Chapter 41
Given my not-so-confident nature, I should be embarrassed.
But as I take one last look in the mirror of the anteroom beside the bedroom I had prepared for us in the middle of the desert, I feel powerful.
Unlike the last time, this outfit, custom-made, is daring. White silk chiffon, both the skirt and the bodice adorned with crystal appliqués. Thin pearl chains are interwoven in a delicate pattern.
My abdomen is bare—completely exposed, really, since the skirt sits low on my hips.
Along with the henna designs, I’m wearing a jewel on my navel. It was an impulsive act that earned applause from my sister-in-law: a diamond drop-shaped piercing.
I’m barefoot, the sheer veils of my skirt grazing the floor. My hair flows loose, and the only jewelry I wear besides my wedding ring is a pair of chandelier earrings, one of the gifts from my mahr chest.
It’s not only my attire that’s bolder tonight; the dance will be too.
Our performance at former Sheikh Kamran’s birthday was modest, but for tonight I hired a professional to teach me some sensual choreography, one where the seven veils of my skirt will be removed, one by one, until I stand naked for my man.
Each veil[39] represents a chakra[40], an energy point in the body, and with every veil released, a chakra is revealed.
The last veil to fall is the kundalini, a chakra located at the base of the spine, near the sexual organs.
For that reason, the Dance of the Seven Veils should only ever be performed for one’s husband.
When the last veil falls, the dancer binds herself to the man watching her.
There may be doubts about our union, but one thing is unquestionable: the overwhelming physical attraction that commands my body. No matter how hard my mind tries to believe this marriage shouldn’t involve deep emotion, every cell in me aches to belong to him.
I pick up the remote and press play.
He’s here; I heard the cars—his and the convoy of guards.
I take the last few steps toward the moment I’ll face my husband. My hands are sweaty.
When I hear him approaching, I call out, before even seeing him. “Sit down, my sheikh.”
One step at a time. My legs tremble with anxiety, but I’ve never been so certain of anything in my life.
And then, we’re face to face.
As I asked, he’s seated on the futon, reclining against a pile of colorful cushions.
The candlelight casts playful shadows across his face, and to an untrained eye, his posture might seem relaxed.
But I know better. His gaze as it roams over my body, from my feet to my face, is intense, dark, heavy with promises.
Without breaking eye contact, without a single word between us, I begin to move my hips. At first, uncertainly, letting my body sway to the rhythm of the music.
Then I realize that while he desires me, Kaled is also challenging me in silence, as if daring me to go further.
Heat rises through my skin, and I can tell he’s fighting to contain his reactions to me.
We’re both a little terrified of the force pulling us together.
But I’m not about to get lost alone in this tide of lust. I move closer. I forget the lessons the dancer taught me and let my desire choreograph the steps.
The first veil falls, and his eyes drop instantly to the part of my body now revealed.
A tingling rushes over my skin, the muscles between my thighs tightening almost painfully.
It feels like we’re sealed inside a world of our own. Minds in sync, bodies yearning.
Another veil. He shifts, restless.
I smile faintly. I can feel his desire vibrating between us like an invisible current tying us together.
Turning my back to him, eyes closed, I roll my hips. Before I can face him again, his hands are on me.
“You’re driving me insane,” he whispers against my ear, and I shiver.
He spins me around, his gaze devouring me as if feeding on my body with his eyes alone.
“Don’t stop dancing,” he orders, and to my surprise, he pulls off the third veil himself.
His hand comes to my nape, and our lips meet in a brief, fevered kiss. It feels unplanned, impulsive, as if he couldn’t hold himself back.
I drop the fourth veil.
It’s my turn to demand more. Lust won’t let me stay passive.
I turn again, brushing my ass against his erection. The way he grips my hips makes me crave to feel him against my bare skin. Pretending to follow the choreography, I grind slowly against him.
A guttural sound escapes his throat as I feel him toying with the clasp of my bodice.
“What are you doing?” I stammer, suddenly tense.
“Next time, habibti[41], you can dance to the end. For now, get naked for your husband,” he murmurs against my neck.
He steps back and sits again, but I’m not ready to obey so easily.
Even as I quicken my movements, I keep removing the remaining veils.
I catch the corner of his mouth lift in a half-smile, as if my defiance pleases him.
I don’t know what’s come over me, but at least tonight, I want to share control with him.
At last, only the wide waistband of the skirt remains, along with a white silk thong and the bodice.
I reach behind me, close my eyes, and unclasp it, knowing I’m one heartbeat away from crossing the line between girl and woman.
When the piece drops to the floor, a shiver runs through me. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to stand on my own legs.
“The skirt,” he commands.
His voice is almost rough, his dominant side taking over, and I ignite.
Need floods me the instant only that small scrap of silk keeps me from being fully naked before him.
He rises, stops in front of me, his finger tracing the valley between my breasts. I arch my back, desperate for what only my husband can give me.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs. “My Adeela.”
My hand finds his face, brushing the softness of his beard. This time, I’m the one who moves closer.
“It hurts to wait for your touch,” I whisper. “Make it stop.”
And with those words, it’s as if his armor falls away.
Lifting me from the floor, he makes me wrap my legs around his waist.
I cradle his head in my hands, hungry, impatient, finding his mouth. Hot, trembling, I move against him, rising and falling, feeling his length reach my sweetest point, stealing and surrendering moans.
I don’t care if I have to beg. I’m far beyond pride or shyness.
The hand gripping my ass teases my sex, a tormenting caress.
“Please.”
“What do you need?” he murmurs, voice thick. “I want you to learn to ask, ayuni.”
“Everything,” I breathe, heat blooming over my face. “All of you. I want all of us, my husband.”