by Leslie North
She made a note to look at his underwear brand in the penthouse. Pushing out into the warm air of the Minarak evening, Zahir turned to her, his jaw impossibly square. In the comparatively quiet air outside, he looked somehow even more perfect. As if every last hair on his head was individually styled.
“I’ve called my driver. He’ll take us wherever you’d like to go.” His warm hand appeared at her waist, drawing her near. She inhaled sharply, pressing herself against him. Heat rolled off of him in waves, nearly drowning her in his scent.
A few moments later, the car pulled up. Zahir held the door open for her and she slid into the backseat. Remarkably similar to the car that had picked her up from the airport, but maybe that was what all the top-end sedans were like here. Zahir, too, had something familiar about him. A distant impression of Omar, but again—she was probably just seeing similarities between the only two Parsian men she knew.
The car ride was quick, but they descended into making out even quicker. His lips were salty and warm against hers, needy kisses sparking like a forest fire. Heat prickled through her, sending her senses into overdrive. When the car pulled up to the hotel, she could barely detach from Zahir’s face to make it out of the car.
Outside, he smoothed down the front of his suit coat, looking toward the hotel. “Nice place.”
“Yeah, I’m staying here for a while.” She grabbed his hand, leading him inside. She couldn’t have hidden her smile if she were forced at gunpoint. Zahir played it cool, and when she sidled up to him in front of the elevators, he stiffened.
“We should wait until we’re inside your room,” he whispered hotly into her ear. He squeezed her hip, which sent a lightning bolt of pleasure down to her toes. “What I want to do to you shouldn’t be seen by others.”
Her thighs clenched involuntarily. She looked up at him to say something, but her voice had shriveled.
“Cameras follow me occasionally,” he added.
“So you’re a celebrity.” Inside the elevator, she waited for the doors to close before she pressed her lips against his. Celebrity status made him even hotter. They kissed fervently until the elevator dinged on the top floor. She pulled him by the wrist toward her suite and nudged open the door with her hip. Once the door clicked shut behind them, he pressed her against it, dragging his tongue slowly up the side of her jaw.
“Oh, my god,” she said, her voice shaking.
He laughed gutturally and slid his hands down the sides of her dress, hooking palms beneath ass cheeks. He hoisted her without any hesitation or effort; their groins made a hot seal.
“God, you’re sexy,” she whispered, pressing her head against the door as his kisses skipped hot and juicy over her jawline, down to the crook of her neck, over the exposed cleavage.
“Not as sexy as you.” His voice was a strained murmur, as if it might break into a moan at any moment. He ground his hips against hers, the pronounced hardness meeting the anxious nub between her legs.
She clawed, nipped, and lunged for him, desperate to feel him inside her, desperate to reach that peak with him. Their lips met jerkily, haphazardly—distracted kisses amid the groping and disrobing. Zahir stumbled toward the bed with her in his arms, his pants around his ankles, and then she was bouncing on the silky bedspread, wriggling out of her dress.
A moment later, she heard the rip of a condom wrapper, and then he flipped her onto her belly. She arched herself up to meet him. Finally the hot press of his groin, the slow and slick entrance, followed by shuddery moans that only grew more gravelly the deeper he went.
Zahir moved against her in a rhythm both desperate and slow. She relished every second of it as he cupped a breast in his big hand, his face buried in the back of her neck, his pelvis rocking her closer and closer to ecstasy.
The orgasm came swiftly and powerfully. She fell over the edge way before he did, but that only meant she came a second time when he finally tumbled after her.
As they lay panting in the aftermath, eyes sparkling and chest heaving, Layla couldn’t feel anything but pleased with her first night in Parsabad.
2
Zahir tapped a pen against his desk, trying for the millionth time to focus. Two executives had been at each other’s throats for weeks now, and today, of all days, it had finally escalated to him.
On the exact day when Zahir couldn’t use his brain for anything except recalling images from his sexy night before.
Layla flashed across his mind’s eye again—the tousled strawberry blonde hair he’d tugged from that chignon, letting it spill over lightly freckled shoulders. Her skin had been creamy, like a pudding dessert. He’d certainly licked her all up—not just once, but almost six times. They’d had to abandon the sixth attempt due to exhaustion and his impending work day, but they hadn’t lacked the willingness.
He hadn’t had that many orgasms in one day since his college years.
“Zahir?” The voice on his phone’s speaker brought him back to reality. Zahir blinked guiltily at the executive sitting in front of his desk, then squinted at the telephone.
“Yes. Excuse me. I was thinking.” About Layla. “These issues have been getting worse, haven’t they?”
The executive director in front of him widened his eyes. “He refuses to follow the etiquette guidelines I’ve emailed to him.”
Zahir looked toward the phone. The American counterpart was on the line; these two employees had similar roles on either end of the world and frequently had to work together. But social—and cultural—clashes continued to erupt between them. And as Zahir poked around in other departments, he found similar clashes erupting on a smaller scale.
“I can’t be expected to change my approach just because he sends me an email,” the American colleague complained. “That’s not policy. That’s not protocol.”
“But it’s reasonable,” insisted the Parsian counterpart.
Zahir sighed. He could see a long future of these sorts of conflicts, but how to resolve them? It seemed both sides were equally staunch in continuing their own status quo. “As you both know, there is no other option beyond working together on this.”
“I know—” began the American colleague.
“But he’s been so—” started the other.
“And I think the best way to formally address this issue, which will continue to crop up, is through policy.” He paused, rolling the pen between his fingers. He’d been catching whiffs of Layla all day. How was that even possible? It threw him off balance. “And I think we’ll need to bring in someone who can help train, educate, and mediate precisely these types of issues.”
His mind kicked into overdrive as he felt the pieces of a solution clicking into place. “For now, however, put aside your frustrations and find a way to work together. You’re both going to have to give a little. I’ll let you know when we have a formal next step in place.”
He dismissed the Parsian colleague and said a curt goodbye to the American on the phone. And then he headed straight for his father’s office to present a plan that seemed more and more like the inevitable solution.
“Father.” Zahir burst into the large, dimly-lit office, his father barely looking up at him. Omar sat in a chair in front of the desk and turned with raised eyebrows. “I have an idea that I need you to approve.”
“Hardly much choice, is there?” His father removed his glasses, rubbing at his face before appraising his eldest son.
Inwardly, Zahir scoffed at the comment. His entire life had been one big lack of choice. His future had been eternally prescribed by the man in front of him. As the eldest Almasi son, Zahir’s destiny was firm: take over the business, be the head Almasi once their father passed. And while his brothers had different weights to bear with their own stations inside the family, Zahir was unequivocally the only one who was trapped by the expectations.
And he’d shouldered this responsibility because it was expected of him. Because it was the right thing to do. Because he valued his family more than anything else
in the entire world.
“This must be a good idea.” Omar sat up straighter, crossing an ankle over a knee. “Do share.”
“These repeated and incessant culture clashes cropping up, on both sides of the ocean,” Zahir began, leveling his family members with his gaze. “It’s gotten to the point where productivity is being impacted. We have to curtail it and solve it.”
“Agreed,” their father rumbled.
“I think what we need more than anything is a bridge between the two companies. Parsian or American—it doesn’t matter. Just someone trained in Human Resources with enough sensitivity to help us combat these issues and develop policies to handle them,” Zahir said.
Omar nodded slowly. Their father glared at Zahir as he spoke, but it was just his thinking face.
“It can be a temporary position or long-term. Let’s think of them as a cultural sensitivity trainer, someone experienced in reacting to the needs of our company straddling two very different social realities.” The words flowed easier for him the more that he spoke. “But more than that, they will be the point person for handling these issues. It frees us up from dealing with these quarrels like elementary school teachers. We can all focus on our tasks, remain productive.”
“Brilliant,” Omar murmured.
“Hmmm, yes.” Father replaced his glasses. “Have you looked at budget?”
“We have enough,” Zahir said. “It would be a salaried job, yes, but simply one additional spot.”
“I know someone who might fit the bill,” Omar said.
“Yes?” Zahir steepled his fingers, pleased by the reception, but more than that, his spot-on delivery. When he was on, he was on.
“Marian has a friend with a spectacular HR history. A stellar resume overall. Plus she travels; she’d be a perfect fit for the job.”
Zahir shrugged. “Get her in here. Is she New York-based?”
“Normally. But she’s actually in town now, here for the wedding. I bet we could get her in for an interview.”
Zahir nodded, Layla flashing through his mind’s eye. She was the only American he cared to think about after last night. That hook-up had practically burned their clothes right off.
“She has preference, then,” Zahir said, pushing to standing. “Seems like she’s part of Marian’s chosen family, if she’s traveled here for the wedding, and that works perfectly for our family business model. I’ll inform Mr. Thomas of our plan, as well, since it affects both divisions.”
Zahir squeezed his brother’s shoulder on his way out of the office. Some days—moments like these—he was okay with the task of leading the Almasi family, of steering the business eventually. Even though he hadn’t chosen it.
Back in his own office, Zahir slid back into his chair, mind wandering immediately to Layla. He hadn’t felt such a visceral lack from not being around someone before. They’d been together a total of six hours before he’d snuck out of her hotel and back to his own penthouse early that morning, but today every cell in him screamed for her, like a petulant child seeking candy.
It wasn’t fair. Especially since he hadn’t gotten her number or any other form of contact.
The only ideas that came to him were visiting the club again…or showing up at her suite. Though a surprise visit sounded a bit intrusive. He could call the hotel, leave a message for her with his number. Something simple, seductive, and easy.
He was dialing the hotel’s number before he could even register the fact that he’d made the decision. The phone rang twice before a receptionist answered.
“Hello, I would like to leave a message for suite number 903.” Zahir paused as the receptionist readied to take his message. “Please write, ‘I can’t stop thinking about you. I need to see you again. Yours, Z.’” He relayed his phone number to her, and then hung up the phone, satisfied.
This way, the ball was in her court, but she knew exactly where he stood.
Now all he had to do was wait. His eyes drifted to his phone, as if maybe a call would come through instantly. The anticipation would be nearly too great to bear.
3
Layla smirked over top of her latte. Marian couldn’t see through her sunglasses just how smug she was, but her friend would know something was up.
“Spill it. You’re hiding something from me.” Marian sounded wry as she sipped at a glass of water. This was almost like back in NYC at their favorite spot, if only she looked past the fact that everyone around them spoke Farsi.
“I hooked up with a stranger last night.” Layla giggled despite herself. It wasn’t the most scandalous thing for a twenty-nine-year old woman. But it sure was fun.
“A Parsian dude?” Marian didn’t seem shocked, but she sure sounded intrigued.
“Oh yeah. Like, the hottest Parsian dude.” Layla sighed, sitting up in her seat. Her body still ached from the marathon sex-a-thon the night before. Her pussy might take a week to recover. But if given the chance, she’d do it all over again that very night if she had the chance. Except he left me with no way to find him ever again. That was the rule of the hook-up. One and done. Exactly what she thought she’d wanted.
Except she wanted to see Zahir again immediately.
“Damn. That was fast.” Marian took a bite of her sandwich, chewing thoughtfully. “Is that why you didn’t mind a late lunch?”
“Yeah. I had to get some sleep last night.” Layla sipped at her latte. She’d ordered some biscuit-y looking things and some sort of soup, but she wasn’t quite hungry yet. Her body only wanted Zahir. “I need to be fresh for my day of sightseeing.”
Marian’s face fell when Layla had expected the opposite. She creased a brow. “I thought you’d be a little more excited about that.”
Marian paused, nervous gaze skating over her face. “I am excited for you. I just…I have to tell you something.”
“Oh god.” Layla’s stomach shrank to a nut. “If this is about the wedding—”
“No,” Marian blurted. “Nothing of the sort.”
“Good. Because if you and Omar split up I’ll kill both of you.” Layla pointed her finger at Marian as threateningly as she could muster.
Marian relaxed, a full grin blossoming on her face. “It has nothing to do with that. I just…Omar brought up an idea today that he wanted me to pass along to you.”
“Okay.” Layla sipped at her latte again. It tasted distinctly different, but she couldn’t pinpoint how. “Lay it on me. Omar is an idea man; I like what he comes up with.”
“Well…he wants to hire you.”
Layla furrowed a brow as the word struggled to fit together in her head. “He what?”
“This is why I was hesitant to tell you. I know you’re launching this big trip, and you’ve been so excited for it…but Almasi-Thomas established a new position, and you’d seriously be perfect for it.”
Layla blinked, pushing her glasses up onto her head. “What?”
Marian grimaced. “I know the timing is bad. But maybe it’s actually perfect. You wouldn’t have to do it for long. But they need someone now, and you were practically born for this job.”
Layla narrowed her eyes. It smelled and sounded like a trap. “You want me to rejoin the corporate world.”
Marian sighed. “God, you make it sound like a prison sentence.”
“I just quit the corporate world!” Layla took a heated bite of her biscuit.
“I know. I know. But seriously consider this. The money would be great, and you’d be set up to travel even longer afterward. Turn your one-year trip into two or maybe even three years.”
Layla stared at the table as she chewed, mulling over her friend’s words.
“Once you get everything up and running, you can slip away and keep moving on. This will just be a temporary layover in Parsabad.”
Layla swallowed, the idea percolating in her mind. It was sounding less and less awful. But maybe Marian was sugarcoating it.
“You’ve been trying to get me to work for this company for years,” Layla s
aid. “And the second I get to Parsabad a position opens? This is probably part of your sinister plan.” She scoffed, taking another bite of the biscuit.
Marian grinned wryly. “This is no sinister plan. But it would be amazing, Layla. Come live with me for a little bit in Parsabad. It doesn’t take you that far away from your goal, which was to get out of the States and travel. Now you can get to know Parsabad really well, and then continue on from here. Exactly the way you planned.”
Layla narrowed her eyes. “How much money?”
“A lot.” Marian cleared her throat. “Omar and his brothers will discuss that with you when you go in for the formal interview. And just think—everything you earn here goes to travel.”
God, Marian knew all the right things to say. Extra money didn’t hurt. And she wasn’t entirely opposed to the idea of padding her bank account via a sweet gig abroad. Really, there was a spark of excitement in her. Starting a corporate job in a foreign country was still exotic and new. Just slightly different than she’d imagined it.
“This is a good move,” Marian insisted. “And they need someone stat. Please, Layla. Do it for me. We can hang out all the time and go to shitty movies and drink wine every weekend.”
“Ugh. Those are all of my favorite things.” She gulped back the last of her coffee. The position intrigued her, despite the fact that it put her right back into the working world. “Fine. But only if you stop begging.”
Marian squealed, and then clamped her hand over her mouth. “Yay! I knew you’d come around.”
Layla sighed, melting into her seat. “God. This means I have to go shopping for work clothes. I just got rid of all that shit.”
Marian squeezed her hand. “I’ll take you out tonight after work. I know exactly where to find the cutest stuff. And trust me, the fact that you, me, and Annabelle will be work colleagues is going to take corporate life to a whole new level. These Parsian men won’t know what hit them.”
A grin flickered over her face. Okay, so the idea wasn’t all bad. She just hadn’t expected to settle down so soon. Like 48-hours-after-take-off soon.