I shut that thought down before it can fully form.
I can’t go there.
I’ve let that go.
“Kiss me,” I beg him, because I find I cannot close that tiny gap between the two of us.
A wicked grin curls on his face just before he crushes his lips to mine. They’re urgent. Hungry. His lips are forceful with mine, taking them as they will. A sigh works its way between my lips and his tongue finds mine.
He releases my hands and suddenly hoists me off the ground. He presses me into the bookcase harder, digging his hips into mine.
All my previous fears about being with a man no longer apply. All my reasons for caution are gone.
There’s nothing to stop me. And oh, how my body doesn’t want to stop.
But there’s that voice in the back of my head. Telling me things I wish to put behind me. Bringing up faces that have forsaken me.
“How can this ever end?” Raheem breathes as his lips trail my jawline before finding their way to the hollow beneath my ear. “What do we think we are doing?”
“Why does there have to be thought and evaluation behind it?” I ask. Before I’ve realized what I’m doing, I’ve pulled his tunic up and over his head, dislodging his keffiyeh.
And I can only stare at Raheem in wonder.
I’ve never seen him without some kind of head covering. Beneath it is dark, incredibly thick, close-cropped hair. Somehow, he looks even more dangerous, exposed like this.
And his body.
Tattoos run over his flesh in every direction. Some kind of script runs down his side from beneath his arm, down into his pants. An Egyptian eye — the Eye of Horus — covers his left breast, over his heart. A mass of tiny black lines run down his right arm. There has to be hundreds of little marks.
Beneath that ink is an astonishing body.
Every muscle in Raheem’s body is defined. Toned. Built for action and war. And war is indeed present on his body. Scars dot his flesh here and there. A thin, wide, white mark on his lower abdomen. A burn mark on his left shoulder. Several small white pebbles of scar tissue spread over his right arm and the same side.
Raheem has seen more than a few fights.
“You’re beautiful,” I say, running a hand down his chest as I study everything. And he lets me take him in with reverence. Both hands run back up, sliding over his cheeks, up to his head. It’s at that length that leaves his hair fuzzy and soft. An appreciative smile crosses my lips.
Gently, slowly, I let my hands slide down once more, until they lace behind his neck.
“No woman has seen me…like this, in some time,” he says. A red glow burns gently in the back of his eyes as he studies me.
“Thank you,” I breathe. “Thank you for allowing me to see the real you, Raheem.”
He offers me a smile, but there’s something sad about it. He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear and presses one last, gentle kiss to my lips. Slowly, he lets me back down to the ground, though he does not move away from me.
“What is this, Alivia?” he asks as he brings his hands up to the sides of my face. “What are we? What are we doing?”
I shake my head, but I don’t have a response right away. “What do you mean?” I ask, because I’m too afraid to analyze it myself.
“I mean that I watched you almost the entire time you have been in Silent Bend,” he says, and there’s a hint of pain in his voice when he says it. “I’ve seen you with someone else. Someone you were willing to give up your life for. And we… I am not foolish enough to believe we are that.”
“You’ve confessed to having relationships with many women, Raheem,” I counter, and my voice grows more serious. “You should know not to make comparisons.”
“Yet through those relationships, I’ve learned much,” he says, and then he does take a step away from me. “I’ve learned to recognize a rebound. And it’s not a privileged position to be in, my nofret.”
I want to tell him he’s wrong. That that isn’t what this is. That I’m a deep person capable of deep feelings and being genuine.
But I can’t.
Because I’m not that kind of person any more.
“It’s okay,” he says, nodding his head, even though it looks like it causes him pain to concede like this. “I understand. Let’s just let this be what it is. It’s not love. It’s just…need.”
Just need.
And there, he’s nailed it directly on the head.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my eyes wide, and I shake my head. “I am what I am.”
“And that’s all that I ask for,” Raheem breathes as he takes a step forward. He brings one hand to my face, and presses a gentle kiss to my lips. It only lasts for a moment, before he breaks away. He bends, retrieves his clothing. Holding my eyes, he dresses once more, covering his head again. And in his eyes, I see that he means it. He only asks for the real me. And he accepts this for what it is at face value.