CHAPTER ONE
DİLA
If I were a murderer, the first person I would kill would be Reha Durmaz.
This man, the shadow of the devil on earth, was not only my tormentor but also my boss, who took out his anger on me because his wife cheated on him. I was fighting with myself not to stab the trembling pen in my fingers into his throat and pierce his artery, making him bleed out in five minutes. The reason he infuriated me so much wasn't only that he was a bastard but also the psychological abuse he had been subjecting me to for the past week and a half. I had been working my ass off in a corporate company for nearly five years, and this asshole named Reha Durmaz tortured me over advertising deals. I was torn between writing a twenty-page complaint letter to Human Resources or smashing his head into the wall when I took a deep breath. Reha Durmaz wasn't the only thing that brought me to this state; in fact, there was more.
"Incompetent disgrace," he said, slamming the reports on the desk. His dissatisfied eyes didn't even bother to land on me. I pressed both feet hard into the floor to stop myself from shoving my stiletto into that ugly, yellow-stained mustache of his. "We're losing advertising contracts because of you."
Of course, there are ten of us working in the department, but we're losing them because of me, right? Fucker.
Since I couldn't say my thoughts out loud, I tried to stay calm. "Mr. Reha," I said. My eyes were fixed on the nameplate on his desk because looking at his face made me even angrier. "Such a result cannot be the responsibility of a single employee. As you know, the campaign wasn't even a project under my supervision."
"Nonsense." He crossed one leg over the other, turning slightly in his chair toward the window, making it obvious he wasn't listening. "If your performance keeps declining like this, we may have to part ways, Ms. Vatar."
"Mr. Durmaz, I—"
"Close the door on your way out."
Clenching my fists on my knees, I stood up furiously and forced myself to move slowly so as not to slam the door of the jerk's office. My steps carried me not to the office but toward the terrace, my hands rummaging in the pockets of my dress pants. Searching for my cigarette pack to vent my stress and rage, I pushed open the doors with my shoulder, exhaling sharply through my nose. The terrace was decorated with fake grass and flowers, benches and beanbags scattered around haphazardly, a place the staff usually used for gossip rather than relaxation. But today, it was the most useful place for me to let off steam.
I walked to one of the benches, sat down, and pulled out my cigarette pack and lighter. Taking a Marlboro Touch Blue between my lips, I forced my stubborn lighter to ignite and drew in the first drag. The cigarette wasn't enough to soothe my accumulated anger; in fact, I doubted anything could at this point.
Fuck. Fuck.
Lighting another, I crossed my legs and started swaying. That bastard didn't seem like he'd leave me alone, and now I had to attend a conference the company thought would boost performance. Pulling out my phone, I opened the WhatsApp group used only for announcements. Scrolling up until I found the conference poster, I saw the cheerful message sent by the HR manager.
Happy Employees & Happy Company
Personal Development and Stress Relief Conference
Don't forget to pick up your card at the entrance for cookies and lemonade after the event!
I blew cigarette smoke at the screen, glaring at the smiling faces of the man and woman on the poster. Everyone on the speakers' list were people who never had to worry about keeping their jobs, and what they offered was basically a bribe. I went back and forth between attending the conference or faking an illness for the afternoon. After a few minutes, I decided to go—because I knew there'd come a time when I'd need the sick act more desperately. Just as I was glaring at the poster, my phone rang, and my best friend's name popped up on the screen. Taking another drag, I answered with a discontented voice.
"Hello? You've reached Dila, one step away from committing murder."
A cheerful voice asked, "What happened?"
"The department manager is testing how far a person can be pushed before committing homicide, and I'm one of his test subjects." I exhaled smoke. "If you want to crack jokes, call me at a time when I hate people a little less. That usually happens around 3 a.m."
"Keep working on those jokes." Oya laughed in my ear, while I kept pouting. "I called to invite you to dinner."
"Oh no," I groaned, dropping my crossed legs. "I don't want to sit for three hours watching you flirt with Mehmet."
"First of all, we don't flirt in front of you. Second, you won't be alone. Mehmet also invited Evren."
"Which one was he again?" I asked, racking my memory. I had only seen Mehmet's friends at their wedding, three years ago. Evren was one of his five buddies, but I couldn't remember which. "Why just us? You're not trying to set me up, are you?"
"Trust me, if I ever tried to set you up with one of Mehmet's friends, it wouldn't be Evren. The guy's a womanizer."
"Wow, that clears things up." I squinted. "This is the first time I've heard you badmouth one of Mehmet's friends."
"I'm warning you now." Oya had switched into lecture mode, and I was sure she was wagging her finger at herself. "Evren is charismatic, sexy, and—God above knows it—drop-dead gorgeous."
"Calm down, girl, you're married." I laughed at my own joke while Oya hissed at me.
"Besides, he's not the relationship type. Mehmet and I have been together five years and he's never once introduced us to a girlfriend."
"Maybe he's fucking a man's ass." I said aloud what I was thinking, and Oya shouted down the line.
"Dila!"
"What? If he's charismatic and sexy, why couldn't he be into men? Though, with what you just described, it'd be a huge loss—"
"Oh my God," she groaned. Clearly, she didn't like my way of speaking. "Can you cut it out?"
"If you're this worried, why are you inviting us on the same day?" I lit another cigarette. "Or invite Mehmet's other friends, too."
"I'm telling you so you don't get ideas. I'm not worried about anything." The noise behind her made me realize she was returning from her lunch break. "It's just going to be an important dinner among friends, and I don't want it ruined. I called about seven people, but only you and Evren were available. If you don't want your friend to be lonely and miserable, you'll come to the address I'll send after work."
"The moment you start flirting, I'll imagine Evren screwing some waiter."
"Dila!"
I shrugged at her shout. "I can't pass up free porn, and honestly, it'll help me not puke."
"You seriously need a boyfriend." Oya's voice trembled enough to betray her blush.
"No, darling, I don't need a boyfriend, I need a dick." I glanced at my watch and cursed when I realized it was time for the conference. "Shit! I have to go, there's a boring lecture I need to attend. An hour-long death ritual in the name of peace and happiness. If I die of boredom, bury my vibrator with me."
"For God's sake, hang up already!" Oya half-yelled, half-laughed, making me giggle before I blew her a kiss and ended the call.
I stubbed out my cigarette in the nearby trash, stood up, straightened my clothes, and tried to take a deep breath. I started coughing from the cigarettes I had just smoked, frowning again. Just as my feet carried me toward the exit of the terrace, a notification pinged on my phone. Oya had texted me the address.
I didn't need her to beg. Free food, two bottles of white wine to stick up Mehmet's ass, and the thought of eye-fucking the handsome men at the restaurant had me hyped already. I'd drink as much as I could and entertain myself imagining Evren screwing some shy waiter.
By the time my shift ended, I was staring at myself in the slightly grimy restroom mirror. My head pounded, my body trembled at the thought of going home. The conference had been torture, and on top of that, I had suffered a second round of psychological harassment from that little prick Reha. My life was marching on in a miserable rhythm, and all I could do was watch.
With a sigh, I leaned over the sink, turned on the tap, and washed my hands. From my bag's open mouth, I pulled out my small makeup pouch and grabbed a pack of wipes to clean my face. My morning makeup was ruined, and if I went out looking like this, they might arrest me for drug abuse. After wiping everything off, I tossed the wipe and began washing my face with cleanser. My essentials as an adult were pepper spray, pads, any dark romance novel with scorching sex scenes, and my makeup bag.
When my face was clean, I patted it dry with a tissue, applied moisturizer, and opened YouTube on my phone. I clicked on my favorite playlist, and my body slowly relaxed.
You're the savage bitch who knows her worth
I swayed in place as I applied foundation. Like every grown woman who couldn't afford therapy, I sang along in front of the mirror with my favorite playlist—it was in my blood, I guess. As I moved on to my eye makeup, other girls came into the restroom, but I didn't care. I'd already embarrassed myself enough today; it couldn't get worse. When one of the girls went into a stall, I applied my lipstick. The dark brown shade brightened my lips—done. I pulled out my perfume, sprayed it all over myself, trying to mask the stench of stress sweat.
The girls fixed their hair and left. I looked at myself again: dark brown hair down to my chest, honey-colored eyes, moles at the corners, small lips, arched brows, an average nose. I'd spent most of my life feeling ugly until, after graduating university, I started working out to shed the weight. In six months, I'd lost 30 kilos. My breasts and body had shrunk, but now I was covered in stretch marks, and new insecurities piled on.
I knew I was an "okay" woman, but I still didn't like looking at myself. Men didn't like me, and I didn't really like men. Most of the ones who came into my life worked hard to leave it. With my fear of abandonment and guarantee of loneliness, I had survived to this age. Becoming the cool, eccentric aunt type from TV shows and movies had become my only goal in life. My career focus came from that too—but lately, things weren't going well. Everyone else's life seemed perfect in some way, while mine was a mess. My love life sucked, my career sucked, and I was scraping by in a 1+1 apartment while paying off someone else's debt.
I had little reason to be happy, but I tried to smile. Maybe if I lasted one more year, I'd finally get a promotion, and then everything would change.
Not that I actually believed it.
I glanced down at my clothes in the mirror. A small coffee stain on the ruffled edge of my white blouse made me curse. The girl who'd stayed behind walked up to the sink, washing her hands while staring at me curiously.
"Fuck this shit." I pulled out a wet wipe and tried to clean the stain, but it didn't work.
"Dry cleaning should do it." The girl spun on her thin stilettos, giving me a fake smile. "Though you should probably buy a new one." She looked me up and down before strutting out, her thin dark green dress swishing around her barely forty-kilo body.
Her name was Elif, and aside from Reha, she was the person who pissed me off most at work. We had joined the company around the same time, but she got promoted earlier and started dating the manager's secretary. She was smart and hardworking, sure, but she didn't face the same obstacles I did. They treated her fairly as if she had a dick just because she was beautiful and attractive while I got punished for not giggling and not being full after three grapes. She was the embodiment of how unfair the corporate world was. And even though I knew it was the system's fault, not hers, I couldn't help hating her. From her black hair to her dark brown eyes, I hated everything.
Her work life was perfect. She had a sexy boyfriend who probably fucked her so hard every night she saw stars. She'd just bought a new car and moved in with him.
Elif was everything I wanted to be but wasn't.
I glared at my reflection, shoved my makeup bag back into my purse, and walked out. I put my earbuds in as I headed toward the parking lot; otherwise, reality might have broken me. As the Spice Girls' Wannabe started playing, I muttered to myself in the elevator.
"I hate you too, Victoria Beckham."
The elevator opened, and I walked out, weaving through the shiny cars until I reached my father's old '77 Mercedes Benz. When he bought himself a new car, he gave me the old one as a graduation gift. I knew it was just an excuse, but I didn't say anything. If I could, I'd sell this junk in a heartbeat, but crawling through Istanbul's traffic in a bus seemed worse than putting up with dad's old car.
Unlocking it, I slid into the seat and fought with the lever to pull it closer to the steering wheel. It felt like even my car was mocking me. Just then, Elif's brand-new Citroën e-C4 zipped past, and the brazen woman honked and waved at me. As her fancy electric car zipped away, I finally managed to drag my seat forward and slammed the door shut, fuming.
"Calm down, Dila," I muttered. "She's probably driving an automatic, and that flashy car will stall in the middle of the road. Besides, where the hell is she even going to charge it? Relax, Rahmi will take you anywhere." I stroked the gearshift. "Right, Rahmi?"
The car stayed silent.
I buckled my seatbelt, pulled out my phone, and opened my secret playlist—the one I'd begged a friend to make for me in high school. Depressed, exhausted, hungry, furious, I hit the highway with my arm hanging out the open window, belting along with Tripkolic's Gözlerinin Yeşilini Özledim.
I was completely hopeless.
After singing, cursing at drivers mocking my ancient Rahmi, I finally reached the restaurant where Oya had invited me. Located near Dolmabahçe Palace, it was a fancy place for people whose monthly income was half my yearly salary. Parking my car, I cursed Oya for not warning me. If I'd known, I'd at least have gotten Rahmi serviced.
Checking my watch as I stepped out, I realized I was probably late, but Oya must have expected it. Slinging my bag over my arm, I approached the entrance and stopped before the pompous host.
"Mehmet Terazi," I said with a slight smile. "I'm his guest."
The middle-aged man with a bad mustache and eye bags smiled, motioning to a waiter. "Please escort the lady to table 34 on the terrace." He looked at me and bowed his head. "Welcome to Burga."
"Thank you." I bowed slightly in return and followed the waiter.
Burga was classy, with long white lights hanging from above, crystal ornaments, white walls adorned with red-tinged paintings. Inside, Vivaldi played, and a waiter polished wine glasses in rhythm behind a rustic counter. The waitstaff were sharp in black-and-burgundy suits embroidered with BVRGA on the chest.
When the waiter led me to the glass-walled terrace, I held my breath. Just setting foot here could probably put me in debt, but since I was invited, I decided to enjoy it. Spotting Oya's familiar curls, I smiled. My eyes scanned the table: Mehmet's scruffy face leaned toward his wife, listening intently as she spoke animatedly. If he ever hurt her, I'd rip his dick off and feed it back to him. Our relationship was a mix of hate and tolerance. I tolerated him because he loved Oya, and he tolerated me because I was Oya's friend. It was obvious he was in love with Oya, so you could say I didn't touch him much. I shifted my eyes a little more.
Then my eyes landed on him: Evren.
Fuck.
As images from the wedding flashed before my eyes, my gaze locked onto him. He had gathered half of his shoulder-length hair on top of his head, and he was smiling without letting on at Oya's stories, bringing the drink in his glass to his thick, shapely lips. When the waiter gestured to the table with his hand, his eyes turned from the satin on the table to me. His blue eyes, contrasting with her black, wavy hair, were impossibly beautiful. He had earrings dangling from behind her ear and tattoos visible at the edge of her white T-shirt, extending to her collarbone. The fingers holding the glass were slender and beautiful, adorned with various steel rings.
Our eyes met. I shivered.
He looked like a god of sex. A chill ran down my spine. I understood why Oya had said he wasn't a "relationship guy." He probably fucked you into the clouds at night and vanished by morning without a trace.
God, I hoped he wasn't gay. If he was, I'd sue the heavens for unfair distribution of men. Being deprived of such a disaster would be punishment.
Shoving away every obscene thought, I reached the table with a smile. "Good evening."
"Dila, welcome!" Oya beamed, stretching her neck for a kiss. I pecked her cheek.
"You're half an hour late." Mehmet gave me a curt nod. I rolled my eyes and moved toward Evren.
"If you don't like my old junker, buy me a new car. If not, shut your mouth."
The waiter pulled my chair. I sat down, thanked him, and instantly felt Evren's gaze on me—it made me feel like I had shit on me. My eyes flickered to his wrist cuff, to his smooth, pale, hairless skin—God must've worked overtime making him. Then his hand extended toward me.
"Dila, this is my friend Evren. Evren, Oya's friend Dila," Mehmet said, glancing at the menu. "I introduced you at the wedding, but you must've forgotten."
I politely took Evren's hand, forcing a smile. "Pleasure to meet you."
Evren leaned forward, eyes locked on mine, and brushed his lips against my knuckles. "The pleasure's mine."
"What will you eat?" Mehmet's annoying voice broke the moment. I flinched, and Evren let go of my hand, raising his glass to his lips, those blue eyes finally leaving me.
"Is the drink service over?" I raised a brow at Oya.
"What do you want?" she asked.
"White wine. Two bottles. Chamlija Riesling." I sang it out in one breath, making my friend laugh. "What? I told you I've been dreaming about it."
"How about steak?" Mehmet turned to his friend with a separate conversation. "I heard they have a famous chef."
"The kind that finger their meat?" I asked just as the waiter brought the wine bottle, opening it with a flourish and pouring me a glass.
"Finger it?" Oya wrinkled her face.
"Yeah, the kind who think the meat needs to climax before cooking. Caressing it for minutes, fingering it like a lover."
"Gross, but plausible." Evren reached for the Havana Club bottle, poured himself another glass of rum, and let his gaze flicker briefly over me, unreadable. The waiter placed the Riesling carefully on the table and left.
"Best I stick with pasta," Mehmet muttered, forcing a smile at the second waiter waiting for our orders. Clearly my comment had ruined his steak appetite. "Chef's recommendation will do."
"I'll have lobster, please," Oya said politely. "What about you, Dila?"
Startled, I realized the menu was open in front of me. Without thinking much, I said, "Sea bass with champagne sauce."
When the waiter turned to Evren, there was a pause. He sipped his rum leisurely, then said, "Filotto di manzo." As the waiter nodded, his blue eyes turned to me. "I like my meat fingered."
The words, said while looking at me, knocked the breath from my lungs. Mehmet rolled his eyes. Never before had someone made me shiver just with a look—but I was shivering now.
How had I not noticed Evren at the wedding? How had I let his image fade? Seeing him now, I couldn't imagine forgetting. He leaned back in his chair, legs crossed, looking like he could own the place. He seemed uninterested, yet absorbed every important part of Oya and Mehmet's conversation without missing a beat. How the hell did he do that?
While Mehmet was telling us about something that had happened to him, I couldn't take my eyes off Evren's right hand, which was resting on his knee. His long, thin fingers rested on the fabric of his leather pants. My eyes kept drifting to his hand, and scenarios of that hand wrapping around my throat and throwing me onto the bed played out in my mind.
I shivered again and filled my glass quickly. I needed to get my thoughts under control or I wouldn't survive the night.
As the food arrived, Oya tried to break our silence. "Evren, I'm surprised you were free tonight."
I focused on my plate, but my eyes still flickered to him. His lips curved slightly. "Your husband's persuasion skills have improved in the two months we haven't met."
"What did you say to convince him?" Oya asked Mehmet.
"Nothing big," Mehmet replied, glancing at his friend. "He asked for a small favor. I helped."
"Suspicious," I muttered into my glass.
"Yes, suspicious indeed. What kind of favor?" Oya raised her brows, but Mehmet and Evren only exchanged looks. Evren smirked, leaning over to slice his steak.
"What kind of favor, Mehmet?"
Evren's amused tone contrasted with Mehmet's scowl. "It wasn't important," he grumbled.
"Still suspicious." I narrowed my eyes.
"What kind of favor could he have asked for?" Oya turned to Evren this time. He popped a bite of steak into his mouth, chewing slowly, deliberately, knowing we were waiting. My gaze lingered on the bob of his Adam's apple.
Fuck. There were few things sexier in this world than an Adam's apple.
"A secret between us," Evren said, his blue eyes fixed on Mehmet. "Right?"
"Whatever. Let's drop it." Mehmet scowled, clearly uncomfortable, then turned to me. "How are you, Dila? Still single and stuck in the same place, I see."
"Mehmet!" Oya scolded, but I raised a brow.
"You should be thankful Oya picked you up from the gutter and took you to bed every night. Count your blessings, gutter rat." I smirked.
"For God's sake, don't start again." Oya sighed wearily.
We'd had a rough start with Mehmet, and his behavior early in their relationship only deepened my dislike. Sure, he was head over heels for her now, but I still remembered how badly he'd hurt her.
I had told him what I would do if he ever hurt her again the day he came to ask for Oya's hand, and Mehmet had never hurt Oya again, but that didn't change the fact that I still disliked him.
"It never ended, so why not start again?" Mehmet shot me a look. "If Dila weren't such a savage, maybe we could get along."
"If Mehmet weren't such a dickhead, maybe we could get along," I shot back. He laughed loudly.
"I don't think anyone could get along with you. You chase away every man, sweetheart." His emphasis made Oya slam her utensils down.
"Mehmet, enough!"
"Forget it, Oya. Ever since he gave up his position as Vice President of the Hand Job Club, he thinks he's something else." I shot up, seething. "Just because Oya dragged you out of the trash doesn't mean you can forget what you are. Trash is trash." I forced a strained smile. "Excuse me, I need the restroom."
I grabbed my purse and stormed off.
The story of why Mehmet and I couldn't get along, and why we attacked each other with such fury, was a long one. I wasn't sure anymore whether I truly hated him or if I was just retaliating because he had attacked me—but the fact that a man who had been somewhat witness to all my insecurities for five years, simply because he had been part of Oya's life, would make such a comment, got under my skin. I left the terrace and went inside, stopping a waiter to ask where I could smoke. Politely, he took me to Burga's backyard. From there, a path adorned with tiny lights stretching toward the shore caught my eye. Trembling with anger, I reached into my bag and started searching for my cigarette pack. Finally, I pulled out a cigarette, placed it between my lips, and cursed at my lighter, which stubbornly refused to ignite, trying to light my cigarette. By the time I reached the iron railings, I was far down the path, and no one could easily notice me here. Leaning against the railings, I tried to relight my lighter. Once my cigarette was finally lit, I was about to throw the lighter down in frustration.
I didn't understand why they had called me tonight. Even a blind person watching us could tell that Mehmet didn't like me, and as far as I could tell, Oya wasn't fond of Evren either. I couldn't grasp the reason behind this complicated mix. Had they decided to gather the most likely quartet for chaos and eat together? I inhaled the cigarette smoke with fury. I wanted to turn around and bang my head on the table, but I had no intention of upsetting Oya. There had to be a reason she called me tonight, so I wouldn't ruin the evening for her.
"Quite a good spot to hide."
The voice behind me made me jump. Evren's shapely body came immediately beside me and leaned her hip against the railing, turning sideways to look at me. When he crossed her arms over his chest, his eyes locked onto mine. Considering I was 1.66 meters tall, Evren had to be over 1.90 meters. He didn't look like an overly muscular gym fanatic, but he had a fit body, and his hips would easily make the top three of the best things I'd ever seen. First was Henry Cavill, God's gift to women; second was chocolate. Even the simple clothes he wore fit him so perfectly that I had to avert my eyes and stare straight ahead; otherwise, he might have thought I was some kind of pervert.
"Decided to become a stalker?" I asked politely.
"I was tasked with finding you while Oya was busy scolding Mehmet." He reached for her back pocket, pulled out a pack, and placed a cigarette between her lips. "Lighter?"
I took the lighter from my bag and handed it to her. As he leaned toward me, he fixed his gaze on mine. My knees suddenly began to shake, and my barely functioning lighter flared up on the first try. Evren leaned down, letting the lighter I held ignite the cigarette between his lips as strands of hair fell across her forehead. The image alone brought a thousand provocative thoughts to my mind. Simply lighting a cigarette while looking at me could have undone my knees.
He straightened up and leaned back against the railing after exhaling the smoke. Without looking at him as I flicked the ash downward, I said, "You didn't have to come."
"Ignore my friend's rude remarks," he said, scanning me with his eyes as he reached into his back pocket and pulled something out, handing it to me. "If he bothers you too much and you want to kick his ass legally, contact me. Libel cases are fun."
When I took the card, I realized it was a business card. The first shock of the night hit me instantly. Evren was a lawyer? I looked at the card and then at her in disbelief. "Are you a lawyer?"
He laughed. I wasn't sure whether the sound rising from his throat was laughter or some song irritatingly playing in my head. "Surprised?"
"You don't look like a lawyer," I said, letting my eyes wander over him. He had a sexy biker vibe, definitely not the type to run around courtrooms in suits.
"What do I look like?" When he tilted his head slightly, I pressed my lips together. Knowing exactly what might happen if I spoke my unfiltered thoughts, I tried to smile while putting out my cigarette. "A virgin who participates in motorcycle races to pay her rent and lives with her mother."
He shrugged and laughed, crossing his arms again, and wagged a single finger at me. The mischievous look on his face was clear even though it was not very bright around us. "I thought you'd come up with something more creative."
"I can get more creative." He leaned his elbow against the railing.
"I'm waiting."
I turned my body toward him and pressed my hip against the railing. "You got a hair transplant because you went bald early. True or false?"
He grinned. "False. Claiming my beautiful hair is fake hurt my feelings."
"Because of a childhood trauma involving okra, you sneeze every time it's mentioned."
He sneezed and asked with mock surprise, "True, how did you know?" Now we were enjoying a silly game, completely detached from reality.
"You go to a female hairdresser every month, spending hundreds of lira on treatments and pedicures for your feet."
"Is being well-groomed a crime?" He asked in a playful tone, but his demeanor was nothing like those stupid guys who come up to you in the middle of the night at a club, drink in hand, and try to flirt with you, thinking they look sexy.
"You must be a saint for being friends with Mehmet. I can't believe anyone else could endure him for more than five seconds besides Oya."
"Friendship," He inhaled his cigarette again and flicked the ash, looking into my eyes, "is something everyone interprets differently."
"So, you're not friends?" I raised my eyebrows, but he didn't answer.
"How long are you going to hide here?" He finished his cigarette, tossed it to the ground, and crushed it with her heel without ever taking his eyes off me. "I don't think you're the type to hide."
"What kind of woman do you think I am?" I shrugged. "Maybe I am exactly the kind of woman who hides."
"You're more like—" He stepped closer, his right hand moving toward my waist but not touching me. His hand hovered as if it could grab my waist. When he passed behind me and leaned his face toward me, I felt his warm breath behind my ear. The warmth quickened my chest's rise and fall as his lips dangerously brushed my right ear. I struggled to keep my eyes open. "A woman whose rage could burn nations."
I swallowed. His proximity made it hard to breathe, my chest tightening. His lips were still over my ear, and I had to fight hard not to imagine them on me. "You're far too optimistic about me," I finally said, glad my voice didn't shake.
Evren's hand moved, tracing my trembling calf without touching me. He was close enough to touch if I moved, but the motion only made it sexier. His lips traveled slowly from my cartilage to my earlobe, and when his full, warm lips pressed my piercing between them, my legs went weak. I clung to the railing to avoid falling. I had never responded like this to a man before, and my body resisted listening to me.
"I'm not optimistic about you, Dila." The way he pronounced my name was so erotic I could have orgasmed just hearing it. He twirled my piercing with his lips without using her tongue. "I see you as you are." He released my earlobe and leaned toward my neck. "Will you let that idiot humiliate you?" His hand hovered over my abdomen with a slight breeze. As I tried to process the situation, his voice hardened and his lips pressed against my skin.
"Answer me, Dila."
Hearing his harsh voice, I trembled. "No. I won't."
"What will you do then?" he asked, brushing his nose against me.
"I…" I tried to catch my breath. The man who had dominated my body hadn't even touched me properly, yet I was writhing. I could feel my vagina trembling and contracting. I couldn't understand what was happening. "I… will go and teach him a lesson."
"Well done." His hand moved from my abdomen back behind my ear, and he whispered in such a lascivious tone that it made me shiver again, "Good girl."
When he withdrew, I took a deep breath. My body tried to recover while my brain processed everything, but I needed oxygen badly. The control this man had over my body had scared me, yet excited me. My chest was growling again, craving recognition.
"With your permission, I'm leaving. I don't want my fingered meat to cool. I don't like wasting my meal." He turned her back to me and walked toward the restaurant. I looked over my shoulder at hiin astonishment. Not once did he turn to look at me, but to reference the joke I made at the table, he raised his right hand, curling his middle and ring fingers in a "finger" gesture.
I swallowed as my cheeks flushed. A cool breeze blew, but I was burning.
What had this man done to me?