This chapter's title breaks away from IAN's usual chapter naming convention for... reasons 😉
Chapter Fifteen: Taking The Plunge
The water wasn't exactly a warm hug, but it was a welcome shock to A'isha's system—a fierce reminder that she was alive, in control, and momentarily free. She charged ahead, her determination outpacing her trepidation, and dove under an oncoming wave, emerging on the other side with a victorious whoop that echoed across the beach.
She swirled around to find Marik mid-step into a personal existential crisis, the water rippling around his bare thighs. Clad in just his tight boxer briefs, he looked like a Greek god who'd accidentally wandered into a pool party, unsure of the dress code. Though, she had to admit, the sight was almost enough to make her forget the chill—his form, an artist's dream of muscle and shadow, sculpted as if nature had sighed and said, 'Fine, have a masterpiece.'
Her attention flickered to the backpack up the beach, guarding the Millennium Rod. Usually, it was a symbol of Marik's need for control, but tonight, it was a sign of his willingness to let go. More and more, his actions were backing his words; he'd let her choose yesterday's itinerary, calmed her during last night's panic attack, and now, swapped spacious luxury for a quaint coastal villa that so wasn't him. Clearly, he was making an effort, and that thought warmed her more than the dipping sun. Still, as she watched him hesitate in shallower waters, she couldn't help but poke fun at him. "Hey, Marik! What's the hold up? Just pretend this is your first foray into the ice bucket challenge."
He shot her a glare that could've frozen the Mediterranean solid. Yet, for all his lean muscle, he remained stubbornly rooted to the spot, as if expecting the sea to part before him.
Losing patience, A'isha decided diplomacy was overrated. She barrelled toward him like a hurricane with legs. "Time to revoke your beach bum card."
His retreat was more scramble than strategic, his feet betraying him in the thigh-high water. "This is wholly—"
His protest was cut off as she, a force of nature clad in underwear, executed a perfect tackle that sent them both beneath the waves. Underwater, their world quietened to a slow-motion ballet of flailing limbs and floating bubbles, but when they resurfaced, she erupted with laughter.
With hair clinging to his shoulders, Marik shot her a look of supreme annoyance. "Unnecessary," he finished.
Grinning, she flicked him with water. "Lighten up! You could use a good splash."
His glare turned into a wry eyebrow raise. "Is that so?" Suddenly, he retaliated with a massive splash. "Challenge accepted, then. Let the splashing commence."
The water around them turned into their playground, a lawless splashfest full of giggles and gasps for air. In a bold move, she anointed Marik with a crown of wet sand, prompting a dive from him that was equal parts tactical retreat and de-sanding manoeuvre. He re-emerged with aquatic elegance, the day's last streaks of sunlight an accomplice in revealing his resigned smirk. "You're enjoying this far too much."
"Well, it's not every day you get to dunk a crime boss. Plus, I'm owed a bit of payback for this unsolicited seaside holiday."
He raised his hands in mock surrender. "In that case, your move. Grant me the mercy of your chosen assault."
Sporting a devious smirk, she stalked closer, mentally flipping a coin between treating him to another unexpected plunge or bestowing upon him a sequel to his sandy enthronement. But then her focus shifted to his face, triggering another burst of laughter. "Looks like your eyeliner couldn't handle the heat of battle."
He touched his eyelid, inspecting the run-off. "It's kohl. A nod to tradition, not fashion."
"An Egyptian tradition?" she asked, probing into a lineage she suspected they shared.
"Ancient Egyptian, yes."
As he sought to wipe away the warrior's smear she'd pointed out, A'isha intervened. "Allow me, almighty Pharaoh." She moved closer, so close their breaths mingled, and she could almost count the droplets on his lashes. Carefully, her fingers brushed against skin that was cooler than the night air but warmed quickly under her touch. "There," she breathed. "Now you're less raccoon, more…" Her voice trailed off, the jest dying on her lips.
"More what?" he whispered.
"Handsome…"
Handsome.
A'isha just called him handsome.
A simple compliment, yet from her lips, it wrapped around Marik's mind like silk—an admission and an invitation, pulling tight. With his heart thudding a reckless rhythm, he watched her beneath the fading light, the breeze playing with her damp, dark hair as if even the elements vied for her attention.
For a fleeting moment, he saw A'isha not as their circumstances had dictated, but simply as a woman—vibrant, beautiful, disarmingly forthright. The way she exuded joy and freedom, even in such straits, somehow freed something within him as well. A dangerous notion whispered seductively: What if?
What if he allowed himself this one indulgence? To taste, just once more, the forbidden fruit of her lips? The Millennium Rod wasn't on his person, but stored ashore. This time, she was reaching for him. Only him.
Hovering on the brink, every muscle tense, every sense heightened, he felt her expectation, the pull of her hope. They were so close; it would be effortless to yield, rekindling the flame. But as Marik's body urged him to close that gap, his mind mounted a resistance. He had believed himself willing to explore their connection if she shared the sentiment, yet facing that choice now, he was afraid—not merely of his emotions, but of the stark reality that succumbing could ultimately wound her deeply, irrevocably… selfishly.
She wasn't here with him of her own free will.
Their time together was transient.
This was the line he should not cross.
A'isha's heart hammered, their lips a whisper away from meeting.
Until he stepped back.
She felt her heart nosedive in protest. Her heart, that traitorous muscle. It dared to dictate how she should feel about a kidnapper, even as her brain played the sensible chaperone.
But he must've felt this pull too. It couldn't just be her.
He glanced seaward, his tongue sweeping across his lips.
As water swirled around her, A'isha squared her shoulders, bracing herself to dive into depths far deeper than the Mediterranean Sea. "Marik, we need to talk about this." She motioned between them. "If we don't, it'll only keep being an elephant in the room. And not just any elephant—a mammoth. Woolly, gigantic, probably extinct, but definitely impossible to ignore."
Surprise flickered across his face, before he slipped back into that exasperating calm she both admired and found infuriating. "A'isha," he began, voice as steady as a metronome, "I'm acutely aware of the... complexity of our situation."
"Complexity," she echoed, "is just a fancy word for 'messy as hell'. But ignoring it doesn't make it any less real."
"You're right," he conceded, and she noted the effort it took for him to admit that, "but I need you to understand, I am The R.H." He let those words hang between them. "You didn't choose to be here. And one day, you will inevitably return to Alexandria, leaving whatever this is behind."
The honesty in his voice squeezed her heart. Not because of the reminder of his past actions (as if she could forget) but because of the resignation behind his words.
He moved closer to touch her cheek, a gesture so light she might've doubted its existence if not for the lingering warmth. "And I can't bear the thought of it being just... a chapter in your life. A curious anecdote."
She caught his hand, pressing it against her cheek to anchor the moment. "But that's just it, Marik. I'm not asking for a real wedding after our fake engagement, but if we don't explore this, we'll always wonder what it could've been. And if we do explore it, hey, maybe it'll be the biggest mistake of our lives. Either way, we'll have regrets. Isn't it better to know?" She bit her lip, searching his eyes for understanding. "Isn't it better to not be left wondering?"
He fell silent, scanning her face as if memorising each detail. "A'isha, it's not the mistake I fear. It's the possibility of hurting you."
Her heart skipped, but she held his gaze. "I'm tougher than I look. And only half as stupid. This"—she squeezed his hand—"is mutual, right? I'm not some damsel in distress you're seducing in a tower. If anything, you're the one trapped with me."
A chuckle escaped him, the sound mingling with the waves. "Of course. How could I forget?"
Drawing his hands to her waist, she looked into his eyes, her voice soft but firm. "I want to explore this, Marik. With you. If you're not on board, I'll respect that. But if you're just holding back to protect me, don't. I'm asking you not to."
Marik's reality condensed to the unapologetic honesty shining in A'isha's eyes, the warmth of her bare waist beneath his palms.
Yet, even while holding her gaze, his mind, ever the strategist, wrestled with comprehension. A question emerged, almost hesitantly. "Why?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper. "Why do you want this, A'isha? You know me, my deeds. You're selfless, clever, firm in your convictions. And yet, here you are, seeing something in me that I... struggle to grasp."
A'isha laughed. "Oh, Marik, for a guy who reads minds with a magic stick, you really can be clueless. Sure, you've got a laundry list of bad qualities; you're arrogant, stubborn, a massive control freak, and frankly, a real pain in my ass." Her voice grew gentler as she continued, "But then there's the Marik who shielded me from the storm, who listens—really listens—to what I say, who's intelligent beyond belief, and respects my strength instead of fearing it. You're complex, Marik. And far more than just the shadow you cast."
Each word she spoke was both a weight and a release. It was as if she had peered into the fractured mosaic of his soul and chosen to highlight the fragments he thought he'd lost in that desolate tomb. "You see that in me?"
"Yes, I do," she said, a tender firmness in her tone. "I'm not some victim of your admittedly undeniable charm. I see the good, the bad, and the infuriating. And I'm still here, asking you to take this leap with me."
Her fingers traced his jawline, navigating the tense frontier where doubt collided with desire. As Marik's hesitation melted under her touch, it was replaced by a burgeoning trust in her judgement, in her, in the nascent possibility of 'us'.
With her heart doing its best impression of a drum solo, A'isha searched for the neon go-ahead in Marik's eyes, ready to dive into the what-ifs swirling around them.
When he finally nodded, those cryptic eyes seemed to start spilling secrets like her friends in a late-night group chat: a relieved 'thank goodness, we're on the same page', a cheeky 'knew you couldn't resist me', and a curious 'so what now?'
Moving her hands to clasp his own on her waist, A'isha guided his arms to encircle her completely. Then, her fingers trailed up his chest, counting his heartbeats like milestones until they found a home around his neck. "For a notorious crime boss, you've got quite the tell-tale heart."
"Welcome to the inner sanctum," he whispered, a promise of no retreat.
A'isha's pulse screamed caution, but seeing the world reflected in Marik's eyes, something in her whispered that this was the most beautifully honest decision of her life. "Last time we kissed, it was for all the wrong reasons." Her forehead met his, the gap between their lips inching ever smaller. "I think it's time we did it for the right ones…"
The night held its breath.
Her lips didn't just meet his; they spoke, kicking off with a cautious, 'Hello' before diving into a full-blown, 'Where have you been all my life?' And his lips, marinated with dessert wine, proclaimed, 'Right here, waiting.'
Marik kissed like he did all things in life: with thought-scattering intensity and enough panache to convince her there was nothing he couldn't do annoyingly well.
As her hands dove into his hair, his roamed over her back as if discovering new lands.
"Your skin," he murmured, breath teasing her lips, "is distractingly smooth."
"Distracted, huh? Join the club."
As Marik's hands settled on the small of her back, pulling her closer, there was a split-second hiccup in the universe when she realised how utterly wild it was to feel this safe, this wanted, in the arms of the man who'd quite literally rearranged her life without asking. This was really happening. With him. And she was all for it.
Her fingers migrated along his broad shoulders, over the firm hills of his abs, but when she reached his scarred back, her touch softened, light as a whisper.
She didn't know the full saga of those scars, but she recalled the morning he'd caught her eyeing them—how he'd spun around, flustered, his cool façade melting like ice cream on a Sahara noon. They weren't badges of honour but chapters he wished could be edited out of his life story. Each stretched line felt like a history of pain carved into his skin at too young an age, forcing him into battles no kid should face.
A'isha gently touched each scar, knowing some things never truly healed.
Marik shivered as A'isha's fingers traced the Tomb Keeper's initiation, the brutal scars like shackles to a life of imposed duty and stifled screams. Each symbol was a vivid memory of pain and blood, carved not just into his flesh but into his psyche by his own father's unwavering hands.
Yet under her touch, his scars found a tender resonance. Her fingers traced them with reverence, not flinching at the texture but moving with a sorrowful grace. In her touch, there was a promise of understanding, of patience until he was ready to share their story, an intimacy that transcended the physical to strike a deeper chord within him.
For once, he felt seen—not as the formidable R.H. or the ambitious Marik, but as a man marred yet shaped by his past, longing to rewrite his future.
Marik pulled her closer, aching to immerse himself in her presence. He craved her, needed her. Gods, how he needed her.
As if she'd hit a secret button, Marik's lips turned hungry and adventurous. He traced kisses from her jaw to her neck, as his hands, those bold explorers, reached down to grab her ass. Decisive. Unapologetic. A gasp caught in her throat.
It wasn't about choice anymore; it was about need, raw and demanding. She wrapped a leg around his hip, a clear invitation, and his reply? He didn't just RSVP; he showed up early, gripping her thigh like the last piece of driftwood at sea. Moving against him, the message was clear. "Show me you're not just a smooth talker."
Marik's hand on her thigh became a vice. His other, still an avid admirer of her ass, encouraged a rolling of hips. Their dance started slow, precise. But soon, they upped the tempo. And thanks to the strategic placement of her leg on his hip, Marik's eagerness, imprisoned by his briefs, kept knocking at her door, beating out a rhythm more rock concert than lullaby.
"I see you've brought your snorkel," she teased, breathless.
"When a siren calls, this sailor answers."
Each roll of their hips was perfectly synced, stealing rough groans from Marik as his fingers left souvenirs on her skin.
Then, a bite—an asteroid impact on her neck.
As she arched into him, raising her chest toward his questing mouth, his hand roamed from ass to back to hold her steady. His lips drew closer and closer to her chest, her shaky breaths a wordless 'yes, yes, for the love of God, yes'. She'd fast-track his mouth there if she could.
With his hands southward, his teeth captured her bralette's strap, and her world shrank to the loaded question in his eyes: 'May I?'
"Is water wet?"
As Marik's teeth sent the straps down her shoulders, her claspless bralette gave in to gravity, the understrap clinging to her torso but the cups boldly falling away to skim her stomach.
And there she was, her chest laid bare beneath the stars and Marik's predatory gaze. The moon was an oversized spotlight, urging him to memorise every curve for lonely nights. Suddenly, she understood the whole 'centre of someone's universe' thing, because damn, the way he looked at her with such fierce admiration, she half-expected to combust on the spot.
With his lips a breath from her chest, he peered up, the mastermind behind The Great Breast Liberation. "As someone with a keen eye for fine art, trust my judgement when I declare you the epitome of artistic perfection."
Her laughter spilled out. "A compliment with a side of self-admiration? Classic Marik."
"Predictable, am I?" A soft kiss landed tauntingly between her breasts. "Let's embrace the unpredictable." His mouth latched around her nipple, scattering the cold night air. His tongue, slick and hot, sketched lines of sheer bliss and exquisite pain.
She buried her face in his damp hair, her soft moans spelling out an urgent plea for more—more touch, more heat, and an endless supply of him.
But this was a two-player game.
And she wanted to make the big, bad crime boss lose control.
Summoning her resolve—an applause-worthy act amidst Marik's oral performance—A'isha's hands turned his body into their personal playground. They played tag in his hair, jogged down his arms, paused at those sculpted abs to catch her breath. He retaliated with lightning zeal: nails digging, hips grinding, his mouth an all-consuming force.
Cutting to the chase, she teased the hem of his boxer briefs, her fingers tracing a bold invitation along the outline of his length. She ached to feel him, really feel him.
Pausing his intense study of her chest, Marik looked up at her. "This is primarily for your pleasure."
But she stood firm. "I want a duet."
Those eyes, usually as calm as a field of lavender, were now a storm of desire. In them, she read a hesitant 'should I?' that flirted with the edge of his restraint, before he dove head-first into a sea of 'screw it, I'm horny'.
As he released her thigh from its place on his hip, her heart danced a chaotic beat of nerves and excitement, inviting adrenaline to the party.
This was it.
"Time to stroke that big ego of yours."
Her hand slid south.
And wrapped around rock-hard proof that his arrogance wasn't an overcompensation.
Marik's breath hitched.
The feel of him in her hand was like a jolt of lightning, both electric and terrifying. She trembled under the sheer enormity of what she was doing: touching him there. But oh, she was ready to show him just how much she wanted him, how deeply she cared—all without saying a word.
As his lips crashed against hers, she stroked him torturously slowly, each drawn-out glide like sweet, sweet revenge for every smirk, taunt and wisecrack he'd thrown her way.
He responded with soft hums and barely-there whispers against her lips, but damn, when she hit the jackpot—those oh-so-special spots—the volume turned up, up, and up some more. God, those groans. Those unfairly sexy groans. They were pure audio erotica, her private playlist for solo nights steeped in fantasies of his touch.
"Congrats," she breathed, her lips trailing down his neck, "you're my new favourite playlist."
His chuckle was low and ragged, but A'isha craved sweeter sounds. She varied her strokes, a mix of slow jams and rock anthems, focusing on those spots that coaxed out platinums and chart toppers. Each sound, every little gasp and groan, stoked her inner fire, a thrilling validation that she could make this man—who could command rooms as effortlessly as others breathed—lose his composure with just her touch.
As her hand glided over him, Marik's hips chased each stroke. He was close. She could tell by the way his muscles coiled tighter, his breaths coming in shallow bursts, how he grew even firmer in her hand. Ready to see him let go, she tightened her grip—
But Marik's hand clamped around her wrist, his gaze intense, and in a rough voice, he laid down the law, "You come first."
Marik eased his hold on her wrist only to reposition it over her shapely derrière, coaxing a delightful gasp that broke the beach's quiet. "And then," he continued, "I'll make you come again."
A devious smile formed on her lips, her eyes alight with a playful challenge. "Is that confidence I hear, Mr R.H., or is your ego just pleased to see me?" Her hand edged forward again, eliciting a tormenting pleasure that tested the limits of his control.
He recaptured that adventurous hand of hers with the sigh of a thousand regrets. "Patience, my intrepid explorer." A sentiment directed as much at himself as at her. "Tonight's about the journey, not the destination."
"Oh, patience from the guy already planning encores?"
With a deft hip twist, precise as a fencer's feint, he drew another breathy moan from her lips, mentally adding it to his evening's score. "You've inspired a rather... ambitious repertoire."
"In that case"—she closed in, her teeth a tantalising tease on his ear—"consider me a diligent pupil at the esteemed Marik Institute of Misbehaviour."
Seizing the moment, and now both of her thighs, he suggested a more elevated course of study, lifting her from sand and water. "Then let's advance your curriculum, Miss Dahar."
Her response, a bold undulation against him, was a magnetic pull no compass could ignore. "Are we ad-libbing, or is there a script I missed in orientation?"
"Both. The curriculum is subject to… flexibility."
"I excel at flexibility." Her lips launched a distracting campaign, tracing a path along his jawline and neck that might as well have crowned him the world's most enviable ferryman.
Carrying her to shore, where the sea whispered timeless secrets to the earth, he eased her onto the wet sand. There, he beheld her: A'isha, a vision bathed in moonlight, her dark tresses a watery halo, her gaze a deep well of want and wonder.
"Am I the new star of your mental gallery?" she teased.
"You're the entire exhibit."
Laying beside her, propped up on one elbow, Marik leaned in to reunite their lips in a tango as his fingers traced circles of near blasphemy along her hip—slowly, teasingly edging ever closer to the elastic horizon of her underwear.
Suddenly, A'isha grasped his arousal through his briefs, eliciting a primal sound from him. "Marik, you're cruel!"
Pulling back with a wry smile, he caught her gaze, her eyes half-lidded, reflecting a desire that could swallow lesser men whole. Marik, however, was not easily devoured. "As I'm armed with only a theoretical grasp of carnal pursuits, I propose a collaborative exploration. Lead me?"
A'isha blinked, her sultry demeanour giving way to surprise. "Wait, are you saying…" Disbelief crossed her features. "Marik, are you a virgin?"
The question, though sincere, still struck him like a wayward arrow. Her surprise was natural enough: a powerful man such as himself, with a moniker like The R.H. and charisma to match, must surely entertain a litany of evening dalliances. Reality, however, was a quieter affair. "Before you entered my life, my romantic and carnal ventures were… non-existent." He noted the slight widening of her eyes. "I assure you, though, my knowledge from a theoretical standpoint is both deep and diligently cross-referenced."
She visibly stifled a laugh. "You really studied up on how to be good at sex?"
"It would be remiss of me not to." And as a tumult of nerves churned in his gut, he silently thanked his exhaustive preparatory research. To flounder in ignorance or, worse, to leave A'isha unsatisfied, was unthinkable.
Her gaze softened. "Well, you're not alone. I've never gone all the way either."
His brows furrowed. "You and Dani never…?"
She shook her head, her lips curling into a bashful smile. "We explored most territories, but never crossed that particular border." Her hand found his, pressing into it with a confidence that belied the slight tremor of her fingers. "How about we figure this out together? No maps, no plans, just… discovery."
A nervous thrill rippled through him. "Then let's allow the evening to unfold as it will."
Guided by A'isha's hand, his own ventured beneath her underwear. As her breath caught, he was greeted not just by her warmth and wetness but by the tangible proof of her trust in him.
Tonight, his mission was singular and sacrosanct: become an expert in the geography of A'isha Dahar's pleasure.
He was, after all, exceptionally thorough.
A'isha rethought her first impression of Marik, the smooth criminal that turned heads and probably broke hearts. Or so she'd thought. He definitely had the moves, could've played the field, but it seemed he'd never really wanted to. Hadn't wanted anyone. Until her. And oh, did she want him too, her body practically singing it. She was wet. More than ever before. All because of the man whose hand hovered above her skin with adorable uncertainty. But his quickening breaths declared that he was keen to turn theory into practice.
The intimacy of tutoring him in such a personal subject was downright terrifying, but there was a thrill in it that made her breath shaky and her heart pound an excited rhythm against her chest. "Here," she whispered, motioning his fingers in careful, slow swirls around her clit.
Marik's breathing grew deeper in her ear. "Like this?" he asked, his touch tentative but willing as he followed her lead.
"A little higher—"
He adjusted with perfect accuracy.
She managed a quiet hum of approval.
His strokes grew confident, tracing circles that coaxed soft, involuntary sighs from her lips. She was already so delightfully sensitive after their earlier aquatic interlude.
A'isha removed her fingers from her underwear, a silent endorsement of his newfound prowess. He seemed to take it as a sign to wage a full-scale sensual assault; he blazed a trail of kisses from her lips down her neck, each brush, nip, and suck effectively shrinking her universe down to the immediate vicinity—just Marik, his marauding lips, and his devastating touch.
Moans spilled from her like secrets she couldn't keep, each touch of his fingers painting her pleasure in bold, undeniable strokes. But alongside her escalating moans, a deep, insistent ache built within her, begging for fulfilment.
"Please, Marik," she pleaded, trembling and breathless, "I need more of you."
He answered not with words but with action—a single finger slid inside her with a suddenness that drew a sharp gasp from her lips. Her hips left the sand, seeking him deeper. When he added another finger, targeting her G-spot with the accuracy of a seasoned archer, she found herself rocking against him, her body vocal in its hunger. Damn, his fingers felt so right inside her, curling and pressing at the perfect angle.
The duet of his digits danced in rhythm to each eager roll of her hips, while his palm maintained an enthusiastic campaign against her clit. The way he dipped, stroked, swirled—he hadn't just done his homework; he was vying for valedictorian at the Kama Sutra Academy, each touch catapulting her closer to the cliff of climax.
A whisper escaped her, "I'm on the edge."
"Then fall," he whispered back, "I'm here."
That was all it took. She didn't just fall; she plummeted, her body clenching around his fingers. Her hand moved on autopilot, grabbing his dick through his boxer briefs, his deep groan of approval fuelling her descent. A distinct cry broke from her lips, morphing into a moan of utter surrender, only to be captured by Marik's kiss.
When she laid back against the sand, basking in the warm afterglow, she couldn't help but marvel at how easily he'd made her come. Was it even legal for one man to set such ridiculously high benchmarks? If he was trying to sabotage her future sexpectations, well, mission freaking accomplished.
But concerns for future A'isha could wait. Tonight, under this endless spread of Sicilian stars, it was just him and her.
Them.
The night around him and A'isha seemed to reawaken. Waves whispered secrets to the sand, leaves rustled softly in the breeze, and crickets sung their nocturnes, all harmonising with the cadence of A'isha's breathing as it slowed.
With a gentle withdrawal of his fingers, Marik swirled patterns across her skin that hinted at an interlude in their intimate tango rather than an ending. Any prior apprehension about being an amateur in carnal matters had evaporated under her guidance. He marvelled at how naturally she had responded to his touch, as if her body were the strings of a cello and he, suddenly, a master cellist, each of her sighs a note that vibrated beautifully in their shared space. It was deeply gratifying to find their emotional bond translated so fluently into physical expression.
A'isha smiled up at him, drawing one from Marik in turn. And when she let out a contented hum, he matched the sound, leaning in to brush his nose to hers. The light giggle that followed from her tugged playfully at his heart.
He kissed her again—slowly, deeply, a quiet bloom of affection. As her fingers wove through his hair, drawing him deeper into the moment, he was struck by a surprising sense of home. With her, he escaped the shadows that had long dogged his steps; a sanctuary where he was seen, known, and unfettered.
But for now, Marik would indulge in the present. He had promised A'isha two orgasms. And he would be a man of his word.
Fear not! You will see more sexy shenanigans in the next chapter. But FYI, the second half of my year involves lots of surgery, so I can't guarantee when the next update will be, but I can guarantee that there will be one. In the meantime, thanks for your patience!