely but thoughtfully furnished—a deep leather sofa, a large abstract painting in rich colors, shelves lined with books that weren’t just for show. It was warm, lived-in. She had imagined something more austere, more aggressively masculine, befitting the stature of its owner. This was somehow more disarming.
The door clicked shut behind them.
No sooner had the lock engaged than Tariq moved. He grabbed Marie by the hips, spun her to face him, and pulled her close. There was no prelude, no gentle inquiry. His mouth came down on hers, hard and claiming.
Marie gasped into the kiss. For a second, she froze. Then, with a shudder that started deep in her belly, she let his tongue into her mouth. She even returned his kiss, her hands coming up to clutch at the solid muscles of his arms, holding on as the world she knew tilted off its axis and shattered.