4. Yasmina
Yasmina
A fter twenty-five years in the same few square miles of land, Jafar’s penthouse is a revelation.
I barely wait for the elevators doors to whisk shut before I give in to my impulse to snoop.
Easier to focus on that tiny pleasure than to think too hard about all the ways my life has gone up in flames.
My home is mine no more. If I could forgive my father for selling me in marriage—and I can’t—I still can’t forgive all the years of neglect and threats whenever I stepped too far out of line. Threats to carve away at the tiny list of my freedoms.
Now here I am, my leg in a different kind of trap.
I bypass the main living space and wander down the hall on the opposite side of the penthouse from my room. On the second door, I hit pay dirt.
I stand in the doorway for a long time, studying Jafar’s bedroom. I don’t know what I expected, but it’s just as stark and beautiful as the rest of the house. I would bet good money that he had someone else decorate it. To his specifications, of course, but some of the little details feel off.
Not the paintings, though. They’re gorgeous.
I move on silent feet to stand before them.
A trio, each in a deep red that sets something racing in my chest. Or maybe it’s the content of the paintings.
Each is a close-up of a woman’s body. The first, the curve of her back.
The second, a hip. The third, her breasts.
The artist’s name is a tiny scrawl near the bottom of each. Death .? 1
Interesting.
I force myself to abandon the paintings in favor of finding juicier information.
His nightstand is a bust. It’s basically a small bookshelf.
I peruse the titles but give it up for a lost cause.
Jafar has a thing for nonfiction war stories.
Of course he does. He probably reads them and takes notes before he goes into battle with his current-day enemies.
The bathroom is twin to mine, though his tile is black rather than white. I snort. “Playing to type as always.” The walk-in closet is filled with expensive suits, all arranged in a grayscale line from black to pale gray. It’s the same with the shirts.
I briefly consider going back to the kitchen and taking a knife to every single one of them, but doing that now may be overplaying my hand. Best to save the true rebellion for later, when he’ll undoubtedly do something to deserve it.
“Trust Jafar not to have anything remotely interesting in his room.” I shake my head and walk back into the hall. Two more doors and absolutely no reason not to explore them. The first leads to a powder room, also missing anything worth snooping in. The second is his home office.
“Pay dirt,” I whisper. This is the room I need, not his bedroom. I should have realized that from the first. I glance down the hall toward the front door. He wants me naked and kneeling, a good little pet who obeys his every whim.
Worst of all, part of me wants to give him exactly that.
My body still aches from what he did to me, what we did together. I can play pretend that I didn’t want everything he gave and more, but it’s not the truth. I could have said no. Truly said no. I didn’t.
I didn’t want to.
I still don’t want to.
I smile slowly. What will he do when I flout his order?
Throw me to the ground and fuck me breathless again?
Spank me? Maybe he’ll force me to my knees, unzip his pants, and pound into my mouth until tears spring from my eyes and I can only submit or choke.
I shiver, my skin feeling too tight, too sensitive.
Wanting the man who overthrew my father is a mistake.
I know that even as I drop into his chair, the leather cool against my naked skin.
A tap against the keyboard has the screen flaring to life.
I’m not even a little surprised to discover Jafar has his computer password locked, even though it sits in a penthouse that is presumably inaccessible to anyone except for him.
Him and now me.
I idly tap in a password, the most often used one according to things I’ve read. I don’t actually expect it to work, but I’ve been surprised before. Password1234. The computer thinks for half a second before spitting out an incorrect password notification.
A little light appears at the top of the screen.
Green and then red. “Naughty Jafar,” I murmur.
Computers are something I enjoy, one of the few freedoms I was able to sneak past my father.
I’m skilled enough to get around my father’s firewalls to order the books and things I want without his knowledge, but I’m mostly self-taught when it comes to anything resembling hacking.
As such, I recognize what this is. An extra layer of protection.
When the incorrect password is inputted, it either snaps a picture of the person at the computer or perhaps a video.
The fact that the light hasn’t gone away suggests a video.
I stare directly into the camera. Caught.
“If you didn’t want me to snoop, you should have locked the door.
” I lean forward. “Or perhaps you shouldn’t have brought me here in the first place.
” Talking to a camera that may or may not be recording feels foolish, but I’m still angry and hot and all tangled up from the events of this night.
The thought of Jafar seeing this video and rushing home to punish me…
I lean back in the chair and spread my legs.
“It’s going to be a real shame if you can’t actually see this.
” I could scoot the chair back to give the camera a better view, but I’m not in the mood to be even that good.
He dumped me here as if I’m a sure thing.
I am a sure thing, and that only makes me angrier.
The phone at the desk rings and I jump. A quick glance at the computer tells me it’s still recording. I use my free hand to pick up. “Yes?”
“That’s not the proper way to answer a phone, Yasmina.”
Oh yes, he knows I tried to get into his computer. “Mmm. Sorry, I’m a little distracted.” I put some sugary-sweet contriteness into my tone. “I’ll be sure to take that criticism into account the next time I’m playing secretary.”
Silent for a beat, as if I’ve surprised him. Surely he must know by now that even furious and scraping rock bottom, I can’t help but come back swinging. No matter how unlikely my chances of victory.
“You’re not following instructions.”
I let his warning roll over me. Had I thought I was turned on before? It’s nothing compared to now, to having him on the phone and knowing he can’t touch me. I idly slide my finger through my wetness and up to circle my clit. “You’re not back yet, Jafar.”
A pause. There are men’s voices in the background, but I can’t quite make out the words. The noise dims as if he’s moved into another room. “Tell me what I’ll see when I review the recording.”
So he can’t see me right now.
Oh, this is just too delicious.
I use my foot against the desk to scoot the chair back farther. This should give him quite the show. “I’m sitting in your chair.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Naked.” I barely sound like myself. What am I doing, playing this game with him? I should be fighting him every step of the way, should be demanding answers about what he’s done with my father and what he intends for the future.
Instead, I’m sitting here at his desk, fingering myself like the dirty little slut I can’t help but be.
I slip two more fingers into my pussy, and I exhale harshly. “I’m fucking myself with my fingers.”
Now it’s his turn to exhale. “Naughty girl, aren’t you? You’re going to ruin my leather chair when you come all over it.”
“Most likely.” I bite my bottom lip to keep a moan inside.
“You know what happens to naughty girls?” He barely waits a beat. “They get punished.”
My orgasm spirals closer. How many times have I lain in bed and touched myself just like this, imagining it’s his blunt fingers shoving into me, spreading my pussy in preparation for his cock? Too many to count.
Having him on the phone, his voice growling in my ear?
It makes everything ten thousand times hotter.
I let my head fall back against the seat, barely able to keep the phone to my ear. “I’m going to finger myself in here every time you leave me with idiotic orders like that last one.” I slide my fingers up to pinch my clit and can’t keep a gasp inside. “Maybe I’ll do it on your bed next.”
“Yasmina.” His voice snaps like a whip. “Stop.”
My hand lifts without my having any intention of obeying. I grit my teeth. “No.” I force myself to ignore the command, to stroke my clit once, twice, a third time, until I’m coming with a moan I can’t keep inside. It feels even better because he told me not to and I did it anyway.
I never have been good at following orders.
“Oops,” I whisper.
Silence for several beats. When he speaks again, his voice is downright icy. “Remember, brat—naked and kneeling.”
“Fuck off.” I hang up, fear and need all twisted up in my head and heart and pussy. The light on the computer screen blips off, which is just as well, and exhaustion rolls over me. Too many things happened in the last few hours, too many changes. It saps my strength and leaves me confused.
I shouldn’t want Jafar.
I know that. Of course I know that.
He’s the snake tempting me out of Eden, except he barely has to crook his finger and I trip over my own feet in my eagerness to prove what a treacherous daughter I am.
My father doesn’t deserve my loyalty, but other people won’t see it that way.
Not after I’ve spent twenty-five years playing the dutiful daughter.
And for what? So he can bargain me away to that bastard Ali?
Oh, Ali looks good, as long as no one examines beneath the surface.
Handsome and possessing a smile that has charmed countless women out of their panties.
He’s also a liar and a thief and, most unforgivable of all, self-righteous enough to think he’s better than the rest of us who move through the shadows.