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“Baba, can I ask you something?”
Kassam looked up from putting the last dish onto the drying rack to see his eldest son looking at him with caramel brown eyes from the hallway, holding a football in his hands. “Yes, Amir?”
The Syrian-Moroccan boy didn’t speak for a moment, and blue eyes softened. He dried his hands on the dark beige kitchen towel and headed over, kneeling down to gently run his hand along freshly washed light brown curls.
“What did you want to ask me, my little falcon?” He was patienter now than he was as a late teenager, even more patient than he was at 26. Domestic life and working as a professor had done him well.
There was a moment of silence as Amir turned his head to glance around the corner at his younger brother who was on the sofa in the lounge looking out the window. He turned back around, clutching the football to his chest.
“Why do Hamza and I have two last names, with that line in between them?” The boy frowned. “The other boys at practice today were laughing at me, saying that it’s because you’re not my Baba by blood and that it’s haram for your last name to be the last half.”
The Algerian thumbed over his son’s hairline, feeling him relax at the soothing gesture. “Amir, do you know what Mama’s last name is?”
He shook his head. “I thought you and Mama had the same name. Don’t you?”
“No, we don’t.” Kassam straightened out his son’s t-shirt before fixing the evil eye necklace around his neck. “When Mama and I got married, she didn’t take my last name. It’s not common here for a woman to change her name to her husband’s.” He tucked the charm underneath the boy’s shirt collar. “Your first last name is hers, and second last name is mine.”
“But why isn’t your last name first?” Amir pouted, looking at him with boyish earnest. “That’s the normal way.”
He smiled, shifting higher so he was eye level with him; Amir had grown considerably, by almost a full foot since they had been granted permanent guardianship over him and Hamza four years ago, having lost some of the toddler chubbiness in his cheeks to give way for a slimmer face with high cheekbones.
He had turned nine this year, in September.
“[Karim, Mama’s last name, means kind and honourable],” he said in Arabic, seeing his son’s eyes turn wide. “[Mine, Hassein, means handsome and good.]” He ran a hand over the boy’s hair, rubbing the nape of his neck before patting his cheek. “[Your and Hamza’s last name is a reminder to you that in order to be good, you must be kind and honourable to those around you first.]” He smiled. “[Mama’s an extraordinary woman and I wanted for you to feel closer to her; a mother’s love can heal most wounds, my little falcon. Be proud of who you are, Amir Karim-Hassein.]”
Amir gasped, eyes blinking rapidly to get rid of the forming tears at the words spoken to him, before he dropped the football and hugged his father.
Kassam kissed his forehead and gently squeezed him, hugging him tight. “Mama and Baba love you so much. I hope you know that.”
“[Yeah I do.]” The boy’s voice was muffled. “[I love you too, Baba.]”
He held him for a while until he knew his son was feeling okay by the subtle huffing noise he always makes after a bout of sadness, picking him up easily and kicking the football to tuck it against the corner of the kitchen table. “Have you two finished packing for your sleepover at Khala Stella and Khal Sajid’s tonight?”
“Yeah, Farah said we were watching a movie so I packed an extra blanket if we get cold. Hippo apparently misses me.” Amir let himself get carried over to the lounge.
Stella and Sajid’s rottweiler pitbull mix, Hippo, was the newest addition to the extended family.
The Algerian chuckled and put him down on his feet, patting him on the head. “Remember to shower before petting Altair, Jourdain and Taimur tomorrow.”
He turned his attention to Hamza, who was feeding his last blueberry to their Burmese Maine Coon mix that was perched against the large windowsill facing the back garden. “What’s my eagle been watching?”
The six year old pointed outside, green eyes filled with wonder. “Mama’s still talking to the strange lady over there.”
Kassam and Amir both peered out over his shoulders, following his finger to see Imane and the interviewer from Vogue sitting on the ornate ivory bench in their large backyard, two cameramen posed just a few metres away from both. The flower garden still looked immaculate even during the weeks of November, Altair and Jourdain prowling around and scampering about to sniff at the grass.
Imane was still just as elegantly dressed as ever, creme flared trousers and a soft pink silk dress shirt with black spiked Louboutin sandals on. Blue eyes took in her frame as she took a sip from her glass of water.
The Lebanese caught sight of them and waved, smiling.
She was still so beautiful.
“Let’s go meet her at the door, shall we? Her interview should be ending soon.” He ushered the two boys from off the camel-coloured sofa and walked them over to the backyard doors, the trio slipping into outdoor shoes. His hands easily opened the glass doors, letting the sheer curtains blow with the late afternoon breeze as the three of them stepped outside.
Taimur prowled out behind them, black fur turning brown in the sunlight, and went off toward his older sisters.
He put one hand on each of his son’s shoulders and watched as one of the cameramen turned around to film them, Imane and the interviewer getting up.
His wife whistled to get their cats’ attention, snapping her fingers three times so they all knew to head back inside, and made her way to them with the blonde reporter trailing behind slightly.
“My handsome boys are here to steal me away, so I think this is all you’re getting from me this afternoon.” She purred when his hand found her waist and pulled her close, smiling when he planted a kiss on the cheek even when their sons made an unanimous noise of childish horror at the display of affection. “Thank you for stopping by, Paige.”
“The honour’s all mine, Imane.” The Vogue representative offered her a charming smile. “36 has never looked so good on someone.”
She glanced over at him, letting her available hand graze his jaw. “This one’s a close contender; he’s turning into quite the silver fox.”
“Genes and time have been kind to us, love.” Kassam smirked and gave her another cheek kiss, hearing their boys collectively groan and “ewww”. “We have a date night to attend, so I’m afraid Imane’s coming with me for the time being.”
Paige raised her hands in defeat, brown eyes twinkling. “Enjoy your night, you two. We’re heading out shortly.”
“I’ll open the front gate for you.” She waved at them, watching them leave through the garden gate with all of their equipment before turning her attention to the other three. The cats were already inside. “Are my boys ready for their sleepover?”
Hamza nodded. “Amir helped me pack earlier after we got back from football practice.”
“You’re such a good big brother, Amir.” She gave their older son a kiss on the head and stepped inside with them, taking the time to carefully wipe down the cats’ paws before letting them freely roam about. “Khala and Khal should be here soon, so let’s get you two changed.”
Amir and Hamza grinned and ran for the stairs, the sounds of their footsteps quickly retreating into their respective bedrooms upstairs.
The Algerian draped his arms around her, pulling her in for a kiss and smiling at the way she pressed into him. “Tonight’s your belated birthday date with just us two, hmm?”
“The youth league football game and family dinner out, and baking a cake together, were a nice way to celebrate on the day,” she murmured against his lips, hazel eyes twinkling. “This, however, sounds like something needed.”
He kissed her again, softly letting out a groan and deepening it to let his tongue slip into her mouth and savour the small moment with just her. “Mhmm…”
Ever since having children, they always had at least one date night every two weeks to keep the romance in their lives sacred. The boys would get the added benefit of having sleepovers with their cousins as a treat for doing well in school and having their extracurriculars like dance, music and football, and the married couple could happily have one night in their home to themselves.
Of course, in return, their home was also a sleepover spot for when their siblings-in-law needed the help as well.
Imane pulled away, taking his hand and leading him over to the small console that opened the front gate. “Where are we off to tonight?”
“It’s a secret.” He winked, walking with her to the front set of windows where Sajid’s R8 was pulling into the driveway behind his Taycan. The Vogue car pulled out from behind Imane’s NSX and drove off. “Boys, time to go!”
He had sold his Evija for over half of a million pounds, as a legacy item, when they moved out of England and put 50% of it into charity for Egyptian museums to take back some of their belongings from the British. His car was the first ever model to be manufactured, so it held its value well.
Their sons ran down the half spiral stairs, fully dressed and wearing their sleepover rucksacks. They skidded to a halt in the foyer to pet Altair and give her kisses goodbye, much to her delight.
The Lebanese reached into the dark wooded table by the front door, next to their shoe rack, and pulled out a small tin of ginger mints and floss to put into each of their rucksacks. They had a habit of forgetting those. “Remember to help Khala Stella and Khal Sajid clean up after dinner, okay?”
They both nodded, hugging her first and getting forehead kisses from her before getting the same treatment from him.
“Bye, Mama.” Hamza tugged at her hand so she would lean down before giving her a kiss on the cheek. She smiled and ruffled his wavy dark brown hair.
“Be good, you two.”
The six year old turned to look at him, walking over to hug his leg. “Bye, Baba.”
He leaned down and kissed his head again. “Be kind, both of you. Off you go.”
Kassam opened the door for them and watched as Amir and Hamza walked out onto the front porch, closing it behind them and meeting Imane at the front windows to see them off.
Sajid had rolled down his windows, and he saw him smiling in the driver’s seat, Stella–who greatly resembled her sister but had straight hair–sitting in the passenger seat with Hippo on her lap. Farah, their eight year old daughter, was in the back shyly looking out at them with light brown eyes.
Amir waved at both of them after climbing into the backseat after his brother, and the two waved back at him. Imane blew him a kiss as the R8 revved and pulled out of their driveway.
“Let’s go get ready, love.” His hand found purchase against her pelvis as they turned around and headed for the stairs together, past the black grand piano that Taimur was sunbathing on.
Instead of permanently moving to Dubai like they had planned, it felt right to buy property in Jeddah and build something new for themselves with the small amount of family in Saudi Arabia. The flight over was less than three hours, and they had an apartment there to stay for large family gatherings if need’s be.
Jeddah is where they needed to be, with her being highly sought after in the best hospital there, King Faisal, as a social worker for the hospital's Child Abuse and Neglect and Paediatric Emergency Medicine units and him having the easiest epicentre to travel for work. Saudi Arabia was in the middle of every single major city he’d need to go to within the Persian Gulf, and he got to teach music production at one of the most revered universities in the city, King Abdulaziz, as one of the first professors in the newly opened Music Department for the times of the year he wasn’t touring. All of his lectures were fully booked, 400 students per term–80 students per section with the 15 waitlist seats always filling up–piling into the large collegiate lecture halls to listen to him proctor and teach. Sometimes, Imane and the boys would come watch him.
It was a running theme that his students would not see the serious and sarcastic prodigy professor on those days, rather hearing a softer quip in his voice and seeing a gentler expression when his wife and children were sitting in the back.
He was, in fact, so good at teaching that he's never had anyone fail his Advanced Music Production and Composition: Specialising and Mixing class, to the awe of the music cohort who thought he was an easy grader to his students until they saw the plethora of -0.5s, -1s and -2s he wrote on assignments.
His students genuinely had a passion and drive to learn from him, his 8:30am section even being energised to participate and actively take notes. He never talked down to them, encouraging healthy debates between traditional and irregular mechanisms of production and composition.
He was also only gone from his family for less than three weeks of the year, and even then Imane would always FaceTime him with the boys once every two days.
There was always at least one parent at home during the busiest times for either of them; his busiest was the early summer for festival touring, Imane's being the late winter and early autumn when she'd open the runways. The boys' school breaks always coincided with S/S Fashion Week in either Paris, New York City, Shanghai, Hangzhou, Seoul or Dubai, so he'd fly out with them to watch her in the front row.
She led him upstairs, the glass observatory dome above them letting in the streams of late afternoon sunlight, and they walked into the wing of their house that contained their bedroom and a moderately sized reading room that overlooked the gardens; it was the complete opposite direction to the hallway that led to their sons’ rooms and guest bedrooms.
It kept their children from overhearing anything they weren’t supposed to, but they learned how to be quiet on the nights they craved each other’s touch when there was company.
Jourdain was in their master bedroom, grooming herself on the bedside bench while stretched out. She looked up at them when the two entered, quickly going back to her business soon after.
Kassam let go of her hand so she could walk into their bathroom to freshen up, his legs carrying him over to the ornate wall-length mirror they had in the corner innocently facing the bed next to their mahogany dressers.
Within the last six years, his hair had become streaked with grey. He had found a white hair three days after turning 30 and decided to keep it instead of plucking it out. His cheeks lost some of the plumpness they used to have, giving way to a maturer facial construction.
It was a good look for him.
Ever since serving in the Navy, his weight has always stayed in the low 200s due to the habit of creating a workout and diet regimen. Both him and Imane had it in them to always keep doing things that would make them more confident and comfortable for themselves and for their partner.
It worked both ways, him still hitting their home gym every single morning, sometimes calling in his personal trainer or small friend groups on his days off for more intensive days, and waxing his armpits and her working out, doing Pilates and kickboxing, and getting laser hair removal.
A hand glanced over his carefully maintained facial hair, kept quite close to the skin but now grown out to an acceptable short salt and pepper stubble that connected moustache to beard line to below his tragus smoothly, stopping about two fingers’ width above his Adam’s apple.
Imane loved it.
He unbuttoned his casual purple dress shirt, the gold Serpenti Viper wedding ring stacked perfectly on top of the custom titanium black B.zero1 engagement ring he ordered catching the light as more of his torso was revealed. There was now a small section of hair that he kept well-groomed on his lower abs, which weren’t as defined as they used to be due to age-related water retention.
He didn’t mind it. He still could lift 340 lbs at the gym, thought it did break him out more into a sweat than before.
His arms were still the same musculature-wise, with wider and veinier wrists, though there was a tenderness to them that they didn’t have before the two of them took custody of Amir and Hamza. His hands and arms had picked up their sons on numerous occasions from the pool, from the football field after practices, from the airport when he came back from touring or after they got off the plane as a family from holiday, from the sofas or beds after nightmares. Amir always calmed down when touching the tattoos and admiring them. The hands that prided themselves on their craft now had the tenderness of holding his sons while they slept as a family on their bed once a week, tickling his boys when they woke up.
Fatherhood was treating him kindly.
He folded up his shirt and slung it over the loveseat next to their walk-in closet, stopping to look at the bangle on his left wrist that finally fit him, coupled with his Medusa braided leather bracelet.
There is no god but Allah; he is the Living, the Sustainer of all things.
Kassam touched it to his forehead and breathed out.
It fit the year he turned 35, a year older than his father lived, and the year he finally could pray in a mosque.
He walked into the walk-in closet, picking out the midnight blue suit that was crafted for him by Boudi Dib for his 30th birthday and his Medusa head leather dress shoes. The shoes were put onto the small gold rack beside the loveseat, next to Imane’s black Astrinodos.
Some things just never change, like the couple’s refusal to put dirty shoes on their floors even when getting ready.
The Lebanese appeared behind him when he shrugged into the black silk dress shirt in front of the mirror, arms wrapping around his torso and chin tucking against his left shoulder. “Let me help you with this, handsome.”
“Please do.” He chuckled and let her slowly button up his shirt, her dark nude modern French nails against the black of his shirt alluring and flirtatious.
She kept her medium length nails all these years, but only kept them in the modern French style now that she was in her 30s. It suited her well.
Blue eyes met hazel in the mirror, taking in the sight of her elegantly shaped face that also lost some of its plumpness and gave way for more defined hollows in the cheeks that hinted at the fact she was no longer in her 20s. Her bow-shaped lips were still full but not as pouty, and her teeth no longer had the canine jewel.
She was still awestriking when she smiled.
There were grey hairs dusted within the sea of dark brown that almost looked purposefully there, decorating her hair like moonlight.
Imane pressed a kiss against his neck, smiling. “I can’t wait to take this off of you, tiger.”
“You’re making the idea of cancelling our reservation sound more and more appealing, otter.” He tilted his head and kissed her, turning around to gently push her against the dresser. “You can be my dessert for all I care,” he groaned against her mouth, much to her delight.
“Mhmmm…” She wove her fingers into his hair and moved her lips against his, a thigh hitched onto his hip. “But I should at least attempt to dress up for the occasion, hmm?”
He purred, indulging in her presence for just a moment longer, and let her go. “Making me work for it?”
The Lebanese flicked the corner of her mouth with her tongue, unbuttoning her shirt while walking into the closet. “When have I ever not made you work for me, handsome? You love when I play hard to get.”
His brow raised as he unbuttoned his black trousers. “Eight years of marriage and I still can’t get enough of you.”
She emerged with a sparkling transparent black long evening dress custom made for her by Elie Saab and her black Serpenti crossbody. “It’s my charm, handsome.”
Ever since moving eight years ago, the Geordie and Oxford accents in their English diminished to make way for the combination of French and Arabic undertones that they had before to be brought out. They taught their boys English, French, Hijazi Arabic and Berber, just like the way they were raised.
Kassam watched as she took off her shirt and unzipped her trousers, taking in the sight of her figure emerging from underneath. She had gotten a breast lift for her modelling work a few years prior, and her pelvic region and thighs were fuller and had more stretch marks and subtle scarring from endometriosis treatments–but she still made him weak in the knees whenever he’d walk in on her applying lipstick wearing nothing but a demure sheer scarf draped around her arms to get ready for a romantic evening in of drinking tea and making love once the boys were put to bed.
She felt powerful in her body, and it manifested itself.
They had also both given up alcohol, as one of their marital vows, to be closer to their religion. They were eight years sober, and both of their bodies had aged even more gracefully because of it.
He changed into his midnight blue dress pants, feeling the way it fit him just right as he tucked his shirt into the waistline and sorted himself out the usual way he does when he wasn’t wearing briefs. She was leaning over her vanity, the waistband of her cotton shorts peeking out from where her trousers were undone, as her hips moved to a beat in her head and she was busying herself turning her “mum at football practice" makeup slightly more glamorous for date night.
Even with children, she never gave up the routine of feeling her oats while getting ready in the morning, humming and doing her skincare looking like an absolute dream. Makeup was part of it, and she still knew she was beautiful without.
Kassam walked over, cupping her bare breasts with his hands and feeling her laurel half-rings press against his fingers, and kissed up her neck. “Can you believe it’s been eight years of us not using a condom, otter?”
“Hmm, your breeding kink’s gotten worse since we became parents.” She smiled and continued smudging dark brown eyeshadow against her lashline like eyeliner.
“It’s because you’re such a good mum,” he whispered against her skin, squeezing and rubbing her breasts. “You can’t blame me for wanting to put a baby in you.”
She knew that he couldn’t, even before he proposed to her. It was a possessive dominant roleplay kink for him, rather than an actual breeding kink.
Imane laughed and blotted her signature red brown lipstick against her lips. “Mm, you’re still a scoundrel after all these years.” Hazel eyes twinkled at him. “Ask politely and I might let you, after you take me out to dinner.”
He smiled crookedly, capturing her lips and stealing her attention away. “Mhmmm… We’re definitely making that reservation now, when you put it like that.”
“Rascal.” She moaned into his mouth and easily capped her lipstick with one hand, pulling away to wipe the soft smudge against his lower lip. Her body easily slipped out of his grip as she slid out of her pants and shorts, letting him watch her fully naked form sashay over to the dresser they kept locked. “Gentlemen don’t watch their ladies change, handsome.”
He watched her take out the key from the small ornate teapot decoration they had next to their framed wedding photo. “Alright, alright.” He pretended to roll his eyes, smirking when she winked at him from over her shoulder, and leaned against her vanity away from her.
The Algerian heard her unlock the dresser and start to put on her undergarments, opting to spritz his cologne behind his ears and on his wrists in the meantime. Jourdain hopped up next to him and stared him down like she was a guard dog until he saw her re-emerge in his peripheral wearing a pretty beige lace bustier and high-waisted panties, thin diamond body jewellery wrapping around the small of her waist and between her cleavage, draping against her triceps, and a diamond harness against her left thigh. “What a minx…”
Imane smiled sweetly at him, fixing up her hair into an updo with two pieces in the front left out and keeping it in place with a gold hair claw. “You’ve gotten hornier with age, tiger.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, otter.” He petted the cat with his knuckles as she used the wireless straightener on her vanity to curl the two hair pieces. “If you look at the linear correlation between my horniness and how beautiful you keep getting, we’re still on the same exponential equation.”
She stuck out her tongue at him, flushing slightly rose, and spritzed herself with perfume, filling the air with the fragrance of red apple, wild berry, jasmine, tonka and amber musk. Her ankles were also sprayed, as per usual for date nights. “Sweet talker.”
She loved it though. The IMANE LP he released eight years ago still was on repeat to this day.
He helped her zip up the dress, taking the time to plant kisses against her exposed shoulder blades and shoulders, and took his suit jacket and their shoes from the rack. The Lebanese had just finished slipping her phone into her purse, slinging it over her arm, and turned around to take her heels from him.
Her other hand raised, relaxed, fingers splayed gently out.
Kassam kissed her knuckle, smiling when she did, and was about to guide her out of the room when she put a hand against his chest.
“Yes, my love?”
Her blotted lips curled as she walked to their dresser to take out a white patterned silk tie. “You’re forgetting something.”
He flipped up his shirt collar and let her tie it around his neck into a Trinity-style knot, savouring the kiss she gave him that never seemed to smudge her lipstick to be unpresentable but somehow always left him with a sheer stain of red against his mouth. “Mmm, I didn’t forget.” He winked. “You’re the one who always ties it for me.”
Imane smiled and took his available hand, leading him downstairs and to the foyer. He put on his shoes, kneeling in front of her to tie the ribbon of her Astrinodos around her ankles.
Blue eyes met hazel when he lifted her calf up to kiss the soft skin of her foot before his lips met the ouroboros wrapped around her ankle. He paused for a moment before kissing it again, seeing the slow smile creep onto her face, and he got up to take his keys and cardholder from the small bowl on the foyer table and his phone from the countertop near the door.
It was tradition for him to open the car door for her at this point, to the extent Amir would race him to the car to be able to open it for his mum when they were going anywhere as a family. He’s seen paparazzi photos of them doing so, Imane smiling and holding Hamza’s hand.
It was good that he asked for the publications to blur their sons’ faces even before they went to go retrieve them from Damascus; it was different when either him or his wife posted some cute holiday pictures with them on Instagram, but he was never going to allow for anyone to profit off of their children’s image without suing them.
It kept their childhood alive to not be so aware or conscious of the press, especially when their parents were a high profile DJ-turned-professor and a humanitarian fashion model/social worker. They were just kids.
He pulled out of the driveway, clicking the button connected to his sun visor to close the front gate behind them, and headed off into the cosmopolitan heart of Jeddah; his suit jacket was draped around Imane’s shoulders to keep her warm, their hands still having found each other on the centre console to hold.
The wind roses on their wrists tinkled against each other.
The drive was fairly quick, as their home was just along the outskirts of the city, and within fifteen minutes he pulled into an off-street parking garage just around the corner from the restaurant he made a reservation for.
He leaned over to plant a kiss on the back of her hand, smiling when she gave him a kiss on the cheek; he exited the car first, offering his arm when she stepped out, and shut the door behind her.
MYAZU was gorgeously lit, ambient cosy lighting mixed with opulent quiet jazz; the server at the front desk immediately knew who they were and welcomed them with a smile.
“[It’s wonderful to have your patronage, Mister Hassein, Miss Karim. Let me show you to your private suite.]” She led them to the VIP lounge, dressed in pearl curtains and rich browns, tucked into the corner of the restaurant away from prying eyes. “[Anything we can get you started with drink-wise before we bring out your personalised collection?]”
Imane draped his jacket over the back of her seat, sliding into it graciously at the same time he did his. “[We’ll take your best Aperitifs and All-Days, please.]”
The server bowed her head. “[Coming right up. Please enjoy your time here, and let us know if there’s anything you need.]”
Kassam took out his phone, snapping a quick candid video of her pouring the two of them a cup of tea each and typing out “Date night with the most gorgeous lady of my dreams. Happy belated 36th to my wifey, my light, my always, my everything. Together forever Inshalla 🖤🕊” to publish on his secondary Instagram’s story.
“Did you call ahead of time to personalise a menu for us, handsome?” She raised an eyebrow, her hands holding her teacup close to her lips.
He chuckled and took a cursory sip of cold oolong tea that was specially prepared with hints of rose and peach for them. “It’s a special date night for your birthday, my love. I’d be a fool not to go above and beyond.”
The Lebanese smiled, prodding his ankle with her heel under the table, just as two servers walked into the suite holding one drink each on a platter.
“[Our specialty Pomegranate Zaku, made 50% sweet with more sours, for the lovely missus.]” The brunet put down the tall highball glass, smoke billowing from the top of the iced pomegranate mocktail.
“[And for the mister, our infamous Murasakino.]” The blonde put down a margarita glass topped up with a guava and coconut citrusy mocktail. “[Please do enjoy.]”
Imane pulled out her phone, waiting for him to pick up his drink before recording them clinking glasses and him having a taste. The gold bumpers on their phones matched, his slate grey to her pearl white, though hers had a few diamonds studded around the back cameras, and it made him smile that she loved decorating her device with its own jewellery like he did.
It looked so elegant in her hands as she typed out a small message and put it back into her purse.
They didn’t like looking at their screens when they were with each other, or when they were with their boys for that matter.
The appetisers came within a few blinks of the eye: volcano shrimp, premium wagyu gyoza, Myazu house specialty tempura. He watched her eyes light up as she began to eat, taking in how she always left the bigger halves or pieces for him without even thinking about it and happily tucking away at her food.
It was the quality he had seen even before marriage and children, but it had gotten more prominent once they were parents. She always wanted to give the best to her husband and their boys, even if it meant she got a smaller cut of her favourite things. Amir and Hamza learned to always give her parts of their share quite quickly because of it.
It was a wonder how he managed to find a woman like her.
He picked up the last wagyu gyoza from the dish with his chopsticks and put it on her plate, even when she had wanted him to have it. “Here, otter.”
She looked at him, eyes widened, and smiled before polishing her plate clean. “Thank you, tiger.”
“Anything for you, especially the best, my queen.” Kassam winked and watched three new servers strut in with their main dish and drinks: Beef Takikomi, made in a small clay pot, a Shinsen’na for him and a Hinohana one server set on fire with a torch in front of her—as part of the collection exhibit. Their dirty dishes were instantly cleared away as they were left to enjoy.
They tucked in, and he caught sight of her looking longingly at him as he absent-mindedly loosened his tie in between his bites.
The couple loved to flirt with simple movements over their dinner when they were alone. When they were with their boys, it wasn’t something at the forefront of their minds but it was almost an aphrodisiac for them both to see each other being a good parent.
He always locked the bedroom door on the nights he came home from university work to Imane teaching Hamza how to play piano and her giving him forehead kisses as encouragement. Her moans and gasps for only his ears as he serviced her were still just as musical as they were ten years ago, the afterglow she had the next morning the most beautiful and serene as he brought her coffee and breakfast in bed. She would just smile at him and cross her legs, still naked, as she ate his homemade m’shewsha and makroudh, and cheekily get a crumb of her breakfast on her breasts for him to kiss away and eat.
The same could be said by her when she came back to see him playing football with their boys on their back patio, her always coincidentally finding him in their master bathroom about to shower and pushing him against the malachite bathtub to help him out of his joggers. The maamoul, halawet el jibn and shaabiyat she’d make for the family that night were the meanest desserts he never felt guilty for taking an extra piece of each or felt guilty for taking a break from marking assignments because he smelled the aroma from his work study.
The Myazu specialty date cake, Daio Sensai and Pear Shikata came last as their dessert, the server sliding a small bamboo tray of ginger mint mouth strips and hand washing bowls and towels onto their table before smiling and excusing herself.
“Rating on the Wifey Collection, specifically curated by your loving husband?” Kassam smirked over his shikata as he watched her take the last bite of the small date cake, her softly patting away the residual honey from her mouth.
She paused to drink her mocktail. “9.5 out of ten.” Hazel eyes twinkled. “There’s always room for improvement, and our night’s just getting started. I might give you a ten if things keep being this good.”
He smiled lopsidedly and clinked glasses with her before they both sorted themselves out and headed off. She took the time to reapply her lipstick, dazzling him with a good smize over her pocket mirror.
God, he could not wait to have her for dessert.
They walked around the streets afterward to take in the evening air, basking in each other’s company and feeling the passerby gazes recognising who they were. People in Jeddah were polite though; they almost never pointed, even when a couple who collectively had over 35 million followers on their socials walked by.
“[Hi, pretty missus, handsome mister.]” A boy with his family shyly looked up at them at the crosswalk. “[Are you Miss Imane and Mister Kassam?]”
Imane smiled at him, telling his parents that it was alright as they were going to scold him for interrupting, and leaned down to meet him at eye level. “[Yes, we are. What’s your name?]”
“[Tarik.]” Dark brown eyes were wide with amazement. “[You’re very pretty in person, missus. I've only seen you in magazines and department store pictures...]”
Kassam grinned, reaching out his hand to offer the boy a handshake. “[Isn’t she just? It’s nice to meet you, Tarik.]”
The boy hesitantly took his hand, almost buzzing with excitement as they shook on it. “[I told Ommi and Babai that I wanted to be just like you when I grow up, mister! I never thought I’d be able to meet you.]”
The couple looked at each other, giving a knowing glance, before his wife pulled out the Les Becanes square scarf from his jacket’s breast pocket and offered it to the boy.
“[Well, here is something you can keep from us as a gift.]” Her voice was quiet and soft. “[Dreams sometimes do come true, so keep dreaming big. Remember that.]”
Tarik’s hand quivered when he took the pocket square, holding it close to his heart.
She smiled again, putting a hand over her heart as a farewell. “[It’s very nice to meet you, Tarik.]”
And she straightened, just as the crosswalk light turned green, and they crossed the street.
The drive back was as smooth as ever, them watching the sunset as he cruised through the winding road that led up to their home and parked seamlessly back in his car’s spot in the driveway.
Imane playfully drew him in for a kiss after she got out of the passenger side, making a noise of surprise when he pressed her against the closed door. “Mmmmh, a happy wife with a full stomach… You really know how to treat a woman, handsome.”
“Just wait until we’re on the bed,” he purred against her mouth, a hand caressing the dip in her hip and feeling her melt against him. “I think you’ll love what I planned for us tonight.” He pulled her closer by her waist, deepening the kiss and withdrawing just when she was settling into the more passionate lip lock.
Hazel eyes glittered with amusement, and she led him back into the house, taking her phone back out to take a short video of their outfits while they were still in the foyer. He twirled her around and gave her a soft kiss on the hair, holding her close and indulging in the genuinely happy smile she gave him as she reached over to end the video.
“Would you mind grabbing the sharab ward from the fridge and putting the cats in the study, my love? Let me set up our room in the mean time.” He kissed her ankle again as he undid her heels, letting his lips graze her calf.
“Of course, handsome.” Imane dazzled him again with a subtle smize, still sitting on the cushion they had on top of the shoe rack. “I’m looking forward to it.”
Kassam winked and left her downstairs, returning to their bedroom where he had already changed out their sheets to the preferred red silk neither of them minded getting dirty that quickly became the sheets they’d designated for date nights. He opened up the panel that concealed the large mirror below the wooden top of their four poster bed, untying the sheer bed curtains to let them gently blow with the soft aircon breeze.
His hands got busy unlocking the top drawer of the dresser to pull out a dark bamboo tea tray fitted with a water storage unit underneath it, sturdy leather wrist cuffs, a blindfold, a massage oil warmer and its respective oil cubes and ceramic pouring dish, a low-heat wax candle, their small collection of wax stamps seals and a small box teacup that still faintly smelled like cedar.
He carefully brought the items over to their bedside table, turning the oil warmer on and placing it and the candle furthest away from the teacup on the tray. The handcuffs got tossed onto the bedside bench and he pulled out his lighter to burn the S-shaped wood wick.
The Algerian loved the sound the wick made when it caught on fire, smiling to himself when he saw the oil cubes start melting and bringing out the soft fragrances of strawberry, wood sage and vanilla.
He opened up the metal mini fridge they kept tucked into their bedside table, fitted with sparkling waters and juices for Hamza’s occasional hypoglycemic episodes during the night if he was sleeping with them. The boy also had one in his room, right by his bed, with juice boxes that could have the tabs ripped off of them instead of needing for a straw to poke through.
He opened up the ice box and scooped out enough crescent ice cubes to fill about half the teacup, cursorily pouring regular bottled water into the cup so the cubes didn’t stick together and could keep from melting.
His thumb connected with the hidden switch behind the bedside table, seeing the red mood lighting cast his shadow against the wall and make his reflection almost fully a silhouette.
Perfect.
He turned on the moon-shaped lamp on Imane’s bedside table and moved it closer to the bed to illuminate her side more before heading back downstairs.
Her phone was unlocked, innocently sitting on the shoe rack cushion on her Instagram timeline. He picked it up, his thumb hovering over her public IG story circle before tapping into it.
She never really posted frequently, but she would occasionally have a few Stories every two days.
Blue eyes watched a video of her sitting on their garden bench singing quietly in Chinese, waiting for the Vogue interview while petting Altair. The wind blew her hair and he forgot how to breathe.
The next clip was of him, at MYAZU, clinking glasses with her and drinking; she had written “my mcm of 12 years, my love of 10 years, my always for 8. together forever inshalla 💙🕊” as the caption.
And the last was them dancing in the foyer, him planting a kiss against her hair as she smiled: “i couldn’t ask for a better husband, a better fighter, a better lover, a better father for our boys. your arms is where my home is and where my heart feels safest, where i’ve cried and laughed and fallen asleep and woken up. let’s keep growing together, my soul. i love you to neptune and back. 🖤”
He smiled, locked her phone and saw her emerging with the small glass jug of homemade sharab ward syrup and two champagne flutes from the kitchen. Her lips curled when he leaned in and gave her a gentle kiss on the nose.
“What did I do, tiger?” Hazel eyes closed as he kissed her, holding her jaw like she was a delicate flower.
“Nothing.” Kassam chuckled and guided her up the stairs, closing the bedroom door behind them. “I just feel lucky to have you, otter.”
“Charmer.” Imane put down the glassware in her hands, ushering him into their large master bathroom. “I’m lucky to have you, handsome.”
They both rinsed their mouths clean and brushed their teeth, like usual, standing in front of the large mirror gazing quietly at each other; it was on the rare occasion where either of them couldn’t wait and started to take off their clothes to fool around on the sink, with the wall fountain in their reflection as they mapped out each other’s bodies with hands and mouths, sounds of wet skin meeting wet skin joining in with the white noise of the water.
She loved it when he picked her up by her thighs and held her so that every time he thrusted into her, the swells of her bum hit the cold marble. The delighted gasps she let out and the cheeky smile she wore were to die for.
For her birthday date, that was not happening. He wanted it to be perfect; they hadn’t played with temperature in a long time and both wanted to.
Imane sashayed away, turning her head to look at him in the mirror when she got to the door, and bit her finger subtly before winking at him. “What heels would you like me to wear, handsome?”
He fixed up his tie, running a hand through his hair. “You want to take a pair of Tom Ford’s out for a spin, doll?”
The Lebanese smiled and glided out of the bathroom.
Kassam pursed his lips, unbuttoning the first two buttons on his shirt to show off a little bit more skin, his kohl-lined eyes gazing evenly back at him, full and long black lashes giving a naturally lined look.
He looked very good.
His legs took him back into their bedroom, stopping when he saw Imane with her right leg up on the bedside bench, fastening her lock stiletto sandals. The attractive way that her calf curved and sloped into her now exposed thigh, the dress barely hiding the curve of her bum under sheer black fabric, made his trousers feel just the slightest bit tighter already. He could almost imagine how beautiful it would be for him to put his hand in between where her thighs met her ass and watch her wriggle and moan his petnames.
She had a couple of heels that never saw the light outside, just for the purpose of wearing them for play. The soles were pristine, only touched by his mouth and body.
It made him very happy to know there was someone out there who had specific shoes for his specific kink. He also had a particular pair of leather combat boots that were only used for play, when she wanted him to show a little more roughness and make her into a whimpering mess, with the sole or vamp of his shoe being the thing she grinded against instead of his thigh while he spat on her cum-decorated tongue and called her his naughty little Bunny.
“[How would you like us to play tonight, my beloved?]” Imane had glided over to the sharab ward, having begun pouring the cold sparkling water into the glasses. Her French called out to him, grabbing him by the tie and holding him where he was. “[I’m feeling up for either being slightly mean to you or getting pampered.]”
“[I’ll allow you to ruin this shirt, as a late birthday present.]” He chuckled, leaning against the bathroom door frame. “[I’ll let you take control for a while, but I’m not letting you sleep before making sure you know how much I want to take care of you, baby.]”
She giggled, bringing over the two glasses of pristinely made rose drink and handing him one. “[Safe word is still patisserie and illusion?]”
“[Will always be, unless you want to change it.]” He clinked glasses with her, taking a sip of the sparkling water. “[Am I given permission to cum inside of you?]”
His wife smiled knowingly in the low light, biting her lower lip. “[Give me the best afterglow for tomorrow, honey. You’re always allowed, now that we’re married and you got the snip.]”
“[Just wanted to ask.]” A brow raised. “[Gentlemen don’t do anything without their lady’s permission, even if they need to ask every time for the past eight years, love.]”
“[Cutie.]” Imane took one last sip of her sharab ward, putting their almost fully empty champagne flutes on the table, and closed the distance between their lips.
They basked in each other’s warmth, hands slowly roaming the other’s body, and he moaned when she tugged at his tie, expertly undoing it from around his neck. His hands slowly unzipped her dress, marvelling at the soft skin of her back.
She smelled divine, fruity and floral and gourmand.
Manicured fingers pushed him forward and away, into the clearing of the room between their bathroom and the bed. “[Let your goddess out of her dress, would you, pretty boy?]” Her voice was a purr, dangerous and seductive. “[Worship her true form.]”
“[Yes, my lady.]” He pulled the zipper down below her bum, feeling the fabric slip onto the floor like a waterfall. His eyes opened, admiring her pretty eyelashes as their tongues slipped against each other, and he inhaled sharply when she smirked against his mouth and ripped his shirt open.
Buttons scattered on the floor, skittering and rolling to stops all around the room.
She was stronger than she looked.
Hazel eyes opened, and his cock twitched at the intensity between them at such a close distance. “[Yield.]”
He slowly knelt in front of her, making sure to keep their eye contact before both of his knees were against the wooden panels; his gaze lowered, devouring the sight of her beauty in lingerie and body jewellery, as she stepped out of her dress and nudged it aside with a single stiletto.
Imane stepped forward, a graceful hand slowly sliding his tie off from around his shoulders and trailing the silk against his bare chest teasingly. “[What an obedient Saint… Am I pretty, sweet thing?]”
His gaze raised back up when she grabbed his jaw, trousers tightening at the sensation. “[Yes, Mistress. You’re the most beautiful being to me, Mistress.]”
“[Good.]” She guided him forward, making him put all of his weight onto his knees, which made him grunt. Her hand held him just a few millimetres away from her pelvis, his lips almost able to touch the seat of her panties if she tilted his chin up just slightly more. “[What a sweet mouth, so ready for me.]”
His tongue flicked out to wet his lips, and he swallowed. “[Am I… Am I allowed to pray yet, Goddess?]”
“[Hmm…]” She stroked his hair, nails gently tugging at his roots, and tilted his head up so his mouth pressed slightly against her lace panties. “[Kiss it.]”
The Algerian did as he was told, softly planting a kiss against her clothed folds, and moaned when she rubbed his jaw in gratitude.
“[Again.]” His wife purred, and he did it again. “[Show me how much you adore me, but no praying yet.]”
He continually kissed the same spot, knowing that he was kissing over her clit by the years and years of practice of mapping out her body in all of its sensual and beloved form, never letting his gaze drop from her eyes.
It was humiliating, getting turned on by simply kissing her covered pussy, but the humiliation made blood rush both up his neck and to his cock.
He resisted the urge to lick his lips, knowing that he’d taste salted honey and umami and that once he did, he would lose the ability to obey her wishes.
“[Give it a lick, pretty boy.]” Imane smiled sweetly at him, still stroking his hair. “[I want to see your tongue.]”
Kassam did so, sticking out his tongue softly so it laid flat, and gave her covered clit a gentle lick.
She stepped back, cooing and giving him jaw rubs as a reward. “[You’re so good to me, Saint.]” Her left heel stepped onto his shoulder, slowly trailing down to his chest.
He let out a groan when she shoved him backward, his back meeting the bedside bench with a satisfactory thump, and his cock throbbed when she stepped in between his splayed legs and put her foot fully on his pec, heel digging into the silk of his ruined shirt.
“[Now, what to do about…]” Her heel trailed down, ghosting along his ribcage and down his abs. She teasingly lowered his tie down so it tickled his chest, looping the fabric around her arms afterward so it hung like a long scarf. “[Oh, is my devout Saint excited about something?]”
The sole of her shoe lightly tapped the bulge in his trousers and he grunted.
“[I usually don’t let any of my worshippers get away with anything as crude as this. It’s not polite in front of a goddess.]” The Lebanese crooned, letting her heel travel back up, dragging up his bare skin. “[You? I suppose you’re handsome enough that I’ll let it go this time… but what are you going to do for me?]”
Her sole pushed lightly against his Adam’s apple, drawing out a shaky breath from him.
“[Anything you want me to, Goddess. Apologies for my transgression in your presence.]” He exhaled out of his mouth.
She guided her heel against his jaw, caressing the stiletto against his stubble. “[Hmm. I suppose, since you’re already aware, let your goddess see what’s underneath those trousers.]”
The Algerian slowly let his hands undo the bar and hook closure of his dress pants, unzipping and letting her see the base of his cock; the rest was still tucked to the side.
“[Mmm, how crude…]” Her tongue flicked out and wet the corner of her mouth, tilting her foot so that the sole was directly against his lips. “[For a devout man like you, perhaps… Maybe, I’ll do something about your predicament. Kiss it.]”
He kissed her heel, groaning when she trailed it down his neck and chest, scraping the stiletto slightly against his skin. A grunt fully escaped his throat when she slinked it over his erection, feeling it spring free and rest against his lower abdomen.
She giggled, the sound immediately rushing to his head. “[How can a Saint have such terrible manners on him, yet be so handsome?]” Her feet slid together and away from him, much to his dismay. “[Perhaps I need to teach you a lesson and give you something to pray about, hmm?]”
“[Yes, please.]” Kassam shivered as she helped him out of his ruined shirt, jaw going slack when he got met with her clothed folds at eye level a breath away, seeing the hints of soft brown peeking out from the beige lace.
“[Get out of the trousers and onto the bed. Hands above your head, pretty boy.]” She stepped aside, the leather cuffs jingling in her hand.
God, she was so dangerous to be around.
He did as instructed, tossing his dress pants on top of her discarded dress for easier clean-up tomorrow morning, and bit his lip feeling the sensation of his wrists getting trapped by the sturdy play handcuffs.
Imane smiled, tapping his nose and trailing a gentle finger against his jawline. “So good so far, my soul?”
“Keep it coming, baby.” He winked and raised his head so she could wrap the black opaque silk ribbon around to blindfold him. “You make a good soft domme, my love. Meow.”
There was a period of pure silence as his other senses tuned further in, and he heard the methodical clicking of her heels moving further away from him before coming toward him at the opposite side, the sound of the sheets rustling. The bed caved slightly at additional weight, and there was another period of nothingness.
He inhaled at the featherlight touch of two fingers against his cheek, letting his neck arch when the fingertips traced down toward his décolletage.
The fingers disappeared, much to his disappointment, only for him to shiver at the jolt of cold dripping against his lower stomach and the two fingers to return to rub the water away from his skin.
He was dialled in.
Kassam felt the pillow beneath his head give as his wife moved, catching the fragrance of her perfume and the sound of her heels’ lock charms tinkle near his ears.
His cock throbbed as the sensation of warmth pooled against his chest, slowly traveling down to his stomach. He let out a huff when her hands, now considerably colder than the liquid, massaged at his skin and slipped frictionlessly against his body.
She was straddling his head, her back toward his face, with how her fingers pointed downward.
“[My handsome Saint’s so excited… How cute.]” Her voice was even more angelic to listen to, graceful hands massaging against his pelvis so close to his erection.
He grunted and tried to pry his wrists apart, relishing in the resistance and giving up. “[Goddess, what are you doing to me…]”
She laughed. “[I’m marking you, so everyone knows you’re the worshipper who has terrible manners and that you’re my worshipper who has terrible manners.]”
His lips parted to speak, but his back arched off the bed at the feeling of heat on his left pec and the slight pressure of something pushing into the wax. A moan left his throat when he wasn’t given the time to acclimate before another patch of skin along his right collarbone flared up with heat, hissing and grunting when a pleased hum came from her.
“[Better.]” The pressure on his left pec went away and he let out a soft exhale.
His cock twitched when heat hit his ribcage in a delicate right to left fashion, swirling and creating letters that he slowly mapped out as Arabic.
مُذنِب. Mudnib. Guilty.
He hissed when a straight line of fire trailed down his abs, pressure being put on that section as well. “[Please, Goddess, please let me pray and repent, please…]”
“[Hmm.]” Something soft and warm nudged against his Adam’s apple, rubbing against it before trailing up to his chin and he nudged into lace. The fragrance of honey and arousal hit his nose, and he almost buckled at the realisation it was her pussy. Her bum wriggled against his stubble, her weight shifting. “[One last mark, so everyone knows this misbehaving cock belongs to me, hmm?]”
Kassam groaned when fire met his right hip, hissing when pressure was applied there and his abs lost the sensation of the seal against it and whimpering when the weight being put against his jaw and neck was gone. “[Goddess, please… I’ll be good; just please let me worship you.]”
Something met his erection in a soft heap, making his hips buck, and the pillow once again gave way to weight as Imane took off the pressure from his hip.
He heard the sound of ice cubes tinkling and groaned when two drops of heat hit his chest, feeling a thumb tilt his chin up.
The moan that came from his throat when the simultaneous jolt of ice smoothing against his chest and the sensation of her labia pushing against his mouth was exquisite.
“[Then pray, sweet thing.]”
He fought against his restraints, tongue connecting with salted honey and umami arousal, and he groaned when the stark cold circled around his left nipple just as she put more weight against his jaw and face.
There didn’t need to be any visuals for him to know how to eat her out the way that would make her thighs tremble; he breathed her in like she was the very air he needed, savouring how she bucked against his lips and tongue and teasingly grinded against his chin and increased the pace her hips moved when he found her clit.
The only piercing she had taken out over the past decade was her clit’s, her feeling like she outgrew it and liking the cute brown beauty mark-like scar tissue that closed the holes up. She no longer needed it, having a husband who knew where it was even when he was half asleep, and preferred the sensation of no piercing when she was masturbating because it allowed her a few more minutes of indulging herself in her busy schedule. There were many times where she’d simply rub her pussy with the softest of touches and not orgasm, but she did it to feel more in touch with her body and sensuality—and to feel beautiful, just for herself, watching her own body bloom.
He never asked to see it and intrude on her own private ritual. It wasn’t for him or his eyes, and they kept it that way since marriage. If he wanted to see, it was discussed as play beforehand.
His piercing also did just fine when it came to stimulating her G-spot, which she found far more enjoyable after her endometriosis symptoms stopped coupling intense uterine pain with the reverberating and deeper orgasm.
His lips nudged against the diamond clit clip he knew she was wearing with how it was shaped like a teardrop, and she moaned, her available hand grabbing his hair.
Though, she did still love decorating it. Their locked dresser had many a jewelled and gold clit clamp and clip for special occasions or play.
Imane’s thighs quivered and she let out a quiet “Sammi…” as she came, smothering his face with her bum and pussy and making him groan, and rocked her hips against his stubble. “[Ah… There we go.]” She cooed, giggling and settling still against his mouth lightly, and easily removed the wax seals against his torso because of the massage oil and ice hardening them enough.
He stuck out his tongue flat, laughing when it was granted with the dark chocolate and salted honey flavour of her cum, and swallowed. “Mmmm, my facial hair has brown patches because of you, otter…”
Her answering laugh made his insides melt, her shifting to get off of him. “You’re not complaining, tiger.”
Kassam chuckled, letting her remove the blindfold and cuffs before opening his eyes. His vision adjusted to the low light. “Knock on wood that I was born with black hair and not brown hair; I would not look good ginger.”
She leaned over him to take her panties from where it was tossed onto his cock, still erect, and slide out the facial towelettes from his bedside table to wipe his face down and clean his stubble; hazel eyes gazed at him with a sweetness and affection as she settled against his side and wiped his chin. “I think you’d still look dashing regardless.” Her expression was so soft as she smiled. “It’s hard to not see you as handsome; you’re my husband.”
“Come here, you minx…” He leaned over and blew out the candle, pulled her close and kissed her deeply, letting his hands slot against her bum and thigh. “You know what to do when you’re ready, baby.”
She didn’t like wax play on herself. He could do without receiving oral when in his headspaces on certain occasions. Compromise was one of the many things marriage had given him the ability to do.
The couple slowly indulged in lazy and purposeful kisses, him feeling her sink into the sheets and pull him on top of her; she laughed at the tickle of his stubble against her shoulder, hitching her right thigh against his hip to let him know she was in the right headspace.
“[Mhmm… you’re irresistible, Bunny.]” He murmured against her mouth, hands easily undoing her bustier and revealing her decorated breasts. “[I want to knock you up so badly.]” His voice was deeper and raspier with age, coupled with naturally getting deeper when he was in the mood. His palms squeezed and caressed the sides of her breasts, thumbs gently pressing against her half-rings.
Imane moaned into his mouth, her neck arching when he gently sank his teeth against the soft spot underneath her right ear and kissed her throat. “[Sir, my fertile window’s not for the next couple of days. You know that.]”
He roughly bit down on her shoulder, relishing in the whimper she let out. “[Don’t care. I’ll make love to you every night and fuck you in the shower the next morning until you’re knocked up and I can kiss that baby bump on your tummy.]” His lips kissed the swells of her perky breasts. “[You’re so beautiful, Bunny…]” He looked up at her with Puss in Boots eyes, seeing the smile on her face. “[You know I think the world of you, right? Come on, just one baby… You know I love your tummy, Bunny… Just one baby, for me.]”
She bit her lip, gently running her hands through his hair and moaning when his teeth gently tugged at her nipples. “[Maybe after you give me a massage, Sir. Work’s been really stressful…]”
“[Of course, baby.]” He chuckled at their demure roleplay, kissing the soft and tender spots she had on her tummy and pelvis. “[Where’s my Bunny tense?]”
Her hand pointed from the top of her chest to her mid-thigh–her erogenous zone. “[Here to here, Sir.]”
“[I’ll take care of you; just relax, Darling.]” The Algerian propped his pillow against hers and laid her down so his right arm could loop underneath her, her body slightly angled upright. He poured some massage oil into his right palm, testing out the temperature to make sure it was a perfect warmth for her skin, and put the ceramic bowl back onto the warmer. His hands worked in the oil between them before gently starting to massage along her ribcage.
Imane purred, gaze drifting over to him and thumb gently grazing his lower lip and facial hair; her hair was still in its hair claw, though the slightly messy post-orgasm hairdo made her look as breathtaking as it had been for dinner. She nestled into his embrace more when he started humming.
Nowadays he sang for their sons most often, his voice still just as buttery as ever with the added rasp of age playing on his side; he hadn’t released a new R&B song or EP since his album named after her dropped eight years ago. It was his ode to her, hanging up the R&B career that started when he was a bachelor with the rest of his bachelor lifestyle: his two-seater car, his queen-sized futuristic hanging bed that looked like it was floating in his Belgravia penthouse, the cool-toned furniture and house decor, the dating app downloaded on his phone. He still produced and composed R&B tracks for other people, but Morpheus was just a legacy.
He had given it up so that him and Imane could have more time together during their early marriage, visiting all of the places they wanted to go before fully settling. Then, it made way for him getting a job teaching university during two quarters of the year. Then, it became imperative that he spent time being a loving father and co-parent to his boys and her: their sons were their everything, and he knew that he wanted to spend as much of their summer holidays with them as possible.
Amir needed him there to be present when they first gained custody, being a sullen troubled child who wouldn't open up the social workers about what he saw before he was found with Hamza. He barely talked to anyone except him and his wife when they visited the foster institution every few weeks, and Kassam had handed his personal football and an evil eye necklace over to him to have which the boy refused for anyone to touch for the almost full year they were getting screened and guardianship forms approved.
It was not a difficult decision for him to put family before a passion project that no longer felt true for him.
“We only got here from lying, I picked the truth instead of you,” he crooned in a sweet Gmin3, his hands gliding up the body jewellery to cup her breasts. “My conscience had nothing on you, didn’t think much about it then. / Fucking was always the plan, ended up fucking the plan up…”
He did need to censor his songs for Amir and Hamza, if he was singing his own.
“I’m afraid, I’m ashamed at the end of the day I’m a man with mistakes. / You can say it’s my fault, mmm… Let me take all the blame. Does this make it okay?” His fingers slotted her nipples against them, gently kneading them, as he still sang the opening track to his IMANE album. “We can drag this whole thing out if you want it. / I could break your heart, make it hurt just a little more. / Give you hope just to take it, rather not delay shit. / I ain’t got that patience, it’s now or later, now, now or later… Now, now or later…”
It was a song he had written during his bachelor days, five days after he had matched with Imane when he had went back to her profile to just stare at her pictures, second guessing why he didn’t just lie to her and sleep with her. He had typed so many unsent messages: wanting to see where she was at so they could get coffee, what she liked so he could bullshit about how he liked the same things as she did, asking if she wanted to come out to one of his shows the night before he flew back to Manchester and planning to let her wake up in his empty hotel room alone with £2000 slipped into her purse as hush money and a blocked Tinder profile.
“And I know that you’re just gonna cry and just gonna try to fight it; you’re trying to hide it, but I know you feel like I used you… Hmm… And your time was wasted, and I gotta admit, I’m a man with mistakes. / You can say it’s my fault, mmm… Let me take all the blame.”
She was always his type, no matter at what life stage he was in adulthood: 19, goth subculture chick who dyed her hair platinum blonde and went to raves and was as angry at the world as he was; 22, studious library crush who always had her nose in a book, walking pageants looking like a reincarnation of Adriana Lima; 24, tattooed more heavily but the kind of girl he could easily trick into a one night stand, only for it to backfire on him when he caught feelings; 26, a more mature and self-assured woman who loved him for his imperfections and quirks and genuinely always shared his interests; 28, a full-time humanitarian activist and model and licensed clinical social worker that he married and dedicated his forever to, smiling at him in her custom Zuhair-made wedding dress that was inspired by a kaftan at the altar and making him automatically kneel in his djellaba-inspired suit while he was saying his vows.
“We can drag this whole thing out if you want it. / I could break your back, make it bounce just a little more. / Give you hope just to take it, rather not delay shit. / I ain’t got that patience, it’s now or later, now, now or later… Now, now or later…”
He wrote the song as a way to cope with the feeling of meeting someone he thought was the one who got away, even when he knew he was too toxic to be anything more than a hook-up. He had forced himself to forget her, after finding the date they matched on Tinder scrawled along his old fully filled-out lyrics journal and finding the track labelled as the date with the synth bass line on an old hard drive he kept in his penthouse’s music studio.
His thumb just couldn’t seem to hit send when it came down to her, and he’d just clear out the message to stare at her pictures again. It had gotten to the point where he just kept swiping right on people to get rid of her name from the most recent Tinder messages, and he had gotten a terrible cold that made him miserable when he'd gotten back to England—the one time he ever got sick in his adult life.
Her body melted into him, slowly but surely reacting to his voice and touch; she let out a soft whine and bit down on her finger, thighs clamping together to conceal how wet she had become again. He kissed her breasts, his left hand sliding between her legs and gently nudging them apart to slowly rub her pussy.
“We can drag this whole thing out if you want it. / I could break your heart, make it hurt just a little more. / Give you hope just to take it, rather not delay shit. / I ain’t got that patience, it’s now or later, now, now or later… Now, now or later…”
He wondered if his hesitation to hit send was his subconscious telling him that she deserved better than him at 24, that if he hit send and asked her what things she liked he would have found out he didn’t need to bullshit, that if he hit send and asked her out for coffee he would have fallen in love with her too much to have asked her back to his hotel room, that if he hit send asking her to come to one of his shows he would have seen her soul for what it was before he shattered it the next morning.
Their lips met, and it didn’t matter anymore. She was his, and he was hers.
The title track for that album, “Us2”, had their wedding as the music video, the beautiful wedding they had in Beirut at O'Ciel capturing the very essence of the song: serenity and awe at her as she walked down the aisle and seeing both their families tearing up with the plentiful rows of faery lights that turned on one by one as they kissed for the first time as husband and wife. The ending track “Only” was a duet between Imane and him—recorded outside when it was raining, fading into the ghost of “Now or Later”’s synth for a flawless loop.
It was his first full album, and his last. His earlier releases only consisted of EPs and singles.
He wanted her to know that she was special.
“[Sir…]” She arched her back, relishing in the wet sounds of his fingers slicking in and out of her with a natural movement of his wrist. “[Just… Just one baby… I need you, Sir…]”
Kassam smiled, rolling her over and groaning when her hips pressed up to nudge her folds against his cock. “[Just one, Bunny, I promise.]” He chuckled when she wriggled slightly away to pump a small amount of lube they kept stored in a repurposed traditional ornate coffee jar, purring when her hand rubbed it against his tip and beginning half of his dick. “[Would my sweet Bunny like to do the honours, or would she like her Sir to?]” He bit down on her shoulder, humming when she moaned and bashfully rested her cheek against it to bring their faces close together and their noses to touch. “[You’re so beautiful…]”
She purred, hitching her left thigh up so her knee brushed against the sheets, and in the mirror above their bed it was like a scene from a movie when she sank onto his length and arched her neck at the feeling of him inside her.
Her stilettos and body jewellery twinkled in the low light, turning her into an angel, and he let his hair fall over his forehead as his hand grabbed her by the jaw to turn her head toward him.
"[Whose pussy is this?]" He crooned against her mouth, relishing in her warmth around him. "[Who owns this pussy, baby?]" Blue eyes stared intently into hers as she teasingly bucked against him to let them both hear how her arousal slicked against his cock.
"[You, Sir...]" Her hands caressed through his hair, making more of it fall against his forehead; one piece in particular curled almost against his brow. "[This pussy belongs to you, always.]"
And he kissed her like she was the only one in the world for him, holding her firmly but kissing her like she would break if he pressed any harder, and they melted together for awhile.
Hazel eyes gazed earnestly into blue with a tenderness, and he saw her taking his hand while they were both wearing modernised gifted hanfu in Shanghai for their international fashion exhibition when they were 27 and how the whole city around them seemed to stop to record them walking down the street, her slow dancing with him at their wedding at 28 and looking at him the same.
Sex was no longer about chasing the biggest highs or the exhilaration of youth; it was a different type of bonding, letting their hands roam over each other’s bodies like worship and reverence. It was a sacred time for them and just them, whether they had the blinds open during the early hours of the morning or the blinds closed during the witching hour or somewhere in the middle. The morning sex fresh out of slumber was no longer a thing they did in their mid-30s, preferring to share sly looks with each other before brushing their teeth and washing up and coming back to bed wearing their silk robes while she lit up an incense to set the mood; she loved when they both put on their glasses, hers now prescription from age-related near-sightedness, and she rode him while feeling the morning breeze against her skin. He loved laying her down on the bench, her hair pinned up, as he kissed up the leg propped up against his shoulder, and made love to her until her hair cascaded down and the pin fell to the ground.
It was ritualistic for them emotionally.
Coffee tasted sweeter on those mornings.
“[Come here, baby.]” Kassam pulled her taut against him, pressing a kiss against her shoulder, rolling his hips so his cock pulled out halfway before sinking all the way back in at a slow languid pace. “[Look at yourself, Bunny. You’re so pretty like this.]”
His wife sighed in pleasure, lips parted, as she looked up at their reflections; she made a noise between a moan and gasp when he met her gaze in the mirror just as the hand around her neck tightened, and her back arched as he choked her.
“[Sir, please… Bunny wants to be tied up…]” Imane held up her wrists, rubbing them against his tricep and giving him puppy eyes.
He gave her a kiss, easily shifting them both so she was on her knees with her shoulders pushed against the mattress. “[Of course, Bunny. I can’t say no to you.]” Their reflection in the mirror stood in the corner gave both a clear view of their silhouettes, her body sensually posed, and he swore when he caught sight of her pussy glistening with milky arousal. “[Fuck, I want you so much…]”
She giggled, lips parting when he used his silk tie to tie her wrists behind her back. “[Let’s make a baby… Sir, do it, for me…]” Her hips tilted upward just slightly, and he almost lost it when she clenched and a small drip of milkiness caressed down to her clit. “[I want a baby…]”
“[You’d make such a good mother, fuck… Fuck…]” He spread her knees apart, slotting himself between her legs, and slipped back inside of her. His hands found her hips, and he kept at his slow pace relishing in her moans and teasing half laughs that drove him insane. “[Look at how much I want you, Bunny. Look at us.]”
Her eyes flitted away from him and toward the mirror in the corner, watching their breasts move slightly with each thrust in and out. The diamonds glittered in the low light, decorating her like the beautiful queen she was to him. Her bedside light cast a faint illumination against her bum and his pelvis, etching their silhouettes with stone-like precision in their reflection.
“[Make me yours, Sir. Please.]” Imane breathed out, eyes fluttering half shut but still keeping his gaze in the mirror, thighs slightly trembling. “[I’m yours… Oh my god, I’m yours…]”
He grabbed her by the diamond chain that slinked along her spine and sloped against her arms, forcing her back and bound wrists against his front, and groaned as she orgasmed when his hand loosely wrapped around her neck possessively. “[You’re always mine, baby.]” His teeth found her shoulder and he came inside her after a few more thrusts, holding her close to bask in the moment.
Just as she was about to slump onto the bed, content with being filled, Kassam gruffly pulled her to straddle him while facing each other; his head met the pillows and a cocky smirk curled his lips at the surprise in her expression.
“[Who said anything about being done, Bunny?]” The smirk grew when he felt something drip against his pelvis. “[Ride me.]”
His wife whimpered, lips in a soft O shape and eyes glazed over with pleasure, as she overstimulated herself. Her heels pressed against his knees, and she quivered as her inner thighs became coated with cum. “[S-Sir…]”
“[Good Bunny.]” He gently rubbed her hip to let her know that play was over after this, holding it firm to guide her to slow her riding and beckoning her to lay against his chest when she stilled. “You did so well, otter.” His hands softly untied her wrists and rested against her lower back. “You’re going to be glowing tomorrow morning…”
Imane laughed, still breathing hard and settling against him. Her legs popped up, shoes still on. “Thank you, I’m going to have the best night’s sleep ever, tiger. I’m so tired…”
The Algerian, like always, reached down to undo the buckles on her heels and tossed them onto the floor with two quiet thumps. His hand unclasped her hair claw and put it on his bedside table, letting her hair tumble down and splay out like a river of dark brown with strands of grey. “Let’s stay here for ten minutes; I’ll draw us a bath and then we can go to sleep.” He chuckled. “Our clothes can wait for tomorrow.”
Her right hand found its way to his, their wedding rings clinking softly as they laced their fingers together. He raised hers to his lips, kissing the two rings that stayed on her finger since their wedding. It didn't matter if she was working at the hospital, or walking the runway, or washing the dishes; she never took them off, the yellow gold diamond-studded Viper and custom white gold B.zero1 bands always staying put to let the world know that she was married, that they were each other's life partners, that she was happy.
And that was all that mattered. They were happy.
He could feel her smile against his shoulder. “Your aftercare’s always the best, Sammi.”
The nickname made his heart warm.
Kassam kissed the top of her head, indulging in her warmth and breath tickling his skin.
“You deserve the best, Nova. Happy belated, my beloved.”