by Lilas Taha
He made a deep throaty sound. ‘Do you know how long I have dreamt of this moment? You in my arms?’
She shook her head again, inhaling his masculine scent, unable to speak.
‘Too long, Nadia. Too long.’ He dipped his head to brush her ear with his lips. ‘I wish I could tell you, but I don’t know how to say things like that.’ He nuzzled the tender spot on the side of her neck. ‘God, you smell good.’
A quiver darted to her toes, like a shot of electricity spiking her heartbeat. Under her fingertips, a tremor ran through his chest muscles. Was that her effect on him? She flipped her head to face away, laying her other cheek flat against his shoulder.
Releasing a ragged breath, he moved his hands down her back. ‘Don’t be afraid. It’s you and me now.’
She was a married woman in the arms of her beloved husband. Only thing, Omar was her husband. This was supposed to be the most natural thing in the world. Why did she feel this awkward? She squeezed her eyes shut. ‘That’s the problem.’
He stiffened. ‘I don’t understand.’
Lifting her head, she kept her eyes on the base of his throat. ‘I think . . . I need more time. To get used to the idea of . . . you and me.’ Her voice came out strangled, like a child’s, about to cry.
He withdrew his hands and stepped back. ‘Of course. Take all the time you need.’ His jaw muscles pumped, his face and neck flushed red.
He seemed hurt, as if she had insulted him. Why had she listened to Huda talk to her about this night? Now she couldn’t stop coming out like a frightened fool. She sat on the edge of the bed. ‘My feet hurt.’
A wave of confusion passed over his face before he went down to one knee and slipped off her high heels. He massaged her feet. Keeping his head down, his forehead almost touched her lap.
She ran ten fingers through his hair to the back of his head, admiring the coarse feeling on her skin. ‘Your hair is so thick now.’
Exhaling loudly, he dropped his forehead between her knees. His warm hands inched up her legs under her gown. No, his hands were not warm. They were hot, searing her skin. He branded her legs, matching his slow progress with her crawling fingers through his hair. Her skin vanished, and her entire body fused into one entwined nerve connecting her legs to a deep spot in her stomach. What feeling was that? How could she put a name to something totally new? Hearing herself pant, she released his hair and placed her palms on her knees to stop his ascending hands.
Lifting his head, he struck her with an intense gaze she had never seen before. His bright blue eyes turned darker, like the ink from her fountain pen, the expression in their depths too foreign. She sucked in a sharp breath.
Withdrawing his hands, he sat back on his heels. ‘Your feet better?’ His voice was deep, and although he asked a caring question, it sounded rugged and edgy.
She swallowed. ‘Yes, thank you.’
He rose, twisting sideways and giving her his back. ‘I’m thirsty. Want me to get you anything from the kitchen?’
‘Fatimah and I ran out of time. We didn’t have a chance to unpack the kitchen sets yet.’
He moved toward the door while she was talking. Why was he eager to leave? He could not be that thirsty. Maybe he was giving her a chance to change out of this bulky gown. She slid off the bed. ‘Omar, wait.’
He put a hand on the doorjamb. ‘Yes?’
‘Could you . . . please . . .’ The letters melted on her tongue, not forming the words she needed.
He faced her again. ‘What do you need?’
She swept her hair to one side of her neck and turned. ‘Could you . . . undo my dress, please? I can’t reach the zipper.’ She didn’t hear him move for several heartbeats and was about to give up when he came closer. Much closer. If he breathed any deeper, his chest would touch her back. She hung her head, the tense wait making her wish she hadn’t asked.
His fingers brushed the base of her neck, lingered on a single spot close to her hairline, then moved to undo her zipper. The dress loosened around her chest and waist. Should she thank him and wait for him to leave? But he didn’t move. His body heat radiated through the almost nonexistent space between them, and she sensed it on her exposed back.
‘It’s not sleeveless,’ he whispered, as if talking to himself.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Your dress. I heard you once say you wanted a sleeveless wedding dress.’ He sounded like he had climbed a flight of steep stairs.
She turned around, holding her top over her chest with both hands before the soft fabric slipped down her shoulders. ‘Mama wouldn’t allow it.’ Embarrassment gripped her throat, making her voice almost inaudible. She chanced a quick glance at his face. His eyes were fixed on her mouth, not her bare shoulders. He should leave her now to change into a nightgown with some dignity. ‘Weren’t you thirsty?’
His eyes struck hers a fraction of a second before he dipped his head and moistened her lips with his. He broke contact, long enough for her to draw in a breath, shallow and shaky. Then his lips were on hers again, full and eager.
She let him kiss her again and again. Maybe she kissed him back, she wasn’t sure. How would she know? Thoughts emptied out of her head like water out of a spilled bucket. Her lips merged with his until she became acquainted with their commands. She may have sighed, or it could have been his deep groans that played music in her ears.
Lost in his embrace, she didn’t realize her back had become exposed until his fingers tingled her skin at the small of her back. Still clutching the front of her dress, her hands were trapped at his chest. Her dress started to slip down. A wave of panic hit her. Breaking her mouth free, she managed to choke out, ‘Wait. Wait.’
His lips trailed the side of her neck and continued to sear little spots on her shoulder.
‘Omar, wait.’
He rested his forehead where his lips were, releasing a long tortured exhale. ‘Don’t do this, please. Don’t pull away from me.’
‘But my dress . . . It’s slipping.’
‘Let it.’ He moved his hands to her hips and pressed her against him.
She gasped at the poking pressure.
‘It’s all right, Nadia. This is me.’
She risked freeing one hand and pushed his chest. ‘No, something is wrong.’
Swearing under his breath, he let her go and stepped back.
Gathering the sagging fabric higher, she dropped on the bed and glared at him.
He gripped the corner of the dresser, his breathing hard and loud. ‘I was willing to leave you alone like you asked. But then you called me to undress you.’ He rubbed his neck. ‘You have to be clear with me. Do you want us to be together tonight?’
To her shame, she nodded, wanting him to kiss her again, that she was sure of. The rest? Maybe she could skip?
He sat next to her on the bed and held her free hand. ‘Please tell me you know how this works. Didn’t you study this at school or something? Hasn’t anyone talked to you about tonight?’
‘I know the basics. Huda explained things.’
He groaned. ‘Huda? Didn’t your mother say anything? Fatimah?’
‘Mama tried, I was too embarrassed, so I told her I already had the talk with Huda. And Fatimah? She said you would know what to do and I shouldn’t worry.’
He studied their clasped hands in his lap. The skin showing from his open collar glistened with sweat and his chest heaved with every breath. His leg next to hers pumped up and down. Was he impatient? Irritated by her ignorance? Or could he be plain nervous? Perhaps Fatimah was wrong, and now he expected her to do something.
She squeezed his hand. ‘Omar?’
Lifting his gaze, he swept her with those darkened irises, exquisite and all-consuming, speaking a language she couldn’t quite grasp. He kissed her naked shoulder. ‘There’s nothing to worry about.’
‘It isn’t going the way it should. Not like Huda explained.’
‘What the hell did Huda say?’
She pulled her sha
mbled dress tighter. ‘She said it would be quick. Look at me.’ She bit her lower lip. ‘I’m half naked and you have not even taken off your shoes.’
He cleared his throat and stood before her. Stepping out of his shoes, he took off his shirt and slid out his belt. His fingers lingered over his fly zipper. ‘Would you like me to go on?’
She shook her head in denial, but didn’t look away, either. Audacious or brazen, she didn’t care what Huda thought of her. His tight body was too beautiful not to openly admire. The muscles under his shimmering skin rippled like waves breaking on the shore. ‘You are shaking?’
‘I ache for you, Nadia.’ He closed the distance. ‘I want you to be mine.’ His voice poured like liquid chocolate, like hot syrup blanketing all in its way.
‘Huda said it would be painful. I didn’t think it would be painful for you too.’
He cradled her face in his palms and dipped his head. ‘I can’t promise it will not be painful at first, but I can promise you this.’ He held her mouth captive in his for a long kiss. ‘I will do my best not to be quick.’
She didn’t know what that meant.
He took his time explaining.
Acknowledgments
I owe one person my utmost gratitude and respect: my late father, Hasan Taha. I had written this story under his guidance and with his encouragement, engaging him as much as possible on a daily basis, absorbing his thoughts, memories, and the feelings he experienced growing up during the timespan of the book’s events. I had hoped he would see how it turned out, but he passed away two months before I signed the publishing contract. My father was the reason I started on this path, and remains the constant power under my wings. I only hope I made him proud.
I have relied on the unconditional love and support of my affectionate mother, Nawal Abu Quara, whom I could never thank enough for all that I am, and ever will be. Her involvement and consistent belief that I would get this story out never wavered. She made me believe in my writing abilities when I suffered serious doubts at times.
I am deeply grateful to my husband, Saad Saleh, who stood by me during all the emotional and time-consuming stages I went through while writing this book. On the road to visit our kids in college, driving back and forth from Houston to Austin too many times to count, he patiently listened to me read out loud chapter by chapter as I developed the story. His feedback was extremely valuable, and his suggestion for the title was the icing on the cake.
My appreciation goes out to my lovely kids, Leila Saleh and Bassel Saleh, who tolerated my absentmindedness and preoccupation with imaginary people on paper. My children’s constant smiles and warm embraces helped me get through the complicated process of writing this story, showing me patience and maturity beyond their years.
I am thankful to my brother, Bassel Taha, for his love and cheerful attitude that keep propelling me forward.
I would like to extend my sincere thanks to the Head of English Publishing at Bloomsbury Qatar Foundation Publishing, Thalia Suzuma. From the instant she acquired my manuscript, to the instant it came out, as the book it is, she has been extremely and expertly supportive, seeing with a sharp eye angles and plot threads and suggesting improvements wherever needed. My thanks also go out to the editing team, specifically copy editor Michelle Wallin, and the team of cover artists at BQFP, who worked hard to produce the final book with its jacket.
The following persons have been instrumental with their backing, help, and encouragement: Sana Dabbagh, Manal Broeckelmann, Roger Paulding, Sharon Dotson, Barbara Andrews, Luke Chauvin, Joe Night, Sandra M. DiGiovanni, Paula Porter, Bob Gregory, Louis Allen Epstein, Julian Kindred, Carol Swiantek and Alexandra Chasse.
Bloomsbury Qatar Foundation Publishing
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Doha, Qatar
www.bqfp.com.qa
BLOOMSBURY and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
First published 2015
© Lilas Taha, 2015
Lilas Taha has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers.
No responsibility for loss caused to any individual or organization acting on or refraining from action as a result of the material in this publication can be accepted by Bloomsbury or the author.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: HB: 978-9-9271-1800-5
TPB: 978-9-9271-1804-3
eBook: 978-9-9271-1801-2
PB: 978-9-9271-1819-7
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