Chapter 25
Twenty-Five
ZAHRA
I scrolled through my feed, pausing on another one of mine and Oliver’s staged photos.
It had only been a month, but it felt like a lifetime had passed. Everything seemed so simple back then, so straightforward.
We had a deal. We had a plan.
Would it have been better if things stayed that way? Clinical, clean, cold.
It would have been better than this confusion.
I tucked my feet under me with a sigh.
The rehearsal dinner was in five hours. I should have been getting ready, checking in with Parisa, and running through my mental checklist of details.
Instead, I was curled on the loveseat, trying to process the past few days.
I tensed instinctively at the soft click of the door lock. Then Oliver burst in, his eyes wild, scanning the room frantically before his gaze settled on me.
"You're here," he breathed, the tension in his shoulders releasing as he ran his fingers through his disheveled hair.
"Um, yes, I am." I shifted, placing my phone on the coffee table. "Is everything okay?"
"Yes. No." He shook his head, inhaling deeply before meeting my eyes. "Something in between."
He wasn't making any sense, and the intensity in his eyes made my pulse quicken. I opened my mouth to ask what was going on, but before the words could form, he crossed the room with long, determined strides.
He offered his hand, and I took it, my breath catching at the tenderness of his touch as he tugged me up from the sofa and cupped my face.
And then he was kissing me.
Not like before—not desperate, not drunk, not for show. This kiss was slow, soft, intimate. Each brush of his lips was deliberate, focused, like he was memorizing the feel of mine beneath them.
Something had shifted. The man kissing me wasn't the Oliver who'd shut down last night, or the professional date I'd hired, or even the man who'd claimed me against our hotel room door in a haze of bourbon and adrenaline.
This was different.
When he pulled back, his thumbs traced my cheekbones, his expression open in a way I'd never seen before.
"I want this with you," Oliver whispered, pressing his forehead against mine. "All of it. The real deal. And it terrifies me because I don't know how to not be alone, but I also don't know how to not be with you."
I paused, searching his face, waiting for the mask to slip back into place, for the cold calculation to return. But all I found was vulnerability—raw, unguarded, genuine.
It surprised me, this sudden openness after days of walls and secrets. It should have made me wary, skeptical, questioning his motives.
Instead, it melted something inside me. The final barrier I'd been maintaining against the inevitable conclusion that what was happening between us had stopped being fake a long time ago.
“Say it with science,” I whispered, needing to hear it in his words, see it through his eyes.
Oliver chuckled softly, the tip of his nose grazing mine.
“I don't know how to maintain my orbit without you at my center, my Lumina.”
I released a shuddering exhale.
This was real.
No hidden agenda, no acting, no plan.
Just Oliver Beck, laying his heart bare.
I circled his neck, rising on my toes to press my mouth against his. Slow. Unhurried. Savoring the taste of sweetened black coffee and the promise of a future together.
“I need to tell you something,” he murmured against my lips.
I shook my head. “No more words, Oliver. Show me.”
He pulled me in, tilting me back slightly so he could deepen the kiss, tongue sweeping through my mouth, firm yet tender.
We made our way to bed, taking our time with every button. Oliver’s hands skimmed the skin of my belly once he finished unbuttoning my blouse. My fingers traced the hard planes of his chest after I pulled his polo off.
His lips trailed each increment of skin he uncovered as he slid my blouse off my shoulders one inch at a time—the curve of my collarbone, the dip of my shoulder, the sensitive spot just below my ear—his breath hot and teasing, sending shivers down my spine.
My skin flushed under his touch, a soft moan escaping my lips as he worshipped me, his kisses a trail of fire that left me trembling, aching for more.
Then he froze.
Shit.
I’d forgotten about the bruises Ryan left on my arm.
“I should have killed him,” Oliver mumbled, before continuing to peel my clothes off, distracting me from pondering his words too deeply with that wicked tongue dragging from the valley between my breasts up to my mouth, where he thrust it deep and possessively.
Then he stepped away, working his belt loose with practiced efficiency, the leather sliding through the loops with a soft hiss that shot desire like I’d never experienced through my body.
Before I could process what he was doing, he looped it around his wrists and through the decorative slats above his head, catching the end between his teeth.
The slick gliding sound as Oliver pulled the makeshift leather bonds tight made my core clench, and he smirked when I let out a startled gasp.
“That’s…” I trailed off, unsure which of the million questions and sensations flooding me I should verbalize.
"You pick up interesting skills at Foxy's," he said, tugging at the binds to show me they were secure.
My breath caught, my eyes widening at the sight of him—his body stretched taut, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his abs flexing with each breath, his erection straining against the denim encasing it.
He was beautiful. And he was mine.
His eyes were blazing, hungry, like he was desperate to ravage me but couldn’t. “You’re in control, Zahra. You could walk out right now and leave me here."
The deliberate surrender was calculated, not in Oliver’s typical controlled way, but in a thoughtful manner. This wasn’t just about pleasure or release.
He was giving me trust. Choice. Power.
A gift so profound it made my chest ache with the weight of it.
“I could walk away,” I said, straddling Oliver’s knees and undoing the button and zipper of his jeans. “But I won’t.” I tugged them off his legs, tossing them aside and climbing him again, aligning my face to his. “Not ever.”
The way his breath caught, the thudding of his heart under my palm, it told me everything I needed to know, and I kissed him. Long and deep, but languid. We had time now, and I was going to use it to show Oliver I was here to stay this time.
My hands wandered as I explored his mouth, tracing the contours of his chest, my fingers mapping the hard ridges of his muscles and the faint scars that told stories I longed to know.
My lips followed the path they blazed, kissing the hollow of his throat, tasting the salt of his skin, feeling the rapid pulse beneath my tongue.
I cataloged his responses—the sharp intake of breath when I grazed his nipple with my teeth, the low, guttural groan when my fingers skimmed below his navel. When I traced the trail of dark hair that disappeared into his briefs, his entire body tensed, his hips jerking slightly.
I freed his cock, deliberately slow, and bit back a moan. I hadn’t gotten a good look last time, but today I was going to take my time learning Oliver’s body.
I took him in hand, his cock hot and heavy, already leaking precum. When I gently traced the pulsing veins, Oliver let out a soft groan. It was tantalizing, the way his cock jerked when I touched it, how it curved just right.
I was playful, teasing, taking him to the edge and backing away, watching his face as pleasure and frustration warred in his expression. His jaw clenched, his eyes dark and pleading, his breaths coming in ragged grunts that had me gushing, ruining my underwear.
It was a high I’d never experienced before, and as needy as my pussy was for his attention, I wanted to see how far I could push the infallible Oliver Beck before he broke down and begged.
His eyes grew wide when I slid off the bed, lip caught between my teeth, and then I took off my bra and panties.
“Look what you do to me.” I dangled the drenched piece of fabric on my finger, resuming my stance above him. “Do you want to feel how wet you make me?”
“Yes,” he moaned. A deep, desperate sound that was the sexiest thing I’d ever heard.
I lay the panel on my palm, and wrapped my fist around his cock again, sliding the soaked fabric up and down, twisting my wrist, wringing the choked sounds of a man on edge from him.
“Zahra…” He spoke my name like a prayer, like a broken surrender, and I wanted more.
I took him into my mouth. His salty, musky flavor blended with the taste of my own arousal. An intoxicating blend that made me moan. The vibration drew a desperate, “Fuck, Zahra,” from his lips. His wrists strained against their bonds, the leather creaking, but he never asked me to release him.
His surrender was absolute, his trust in me a heady aphrodisiac that made my core throb with want.
My lips popped off him with a whimper. I was panting, my body trembling with barely restrained desire.
"Tell me what you want." It wasn’t a demand. He was begging, his chest heaving, sweat beading on his brow, his voice rough with need. “Tell me how to worship you.”
I bit my lip, suddenly shy despite our position, my cheeks flushing as I met his gaze.
“With your mouth,” I whispered, the words barely audible, but the heat in his eyes told me he’d heard me loud and clear.
His eyes closed with a groan, his head falling back against the pillows, the sound so raw it sent a shiver through me. When they opened again, they were dark with heat, a predatory edge that made my core clench in anticipation, arousal slicking my thighs.
“Lumina,” he said, the nickname making my heart stutter, his voice a low growl that vibrated through me. “You can sit on my face anytime, anywhere, no questions asked.”
The raw desire in his voice banished any lingering hesitation. I moved up his body, my knees settling on either side of his head, the heat of his breath teasing my inner thighs.