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His finger dipped inside her wet heart, rolling around the nerve-endings that were already screaming from pleasures enjoyed.
“I will wipe him from your mind,” Syed said with heat and passion.
“Who?”
“The father.” He pushed another finger inside of her and she bucked, grinding her hips lower. But when her arms pushed off the glass and she attempted to straighten, he used his other hand to hold her in place, keeping her bent over Manhattan. For his pleasure? Or hers?
She stared at the city as he twisted his fingers against her most sensitive flesh, finding the spot that was at the centre of her pleasures, and tormenting it with insistent, quick taps. She writhed against the window, but moving was not an option. He held her fast and she surrendered to the pleasure he provided. It was new and it was intense and she was his, as he’d said he wanted.
She always would be.
He slid his fingers from her and she groaned at the removal of contact, but not for long. He crouched behind her; his tongue found its mark, running along her seam and pleasuring her anew, in a thousand different ways. She screamed out, and now when she went to stand, he pulled away, punishing her and ensuring her submission in a new way. A way that was torture. She could not let him stop. Her world would crumble without the pleasure he promised.
It was a climax that overtook her for its speed and intensity. He kept his mouth against her as she came, his tongue unrelenting until the last wave had passed and then he stood, easily, and his cock, so hard and big, drove into her, even as her body was still processing the last assault of sensation.
She cried out, but it was a hoarse cry, muted by so many cries before it. His hands curled around her body, seeking her breasts, and he played them. Roughly, not gently, pulling at her nipples almost as though they had angered him. And the pleasure from that touch sent sharp arrows of need through her, sharp against her flesh, overpowering her nerves, boiling her blood.
It had never been like this before. In the past, he had been gentle. Still seductive and powerful, but not demonstrating this all-consuming need to control.
It was new. And she loved it. He thrust into her and now his hands moved to her shoulders, digging into the flesh, holding her tight, so that each jab of his arousal moved deep within her. “Keep your eyes open,” he barked, and she complied, such was his power over her.
The city beneath her was like another form of stimulus; she was dizzied by its heights and its pace and she suspected he knew it.
“I am going to drive you crazy tonight,” he said. “You will not sleep. You will simply be pleasured. Again and again until you beg me to let you sleep and still I will pleasure you. So that no man, ever, can give you what I have. Do you understand, najin? Tonight, you are mine. All mine.”
She groaned but didn’t answer, and as he thrust into her he dropped a hand to her opening and his fingers began to tease her in time with his movements until she was incandescent with the build up of her desire. She fell apart against the window, the streets of Manhattan manic below her, but not a patch on the mania that was rampant in her blood.
CHAPTER FIVE
He had possessed her, again and again, but it was clear Syed was the one who was possessed. A darkness moved within him. A pain. The water of the spa swirled around them. Warm, bubbling and scented with rosewater and cinnamon. Sarah sat between his legs, her eyes heavy, her body drifting far above them, resplendent on cloud nine.
“What happened after you left?” She asked, the words drowsy. Beyond the windows that surrounded them, Manhattan sparkled with lights. There were no stars, but that didn’t matter. Not when there was such man-made beauty to feast upon.
Syed’s mind travelled back to that time. His anger at having been recalled; his frustration at the realisation that what he had with Sarah was a fantasy. It couldn’t exist in real space and time – it was a bubble of pleasure that wouldn’t translate to his real life.
He remembered his father’s insistence that he forget ‘The American’. An edict he would never have obeyed, had it not been for the death of his mother. A death that had left them all splintered into pieces. Syed would have done almost anything for Sarah, but not inflict more pain on his already-bereft father.
“I returned to my role in Kalastan,” he said quietly.
Sarah nodded, and in the reflection of the glass, she saw him brush her hair away from his chin, as though it had tickled him. It brought back memories of the way she had liked to sleep, her head on his chest, and the jokes he had always made that it had been like sleeping with a feather duster against his face.
She swallowed. “Have you … have you been back here? Since?”
He was still. And he was angry. Not at her. At the turns his life had taken. “Yes.”
Grief slashed her anew. “Did you ever think about … or try to… see me?”
He reached for the sponge. In the window, she watched him apply body wash to it, his jaw chiselled with determination. He held it in his hand a moment, and then brought it to her shoulder, running it over her flesh slowly, leaving a trail of bubbles. “No.”
Such an unsatisfying answer, given the deliberation she had seen him put into it.
“It would have been a betrayal to what I had promised my family.”
Her heart turned over in her chest. Curiosity and mortification swirled through her. “They knew about me?”
His lip lifted in sardonic acknowledgement. “Yes.”
“And they didn’t approve?”
