The early morning felt cool against my bare neck, raising goosebumps that had nothing to do with the temperature. Every step made the choker tight—cool metal kissing skin that had never been this exposed in public. My hair moved freely with each movement, soft waves brushing my collarbones, caramel highlights catching gold under the fluorescents.
No hijab.
Just me.
Changed. Terrified. Burning.
The black Vellfire waited at the edge of the tarmac, engine idling low and patient. Marcus stood beside the open rear door. He looked at me and gave me one small nod, a small smile, and eyes flicking to my throat for half a second longer than usual.
I slid inside.
Lucifer was already there.
Long legs stretched, sleeves rolled to the forearms, tablet resting on one thigh. The moment I ducked in, his head lifted.
His eyes widened—just a fraction.
Then darkened.
Then the corners crinkled.
A slow, private smile bloomed behind his gaze. The kind that never quite reached his mouth but seared straight through my stomach.
He didn't speak. He just looked.
At the choker gleaming against my skin. At the open collar of my cream silk blouse. At the way the fabric clung to the swell of my breasts. At the bare line of my throat he had never seen like this before.
My pulse slammed beneath the titanium. Heat rushed low, sudden and shameful. My nipples tightened against lace and silk. Between my thighs, a pulse answered—wet, insistent, disobedient.
I pressed my legs together under the wide-leg trousers. Prayed the slickness wouldn't soak through.
"Good morning," I whispered.
His voice came back low. Rougher than usual.
"Morning, Aafreen."
He didn't look away.
Neither did I.
The door closed with a soft thud.
Marcus settled in the front. The partition rose.
We were alone.
The car pulled away smoothly. City lights streaked past the tinted windows. Silence stretched—thick, electric.
He set the tablet aside.
Leaned forward slightly.
"You aren't wearing it," he said. Not a question.
I touched the choker instinctively. Fingers trembling.
"I did."
A beat. He gives a small smile finally.
"I didn't mean that."
He was asking about the Hijab.
The truth clawed up my throat before I could stop it. I gulped it down.
"Because I want you to see me."
His jaw flexed. Once.
He leaned back, relieved, the air between us had changed—charged, but light, like the moment before lightning.
"But why now?"
I couldn't sit across from him anymore.
I moved.
Slid onto the seat beside him. Close enough that our thighs brushed.
He didn't pull away.
My heart was so loud I was sure he could hear it.
"Things… moved too fast before," I said quietly. "In Montreal. I wanted it—want it—but… slower. Please."
He studied me for a long moment looking into my eyes. Something softer moved behind the storm in his eyes.
"I rushed you," he said. Voice low. Almost gentle. "I won't do that again. I promise."
Relief and want tangled so tight I couldn't breathe.
I leaned in.
My lips brushed his lips—soft at first. Tentative.
He let me lead.
For three whole seconds.
I slid my tongue inside a little, his hand slid to the back of my neck, fingers curling around the choker like a claim. He angled my head and kissed me deeper. Slower. Possessive.
I whimpered into his mouth.
The sound seemed to snap something in him.
He pulled me across his lap in one smooth motion. My knees straddled his thighs. The silk of my blouse whispered against his shirt. My hands flew to his shoulders for balance.
His mouth never left mine.
Rougher now. Hungrier.
I felt the hard length of him beneath me—thick, insistent, pressing up through his trousers. I rocked once—small, involuntary—and gasped at the friction against my soaked lace.
His hands slid up my ribs. Thumbs brushed the undersides of my breasts through silk. Then higher. Fingers found the top button of my blouse.
He paused. Looked at me.
I blinked in affirmation—tiny, frantic.
He popped the button.
Then the next.
The blouse parted. Crimson lace bra framed against my skin. Choker gleaming above it like a collar.
He groaned low in his throat.
His mouth moved to my neck—open kisses, teeth grazing the edge of the choker. I arched, offering more. His tongue traced the metal, then the skin beneath. Heat exploded low in my belly.
I rocked against him again—deliberate this time. The ridge of him dragged perfectly against my clit through too many layers. Pleasure sparked sharp and bright.
"Lucifer…" His name came out broken.
He bit gently where neck met shoulder.
"Slow," he reminded me—voice wrecked. "We go slow."
But his hands were already sliding under my blouse, palms hot against my bare back, pulling me closer until my breasts pressed against his chest.
I kissed him harder—messy, desperate—tongue sliding against his, tasting coffee and restraint and want.
The car kept moving.
The sun was rising from the horizon.
But right now there was only this: his mouth, his hands, the choker he tugged lightly like a leash, the ache between my thighs that screamed for more even as guilt whispered astaghfirullah in the back of my mind.
I didn't stop.
Neither did he.
I didn't want to stop.
***
The private jet smelled of leather and cedar.
I took the seat directly across from him once we boarded—close enough that our knees almost brushed when the plane leveled off. My blouse was buttoned again. Hair slightly mussed. Lips still swollen. The choker felt heavier now, like it carried the memory of his teeth.
Marcus and the two associates were farther back, already buried in laptops.
Lucifer opened his tablet. So did I.
We started with the schedule—professional, clipped, safe.
I pulled up the VC event rundown. Names. Titles. Net worth estimates. Talking points I'd refined over the last two days.
He listened. Nodded. Occasionally corrected a detail with that low, precise voice that made my heart race every time he said my name.
I emailed updated agendas while he watched my fingers move over the screen. Watched my hair fall forward when I leaned down. Watched the choker shift with every swallow.
I could see him stealing glances.
At one point he reached across and brushed a strand behind my ear.
His fingertips grazed my earlobe.
I froze.
He didn't pull away immediately.
"Good," he murmured. "Keep going."
I did.
But my hands shook after that.
Later I excused myself to the back.
Marcus looked up from his notes.
I smiled—small, grateful.
"Thank you," I said quietly. "For letting me switch."
He accessed me for a moment. I was worried for a second, wondering why.
Then he sighed.
"Take it easy, Aafreen. This trip is mostly his show. Not yours."
I nodded.
The jet touched down just as the sun rose to its highest point, blinding the terminal white.
A line of black SUVs waited. Drivers in crisp uniforms. Everything efficient. Controlled.
Lucifer stepped off first. I followed close behind, hair lifting in the warm Miami breeze, choker cool against suddenly fevered skin.
He was halfway to the lead vehicle when she appeared.
Young—probably in her 20s. Sharp cheekbones, dark hair pulled into a severe ponytail, designer sunglasses pushed up on her head. White linen like armor.
She marched straight up to him.
No greeting.
Just words—fast, fierce, cutting.
"I heard you were coming."
Lucifer's shoulders stiffened.
I froze three steps behind.
She didn't glance at me. All her fire was for him.
"You don't get to play now. It's too late."
His voice dropped—low, controlled.
"Not here."
She laughed—short, bitter.
"Then where? At the hotel? In front of your little entourage?"
My stomach twisted.
Lucifer's eyes flicked to me—brief, unreadable. With an empty smile he asked me to not interfere.
"Go with the others," he said quietly. "I'll catch up."
I wanted to argue.
Wanted to stay.
Wanted to claw her eyes out for speaking to him like that.
Jealousy surged—hot, ugly, possessive.
But I nodded.
Turned.
Walked to the second SUV on legs that felt like water.
I slid into the back seat beside Marcus.
He was staring straight ahead at the women, jaw tight.
The door closed.
The convoy pulled away.
Silence stretched for two blocks. He definitely knew something about the women.
My chest felt tight not knowing what I saw.
I had to ask him.
"Marcus, I had something to ask."
Then he spoke—low, reluctant.
"She's not his girlfriend."
I inhaled slowly.
"Although that crazy women was someone he'd have given anything to be with."
Marcus exhaled through his nose.
"She's his daughter. From his first marriage. The mother… was difficult. Still is. And the daughter took after her. Never wanted his side of the story. Never forgave him for leaving. He never left in the first place."
My heart stuttered a little.
"That must have been difficult for him."
Marcus ends the awkward conversation by asking me to not talk about it.
"Not many people know about this. So keep it to yourself."
All I could do was nod.
Daughter.
Not a lover.
Not Ji-Ah.
Not anyone I had to fight.
And yet the jealousy didn't fade.
It twisted into something else—something sharper.
Worry.
For him.
For whatever wound she was ripping open right now.
I touched the choker without thinking. Felt the faint indent of his teeth still lingering on my skin.
Marcus glanced sideways.
"You okay?"
I didn't answer.
Because I wasn't.
The hotel loomed ahead—glass and gold and promises.
Lucifer was still back there.
Facing her alone.
All I could think was:
I want to be the one he comes to after.
I want to be the one who soothes the storm she leaves behind.
I want to kneel for him when he is hurt.
Astaghfirullah.
But the want was louder than the prayer.
And it was only getting louder.