“So you’re a celebrity.” Inside the elevator, she waited for the doors to close before she pressed her lips against his. Celebrity status made him even hotter. They kissed fervently until the elevator dinged on the top floor. She pulled him by the wrist toward her suite and nudged open the door with her hip. Once the door clicked shut behind them, he pressed her against it, dragging his tongue slowly up the side of her jaw.
“Oh, my god,” she said, her voice shaking.
He laughed gutturally and slid his hands down the sides of her dress, hooking palms beneath ass cheeks. He hoisted her without any hesitation or effort; their groins made a hot seal.
“God, you’re sexy,” she whispered, pressing her head against the door as his kisses skipped hot and juicy over her jawline, down to the crook of her neck, over the exposed cleavage.
“Not as sexy as you.” His voice was a strained murmur, as if it might break into a moan at any moment. He ground his hips against hers, the pronounced hardness meeting the anxious nub between her legs.
She clawed, nipped, and lunged for him, desperate to feel him inside her, desperate to reach that peak with him. Their lips met jerkily, haphazardly—distracted kisses amid the groping and disrobing. Zahir stumbled toward the bed with her in his arms, his pants around his ankles, and then she was bouncing on the silky bedspread, wriggling out of her dress.
A moment later, she heard the rip of a condom wrapper, and then he flipped her onto her belly. She arched herself up to meet him. Finally the hot press of his groin, the slow and slick entrance, followed by shuddery moans that only grew more gravelly the deeper he went.
Zahir moved against her in a rhythm both desperate and slow. She relished every second of it as he cupped a breast in his big hand, his face buried in the back of her neck, his pelvis rocking her closer and closer to ecstasy.
The orgasm came swiftly and powerfully. She fell over the edge way before he did, but that only meant she came a second time when he finally tumbled after her.
As they lay panting in the aftermath, eyes sparkling and chest heaving, Layla couldn’t feel anything but pleased with her first night in Parsabad.
2
Zahir tapped a pen against his desk, trying for the millionth time to focus. Two executives had been at each other’s throats for weeks now, and today, of all days, it had finally escalated to him.
On the exact day when Zahir couldn’t use his brain for anything except recalling images from his sexy night before.
Layla flashed across his mind’s eye again—the tousled strawberry blonde hair he’d tugged from that chignon, letting it spill over lightly freckled shoulders. Her skin had been creamy, like a pudding dessert. He’d certainly licked her all up—not just once, but almost six times. They’d had to abandon the sixth attempt due to exhaustion and his impending work day, but they hadn’t lacked the willingness.
He hadn’t had that many orgasms in one day since his college years.
“Zahir?” The voice on his phone’s speaker brought him back to reality. Zahir blinked guiltily at the executive sitting in front of his desk, then squinted at the telephone.
“Yes. Excuse me. I was thinking.” About Layla. “These issues have been getting worse, haven’t they?”
The executive director in front of him widened his eyes. “He refuses to follow the etiquette guidelines I’ve emailed to him.”
Zahir looked toward the phone. The American counterpart was on the line; these two employees had similar roles on either end of the world and frequently had to work together. But social—and cultural—clashes continued to erupt between them. And as Zahir poked around in other departments, he found similar clashes erupting on a smaller scale.
“I can’t be expected to change my approach just because he sends me an email,” the American colleague complained. “That’s not policy. That’s not protocol.”
“But it’s reasonable,” insisted the Parsian counterpart.
Zahir sighed. He could see a long future of these sorts of conflicts, but how to resolve them? It seemed both sides were equally staunch in continuing their own status quo. “As you both know, there is no other option beyond working together on this.”
“I know—” began the American colleague.
“But he’s been so—” started the other.
“And I think the best way to formally address this issue, which will continue to crop up, is through policy.” He paused, rolling the pen between his fingers. He’d been catching whiffs of Layla all day. How was that even possible? It threw him off balance. “And I think we’ll need to bring in someone who can help train, educate, and mediate precisely these types of issues.”
His mind kicked into overdrive as he felt the pieces of a solution clicking into place. “For now, however, put aside your frustrations and find a way to work together. You’re both going to have to give a little. I’ll let you know when we have a formal next step in place.”
He dismissed the Parsian colleague and said a curt goodbye to the American on the phone. And then he headed straight for his father’s office to present a plan that seemed more and more like the inevitable solution.
“Father.” Zahir burst into the large, dimly-lit office, his father barely looking up at him. Omar sat in a chair in front of the desk and turned with raised eyebrows. “I have an idea that I need you to approve.”
“Hardly much choice, is there?” His father removed his glasses, rubbing at his face before appraising his eldest son.
Inwardly, Zahir scoffed at the comment. His entire life had been one big lack of choice. His future had been eternally prescribed by the man in front of him. As the eldest Almasi son, Zahir’s destiny was firm: take over the business, be the head Almasi once their father passed. And while his brothers had different weights to bear with their own stations inside the family, Zahir was unequivocally the only one who was trapped by the expectations.