I woke before the sun, my body still humming from the hammam the night before—his fingers ghosting over my skin, his breath promising things I had no right to want. The hotel room was quiet except for the soft buzz of my phone reminding me of Fajr. I unrolled my prayer mat, knelt, and tried to focus on my Lord, but every prostration brought me back to him. Astaghfirullah, I whispered, rushing through the rakats, my cheeks burning.
In the mirror, I smoothed the lighter linen skirt suit over my hips. The crimson lace underneath felt like a brand against my skin. "Just in case," I told my reflection, voice trembling. "Today the deal signs… and then he'll unwrap me." The words slipped out before I could stop them. Panic surged, hot and sharp, but so did the ache between my thighs. I pinned my hijab carefully, as if neat folds could hold me together.
Breakfast with the team was loud with victory. Everyone kept turning to me.
"You were brilliant yesterday, Aafreen," said Marcus, raising his coffee cup.
I smiled modestly. "It was the whole team."
The door opened and Lucifer walked in—dark suit, sleeves rolled just enough to show strong forearms. He greeted everyone, but when he reached me, he leaned down, lips brushing close to my ear.
"Good girl."
Two words, barely audible, yet my entire body answered. My thighs pressed together under the table; heat flooded me. I stared at my plate, afraid someone would notice the way my breath hitched.
The final meetings at Beaumont Capital went perfectly. Sophie and Henri asked the last difficult questions—sharp, precise, the kind that could unravel a weaker presentation. I answered calmly, respectfully, drawing on every lesson my father had ever taught me about negotiation and grace: speak softly, listen harder, never let them see you flinch.
When the last slide faded and the room exhaled in collective relief, Sophie leaned forward, her sharp blue eyes softening.
"Aafreen," she said in her lightly accented English, "I must admit, when Henri first told me we were partnering with a team from your region, I had… reservations. Cultural differences, you understand."
I met her gaze steadily, my heart thudding but my smile gentle. "I understand completely, Madame Beaumont. Those reservations are why I'm here—to bridge them."
She studied me for a moment, then smiled—genuine this time. "You've done more than bridge them. You've made me feel safe handing over a piece of my family's legacy. That is no small thing."
Henri nodded beside her, but it was Sophie who reached across the table and squeezed my hand, her manicured fingers warm against mine.
"You've been wonderful, Aafreen. We're truly excited to close this tonight."
Lucifer's eyes met mine across the table, a flicker of pride—and want—passing through his eyes.
I didn't dare follow his gaze, but I felt it anyway—his eyes on me like a brand, promising everything I hadn't dared to want.
After the meeting ended, I slipped back to the hotel intending to hide in my room, to pray, to steady myself. But as I stepped into the lobby, my phone vibrated.
A message from Marie.
Marie: Hey gorgeous! Heard you're in Montreal closing the deal.
Me: Yes, Inshallah, the Beaumonts are very cooperativecompared to our US clients. They made it smooth.
Marie: Congratulations then!! But please tell me you're not spending your free afternoon locked in a hotel room being perfect. 😏
Me: That's what I was going to do.
Marie: Aaargh!! This city has a pulse, Aafreen.
Old Montreal is magic on a day like this—cobblestones, river light, hidden courtyards that make you forget every rule you ever learned.
Go walk.
Drink something sweet and innocent (or not). Let the city flirt with you a little. You'll thank me later.
And if you see a tall dark chairman… well, that's between you and the cobblestones. 😉 Text me when you're back. I want some pictures of you drinking.
I stared at the screen, cheeks hot. Marie didn't know how close her teasing arrow landed. Something reckless stirred in me—the same reckless thing that had worn crimson lace this morning "just in case."
I turned around and walked straight out the revolving doors into the bright afternoon.
Old Montreal welcomed me like a secret. Sunlight poured over the old stone buildings, glinted off the St. Lawrence. I wandered the narrow streets, heels clicking on warm cobblestones, the breeze tugging gently at my hijab. At a small café terrace I ordered a virgin maple cocktail—sweet, cool, no alcohol to blur the edges of my conscience, yet still indulgent enough to feel like sin.
I found a quiet table overlooking the river and sat, phone in hand, trying to list every reason I should book the earliest flight home tonight.
The city was flirting shamelessly, just as Marie had promised—golden light on water, laughter drifting from passers-by, the faint scent of sugar and river air. And beneath my linen suit, the crimson lace rubbed against suddenly sensitive skin with every shift of my hips.
I closed my eyes for a moment and felt his mouth again, imagined this time on bare flesh. A soft sound escaped me; I pressed my thighs together under the table, pulse racing.
I texted Mom first—a careful, dutiful lie: Alhamdulillah, meetings went well. Enjoying a quiet walk. Miss you.
I had to decide, I could leave tonight. Change my flight. End this before it corrupts me.
The rooftop dinner was golden and glittering. Champagne flowed; I stuck to sparkling cider. I still hadn't changed my flight. Somewhere along the cobblestones I had decided to stay—to let tonight happen—even as I promised myself it would not corrupt me.
When the final documents were signed, applause broke out. Lucifer stood, thanking each team member by name. When he reached me, he said,
"And Aafreen… without her cultural insight and quiet strength, we wouldn't be here tonight."
My cheeks burned. Sophie leaned close, eyes sparkling.
"He's very careful with his praise, you know."
"He is observant. Our team—"
She cut in gently, "Especially with you, I mean."
I startled, my fingers tightening around my can. "I—I'm sorry?"
"I've worked with men like him my whole life. Powerful and Controlled. They don't give their attention lightly." Her eyes sparkled with amusement.
I stammered something incoherent. She only smiled wider.
Later, back in my room, the tension I was feeling inside the room was not something I could compare to anything I had faced in my life. And then my phone lit up.
1804. Bring nothing.
My heart slammed against my ribs. I stared at the message for a full minute, fingers trembling over the screen, then slipped out of my room and walked the corridor in a daze. Every step echoed too loudly in the hushed hallway. When I reached his door, it opened before I could even raise my hand.
He didn't speak at first. Just reached for me, pulled me inside, and shut the door with a soft click that sounded final. His eyes raked over me—slow, deliberate—like he was already peeling away every layer I wore.
"I'm here." I spoke to break the built up tension.
"Turn around," he said quietly, voice low and rough with restraint.
I obeyed, turning my back to him. My breath came shallow as his fingers brushed the edge of my hijab. One by one, he removed the pins—careful, unhurried, as though each pin was a promise he was undoing. The fabric loosened. Cool air kissed the nape of my neck first, then the warm weight of my hair began to spill free.
When the last pin slipped away, the hijab slid from my head and my hair tumbled down my back in a heavy, dark cascade. The sudden freedom felt shocking—intimate in a way I had never allowed anyone to witness. My scalp tingled; strands brushed my bare neck, my shoulders, the exposed skin along my spine. A shiver raced over me, sharp and electric.
He gathered the fallen silk of my hair in both hands, lifting it, letting it pour through his fingers. His breath grazed the sensitive skin behind my ear as he leaned in.
"So beautiful," he murmured, voice husky. "I've wanted to see this ever since I saw you."
His words sank into me like warm oil. Heat flooded my cheeks, my chest, pooling low in my belly. I felt stripped twice over—first by the removal of the hijab that had shielded me my entire adult life, and again by his gaze. My nipples tightened beneath the lace bra; between my thighs, a rush of slick warmth answered the exposure. I was trembling, not from cold, but from the dizzying rush of being seen—truly seen—for the first time by a man who wanted to devour every hidden part of me.
I stood there, heart thundering, hair loose and wild down my back, feeling more naked than I would moments later when the rest of my clothes were gone. The hijab lay discarded on the nearby table like a surrendered flag, and with it went the last visible barrier between who I had always been and the woman I was becoming in his hands.
He unbuttoned my blouse slowly, letting it slide off my shoulders. The skirt followed. When I stood in only the crimson lace, he stepped back, eyes devouring.
"Perfect."
The bra came next, then the panties—peeled down my legs until I was completely bare. No one—not even my exes—had ever seen me this bare. I trembled, arms instinctively covering myself.
"No," he said gently, pulling my arms away. "Let me see all of you."
He guided me to the bed, his hands steady on my bare waist, and laid me down like something precious—slow, reverent, as though I might break if he moved too quickly. The sheets were cool against my heated skin, a shocking contrast that made me shiver. He followed me down, his body a warm shadow above mine, and then his mouth was on me again.
Then, without a word, he began to undress himself.
His shirt came off first—buttons undone one by one, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the defined ridges of muscle that flexed with each movement. Dark hair dusted across his pecs, narrowing into a trail that disappeared beneath his belt. I couldn't breathe properly. I had imagined him like this in stolen moments, but the reality was overwhelming—broad shoulders, powerful arms corded with strength, skin golden and warm in the low light. He looked like power made flesh, like something I should never be allowed to touch.
The belt followed, the soft clink of the buckle loud in the quiet room. He slid his trousers down, stepping out of them, and finally the boxer briefs—slowly, deliberately, letting me see everything.
My mouth went dry.
He was… magnificent. Thick, heavy arousal standing proud against his stomach, the sight of him so blatantly wanting me sending a fresh rush of slick heat between my thighs. Every line of his body spoke of control and dominance—the cut of his hips, the strong thighs, the way his muscles shifted as he moved toward me. He was older, yes, but there was nothing soft about him. He looked like a man who took what he wanted, who could ruin me in the most exquisite ways.
And right now, he wanted me.
I felt small beneath him, fragile, yet achingly desired. A dangerous thought slipped through the haze of guilt: This body was made to devour mine. I was terrified yet I found my body to be begging to be filled by all that raw power.
He followed me down onto the bed, his body a warm shadow above mine, skin against skin now—no barriers left between us. The heat of him seared me everywhere we touched, and then his mouth was on me again.
First my lips—deep, claiming kisses that stole every thought from my head. His tongue slid against mine, tasting, demanding, until I was breathless and clinging to his shoulders.
He pulled back just enough to look at me, eyes almost black with want, then began a slow descent.
A kiss pressed to the hollow beneath my ear—soft, deliberate. The spot was so sensitive that the brush of his lips sent a bolt of electricity straight to my mind; I gasped, turning my head instinctively to have him more.
Lower, along the column of my throat. He lingered there, open-mouthed kisses that turned into gentle sucks, each one pulling a quiet moan from me. My pulse hammered against his tongue; I felt it everywhere, a frantic drumbeat between my thighs.
He moved to my collarbone, tracing it with the tip of his tongue before pressing firm kisses along the delicate ridge. The skin there had never been touched like this—every press of his lips felt like a brand, marking me as his in places no one else had ever seen.
When he reached my breasts, he took his time. A slow circle around one nipple with his tongue, never quite touching the peak until I was arching off the bed, silently begging. Then he closed his mouth over it—warm, wet suction that drew a broken cry from my throat. Pleasure shot through me like lightning, sharp and sweet, making my hips roll helplessly. He moved to the other breast, repeating the torment until both peaks were swollen and aching, glistening from his mouth.
He kissed lower, across the soft plane of my stomach. Each kiss was lighter here, almost ticklish, but the anticipation made it unbearable. His lips brushed the trembling skin just above my navel, then dipped into it—a playful swirl of tongue that made me laugh breathlessly before it turned into a moan.
Further down, to the sensitive crease where my thigh meets my hip. He nuzzled there, inhaling deeply as though memorising my scent, then pressed an open-mouthed kiss that had me gripping the sheets. The spot was so close to where I throbbed for him that the indirect touch was maddening; heat flooded me, slick and urgent.
He kissed the inside of my thigh next—slow, deliberate presses of his lips moving upward, inch by torturous inch. Every kiss left a trail of fire; my legs fell open without permission, trembling, offering everything.
When he finally settled between them and looked up at me, his breath ghosting over my slick folds, I was already shaking.
"Tell me if it's too much," he said again, voice rough.
I couldn't speak, only nodded.
His first lick was soft, exploratory. The second made me gasp his name.
"Lucifer…"
He hummed against me, the vibration sending sparks through my core. Slow circles, gentle sucks, teasing my entrance with one finger, spreading wetness, opening me carefully but never pushing inside. Every stroke of his tongue built the pressure higher, faster than I expected.
"Please…" I heard myself beg. My hips rolled toward his mouth.
He increased the rhythm, relentless and worshipful. I was so close—teetering on the edge, ready to shatter. Haram. Astaghfirullah. What am I doing?
A sob tore from my throat. My hands pushed weakly at his shoulders.
"Stop—please, stop!"
He froze instantly, lifting his head. His eyes searched mine, full of confusion and hurt.
"Aafreen… I'm sorry. I misread everything." His voice cracked. "I thought you wanted this too."
He pulled away, grabbing his shirt, dressing with sharp, hurried movements.
Before I could find words, he was gone, the door closing softly behind him.
I lay there naked on his bed, thighs trembling, the ache between them unbearable and unfinished. Tears streamed down my temples into my hair.
He thought I didn't want him.
I let him believe it.
Because if he knew—if he came back and saw how my body still clenched around nothing, still desperate for his mouth even as I cried—I would never, ever forgive myself.
The victory was signed.
The fracture was complete.
Surrender, the thing I had almost tasted, now felt impossibly far away. And what I felt was not relief—it was despair, sharp and breathless, settling heavy in my chest.