Chapter 17
Seventeen
ZAHRA
The morning sun filtered through the gap in the curtains, a sliver of light falling directly across my face, and I let out a soft groan, curling tighter around the pillow I slept on.
A pillow with a heartbeat, slow and strong, syncing with mine. Familiar. Safe.
Wrong.
I squeezed my eyes shut, counting down from ten, hoping that by the time I reached one, it would disappear, and turn out to have all been a wild fantasy.
But it didn’t.
I blinked, greeted by Oliver’s hand covering mine on his chest, heavy and protective, his fingers curled around my palm as if even in sleep, he still anchored me to him.
We were tangled in each other, his arm curled around my waist, my legs half draped over his, my cheek pressed against bare skin. And beneath the sheets, nothing but heat. Nothing but him and the sticky evidence of our passion clinging to our bare skin.
Last night came rushing back in vivid flashes—his mouth on my neck, his hands gripping my hips, the way he'd whispered my name like a prayer and a curse all at once, the harsh rhythm of the headboard slamming against the wall.
This was not part of the plan.
I eased out of his hold, slipping from the bed with the kind of careful precision usually reserved for cutting bomb wires. One wrong move, and everything would detonate.
He stirred slightly, murmuring something in his sleep, and for a fraction of a second, I thought I heard it— “Lumina…”
I bolted.
Every muscle in my body ached in places I'd forgotten could ache, and between my thighs was a delicious soreness that throbbed with each subtle movement.
Heat flooded me, the thought of crawling back into bed with Oliver snuck into my mind, and I hurried to collect everything before I lost the willpower to resist.
I tiptoed to the bathroom, and once the door closed behind me with a soft click, I dropped my forehead against it, forcing air into my lungs. I needed to think. To plan. To regain control of a situation that had spiraled wildly off course.
The shower helped clear my head, the hot water sluicing away the physical evidence of last night's activities while doing nothing to erase the memories.
As I wrapped myself in a towel and wiped steam from the mirror, I caught sight of the mark on my neck—a purplish bloom where Oliver's mouth had been.
My fingers traced it lightly, expecting the familiar twist of fear in my gut, the echo of old anxieties. But it wasn't there. Instead, the mark reminded me how different it had felt with him.
Oliver had been wild for me. Feral in a way that should have scared me.
But even at his most unhinged, Oliver delivered pleasure, not pain.
His teeth had scraped and nipped rather than biting until he broke skin. He didn’t have my ripped hair in his fist from how tightly he grabbed it. When he pinched my nipple, he didn't purposefully make it painful.
The comparison made my stomach lurch. So many of Ryan's "passionate" moments had been about pain, about control, about making me feel worthless.
But Oliver… My eyes fluttered shut, and my fingers curled against my chest.
It had been so easy letting go with him. Too easy.
I’d relinquished all control, let him lead me through the fire of our passion, took every bit of bliss he offered, only to come out the other side alone, doubting.
Not Oliver, but myself. I had a knack for putting my trust in the wrong people, so I preferred to always keep my guard up.
But Oliver dismantled my resistance without even trying, and I was struggling to trust my gut about him.
I applied concealer to the mark on my neck before leaving the room. The bridal party yoga session started in forty minutes, and I needed to get there early to set up with the instructor. The last thing I wanted was Oliver’s little show of possession to distract from Parisa and her big day.
As I crept back into the bedroom, Oliver was still sleeping soundly. I gathered my purse and room key, careful not to make any noise. At the door, something caught my eye—a small pearl button gleaming on the carpet. Oliver's shirt button, torn off in our desperation to undress each other.
Without thinking, I picked it up and slipped it into my pocket, a tangible piece of evidence that last night had been real.
The hotel hallway was mercifully empty as I made my way to the elevator. I checked my watch—6:45 AM. Most of the wedding party would still be sleeping off the previous night's debauchery. Good. I needed time to compose myself before facing anyone, especially?—
"Morning, Zahra!"
I nearly jumped out of my skin when the elevator doors slid open and Parisa appeared inside, dressed in yoga pants and a tank top, her hair in a messy bun, looking entirely too chipper for this hour.
"You're up early," I managed, walking into the elevator and hoping my smile didn't look as strained as it felt.
"Darryl snores when he's been drinking." She wrinkled her nose. "Figured I might as well get up and enjoy the pre-wedding yoga I'm paying for."
The doors slid shut, and I kept my eyes fixed on the illuminated numbers rather than my cousin's knowing grin.
"Soooooo," she drawled, drawing out the word until it had at least six syllables. "How was your night?"
Heat flooded my cheeks. "Good. I slept good. Well!” I took a deep, steadying breath. “I slept well. You?"
"Mmhmm." She nodded, her gaze following mine as she tilted her head to the side. "You know, our bridal suite is directly above yours.”
“I know.”
“The walls in this place aren't exactly soundproof." She was still staring at the descending numbers, completely unfazed. “And neither are the floors.”
Oh God . I closed my eyes, drowning in a giant wave of mortification. "Parisa, please?—"
"Hey, no judgment. I’m thrilled for you." The sincerity in her voice added a sharp twist of guilt to my embarrassment. If only she knew this was all an arrangement, a contract. Except last night hadn't felt like business at all. “But if you break the bed, you’re footing the bill.”
“Parisa!”
She answered my scold with rolling laughter, getting off the elevator at the gym and spa level.
"I'll get us spots in the back," Parisa said when we entered the studio, moving toward the mats while I went to confer with the instructor about timing and the post-session refreshments.
By the time we began, most of the bridesmaids had arrived, along with a few other female wedding guests, including Auntie Maryam.
I settled onto my mat beside Parisa, catching sideways glances and knowing smiles thrown my way.
Oh, God, please no .
"I barely got a wink in last night," one bridesmaid said to another as we moved into downward dog, her wickedly amused gaze fixed on me. "Who knew the quiet ones were so vocal?"
“Everyone knows the quiet ones are always the loudest,” another bridesmaid supplied helpfully from across the room.
I forced myself to focus on my breathing, on the burn in my muscles as we transitioned from pose to pose. But it was impossible. Each stretch, each twist of my body, reminded me of last night.
"It was all the wall banging that did it for me," someone stage whispered while we were in Child's Pose.
I squeezed my eyes shut against the memory of his desperate, and his hungry eyes when he'd growled my name.
We switched to Thread and Needle, my muscles burning with the effort of holding the pose, yet all I could think about was Oliver.
The defined muscles of his abdomen contracting with each thrust. The broad expanse of his shoulders as he braced himself over me.
His thick fingers stroking his stiff cock as those brown eyes saw into my very soul.
"I mean, can you imagine the stamina?"
I choked, lost balance, and ended up face-planting into the mat.
Twenty pairs of eyes turned toward me, and I was begging for the ground to swallow me whole. No such luck.
"I'm fine," I said in a voice too high-pitched as I sat up.
“And so is your man,” one of the girls called out. Everyone burst into laughter, and my cheeks burned hotter.
Parisa, who had been laughing along until now, took one look at me and her features hardened.
“Enough.” She didn’t raise her voice. Didn’t have to.
The shift was instant—the grins faded, someone coughed, and everyone looked away. Message received.
And then, as if it never happened, Parisa looped an arm through mine, all sunshine again. “Come on, Zazi, let’s get some air.”
I followed her outside, absently wiping at the sweat I’d built.
Parisa turned to me, looking like she was ready to say something, but then her eyes zeroed in on my neck. “Whoa.”
It took me a second to catch on, and then I saw the makeup smudges on my towel.
“Things got a little…wild last night.” I shrugged, my hand lifting to touch the hickey.
“Yeah, we all heard,” Parisa said, and I groaned, hiding my face behind my hands. “Okay, not all of us. Just those with adjacent rooms. Maybe one room over.”
“You aren’t helping, Pari,” I mumbled from behind my shield of fingers, and Parisa snickered, prying my hands away and holding them in hers, looking at me with affection.
“I just want to know you’re okay, Zazi,” she said in a soft voice. “You seem completely off center.”
Massive understatement .
“Like I said, last night was intense.”
“Did he hurt you?” Then her gaze darted to the mark on my neck, and a small, dangerous smile played on her lips. “You know, in a way, you didn’t enjoy.”
“Parisa Ansari, you are impossible.” I was so flustered with her that I stomped my foot. But I recognized the genuine worry in her gaze, so I answered. I rolled my eyes while doing it, though, because she was still an insufferable nosy brat. “And I enjoyed all of it.”
Parisa squealed, throwing her arms around me as if I had just told her I’d gotten engaged rather than laid.
"It's about time you found someone who makes you happy."