Chapter 3: The Reclamation Ride
The city’s midnight glow bled around the edges of the blackout drapes, painting the bedroom in shades of charcoal and deep blue. Mehdi lay awake, one hand resting on the flat plane of his stomach, feeling the ghost of a future flutter that was not yet there. The promise of the scans, the surrogacy deposit—they were abstractions. The weight of Ashraf, now sleeping heavily beside him, was concrete.
He studied her in the gloom. The strong line of her jaw was slack, the assertive set of her mouth softened. She was a fortress at rest. He, however, was a field after a storm, every nerve-ending alive and buzzing.
A thought, sharp and electric, cut through the postpartum calm of their earlier sex. He had always been taken, possessed, fucked. Ashraf had been the architect of every encounter since his surgery, rebuilding his pleasure from the ground up on her terms. It had been what he needed. Safety in surrender.
But the conversation with Dr. Larson had ignited something else. A fierce, protective ownership of his own body, its possibilities and its pain. If he was going to offer it up to science, if he was going to demand it perform miracles, then he needed to know he could command it in other ways, too.
He shifted, the silk sheets whispering. He propped himself up on one elbow and let his gaze travel the landscape of her. The rise and fall of her hairy chest. The corded strength of her arms flung wide. The ridge of her cock, semi-soft and resting against her thigh beneath the sheet. His mouth watered.
He leaned down and kissed her shoulder, tasting salt and sleep. “Ash,” he murmured against her skin.
A grunt. Her breathing hitched. “Mmm?”
“Wake up.”
“Why?” Her voice was gravel, eyes still closed.
“Because I want to ride you.”
Her eyes opened. In the dark, they were two points of focused attention. She didn’t move. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He traced the shell of her ear with his tongue. “I want to be on top. I want to decide how deep you go. I want to watch your face while I take your cock.”
That got her. A low, approving hum vibrated in her chest. She shifted, rolling onto her back, the sheet pooling at her waist. “Okay. Show me.”
The permission, casually given, was a key in a lock. Mehdi straddled her hips, the silk of his shorts a thin barrier. He could feel the heat of her, the thickening weight of her against his ass. He reached for the glass of water on the nightstand, took a slow sip, letting her watch the line of his throat. He was setting the pace.
He pulled his camisole over his head, tossing it aside. His breasts, full and sensitive in the cool air, swayed with the movement. He saw her eyes track them. He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his shorts and panties, sliding them down his legs in one excruciatingly slow motion. He heard her breath catch when he was finally bare.
“You’re staring,” he whispered, kneeling up over her.
“You’re a fucking vision,” she said, her voice thick. Her hands came up to grip his thighs, her thumbs rubbing circles on his inner skin. “Do your thing.”
He reached between them, his fingers wrapping around her shaft. It was already solid, a column of heat and intention in his hand. He gave it a few slow pumps, watching the pre-cum bead at the tip. He leaned forward, smearing it with his thumb before bringing it to his own mouth, sucking it clean. Her taste, metallic and musky, flooded his senses.
“Fuck, Mehdi,” she groaned, her hips lifting off the bed.
“Not yet.” He positioned himself, guiding her head to his entrance. He was wet, had been since he first woke with the idea. He paused, letting just the tip press against his folds, not yielding. He looked down, meeting her gaze. “You feel how ready I am for you?”
“Yes.”
“My old body could never get this wet for you. Not like this. It was always a struggle, a dry, anxious little performance.”
“I know.”
“This isn’t a performance.” He sank down, an inch, just enough to feel the stretch. A sharp, bright pleasure-pain. He hissed. “This is a reception.”
He lowered himself further, taking her in with a slow, deliberate roll of his hips. The fullness was immense, a thick, claiming pressure that shoved the air from his lungs. He went slowly, listening to the ragged sound of their breathing, watching the play of awe and lust on Ashraf’s face. When he was fully seated, she was buried to the hilt inside him. He ground down, a circular motion that made them both gasp.
“Oh, god,” she whispered, her hands flying to his hips, not to guide, just to hold on.
“You like that?” he panted, beginning to move, a gentle rise and fall. “You like watching me use your cock for my pleasure?”
“It’s the best thing I’ve ever seen.”
He picked up the rhythm, rising until just the tip remained inside him, then plunging back down. The sound of their skin meeting filled the room—a wet, solid slap. His breasts bounced with each movement. He arched his back, letting his head fall back, his long hair tickling the small of his back. The pleasure was a coiling spring in his gut, tighter, hotter than when he was passive.
He leaned forward, bracing his hands on her chest, his face inches from hers. His pace became harder, more urgent. “That sad fucking accountant,” he snarled, the words punched out with each thrust. “He could never have taken you like this. He was too frail. Too scared.”
“You’re not scared,” she breathed, her eyes glazed, riveted to him.
“No. I’m hungry.” He drove down harder, feeling her hit a spot that sparked white behind his eyelids. “And this pussy you bought me… it’s fucking starving for what you built.”
He kissed her then, messy and deep, swallowing her moans. He could feel her control fraying, her hips trying to buck up to meet his falls, but he pinned her with his weight, maintaining the tempo. He was in charge. He was claiming his pleasure from her body, just as he intended to claim a future from his own.
“Tell me,” he demanded against her mouth. “Tell me how different it is.”
“Tighter,” she gasped, her fingers digging into his flesh. “Softer inside. Hotter. Christ, it’s like you were designed for this.”
“I was,” he cried out, the rhythm becoming frantic, a punishing, glorious piston motion. “You turned me into the perfect sheath for your perfect cock. Now watch what your creation can do.”
The orgasm tore through him violently, a seismic shock that locked his body into a rigid arc. His inner muscles clamped around her in rapid, relentless waves, milking, demanding. The cry that left his throat was raw and uninhibited, echoing off the high ceiling.
It triggered hers. With a shout that was almost a roar, she erupted inside him. He could feel the hot, pulsing rush of it, deep in his core, and the sensation dragged another, smaller climax from him, leaving him trembling and spent.
He collapsed forward onto her chest, a boneless heap of sweat-slick skin and aftershocks. Her arms came around him, holding him tight as they both struggled to breathe.
The room slowly came back into focus. The hum of the AC. The distant siren. The pounding of their hearts slowing to a syncopated rhythm.
After a long time, Ashraf’s hand stroked his hair. “Where the hell did that come from?”
Mehdi nuzzled into her neck. “From the place that’s going to get those scans. From the place that’s not asking permission anymore.”
She was quiet for a moment. “It’s a good place.”
“I think so too.”
He drifted, halfway to sleep, the scent of their sex thick in the air. Her voice, soft, pulled him back.
“The imaging center called while you were in the shower earlier. They can take us tomorrow at three.”
All the sensual fog burned away in an instant. He lifted his head. “Tomorrow?”
“Yeah. You ready to get your maps drawn, mountaineer?”
The parallel tracks were converging, speeding up. The ghost of a fluttering feeling in his gut returned, but this time it wasn’t a phantom. It was the tremor before an earthquake. He met her eyes in the dark and saw his own determined reflection.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m ready.”