She threw another punch. Again he blocked it. Stepping around her, he grabbed her hand and her arm. One hand rested on her hip while he gripped her hand. “Tighter fist.” He pulled her arm back. “Throw straight out as hard as you can. Fake with one hand and hit with the other.”
Melanie closed her eyes, wishing that they were doing something else. Even though his touch on her was harmless, she was having difficulty concentrating. She shivered as his fingers stroked down her arm. He stepped away from her, moving in front of her again.
She faked with the right and threw another punch with her left hand. Her fist smacked into his hard chest.
“Good. Now, if you want to do some harm, aim for the throat.” Stepping behind her, he pulled her left hand back. She swallowed the growing lump in her throat and reminded herself to focus on what he was saying and not where his hands were roaming. “This gives you the chance to throw another punch as powerful as the first. So it’s fake, then hit and hit. Practice once. Put your weight into it but keep your feet anchored.”
He put his hands on her hips. His warm breath on the back of her neck was doing things to her insides. She kept thinking about the last time they’d had sex—how he’d come into her from behind, how he’d held her like this, how his body had felt pressed up against hers afterward.
Ahmed seemed oblivious. “Come on, punch.”
Swallowing hard, she did as he asked, trying to concentrate on throwing one punch after another.
“Good. Can you feel the power in those punches?” he asked.
She turned slightly to tell him she could. Her gaze met his, and she froze. So did he.
He was still gripping her hips, but his eyes darkened now. The smile went out of his stare, and hunger came into it. Reaching up, he traced one finger down her cheek and then pushed her hair back behind her ear.
She sucked in a breath, heart hammering. She couldn’t move—couldn’t breathe.
He leaned closer and put his mouth on hers.
She leaned into him, pressing her body against his. She had no idea she’d wanted this, longed for it. She could only think how he tasted of ginger and cinnamon and cardamom and something that was uniquely him. His lips parted, and she opened her mouth to him. He caught the back of her neck and deepened the kiss. She gave a low groan.
She had no idea how long they kissed before he pulled back. His breath came in short gasps. So did hers.
Resting his forehead against hers, Ahmed closed his eyes. “It was a mistake bringing you here,” he confessed. “I can’t seem to get you out of my thoughts.”
Melanie turned and put her hands on his chest, resting them flat against him. Unable to look at his face, she whispered, “I haven’t stopped thinking about you either. But you are still engaged to someone else. I don’t care if you say that’s fake. We can’t do this. Not right now.”
“It’s my father’s plan. Not mine.”
Melanie stepped back. “You sure about that? Nasiji’s beautiful and charming. Why not marry her?”
“The only woman I am attracted to is you, Melanie. From the moment I first laid eyes on you, everyone else has paled in comparison.” He smiled and touched her cheek again. “That was why I had to see you again. I will always have to see you again.”
“Really? Me and how many other women?”
Ahmed stepped back and rubbed the back of his neck. “Is that what you think of me? My father has no respect for me. Thinks I am a boy, not a man. He thinks marriage will make me grow up.”
Melanie hugged herself. Her stomach was queasy again. “And is he right?”
Turning away, Ahmed took three steps to the door and stopped. He turned back to her. “Does it matter what he thinks? I will have his respect someday. I will have yours.”
Melanie shook her head. “Really? You’re just going to order it and that will make it so? Ahmed, it doesn’t work like that. Respect is earned. And it’s my company you hired—you didn’t buy me. Now, excuse me. I have work to do. It seems like maybe you do have a few things yet to learn besides cooking.”
10
Ahmed got Nasiji’s text message after he had showered and dressed in jeans and a light, linen shirt. His father would not approve of the jeans, but Ahmed intended to tell his father that Nasiji liked Western clothing. That would irritate the old man.
Heading down into the garden, he met Nasiji beside the fountain. They would be able to see anyone coming from here, and the splash of the water would cover up anything Nasiji had to say.
Stopping in front of her, he crossed his arms. “What is it?”
Nasiji pulled back her veil, lifted her skirts, slipped out of her sandals and slid her bare feet into the fountain. “It’s going to be hot today.”