I Left My Husband Bleeding, and the Mob Boss Said Good novel · Chapter 5 of 24

Chapter 5: Three in the Morning

I had flour to my elbows at three in the morning when Marwan put his hand flat on the counter beside the bowl.

He had come downstairs without a sound.

He had stood in the doorway for a long time in a gray T-shirt and sweatpants, watching me work the dough, and I had let him.

The kitchen smelled of cardamom and warm dates.

It was the first time in two years I had stood in a kitchen at night and not listened for a car.

"You said you'd watch," I said.

"I'm watching."

"Watch closer."

I wiped my floury hand down the front of his shirt, from the collar to the hem.

It left a long white print on the gray cotton.

He looked down at it, and then at me.

"That's a good shirt," he said.

"It's a better print."

I did it again, higher, with the other hand.

This time I kept going, up over his chest and into the collar, and I drew him down by it.

His mouth tasted of coffee.

I kissed him slowly, and then not slowly.

There was flour on my fingers in his beard and flour on his lips.

He made a low noise and put both hands on my waist.

He lifted me and sat me on the counter between the dough bowl and the dish of date paste.

The granite was cold through my thin nightgown.

I gasped, and he laughed against my mouth.

"Cold?"

"Not for long."

I pulled the nightgown over my head and threw it at the stove.

He stood between my knees with his hands on my thighs.

He looked at me under the bright kitchen light, all of me, and didn't look away.

"In this light," he said.

"In this light," I said.

"Nahla. There is flour on your breast."

"Then clean it," I said.

He bent his head and did, with his tongue, slowly.

Then he took the nipple into his mouth and sucked.

I put my hands in his hair and held his head there.

"Harder," I said.

He gave me his teeth, lightly, and I felt it all the way between my legs.

I pulled at his shirt until he let go of me long enough to drag it off, flour and all.

Then I pushed at his sweatpants and he shoved them down.

He wasn't wearing anything under them.

I laughed.

"You came down like that?"

"I thought I would be watching."

He was hard and flushed, curving up toward his stomach.

I wrapped my floury hand around him and he shut his eyes.

I stroked him twice, slowly, and left a white handprint on him too.

He laughed, shaky, and caught my wrist.

"Careful," he said.

Then he drew my hips to the edge of the counter.

He didn't push in.

He slid the head of his cock along me instead, up and down, through the wet, over my clit.

The first pass made me swear at him in two languages.

He did it again, slowly, with his eyes on my face.

"Say it," he said, in Arabic, unhurried. "In the language you were born in."

"Inside me," I said in English. "Please. Now."

"Please," he repeated, softly, and the word went through me.

"Now," I said. "I want you inside me."

His eyes opened.

He reached for the drawer beside the stove, where I'd seen him put his wallet, and I caught his wrist.

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