Chapter 2: The Other Man
The board meeting had been a surreal, silent warfare of glances. Mehdi had worn a tailored cream suit, the jacket cut to emphasize his new waist, the trousers flowing. His hair was up in a severe bun that showed off the delicate gold hoops in his ears and the subtle diamond stud in his nose. He’d spoken about quarterly projections, his voice calm and clear in the hushed room. They’d listened. They’d agreed. But their eyes—lingering on his nails, the swell of his chest under his shirt, the unfamiliar grace of his movements—had held a cocktail of confusion, shock, and for some of the older members, outright distaste.
He’d won. And it had felt like ash in his mouth.
A week later, the memory of that hollow victory was a dull ache. The need for something real, something undisguised, was a physical thirst.
“You’re sure about this?” Ashraf’s voice was low, almost lost in the rooftop breeze.
She leaned against the railing of their building’s private lounge, a silhouette against the city’s neon glow. She wore a simple black tank top that stretched across her shoulders, her powerful arms crossed. Her gaze wasn’t on him, but scanning the curated crowd at the bar—wealthy, beautiful, open-minded. This was her world now, these exclusive spaces where money bought discretion.
“No,” Mehdi answered honestly. He swirled the amber whiskey in his glass. He’d chosen a deep emerald green silk shirt, unbuttoned just enough, and black trousers that clung. He felt exposed and powerful all at once. “But I need to be.”
Ashraf finally looked at him. Her eyes were dark, unreadable pools. “Then go. I’ll be here.”
“Watching?”
“Always.”
There was no jealousy in her tone. It was a statement of fact, a possessiveness that was its own kind of anchor. She was giving him a leash, long enough to wander, but she would never let go of the collar. The thought should have chafed. It only made him feel safe enough to be reckless.
He moved to the bar, feeling the weight of her gaze between his shoulder blades. He ordered another drink, letting his posture soften, one hip cocked against the brass rail. He was a new instrument, learning how to be played.
“That’s a serious drink for someone who looks like a painting.”
The voice was warm, amused. Mehdi turned.
The man was around his own age, early forties, with sharp, intelligent features and eyes that crinkled at the corners. He wore a casually expensive linen shirt, sleeves rolled up. He wasn’t as physically imposing as Ashraf, but there was a relaxed confidence in his stance. His eyes traveled over Mehdi’s face, his hair, his throat—appreciative, curious, but not leering.
“Looks can be deceiving,” Mehdi said, finding a smile he didn’t know he had.
“I’m Rohan.” He didn’t offer a hand, just a slight incline of his head.
“Mehdi.”
A flicker of recognition in Rohan’s eyes. The name, the face—maybe he knew the businessman from before. But his gaze held no shock, only a deepened interest. “Can I join you? Or is this a solitary meditation?”
“Company,” Mehdi heard himself say, “would be welcome.”
They talked. It was startlingly normal. Finance, the absurdity of the art market, a new restaurant. Rohan was clever, witty, his questions probing but never prying. He made Mehdi laugh, a genuine sound that felt strange and wonderful. And all the while, Mehdi was hyper-aware of his own body—the way his silk shirt whispered against his nipples, the brush of his own hair against his cheek, the constant, low hum between his legs that had become his new baseline. It spiked when Rohan’s knee accidentally brushed his under the bar.
An hour melted away. The crowd thinned. Rohan leaned in slightly, his scent of sandalwood and clean skin cutting through the whiskey haze.
“This lounge is beautiful,” he said, his voice dropping. “But I know a spot that’s more private. Just through those curtains. A cabana. We could… continue the conversation.”
Mehdi’s eyes flickered over Rohan’s shoulder. Across the roof, half in shadow, Ashraf stood. She was lighting a cigarette, the flame illuminating the stark planes of her face for a second. She gave one slow, almost imperceptible nod. Go.
“Lead the way,” Mehdi said.
The cabana was draped in sheer black fabric, a room within a room. The city lights filtered through, casting everything in a soft, monochrome glow. A wide, plush chaise dominated the space. It was quiet, the sounds of the bar now a distant murmur.
Rohan closed the curtain behind them. The intimacy was sudden, absolute.
“You are,” Rohan said softly, turning to face him, “the most fascinating person I’ve ever met.”
He didn’t pounce. He approached like someone examining a rare artifact. His hands came up to cradle Mehdi’s face, thumbs stroking his cheekbones. His kiss was nothing like Ashraf’s. It was explorative, tender, a question. Mehdi answered, opening his mouth, a shudder running through him at the gentleness.
Rohan’s hands drifted down, unbuttoning the emerald silk with meticulous care. He pushed it from Mehdi’s shoulders, letting it pool on the floor. His breath hitched.
“God,” he whispered, not touching yet. “You’re exquisite.”
Mehdi stood there, allowing the gaze. He watched Rohan’s eyes trace the curve of his breasts, the silver hoop piercing his navel, the smooth plane of his stomach. There was reverence in it, a hunger that was cerebral as much as physical.
Then Rohan kissed him again, lower, on the collarbone. His hands slid around Mehdi’s waist, pulling him close. Mehdi felt the hard line of Rohan’s erection against his hip, a different shape, a different pressure than he was used to. The novelty was electric.
“Is this okay?” Rohan murmured against his skin.
“Yes. Don’t stop.”
Rohan lowered him onto the chaise. He removed his own shirt, his body lean and toned. He followed Mehdi down, covering him, his weight a foreign, thrilling pressure. He kissed a trail down Mehdi’s sternum, took a nipple into his mouth, his tongue circling the bead of metal there. Mehdi cried out, arching off the cushions. It was sensitivity layered on sensitivity, a feedback loop of pure sensation.
Rohan worshiped every new inch. He nuzzled the sensitive dip of his waist, kissed the inside of his thighs, his stubble a delicious scrape against the hairless skin. When he finally, slowly, pressed a finger inside him, Mehdi sobbed.
“You’re so wet,” Rohan said, awed. “So ready.”
“Please.”
Rohan entered him with a slow, inexorable push. It was a full, stretching sensation, but it lacked the brutal, claiming force of Ashraf. This was a deep, rolling possession. Rohan moved with a patient, passionate intensity, his eyes locked on Mehdi’s, his breath mingling with his cries.
Mehdi wrapped his legs around Rohan’s back, his heels digging in. He was being unmade in a different way. This wasn’t about being pinned and taken. This was about being opened, explored, cherished. He came with a soft, broken whimper, the orgasm washing through him in warm, prolonged waves, pulling Rohan over the edge with him.
After, Rohan collapsed beside him, gathering him close, his hand splayed on Mehdi’s stomach. They lay in silence, listening to each other’s breathing even out.
“Thank you,” Rohan said finally, his lips against Mehdi’s temple.
Mehdi just nodded, drifting in the afterglow. His body felt thoroughly used, profoundly peaceful. His mind was quiet.
When he stirred and dressed, Rohan helped him, his touches still tender. “I’d like to see you again,” he said, handing Mehdi the emerald shirt.
“I… I don’t know.”
“That’s alright.” Rohan smiled, no pressure in it. “The offer stands.”
Mehdi stepped back out into the cool night air of the rooftop. The bar was nearly empty. He felt clean, new, and utterly disoriented.
Ashraf was where he’d left her, now sitting on a low sofa, a fresh drink in her hand. She watched him walk toward her, her gaze missing nothing: the slightly mussed hair, the soft, spent look in his eyes, the renewed confidence in his step.
He sat beside her, not touching. The city glittered, indifferent.
“Well?” she asked, her voice a gravelly scrape.
“It was different,” Mehdi said.
“Good different?”
He thought about the reverence, the tenderness, the feeling of being discovered rather than conquered. “Yes. And no.” He turned to look at her. “It wasn’t you.”
A slow smile spread across Ashraf’s face then, fierce and full of teeth. It was the most beautiful thing he’d seen all night. She reached out, her big hand curling around the back of his neck, pulling him in until their foreheads touched. Her scent—whiskey, smoke, her own skin—wrapped around him, erasing the last trace of sandalwood.
“You come home to me,” she growled, the words a vow and a command. “Always.”
And he knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that he would.