Wounded (18 page)

My leg is draped over his, casually intimate. I want to draw it back to myself, gather my feet beneath me and run into the night, away from this desire burning through my body and soul like fire consuming paper.
 

Soon, my will to resist will be ash in the wind.
 

Allah help me, he is caressing my leg now. Just above the knee, still innocent enough, but growing more daring and familiar with every centimeter his palm glides higher.

I have to fight myself to retain the lie of being asleep.
Breathe in; breathe out; slow and steady, deep breaths
. Perhaps I will be able to merely lie here and let him touch me. I do not have to return his affection. I can resist. My desire does not have to dictate my actions.
 

Oh, I am a fool to think thus. Now his hand is resting frightfully, tantalizingly close to my backside. The edge of his hand is brushing the underside of my left buttock, and Allah, Allah, I want him to move it higher. I want him to touch me intimately, sexually. I do. I must admit the truth to myself, if only to myself.
 

I must also admit that I am afraid, for so many, many reasons.

I should not let him. I should not let myself. But I am going to, am I not?

There is no point in pretending any longer, is there?
 

No, indeed not.
 

I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, cursing myself for being a thousand times a fool. Then I open them and look up at him. His profile is so handsome, so strong. His hair is thick, black as deepest shadows, and getting a bit long, curling around his neck and sweeping across his brow. He is not looking at me; his eyes are closed, squeezed tight, as mine were. He, too, is struggling for control, I think.
 

We are both fighting this, battling ourselves. He looks down now, meets my eyes, and I know I have lost my battle to resist this American warrior. His eyes are shining in the moonlight, the blue washed into silvery orbs, his tanned skin like marble.

I have not prayed in years. I have called on Allah, blasphemously perhaps, in moments of pain or fear. But not since I was a girl did I speak to Allah as an entity or god who might care, or hear. I do now.
 

Allah, the all-merciful and all-compassionate, hear me now. Protect me from myself. Protect Hunter from the foolishness of what I am about to do. You see that I am weak, Allah. You see, and if you care, be here now.

I feel childish, foolish, for praying in this moment. I am helpless to stop myself now, for I feel the decision in my body, in my heart. My mind, my reason and logic, they tell me I am a fool, a weak little girl to be lying in this man’s arms, to be letting him touch me so with such familiarity Even more so to be considering the intent that is swirling in the fire of my blood.

All this time, Hunter’s eyes are fixed on me, watching me. I know if I were to make clear I did not want his hand on me, he would respect that wish. I nearly ask him to stop touching me, simply to test my theory, but in the end I do not need to. I know.
 

I have not been breathing, and my lungs protest. The decision to throw myself off the edge into the abyss of desire flows through me like flood waters through a
wadi
, and I suck in a stuttering breath, searing my burning lungs with cooling air.
 

I snake my hand out from between our bodies and up to touch his stubbly cheek. His hand slides down my leg, the wrong direction, and then back up, and I feel my breathing grow shallow, panicked panting. He stops at the outward bell of my buttocks again, once more waiting for me to demur. I lift my chin slightly, a silent gesture of permission. Or perhaps daring him to touch me.
 

No, that is not it. I am daring myself.
Let him touch me
, the lift says. He does. My heart hammers madly as his hand burns a hot trail over my bottom, cupping and caressing. I could weep from the pressure of pleasure his touch causes.

“Rania, I—” he begins.

I touch my fingers to his lips, silencing him. I do not want words, in any language. I want the language of touch. He would argue, he would discuss, he would try to convince me why, convince himself why not. I care for none of that any longer. I know what he wants, and I know what I want.

I run my fingers down the front of his body to the buttons of his camouflage pants. I am afraid of this moment. So much fear of so many things. It is nothing I have not done a thousand, thousand times since I first allowed Malik to have his way with me in exchange for food. But…this is different. I want Hunter’s comfort, I want his touch, and this is the only way I know to make sure he does not push me away. I must give him what he wants.

I steel my resolve, feeling the hardness forming in my stomach. It is the hardness of doing what I must. Yes, this is different, this is to get something I want rather than something I need, but…

Enough.

I move to undo the first button, but my fingers are imprisoned by Hunter’s. His eyes are probing me, looking into me. His fingers tangle with mine and move them away from his privates, back up his body, placing my hand on his cheek once more.

I do not understand. I thought this was what he wanted? To be touched? To achieve release?

I said I did not want words, but I feel my mouth opening to ask him what he wants from me. Instead, he kisses me. I want to cry, but I cannot. This pleasure is pain. His lips on mine are hot and wet and hungry, devouring my mouth as if he were starving. His hand cups my bottom and explores it. I cannot help the moan that slips up from my throat. It is a sound of desperation.
 

How does he know what I want? Can he read my mind? My fear is gone, evaporated by the heat of his kiss. All I know is his body hard against mine, his mouth searching mine, his hand on my flesh, inciting such fiery desire that I will be soon consumed by it.

He pulls back to look at me, but that is not what I want. More kisses. More. I need him. Allah, help me, I need him. I do not know what to do, what is happening. All I know is his mouth on mine is more happiness than I have ever known, and I do not want it to ever, ever stop.

I move to kiss him, but he pulls away, teasing me. What is this new game? I dislike it. I want his lips. He laughs at me, amused by something I cannot understand. Then he kisses me again, to quiet the questions he must see bubbling up.
 

I drown in his kisses. It is like nothing so much as falling, surrounded by him. Enveloped by him. I moan again, and I feel his body respond. He wants me. I know what the desire of a man feels like. He does nothing to alleviate his desire. He only touches me, slips up my back, down my leg, caresses my bottom, one side and then the other, so tenderly. His touch calms my worry, buries my panic beneath the fires of lust and something else, something softer and more potent than mere desire.

We pull apart again, and his eyes, oh, Allah, they contain so much. I cannot put names to the emotions I see in his eyes. I dare not. That would be to invite even further heartbreak. He is playing a game with me. He will get what he wants, and that will be it. He is a man. Men are all the same. It will come down to sex. Perhaps he will not pay me, but expect it for free. Which makes me all the more the fool, does it not? I cannot resist the magnetic pull he has over me, the magic he is using to control my desires, my actions.
 

His kiss, this meeting of lips, it contains all that I saw in his eyes. It is…too much. A sun bursts in my heart, lighting my body on fire, burning away the high walls erected to protect my heart.

I weep now, for my heart, which will be broken. I am lying to myself. I know better. I cry because I have never felt such vulnerable tenderness directed toward me in all my life as Hunter expressed in that one kiss. First he is hungry for me, lusting as a man for a woman, then he is kissing me as if he…as if he feels—

No
. I cannot allow such errant foolishness any place in my heart.
 

But I cry, because I know what I felt from him, even if I cannot and dare not allow it to be named.
 

“What are you doing to me, Hunter?” My whispered words are meant for myself, but he hears them, comprehends them.

He gazes at me, and then I see resolution firming in his eyes. Yes. Now it will come.
 

But his words stop me.

“Trust me?” His accent is awful, his pronunciation butchering the simple syllables, but I understand his meaning.
 

Do I? Should I?

I do not know what he is going to do. Nothing about this man is what I expect. I am nodding my assent even though I am unsure of anything, everything.
 

Fear again blazes through me, and he is not kissing me to lessen its burn. He pushes my shoulder so I am lying on my back. His eyes betray nothing but hesitant tenderness, quiet desire. My heart is beating swiftly as he levers himself up onto his side, supporting himself on one arm. I do not know how he is able to lay like he is, leaning on an elbow, but he is. I can see the strain at the corners of his eyes, but he seems to simply push away the pain and focus on me.
 

I am a statue, motionless on my back, only my eyes moving to search his bright blue eyes.
 

Now he kisses me, and the boiling fear transmutes into need. His hand is on my knee. My bottom is against the ground, so I know he cannot mean to resume touching me there. Where will his hand move to next? Upward his palm slides, and I know his intent then. My throat goes dry, and the beating of my heart intensifies. Can he really mean to do what I think?
 

My clients, they pay for one thing: release. A willing female who does not expect anything in return. A pair of legs to open but which will not turn out children for them to support. Men do not touch me there. They have no reason to want to.
 

My breathing is shallow, approaching panic, and even his kiss cannot quiet me. I pull away and watch Hunter’s eyes. He stops his upward glide at mid-thigh and waits, eyes wide.
 

He is asking my permission to touch me in my most private place. Why am I so afraid? Men push their manhood into me there. It is not a sacred, private thing, my womanhood. But…yes, it is.
 

His fingers,
there
? Allah, I am terrified of the idea. Hands are the medium of expression, as eyes are windows to the soul. What does he want? Why does he want to touch me there? He would not let me touch him, but he will kiss me. He will touch me, explore my skin. He asks permission before pushing the boundaries.
 

I am confused and frightened, but my desires are sweeping me away.
 

I
want
him to touch me. Everywhere. His hand on my buttocks felt wonderful. It was exciting, thrilling. There? My womanhood? I cannot use the vulgar terms. I do not know why. It makes me uncomfortable, as if to use the vulgar slang terms for body parts would make me even more dirty, even more the whore. I do what I must to survive, but in my most secret heart, I am still a little girl, innocent and pure. I am not, in reality, but I want to be. I wish I could be. My actions reflect a primal, blood-deep need to survive, but in my soul, in my dreams, I am a good girl, a woman who does not give in to lust. If not for war, I would have been married, and birthed children. I would have gone to mosque to worship, instead of working in one…instead of—of
fucking
in one. The curse word floats through my mind like a spreading stain.
 

He is still waiting. Watching me patiently. He must see the war within me written on my face. If he can read my trepidation and my doubts, then he can read the book of my features well. To read a person’s expressions on their face is to know their soul.
 

I can read him, too. He wants me to want this, but he will not rush me, or force me, or do anything unless I want it. I move my leg so it presses against his, and I feel his arousal, thick and hard behind his pants.
 

I think I understand his game. He will let me touch him because he thinks, correctly, that I am doing what I believe he wants, expects. So instead he shows me what I want. He knows what I want, even though I do not. How strange.

His hand is on my thigh, his eyes search mine, and my heart pounds drum-loud. I put my hand on his and, without taking my eyes from his, inch our fingers slowly, slowly upward, closer to my privates.

I swallow hard and breathe deeply. His eyebrows lift and his hand slows. He knows I am afraid. I shake my head and close my eyes. My thighs are pressed tightly together, instinctual protection. I cannot speak, cannot form words, so I tell him to continue by forcing my legs to relax.
 

His fingers are tracing circles on the top of my leg, skating up my thigh muscle to my hip bone, to the bunched fabric of my skirt. Now he slides his flattened palm over the hollow where hip meets core, and I tremble, with both anticipation and fear. What will his hand on me feel like?
In
me? I cannot begin to guess.
 

Down to the inside of my leg now, my thighs still touching each other, pressed close, and his fingers slide between them to move down. I need to touch him. Perhaps that will provide me with the courage to let him go further. I put my hand on his back, feeling the broad, hard muscle ridged beneath my palm. More contact, more heat. I slide my hand under his shirt so I’m touching hot skin, bare flesh.
 

His lips meet mine, and now need shoots through me. More. Yes.
 

I arch my back and lift my face to deepen the kiss, and now my tongue darts into his mouth to taste him, explore him. His hand drifts down to my knee and applies gentle pressure outward. I move my leg aside an inch, and then two. His lips close on the kiss, and he pulls back slightly to watch my face as he moves his hand up the crevice between my legs, rough calluses brushing soft skin. He does not stop this time, and his index finger makes first contact with my privates. I flinch, and he pauses, the side of his finger against my core. My thighs are crushed together, and I force them apart again, drawing in courage with a deep breath.