He doesn’t touch me. Not yet.
The stranger just sits there, fully clothed, perched between my trembling, spread thighs like a believer before the Quran. His shadowed gaze rakes over me, and I swear I can feel it like a iron-hot brand, searing into every inch of my bare skin.
Vulnerable doesn’t even begin to cover it. It’s like he’s peeling me open with his eyes alone, leaving me raw and exposed, but somehow—incredibly, impossibly—seen. Like I’m something worth dismantling, understanding, even worshipping.
“Tell me what they said about this body,” he demands, his voice low and rough enough to make my core clench.
I choke on the words. “I don’t—”
“Tell me.”
No. No-no-no.
The words spill out of me like a bleeding wound, jagged and deadly. “Too heavy. Disgusting. My breasts—they said I strained that dress like an overstuffed sausage. That my thighs were thick and graceless. That everything about me was excess. Unwanted, unbearable excess.”
His hand moves as I speak, fingers tracing the curve of my ribs like he’s mapping uncharted territory. When I mention my chest, he cups them like they’re some priceless artifacts, the weight settling into his palms like they were made for him alone.
“Perfect weight,” he growls, his voice gravelly and thick with something that makes my stomach flip. “Made to be held like this.”
I feel like I’m drowning.
His hands slide lower, following the swell of my waist, the flare of my hips. When I stammer about my thighs—how Yasmin called them ungainly, how Kemal looked away in disgust—his palms smooth over them with a deliberate gentle slowness that has me biting my lip to keep from moaning.
“Strong, soft, and beautiful,” he murmurs, his thumbs pressing into the flesh like he’s committing every inch to memory. “Made to wrap around a man who deserves it.”
Something breaks inside me. Something that was years in the making, shattering into pieces.
He stands then, and begins to undress, and I forget how to breathe. The candlelight catches every scar, every damn ridge and groove of muscle etched into his body like a masterpiece. It’s violence and power rolled into one, his every movement precise and predatory, like he’s a deadly weapon sheathed in skin.
When he comes back to me, his hands map my body like he wants to worship it. The inside of my wrist, the hollow of my throat, the sensitive skin behind my knee—every touch is electric, every discovery making me gasp and writhe beneath him.
“Tell me what you feel,” he commands, his voice is velvet and steel.
“I—I don’t know. I’ve never—”
“Tell me.”
“Overwhelmed. Confused. Like I’m about to shatter.”
“Good. Tell me you want this.”
“I want this,” I whisper, the words shaky and uncertain.
“Again.”
“I want this.”
“Again. Mean it.”
“I want this,” I breathe, and this time, impossibly, I do.
When pleasure starts to coil low in my belly, when my body betrays me and I try to hide my face in shame, his hand catches my chin and forces me to look at him.
“No,” he growls, his voice brooking no argument. “You watch me worship you. You remember this.”
And God, does he worship me.
His mouth is everywhere—my neck, my collarbone, the swell of my breasts—and when he finally takes my nipple between his teeth, I almost scream. His tongue laps at the sensitive bud, his teeth grazing just enough to send shockwaves through my entire overstimulated body.
When he moves lower, his hands grip my thighs, spreading me wider as his mouth finds my sex. His tongue flicks over my sweet spot, teasing and taunting until I’m writhing beneath him, my hips bucking desperately against his face.
“Oh, yes,” he growls, his voice muffled against my slick folds. “Let me taste you.”
His tongue delves deeper, lapping at my juices like he’s starving for them, and I come undone around him, my body trembling as waves of pleasure crash over me.
But he’s not done yet.
When he finally positions himself above me, his member pressing against my entrance, my body tenses with a lifetime of warnings about pain and punishment.
“Breathe,” he murmurs, his voice soft but commanding, making me shiver. “I’ve got you.”
He enters me slowly, inch by agonizing inch, giving me time to adjust to the welcome intrusion. There’s discomfort, yeah—a sharp reminder that this is my first time—but he doesn’t rush. Doesn’t force. Doesn’t make it worse than it needs to be.
“Stay with me,” he whispers against my temple. “Feel what you feel. Don’t run from it.”
When he begins to move, it’s careful at first, measured strokes that coax pleasure through the strangeness. And when I start to move with him, when I gasp at a particularly deep thrust, his control begins to slip.
The gentleness transforms into something more intense. More possessive. His movements become deeper, more demanding, like he’s claiming territory rather than simply occupying it. His hand tangles in my hair, pulling my head back to expose my throat. His teeth graze my neck.
“You’re mine tonight,” he growls, his voice dark and primal, almost scarily so. “Say it.”
“I’m yours,” I whimper, breathless and wrecked and completely undone.
“Remember that.” His rhythm becomes almost punishing now, each thrust driving deeper, harder, until I’m screaming his name. “When everything else feels unbearable, remember you were mine.”
He breaks me open in the best and worst way possible. Not with cruelty or degradation, but with an intensity that makes me feel claimed in ways I’ve never experienced. Wanted in ways I didn’t think possible.
When I shatter around him—again, impossibly again—he follows moments later, his body going rigid above me before he collapses, careful not to crush me beneath his weight.
But he’s still not done, somehow.
Because as soon as I catch my breath, his hands are on me again, exploring, worshiping, claiming. And when he sheathes himself back inside me, when he begins to move with that same intensity, I know I’m never going to be the same.
We lie tangled, breathing hard. His hand traces my shoulder; neither of us speaks—anything would cheapen it.
Gently, he slips away. Water, fabric, the quiet room. I try to rise; exhaustion pins me.
“Sleep,” he murmurs. “You’re safe.”
I close my eyes.
Dawn leaks through the grimy window. I’m alone. The coins I offered sit untouched; beside them, bread and cheese—proof he thought of me after. His scent clings; my body aches, humming with being wanted, treated with reverence instead of disgust.
I sit up, blanket tight around me, and the tears come—not shame, not regret. Grief.
Because I won’t feel this again. Ahead is the harem: tolerated at best, ornament at worst. One night I was chosen. One night, I was his.
And it’s over.