He pushes me into the waiting limousine with that controlled urgency I know so well. My back lands on the long leather seat. The door slams shut behind us. Through the blur of my tears, his silhouette wavers hovering above me, surreal against the dim interior. Emotions surge—regret, longing, heartbreak, happiness—forming a lump in my throat.
His face remains unreadable, but his eyes blaze with a primal, predatory hunger that pins me in place. In one fluid motion, he unzips, releasing his full erection. Before I can fully grasp what's happening, his lips crush mine—a volatile clash of possession and desperation. He hikes up my skirt, trapping my arms against the seat as he thrusts into me with an urgency that erases the line between pleasure and pain. The sound of my blouse tearing open slices through the air, sharp and final, as his teeth sink into my skin, melding sharp pain into undeniable pleasure. A moan escapes me, raw and unrestrained, caught somewhere between ecstasy and sorrow, as his movements grow rougher, each thrust sending shockwaves that reverberate through every nerve in my body.
I'm trapped—by him, by my own emotions, by the electrifying rush flooding every nerve with consuming bliss, by the crushing weight of everything between us. As his pace quickens, the emotional pain intensifies, only to be devoured by the surging waves of pleasure. The limo lurches to a stop.
His hand clamps over my mouth, stifling my cries—a blend of moans and sobs—as he barks into his phone, "Drive until I say stop." His eyes lock onto mine, fierce with a madness I've never seen, the command directed as much at me as at the driver.
Then, just as abruptly, he resumes, his rhythm relentless. My moans spill out as he releases my mouth, his lips crashing onto mine, the carnal kiss smothering my scream. He drives us both to the brink and beyond. Tears stream down my face as we shudder together. Still buried inside me, his breath ragged, he picks up the phone and orders, "Take us home."
He holds me close, burying his face in my hair. I weep into his shoulder, soaking the expensive fabric. My arms wrap tightly around his neck, my legs clinging to his waist as though he's the only thing keeping me tethered to reality. I'm terrified to let go—more terrified that he'll let go first. His scent, his weight, his warmth, his heartbeat, his breath… him. I miss him.
It's always like this with him—my body, soul, and emotions taking turns drowning me. When his breathing steadies, he shifts to pull away. Panic surges through me, and I tighten my hold, clinging desperately, afraid that the moment he separates from me, he'll vanish again.
"Stop," he barks, pinning my arms to the seat. His voice cuts through my tears, sharp and commanding.
I bite down on my lower lip trying to contain a sob escaping as fresh tears spill over. I lie still, trembling, as he props himself up and zips his pants. The distance between us feels like an ocean of uncertainty I thought I'd grown used to, but my hands defy me. They shoot up, clutching at his shirt, his tie, anything to keep him close.
He exhales against my ear, a mix of frustration and something gentler. Without hesitation, his arms slide beneath me, lifting me. He holds me against his chest, locking me in his embrace, his grip as unyielding as the emotions threatening to break us both.
The solid warmth of his body seeps into mine, and for the first time since he left, I feel secure enough to let go. A sob bursts free, raw and unrestrained, echoing against the curve of his neck. My cries grow louder, unearthing the anguish I've buried for so long. The sound fills the air between us, jagged and unrelenting.
His grip tightens with each wail, his arms pressing me closer as though he could merge us into one. His nose burrows into the crook of my neck, his breath hot and uneven, matching the rhythm of my broken sobs. The faint scent of him—amber, spice, and the faint musk of his skin—wraps around me, grounding me in a way words never could. The more I cry, the deeper his hold becomes, his body trembling against mine like he's trying to absorb every tear, every ounce of my pain, as if to say: I'm here. You're safe.
The way the world's weight vanishes whenever he carries me in his arms—like now, wrapped tightly in his embrace—makes everything else dissolve until it's only us. It's not just him I've missed. I've missed the sanctuary he provides, the safety that steadies me, the lightness that comes with being near him. Somehow, he became my safe place, though I can't pinpoint when.
As my gaze lifts to his face, I see it—his watery eyes, the sheen betraying emotions he struggles to contain. I've stopped crying, the heaviness of my grief eclipsed by the unspoken pain in his expression. His thumb brushes my cheek, wiping away the remnants of my tears with a tenderness that sends another ache rippling through me.
"I can't be without you, and you can't... sleep without me," he whispers, his voice choking and trembling, every word heavy with suppressed tears.
The cracks in his composure undo me. Tears brim in my eyes again as his vulnerability mingles with my own. He reaches into his suit jacket, pulling out the golden silk handkerchief, and dabs at my cheeks with such care it feels as though he's afraid I might shatter.
"My love—" I manage, though the words falter under the weight of everything unsaid.
"I don't want to hear about anyone else. Ever. There's only us," he interrupts, his tone trembling yet resolute, the force of his words matched by the fierce tightening of his arms around me.
"But—"
"No!" The word bursts from him, raw and sharp, but his grip softens. "Just us," he murmurs, his determination unwavering even as his breath hitches.
His eyes search mine, and in that moment, his pain is a mirror of my own. We're two people clinging to one another in the storm, desperately trying to hold on to what feels like the only thing keeping us both afloat.
Mohamad's furious. He wants to yell at her. How could she. Leaving is not acceptable. How dare she.
But the sound of her sob cuts through him. The way she clings to him. Desperate. Like he's the only thing keeping her upright. Her fingers digging into his shirt. Her body trembling against his. Her scent — familiar. Warm. His.
It disarms him instantly.
He wants to punish her. He needs to vent the fury clawing inside his chest. She left. She removed herself. She chose to walk away. Unacceptable. He should lock her up. Keep her where she can't leave again. Cage her.
But when she tightens her grip on his shirt like a lifeline, something in him reacts before he can stop it. His arms move on their own. He pulls her closer instead.
The anger doesn't disappear — it twists. Changes shape. Becomes something heavier. He's still furious. Furious she didn't call. Furious that she left. Furious that she's crying. Furious that he can't push her away.
Most of all — furious that the moment she's in his arms, all he wants is to hold her tighter.
The silence that follows as he holds me pressed against him pulls me back to the night we first met over a year ago. The same quiet. The same tension. The same overwhelming sense of being completely enclosed by him.
Drowsiness seeps into my limbs, my body yielding to the familiar warmth of his chest, the steady rise and fall beneath my cheek. His arm stays firm around me, unrelenting, as if afraid I might slip away the moment he loosens his hold.
Until he speaks again.
The limousine slows, then stops.
He shifts first. Carefully. He drapes his suit jacket over my shoulders, shielding me, before buttoning his shirt with quick, controlled movements. His expression remains unreadable, but the tension in his jaw hasn't softened.
He gathers my laptop case along with his iPad in his right hand. With his left, he takes my hand—firm, possessive—and leads me out of the limo.