The hotel suite smelled faintly of sandalwood and clean linen. I had slipped in using the spare keycard I ordered when I booked the rooms—told the concierge it was for "coordinator access." No questions asked. I waited on the edge of the armchair, knees pressed tight, choker cool against my throat like a constant reminder of what I had already given up.
The door opened just after eight.
Lucifer stepped inside and stopped.
His eyes were shadowed, shoulders carrying weight I had never seen before. He looked older in that moment—not the untouchable chairman, but a man who had been bleeding quietly for years.
He saw me.
"Aafreen…" His voice was rough, frayed at the edges.
I stood slowly. "I thought you might need… someone."
He closed the door behind him without a sound.
He crossed the room and sank onto the sofa. I followed, sitting close enough that our thighs almost touched.
For a long minute he said nothing. Then the words came—low, halting.
"I was gone too much. Army. Deployments. When I came home, everything had shifted. My wife… she found comfort with my brother. He was there every day. Rhea grew up calling him Dad more than me."
He stared at the carpet. "When I finally returned for good, they had already built a life without me. Divorce was quick. Court gave her custody and half of everything I had at the time. Rhea only sees me now to remind me how badly I failed."
His voice cracked on the last word—just barely.
I reached out. My fingers found his hand. "You're not a failure," I whispered. "You're… respected. Admired. Powerful. People follow you because they believe in you. I believe in you."
He looked at me then—really looked. Something raw flickered in his eyes.
I kept talking, soft praises spilling out because I didn't know how else to hold him together. "You build things. You protect things. You see people—really see them. That's not failure. That's… strength."
His breathing changed. I felt it before I saw it—the slow thickening against his trousers, the fabric shifting, the hard length brushing the back of my hand.
We both froze.
He exhaled sharply. "Apologies."
I didn't move my hand.
My heart was pounding so hard I thought he could hear it. "No worries," I whispered.
I had been waiting for this moment since the car. Since Montreal. Since the first time he said my name like it belonged to him.
My fingers trembled as I reached for his belt. The buckle opened with a quiet click. I undid the button. The zipper. He was thick, hot, already leaking at the tip.
I wrapped my hand around him—slow, possessive. Stroked once, root to crown, thumb circling the head.
He groaned low in his throat.
I kept the rhythm gentle at first—then firmer. My other hand rested on his thigh, nails digging slightly. "Let me take this from you," I murmured against his ear. "Just this once. Let me soothe you."
Guilt clawed up my chest. Astaghfirullah. Haram. So haram.
But my body didn't care. My core clenched every time he twitched in my hand. Wetness gathered between my thighs. My nipples ached against lace. I wanted more. I wanted everything.
He came with a choked sound—hot pulses spilling over my fingers, coating my wrist. I didn't stop stroking until he was spent.
Then I curled against his side, heart racing, shame and satisfaction warring inside me.
***
The VC event prep took us to a rooftop lounge overlooking the bay.
Organizers buzzed around tables. One woman—mid-thirties, sharp blonde bob, confident laugh—kept glancing at Lucifer.
Elina.
When the group broke for lunch, she pulled him aside. I lingered near the railing, pretending to check my phone.
Their voices carried.
"You were the best jock on campus," she said, teasing. "And you… had the best mouth in the cheer squad." He chuckled—low, familiar. "Still remember those afternoons in the locker room. I could make a man forget his own name. I still remember how you looked when you came down my throat—eyes shut, hands fisted in my hair like I was the only thing keeping you grounded."
"Well that was me being respectful to your hard work."
Their small laughs made my fingers tightened around the phone. She knew how he sounded when he came. She knew what his hands felt like in her hair. And I hated her for it. I hated that she had pieces of him I still didn't.
She leaned closer. "You always did like them on their knees, didn't you? Free tonight? For old times' sake? You never called after graduation… guess some things don't change."
"Apologies for that. I've been—"
Jealousy ignited—sharp, possessive, ugly.
I stepped forward before I could think.
"Lucifer—we're late for the impromptu client call. The Dubai group rescheduled."
He looked at me. One brow lifted—knowing. He knew I had been listening.
Elina smiled tightly. "Of course. Another time."
He excused himself. We walked back to the SUVs in silence.
Back at the hotel he didn't speak until the door closed behind us.
I dropped to my knees right there in the foyer.
He groaned when I tugged his belt open again.
I took him in my mouth—slow at first. Then deeper. Throat stretching. Gagging softly. Tears pricking my eyes.
I hesitated—midway down his length—saliva dripping, chest heaving.
"Ya Allah… forgive me," I whispered against his skin.
Then I took him deeper.
My throat stretched too wide and snapped the choker open.
As it fell to the ground, He fisted my hair. Grabbed my neck like a leash. Groaned my name.
I rocked against his shoe—desperate for friction. Pleasure sparked low and bright.
He came down my throat with a broken sound. I gagged and gasped for air.
As he pulled out, the last pulses spilled onto my tongue. I swallowed every drop of him.
He groaned my name like a prayer "Aafreen".
He pulled me up, my lips were swollen, chin wet, eyes glassy. My knees ached from the hard tile, throat raw and used, the faint taste of salt and musk lingering on my tongue.
He kissed me anyway—hard, claiming.
Melting my lips, making me crave for more.
I tasted him on my tongue. Tasted myself on his. Astaghfirullah—I should be praying, not savoring the sin we just made together. Shame burned hotter than want.
But my heart still wanted more.
***
It was not too long when my real word demanded me.
A text from Marcus about changes in the event made us do some additional research and materials.
I spent the rest of the evening running errands—confirming tomorrow's schedule, picking up presentation materials, trying to outrun the ache between my legs.
When I returned to my room, I was exhausted, the lights were low.
Lucifer was already there.
Shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. Dark skin shimmering. Eyes heavy-lidded.
"She isn't the only one who can sneak into rooms," he said quietly.
A soft laugh escaped me "I knew I'd get busted."
My breath caught. Heat flooded me instantly—core clenching, nipples hardening.
He held up a glass. "Zero alcohol. Sparkling white grape."
I took it with shaking fingers. We sat on the edge of the bed. Shoulder to shoulder.
He spoke first. "Thank you. For today. For… everything. The way you stayed. The way you listened. The way you… gave."
I set the glass down. I was looking at his lips move fluidly. This heart shaped lips.
I knew that he was praising me, but looking at him all the noises around me were silenced.
My hand drifted—unconsciously—to his bare chest. Fingers brushed warm skin, hard muscle, the faint line of old scars.
I snapped back. "Astaghfirullah—"
"Don't." His voice was gentle. Firm. "Don't apologize."
He took my wrist. Guided my hand back to his chest.
Then he turned me slowly. Fingers found the buttons of my blouse. Undid them one by one.
Silk parted. Crimson lace. Choker gleaming.
He laid me back on the pillows. Slid my trousers down. Panties followed.
I was bare before him—wet, aching, trembling.
His hand settled between my thighs. Two fingers parted me—slow, deliberate. Slid inside.
I gasped.
He curled them—found the spot that made my hips jerk. Then stroked—steady, relentless.
Pleasure built fast—too fast. My thighs trembled. Breath came in sobs.
He added a third finger. Pressed deeper. Curled again.
I shattered.
Came with a broken cry—tears spilling, body arching, core pulsing around his fingers. Wetness coated his hand, the sheets.
He didn't stop.
Pulled out. Pushed back in—faster now. Barraging that spot until another wave crashed over me—harder, longer, leaving me shaking, sobbing his name.
I curled against his chest after. Silent tears. Silent prayer.
Astaghfirullah.
But the want was still there—louder.
He kissed my forehead. "You're cute when you moan," he murmured.
I giggled—soft, broken. Hid my face against his chest.
For the first time, in that day… Allah felt very far away.
Just him. Just us. Just wanting more.
He shifted. His fingers found me again—gentler this time, but knowing exactly where to press.
I whimpered.
He smiled against my hair. "Let go again, Aafreen."
Astaghfirullah — I should stop now.
But his fingers curled again and thought dissolved into white-hot pleasure.
I did let go.
The second orgasm ripped through me—longer, deeper, leaving me boneless, clinging to him.
When it finally faded, I pressed my face to his chest. Listened to his heartbeat.
No prayers came.
Only the quiet, dangerous certainty that I was falling— and I didn't want to stop.