Chapter 5: The Business Partner
The suit was fine wool, navy, tailored for someone with Simon’s exact measurements. He changed in the penthouse bathroom, his fingers clumsy on the mother-of-pearl buttons. His reflection showed the faint purple bloom of a bruise on his hip, a trophy from the night before. The suit hid it perfectly.
Ali appraised him with a glance, nodded once, and handed him a garment bag. “Carry this.”
The ride to the airport was silent. Ali drove with a relaxed precision, the G-Class absorbing the imperfections of the road. Simon watched the suburbs give way to arterial roads, then the signs for Birmingham International. His mouth still held the phantom, bitter aftertaste. His throat felt tender. He was functioning, but a part of him felt permanently unmoored, floating somewhere behind his own eyes.
The arrivals hall was a cathedral of noise and anxious energy. Simon trailed a half-step behind Ali, the garment bag over his shoulder, feeling like an attendant. The screen flickered, flight information scrolling. Then a name: Al-Rashid, T. Arrived.
A man emerged from the customs channel. He was Ali’s height, perhaps an inch shorter, but just as broad. Where Ali’s bearing was sleek, contained power, this man’s was more overtly physical, a bullish strength hinted at in the set of his shoulders. His beard was peppered with grey, his eyes a cool, assessing grey-blue. He wore a rumpled linen suit and carried only a leather briefcase.
“Tariq,” Ali said, stepping forward. They clasped hands, a quick, firm gesture, and exchanged a few words in rapid Arabic. Simon stood frozen, holding the bag.
Tariq’s gaze swept over him. It was not the hungry, artistic appraisal of the sketches. This was inventory. It took in the suit, the careful haircut, the unmistakable wariness in Simon’s posture. His lips twitched in what wasn’t a smile.
“This is the liaison?” Tariq asked, his English flavored with a different, guttural accent.
“Simon Fletcher,” Ali said. “He has been indispensable.”
Tariq nodded slowly. “Good. I am tired. The flight was full of fools.”
They walked to the car. Simon moved to the front passenger seat out of habit, but Ali clicked the keys and the rear door locks disengaged with a soft thunk. “In the back, Simon. Keep Tariq company.”
The command was casual. Simon slid across the cool leather, placing the garment bag between himself and the window. Tariq took the other side, filling the space with his presence, the scent of airline cabins and a faint, spicy cologne. Ali started the engine, the hum deepening as they pulled away from the curb, merging into the stream of traffic heading back toward the city centre.
For five minutes, there was only the sound of the road. Tariq asked Ali a question about a shipment, Ali gave a terse reply. Simon watched the world blur past, trying to make himself small.
Then Tariq shifted. Not much. Just a relaxation of his posture, spreading his thighs slightly, his arm coming to rest along the top of the seatback. His hand dangled, fingers inches from Simon’s shoulder.
“Ali tells me you are adaptable,” Tariq said, his voice a low rumble meant only for the back seat.
Simon’s throat tightened. “I try to be, sir.”
“‘Sir.’ Polite.” Tariq’s fingers brushed the wool of Simon’s suit jacket. “In my experience, polite men have the most to hide. Or the most to learn.”
Ali’s eyes found Simon’s in the rearview mirror. He gave an almost imperceptible nod.
Tariq’s hand landed on Simon’s thigh, a heavy, warm weight. He squeezed, the pressure just shy of painful. “He also says you have a talented mouth. That you learn quickly.” His thumb began to rub a slow circle through the fabric. “I have had a very long flight. My patience is thin. Show me what he means.”
The city outside became a smear of color and light. Simon’s hands were ice. He looked at Ali’s reflection, but the man was simply driving, his expression one of detached observation. There was no rescue here. There was only the escalating price of the path he was on.
His fingers trembled as he reached for Tariq’s belt. The buckle was heavy, simple. He unfastened it, then the button of the trousers, the zip coming down with a harsh, metallic whisper. Tariq didn’t help, just watched him with those cool, grey eyes, his hand still possessively on Simon’s leg.
Simon reached into the opening. Tariq was already hard, thick and hot in his hand. He pulled him out, the cock springing free, flushed and heavy, veined and imposing. The smell of him, musky and intimate, filled the enclosed space.
“Go on then,” Tariq murmured, his fingers now tangling in Simon’s hair, not gently.
Simon bent forward, the leather seat creaking. He opened his mouth, taking the head inside. The taste was different from Ali’s—sharper, saltier. Tariq let out a low, satisfied hum.
“Deeper. No teasing.”
The hand in his hair pushed, guiding. Simon resisted for a fraction of a second, a primal gag reflex, then yielded, letting Tariq fill his mouth, then his throat. It was a brutal, efficient penetration. Tariq’s hips lifted off the seat, pushing up into the warm, tight clutch. He began to fuck Simon’s face in earnest, short, deep strokes that left no room for breath or grace.
Simon’s eyes watered. He braced his hands on Tariq’s thighs, the coarse linen rough under his palms. The sounds were obscene: wet, gulping, choked. His own cock, trapped in the fine wool trousers, was achingly hard, a pulse of shameful need synchronized with each thrust.
“See?” Ali’s voice came from the front, conversational. “I told you. He understands purpose.”
Tariq grunted, his rhythm becoming more erratic, more forceful. “Fuck. He does. Tight fucking throat.” His grip on Simon’s hair was vicelike, holding him perfectly in place as he pistoned upwards. “Swallow it. Swallow every drop.”
The orgasm hit Tariq without further warning. He shoved himself deep, his body tensing, and a hot, bitter flood erupted into Simon’s throat. Simon swallowed convulsively, automatically, as he had been trained to do, the fluid burning a path down to his stomach. Tariq held there, pulsing, until he was spent.
He pulled out with a soft, wet sound, and Simon collapsed back against the seat, gasping, saliva and come slick on his chin and lips. He trembled violently.
Tariq tucked himself away, fastening his trousers with steady hands. He looked at Simon’s ruined face, the tears, the mess, and chuckled. He used his thumb to collect a bead of spit from Simon’s jaw, then wiped it on the knee of Simon’s pristine navy trousers. “Adequate,” he said, as if rating a wine.
Ali turned the car into the underground garage of The Grand. The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the engine’s echo bouncing off concrete pillars.
They got out. Simon’s legs barely held him. He fumbled for the garment bag, his soiled suit a brand of humiliation.
As they walked toward the private elevator, Tariq spoke to Ali, his tone now all business. “The contact from Marseille will be at the restaurant at nine. He is nervous. He needs to see… commitment.”
“He will see it,” Ali said, pressing the call button.
Tariq’s eyes slid back to Simon. “And him?”
“He comes with us,” Ali said, as the doors opened. “He wears the evidence of his commitment. It will be persuasive.”
The elevator began its silent ascent. Simon stared at his own reflection in the polished brass doors—the handsome, expensive suit, the hollow eyes, the sticky gloss on his chin. He did not wipe it away. The taste in his mouth was no longer just Tariq’s; it was the taste of the path itself, metallic and deep and unresisted. He followed them into the penthouse, the doors closing behind him, sealing him into the next phase of the descent.