Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Zara
T raffic in Marrakech is madness. I close my eyes several times, convinced we’re about to crash as Myles manoeuvres us through the tangle of motorcycles, cars and donkey-carts.
Lanes seem to be a suggestion rather than something anyone actually drives in.
We make our way through winding streets lined with two-storey buildings the colour of the desert, palm trees visible over high walls hinting at courtyards beyond.
Despite the chaos of the roads I’m enchanted, feeling as though I’ve strayed into a story, this city with its ancient streets and distant backdrop of mountains seeming to call to me. A tower rises ahead of us, a golden finger of carved stone high above the rest of the buildings.
“La Koutoubia,” Myles says, as we cross several lanes of traffic and turn down a narrow side street. “The mosque,” he continues, at my questioning look. “Built in the twelfth century. The largest one in Marrakech.”
“It’s beautiful.” I twist in my seat to look at it again. Things have relaxed between us somewhat, or are at least less tense. And I’m excited, despite the ache in my chest, looking forward to getting out and exploring. Who knows when I’ll get the chance to do this again?
We pull up outside a terracotta-coloured building with pale ornate pillars set into the facade. There’s greenery between the pillars, more spilling over the top of the wall like a fringe. The street is packed with people, porters with wagons, tourists, cyclists and shopkeepers. It’s chaos.
“Is this the hotel?” I’d envisioned something calm and hidden, an oasis down a side-street.
“It is.” Myles grins, getting out of the car. He starts undoing the straps tying his surfboards to the roof.
I get out, overwhelmed by the noise and colours. A man comes up to me, standing too close. “I carry your bags. Ten Euros.”
“ Lo Shokran ,” I reply with a frown, shaking my head.
Myles, who has come around the car like a shot, raises an eyebrow at me. He doesn’t say anything else, though I think I glimpse a smile on his face as he opens the back of the car and takes out the bags.
Yes. Right. I am business Zara. I can do this. If this is the hotel, I need to sort things out for us. It’s my job, after all. For now.
A man in a suit jacket the same colour as the hotel, with the logo embroidered on the breast pocket, stands by a pair of tall, narrow doors, scanning the roiling crowd. I wave him over.
“Hello. We’re checking in? Mr Brandon?”
The man’s eyes widen. “Of course!” He calls out, beckoning, and two other employees come running, taking our bags and ushering us through the tall, narrow doors, which close behind us.
And all at once we’re enveloped in calm.
The hotel lobby is huge and spacious, pierced metal lanterns hanging from the carved and vaulted wooden ceiling.
Plush groupings of furniture sit on soft rugs next to polished wooden tables, plants adding touches of green.
There’s a tiled walkway with stone pillars and, beyond the long French doors, I glimpse a courtyard and blue water.
The space smells of orange blossom and is quietly luxurious, utterly relaxing after the chaos outside.
A young man comes over with a tray containing two drinks in tall glasses, the rims frosted. “Juice, madame?” He offers the tray. I take one, glad of it for my parched throat. Myles takes the other, and for a moment it feels as though he might clink it with mine.
Then I realise that what he actually wants is for me to check us in, and I’m staring at him like an idiot instead.
I mentally slap myself and head across the lobby towards the check-in desk.
Our luggage is already on a trolley, waiting.
I speak to yet another pleasant young man at the desk, and before I know it Myles and I are being whisked upstairs to the rooftop.
The hotel is laid out around a central courtyard filled with lush gardens and a long pool, a pillared walkway around all sides. The ground floor is taken up by restaurants and the spa, then the next two levels are hotel rooms, all overlooking the courtyard.
But the roof is something different. It’s flat, like most of the traditional architecture here, and one side of the square is taken up by a restaurant. There’s a bar as well, and another pool area. And there are three private suites.
Myles has one of them.
The young man leads us along a narrow walkway lined with roses and bougainvillea on one side, then past a small garden terrace. He pauses to unlock a door and ushers us inside.
The suite is spacious, furnished with angular modern sofas in shades of grey, pale silk hanging at the long windows.
Yet the pointed archways and plaster walls are pure Morocco, as are the tiled floors and soft rugs underfoot.
It’s utterly luxurious, a far cry from the simplicity of the apartments at La Coeur.
Yet I miss being there, miss the view of the ocean, the way it felt as though we were on the edge of the world.
My mind wanders to more erotic places, and I pull it back with an effort, realising the young man is speaking to me.
Myles is looking at me, amusement in his grey gaze, his lips curving. I try not to think about how those lips felt on mine.
“Are you all right, madame? I just wanted to know if the bed is to your liking?”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. I understand the humour in Myles’s eyes now. The bed is beautiful. It’s huge, the headboard inlaid carved wood, the linens spotless white. Red rose petals are scattered across it, more roses on the pillows. Oh God.
The young man thinks that Myles and I are a couple.
I want to correct him, but I also want to get out of here, and it just seems like an unnecessary conversation. “It’s lovely,” I say. “Looks very comfortable. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
God. That’s probably laying it on a bit thick.
I nod and smile as the tour continues, through the plush marble bathroom with a huge tub sunk into the floor, filled with hot water already, more rose petals floating on the surface, candles flickering in holders.
I don’t dare look at Myles. We emerge, eventually, onto a private terrace.
There’s an elegant wooden table and chairs, metal lanterns hanging above.
I peer over the trellis. Beyond the rooftops I glimpse an open square full of people and market stalls.
“Is that the medina?” I ask.
“Madame, we are in the medina,” the young man says. “But yes, you can see the main square from here.”
It’s fascinating, and all at once I want to be down there in the crowds, exploring. Something in this city sings to me.
“If that’s all, I shall leave you to it.”
I turn around. The young man, after a small bow, leaves the terrace by way of a gate in the high wooden fence surrounding it. And it’s just me and Myles.
“Right,” I say, endeavouring to sound businesslike, even though being alone with him makes my heart hurt and I can’t look him in the eye.
“I know you have your meeting soon, so I’ll go and find my room.
I’ve made you dinner reservations at the restaurant, but if you prefer, I can have it served in here. Unless you’re planning on going out?”
I dare a glance at him.
His brows are drawn together, but it’s as though he’s uncertain about something rather than cross with me. Probably trying to figure out how to let me go once we get back to London. I still can’t believe I let things get to this point.
“Have them bring it here,” he says, after a moment.
“Fine. I’ll go and arrange that now.”
I leave the terrace before he can say anything else, the door closing behind me. I take the stairs to my floor, finding my room easily, locking the door behind me as though to keep the world at bay.
My room is lovely. Not as sumptuous as the suite, but there’s another huge bed covered with rose petals, then a little sitting area with a TV and sofa, a soft rug underfoot.
Sliding doors lead out to a small, enclosed balcony bordered with bougainvillea, gold and pink.
I also have a huge bathroom and dressing area; once again I think of my small room at home, how grey and sad it will seem after the colour and light of Morocco.
I’ll have my rug, I suppose, as a memory. And hopefully those other memories, of a dusk-swept beach, will fade. I don’t think I can bear the heartbreak if they don’t. I unroll the rug, carefully drape it over the back of a chair, stroke the soft wool.
Then I remember what the hell I’m supposed to be doing.
Working. Not dreaming of my impossibly handsome boss who also happens to be an amazing kisser with wicked fingers and I suppose I’ll never know what else.
I call the restaurant, arranging for Myles’s dinner to be served in his suite.
I plug in my laptop and check messages and emails, sending a final confirmation for another meeting for tomorrow.
Then I wander out to the balcony, peering out through the stone archway to the pool.
It beckons, blue and shimmering, a few of the loungers along the edge occupied.
On impulse, I decide to go down and have a swim. I won’t brave the medina alone– I’ve heard it’s far better to go with a guide– plus I should be here if Myles needs me. But a swim might take the edge off.
* * *
Myles runs his hand across my stomach, then lower.
My legs open like a book, my clit a page he reads with his fingers, which slide down then enter me.
I arch my back, offering my breasts to his hungry mouth as he braces himself above me.
He takes his cock in his hand, running the tip along my folds. I gasp, moaning his name.
He smiles, bending his head to kiss me. At the same time, he thrusts into me, hard and fast, filling me completely. As he starts to move, it’s as though fireworks explode around us, bursts of colour and light pulsing in time with his thrusts.
I cling to him, ecstasy rippling through me as he slides in and out of me, my orgasm building slowly like a volcano getting ready to erupt. When it finally explodes I almost black out, holding onto him as though I’m being swept away.
Then he’s gone and I’m alone in the bed, panting, calling for him.
I wake to find myself tangled in unfamiliar sheets, still breathing hard. The remnants of my orgasm ripple through me. I’m still alone. Myles is two floors above me, but might as well be as far from me as the moon.
I roll over and bury my face in my pillow, bursting into tears.