Chapter 370: The Shape of Silence
Aya's room was nothing like Risa's.
Where Risa's space felt lived in—soft edges, warmth, the quiet chaos of comfort—Aya's room felt intentional. Every line served a purpose. Every surface was chosen. The walls were dark, polished wood that swallowed light instead of reflecting it, creating a sense of contained focus rather than shadow. The air felt still, not empty—controlled. Like a blade resting in its sheath.
The bed was low and minimalist, the sheets crisp and white, their starkness almost ceremonial against the darker tones of the room. There were no unnecessary decorations, no excess. Even the windows were narrow, their tinted glass softening the sunlight into clean, restrained lines that cut across the floor and the bed in quiet geometry.
It was a room built for clarity.
Malik followed Aya inside without speaking, letting the silence settle naturally between them. He noticed, as he always did, the way she moved—straight-backed, measured, each step deliberate without being stiff. Even relaxed, Aya carried herself like someone who never forgot where the exits were.
She turned to face him once the door closed, steel-gray eyes lifting to meet his. Her expression gave nothing away, but her gaze was sharp, assessing, already ahead of the moment as if she were mapping it before it fully arrived.
"You're quiet," Malik said at last, his tone gentle, almost amused.
He stepped closer, slow enough to give her time to retreat if she wanted to. She didn't. His hands found her waist, light at first, resting there like a question rather than a claim. Aya inhaled—a controlled breath that betrayed her only in its timing.
"I'm observing," she replied calmly. "You're different with her."
Malik smiled, unapologetic. "And how am I with you?"
Aya considered him for a moment, her gaze steady, searching. Then something faint shifted—an almost-smile, private and brief. "With Risa, you're warmth," she said. "With me… you're focus."
His hands lifted, cupping her face with deliberate care, thumbs brushing lightly along her cheekbones. "And which do you prefer?"
Aya didn't answer right away. She leaned into his touch instead, just enough to make her meaning clear. "Both," she said quietly. Then, softer still, "But right now, I want you to kiss me."
Malik didn't hesitate.
The kiss was slow, unhurried—no rush, no hunger overtaking restraint. His hands slid into her hair, fingers threading through the dark strands as if memorizing their weight, their texture. Aya answered him fully, her hands gripping his shoulders with a firmness that matched her nature, pulling him closer with quiet insistence rather than urgency.
There was nothing careless about the way she kissed him. It was precise, intentional—control meeting trust, steel yielding without breaking.
Malik felt it in the way her breath changed, in the subtle tension beneath her calm exterior. His hands traced the lines of her posture, familiarizing themselves with the strength there, the discipline earned over years of survival and vigilance. He didn't rush. He never did with her. Aya was not someone to be taken quickly.
"You're extraordinary," he murmured against her temple, the words carrying weight rather than flattery.
Aya's reply was a breath against his collar, warm and steady. "So are you—when you're not trying to be gentle."
He laughed softly at that, the sound low and close. "Then tell me when to stop."
She didn't answer with words.
She guided him instead—one step, then another—until the back of her knees met the edge of the bed. The sheets were cool beneath her as she sat, then drew him down with her, the contrast of temperature and proximity sharpening every sensation. Malik followed willingly, his movements measured, his attention entirely hers.
The world narrowed.
Outside, the island breathed. Waves broke against the shore. Light shifted beyond the tinted glass. But inside the room, time softened, stretching into something quieter, deeper.
Aya rested her forehead against his, eyes closed now—not guarding, not watching. Trust, offered without ceremony.
Whatever followed did not need to be spoken aloud.
The door remained closed.The room held its silence.And for once, Aya did not need to shape it into armor.
She let it be enough.
Aya pulled back just enough to meet Malik's gaze, her steel-gray eyes sharp but softened with something rare—vulnerability. She didn't speak. Instead, she stood in one fluid motion, the movement precise, controlled, every line of her body honed and deliberate.
Malik's breath caught as he took her in. The room's muted light traced the lean, athletic curves of her—her shoulders straight, her posture unyielding, the kind of strength that didn't need to announce itself. The dark fabric of her fitted top clung to her torso, outlining the small but firm swell of her breasts, the way they rose and fell with each measured breath. Her waist was taut, her hips narrow but defined, the muscles in her thighs and calves carved from years of discipline. The faint scars along her ribs and forearms were pale against her skin, silent testaments to battles survived.
She reached for the hem of her top, her fingers steady as she pulled it over her head in one smooth motion. The fabric pooled at her feet, leaving her in nothing but her dark, high-cut bottoms—practical, unadorned, the kind of garment designed for movement rather than seduction. But the way it hugged her hips, the way the fabric dipped between her thighs, made Malik's fingers twitch with the effort of not reaching for her.
Aya didn't tease. She didn't perform. She simply was—and that was enough.
Her hands found the waistband of her bottoms, her fingers hooking into the fabric before sliding it down her legs. She stepped out of them without hesitation, her body bare before him, unguarded and unapologetic. The sunlight filtering through the tinted windows caught the pale, smooth expanse of her skin, the way her muscles flexed slightly as she shifted her weight. Her breasts were small but perfectly shaped, high and firm, her nipples dark and tight. The neat triangle of dark hair between her thighs was trimmed with precision, the kind of deliberate care that matched the rest of her.
Malik's breath came faster, his body responding to the sight of her, to the way she stood before him—confident, controlled, his.
She knelt before him, her hands finding the waistband of his pants, her touch sure as she undid the fastenings. His cock sprang free, thick and dark, already hard, the head glistening with pre-cum. Aya's fingers wrapped around his shaft, her grip firm but gentle, her touch exploring the weight of him, the heat of him. Malik groaned, his hands finding her shoulders, his fingers digging into her skin as she stroked him, her movements slow and deliberate.
"You're perfect, and I might add, your hands feel amazing," Malik murmured, his voice rough with admiration, with restraint.
Aya didn't answer. Instead, she leaned forward, her lips parting as she took the head of his cock into her mouth. Her tongue flicked over the sensitive skin, her touch tentative at first, but her enthusiasm made up for any lack of experience. Malik's breath hitched, his hands tightening in her hair as she took more of him, her lips sealing around his shaft, her tongue swirling in slow, deliberate patterns.
Malik's body trembled, his release building, his cock thickening in her mouth. Aya didn't pull away. Instead, she took him deeper, her hands gripping his thighs, her nails digging into his skin as she worked him, her movements growing more confident, more demanding.
"Damn—Aya—!" Malik groaned, his hips bucking up instinctively, seeking more, needing more.
Aya's answer was a low, approving hum, the vibration sending a jolt of pleasure through him. She took him deeper, her lips sealing around the base of his cock, her tongue swirling in fast, tight circles. Malik's breath came in ragged gasps, his body trembling with the effort of holding still, of letting her take all she wanted.
With a final, desperate thrust, Malik buried himself deep in her mouth, his cock pulsing as he released a massive amount of thick, hot cum. Aya didn't pull away. Instead, she took it all, her throat working as she swallowed, her lips sealing around him as she milked the last drops from his cock. Some of his cum dripped from her lips, trailing down her chin, her throat, the heat of it glistening on her skin.
Aya pulled back slowly, her tongue flicking out to catch the last drops, her steel-gray eyes meeting his. She didn't wipe her face. Instead, she reached for the discarded cloth on the bedside table, cleaning herself with deliberate, unhurried movements.
Malik watched her, his body still humming with pleasure, his breath ragged. Aya's gaze never left his as she turned, her body moving with the same precision as always, the same quiet confidence. She climbed onto the bed, her body sinking into the crisp sheets, her legs parting slightly, an invitation, a surrender.
"Take me," she murmured, her voice a low, velvety command. "However you want."