that Afia keep the relationship a secret from her family. As much as Afia had protested, she knew she could do it. What she did at grad school was her business. They rarely even asked much about it.
On the other hand, the subterfuge would place a wedge between them that hadn't existed before. Afia had always played by the rules, but she had never wanted to break them so badly before.
Afia smoothed the towel down her torso to her delicate mons. As the terry cloth skated over her labia, her eyes drifted shut, and she sank deeper into the water. Her head rested on the back of the ivory tub, her shiny hair floated on the surface of the water. She had never touched herself so intimately, but her hand moved of its own accord between her legs. She thought of the man who inspired her lust. "Sam," she murmured heatedly. His face flashed behind her closed eye. She squeezed them tighter shut.
What was he doing to her?
A gentle moan hummed in her chest, and her naked body trembled in the still water. Her fingertips slipped past the towel to touch herself. The pad of her index finger stroked her clitoris. Her hips shifted forward, legs drifting open wider. Her womanhood clenched, and she bit her bottom lip, hissing in a breath as her finger slipped close to her entrance. She was a virgin. She had never been penetrated. The questing digit was enough to bring her crashing back to reality.
Bath water sloshed to the floor as Afia sat up straight with a gasp like she had been holding her breath, and she quickly washed her hands. She swiftly finished bathing. It was a mistake. It was a mistake to let herself get too involved with Sam. She hurried out of the tub and got dressed. She couldn't look at herself in the mirror, and she didn't want to think about what she had almost done. But, as she climbed into the bed and pulled her comforter up over her shoulders, her mind raced, against conscious effort, back to thoughts of the bad boy biker who inflamed her desires more than any man ever had.
She wanted him so badly, it hurt. It had to be a sin.
***
"Have you met my daughter, Afia?" Rashad beamed with pride.
Fatima, resplendent in a scarlet Iranian folk costume, the red silk painted with gold designs, held out her ringed finger to Afia who was wearing fair rose. The wealthy merchant, Jabar's father, stared openly in approval. Afia knew she looked the picture of the proper Muslim girl. She was appropriately modest and demure. She kept her eyes downcast. She wouldn't speak unless spoken to, and she wouldn't voice her opinions unless asked. She knew what was desired of her. He gestured for his son, and Jabar came reluctantly to his side, probably already having met every single woman at the party—young, old, beautiful, and ugly. Getting paired was tiresome work.
"You must meet my oldest son," Ahmad introduced.
Jabar eyes glittered with interest, as he finally looked at her. Afia smiled tightly, eyes cautiously lifting to dart around the crowded room. The Muhamad house was filled with family and friends celebrating the momentous occasion of Jabar's graduation from medical school, and she was honored to be a guest, but she was past ready to go home. Dinner had been served; musicians serenaded; and a belly dancer moved around the room. How long could the party last? She had assignments to catch up on.
"So, you're studying to be a physician assistant?" Jabar asked. "Do you find it demanding coursework?"
"It can be," Afia allowed. She nervously glanced at the man her parents were gunning for her to begin a courtship with, and she just couldn't find anything appealing about him. Jabar's ears were larger than she recalled from the last time she had seen him, and to make matters worse, he had a faint odor of garlic and onions from the savory meal they had eaten. She fought not to gag.
Putting a safe distance between him and her nose, she looked back down at the floor. He remarked, "You
On the other hand, the subterfuge would place a wedge between them that hadn't existed before. Afia had always played by the rules, but she had never wanted to break them so badly before.
Afia smoothed the towel down her torso to her delicate mons. As the terry cloth skated over her labia, her eyes drifted shut, and she sank deeper into the water. Her head rested on the back of the ivory tub, her shiny hair floated on the surface of the water. She had never touched herself so intimately, but her hand moved of its own accord between her legs. She thought of the man who inspired her lust. "Sam," she murmured heatedly. His face flashed behind her closed eye. She squeezed them tighter shut.
What was he doing to her?
A gentle moan hummed in her chest, and her naked body trembled in the still water. Her fingertips slipped past the towel to touch herself. The pad of her index finger stroked her clitoris. Her hips shifted forward, legs drifting open wider. Her womanhood clenched, and she bit her bottom lip, hissing in a breath as her finger slipped close to her entrance. She was a virgin. She had never been penetrated. The questing digit was enough to bring her crashing back to reality.
Bath water sloshed to the floor as Afia sat up straight with a gasp like she had been holding her breath, and she quickly washed her hands. She swiftly finished bathing. It was a mistake. It was a mistake to let herself get too involved with Sam. She hurried out of the tub and got dressed. She couldn't look at herself in the mirror, and she didn't want to think about what she had almost done. But, as she climbed into the bed and pulled her comforter up over her shoulders, her mind raced, against conscious effort, back to thoughts of the bad boy biker who inflamed her desires more than any man ever had.
She wanted him so badly, it hurt. It had to be a sin.
***
"Have you met my daughter, Afia?" Rashad beamed with pride.
Fatima, resplendent in a scarlet Iranian folk costume, the red silk painted with gold designs, held out her ringed finger to Afia who was wearing fair rose. The wealthy merchant, Jabar's father, stared openly in approval. Afia knew she looked the picture of the proper Muslim girl. She was appropriately modest and demure. She kept her eyes downcast. She wouldn't speak unless spoken to, and she wouldn't voice her opinions unless asked. She knew what was desired of her. He gestured for his son, and Jabar came reluctantly to his side, probably already having met every single woman at the party—young, old, beautiful, and ugly. Getting paired was tiresome work.
"You must meet my oldest son," Ahmad introduced.
Jabar eyes glittered with interest, as he finally looked at her. Afia smiled tightly, eyes cautiously lifting to dart around the crowded room. The Muhamad house was filled with family and friends celebrating the momentous occasion of Jabar's graduation from medical school, and she was honored to be a guest, but she was past ready to go home. Dinner had been served; musicians serenaded; and a belly dancer moved around the room. How long could the party last? She had assignments to catch up on.
"So, you're studying to be a physician assistant?" Jabar asked. "Do you find it demanding coursework?"
"It can be," Afia allowed. She nervously glanced at the man her parents were gunning for her to begin a courtship with, and she just couldn't find anything appealing about him. Jabar's ears were larger than she recalled from the last time she had seen him, and to make matters worse, he had a faint odor of garlic and onions from the savory meal they had eaten. She fought not to gag.
Putting a safe distance between him and her nose, she looked back down at the floor. He remarked, "You
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