“Quoi?”
Her eyes widen as his gaze hardened and he leaned closer and closer to her. When he kissed her again, she hadn’t expected it. It was like an assault, and yet she felt tingles from the tip of her lips all the way down her spine. Why was he so touchy today? Could his seeing her and John together have affected him so much? Why?
He kissed her deeply, rapturously, but Bichara was desperate to know what was on his mind. She tried to pull away, to move away from him long enough to protest. His lips, sensing her resistance, moved from hers down her body. His hands were around her face at first, then her neck, then his right hand moved down her shoulder and over her chest, her stomach, around her back, down, and then back up her thighs. She felt heat everywhere his fingers touched, searing heat. She sighed, trying to release some tension.
He paused for a second to gaze at her, his eyes seeming to beg her. She noticed he was breathing heavily. He took her lips again, and his hands were around her, pulling at her gown. After a few minutes, she felt cold air on her body as the beautiful dress gave way with a loud sound that wasn’t from the zipper. He must have torn the poor thing off. He pulled the fabric down her body, not letting go of her mouth for a second. She heard herself moan softly, giving in to the building pressure.
Bichara gasped as he pulled away from her and shoved his hands under her back and thighs, lifting her up. He matched to their bed area unaffected by her weight and dropped her on the large bed. Standing over her, he pulled off his own clothes, staring hungrily at her. Her own breathing had sped up as she lay riveted to the bed, meeting her husband’s gaze head-on.
She had no thoughts as he got frustrated with his shirt buttons, yanking the shirt apart and sending plastic buttons in many different directions, sounding like discordant piano keys as they hit the marble floor. He unbelted, unbuttoned, and unzipped his pants, and Bichara felt herself start to panic. He was so frantic she feared what he would do to her as she lay there in black silk and lace lingerie. She lifted her hand over her pregnant belly and his eyes followed the movement closely. He shoved down his trousers with his briefs and she watched him spring free, fully aroused. She bit her lower lip as she admired him, heat rising up her face. She whispered his name. He seemed to hear her because he swiftly clambered onto the bed, over her body, and bent to her ear, biting it, whispering slurred words in his mother tongue…
...Taska ta
Ina son ku…
kai nawa ne...nawa ...
Mala'ika...
zuciya…
ka mallaki zuciyata... ina son ka...
He sounded ready to weep like he was struggling to hold his tears in, and her heart broke for him. Why did he make loving him so hard? He smelled like the floor of a liquor store, and she felt herself get drugged by the scent, slowly, surely. He covered her lips with his again.
Her eyes flung open the next morning, and she wasn’t surprised to see the sun high in the sky, resembling the midday sun, a consequence of how late she had slept last night, morning. She was surprised though, that the blinds were not drawn. Of course, they had forgotten to do that last night. She turned to the table clock that was always on her side table, but it wasn’t there.
“You hit it off the table… It’s broken.” She flung her head in the direction of the voice so fast her neck hurt a little. She was startled to hear it
“Good morning,” she greeted, feeling excessively shy. Her face and neck heat increased remembering last night’s happenings. Her body ached too, but she wasn’t entirely complaining.
Rahman returned her greeting with a curt nod. He was sitting in an armchair facing the bed, in a large woolen dressing robe, his right fist wrapped in a white bandage. There was a small stool in front of him with a glass of water, another empty cup, and a jar of what looked like aspirin, on top of it.
“You were drunk last night,” she mused aloud, her gaze rising to his face again. He smiled, but it appeared more like a grimace, and he rested back into the winged back of the chair. “Do you want to talk about last night?” She felt like they needed to. She needed to know what he was thinking.
“I think we said enough, masoyiyata.” He chuckled.
“We said NOTHING!”
“Isn’t that all we needed to say?” She felt defeated by his question. How could he think they didn’t need to talk about...about his…reaction when they were becoming strangers living together? Her eyes burned with the coming tears and she let out a deep hot breath.
“We didn’t talk at all…we don’t talk at all,” she said in a shaky whisper, struggling to keep her emotions in check, battling with her helplessness, but her husband was completely calm, unaffected, unmoved. He watched her from beneath lush black lashes. “Why are you doing this?” She breathed, closing her eyes against the falling tears.
“Doing what?” He asked simply, and she wondered if he was the same man who called her his treasure, his heart, his love, last night. She opened her eyes to look at him again, and he looked as though he was waiting for her answer. She glanced at her fingers beneath the sheets. He stood up suddenly, and for a moment, she was scared he was coming to her, but he entered the bathroom, shutting the door gently behind him.
Was she losing her mind? The tears came full force now. So much for marrying the love of her life.
Rahman came out of the bathroom a long time later, fully dressed in a pair of snug dark jeans and a loose t-shirt, holding his wounded hand up fragilely. She had laid back on the bed, thinking seriously about what her life was becoming. He didn’t look in her direction as he left the room, and she jumped out of bed after the fact. She was tired of feeling sorry for herself, she mused as she headed to the bathroom still steamed out from his use. The light haze smelled like him–his strong woody scent and that vanilla soap and shampoo he always used. She had a quick warm shower, ran her brush over her teeth a few times, and was done. She needed to get out of the house. She moved to her room closet and wasted no time in picking out a casual jalabiya and pashmina.
After a lone breakfast, which she ordered up to her room, she managed to evade Isha – no easy task – on her way out of the house. The sharp-eyed secretary believed she was still sleeping, exhausted from yesterday’s trip, as Bichara had told the maid who cleared her breakfast table. She could evade her secretary with much stealth, but she could never evade their doorman, especially if she wanted to leave the house. She could never evade the security guards either. She needed a plan.
“Madam.” She smiled up at the doorman now, as she walked toward the door.
She feigned a flippant expression she hoped was effective. “Where Oga?”
“Ehn. He went outside, to the ranch. Are you going out?” He replied to her offhand question, and she thought quickly about how to get out of the house without Rahman’s knowledge…at least until she got to where she wanted to go.
“Yes. Call Danta. I want to go to town… Wait till he ask before you tell my husband…” She looked straight at the man, as sternly as she could manage, knowing he had been instructed to inform his boss on all comings and goings in the house as soon as they happen. “Yana da mahimmanci cewa bai san inda zan tafi ba. Ina da mamaki da aka shirya masa…” She smiled what she hoped was a mischievous smile. She needed him to believe she wasn’t purposely trying to evade her husband. “I will take security. Tell him,” she muttered as she waited for him to call the drivers’ lodge from his mobile intercom. He hesitated a little before lifting the phone to his ear, still assessing her face closely. She tried not to falter. Honestly, she was like a prisoner here. Was it really necessary for her to go through all this to leave the house without her husband’s knowledge?
Danta came through the domineering front door soon after, and she walked straight toward him with her small purse in the crook of her arm. Danta was the driver she trusted the most, singularly because he was smart enough to be discreet for her and still not get himself in trouble with his boss, making him the best person to take her to John’s house. She squeezed the small paper that held his address tighter in her right hand, waiting till she left the doorman’s earshot before telling Danta her plan.
Please, what is Rahman's problem?!
Also, what is Bichara doing? How do you think Rahman will react to his wife's disappearance, brief or not? Is Bichara being reckless, or is she just trying to hold on to her independence as much as she can? And doesn't she have every right to? Tell us your thoughts down below!
See what happens next, next Saturday.