The alarm rang loud waking me up in the dark apartment. I woke up slowly, blinking, my legs still tangled in the sheets. Then I felt it—cool air on my skin. All of my skin. I realised I was still completely naked. Ya Allah. Heat rushed to my face so fast I felt dizzy. Embarrassment. Shame. And something else… a warm, heavy ache low in my belly when I remembered why. His hands. His mouth. His... The way he came apart because of me.
I sat up quick, clutching the sheet to my chest like it could hide everything. "Astaghfirullah," I whispered. Then louder. "Astaghfirullah." I felt saying it louder will make it finally stick to me, Would make me clean again.
I prayed Fajr with extra care. Slow rakats. Long ruku. In sujood I stayed down, forehead pressed to the sajjada, begging. Please forgive me. Please give me strength. Please don't let me want it again. But even while I prayed I felt it—the throb between my thighs. My body remembering.
Traitor.
After wudu I stood in the bathroom, water dripping from my face. My eyes caught the crimson lace on the floor. Panties and bra, crumpled together. Stained with his smell. Still carrying the scent—musky, warm, wrong. I should throw them in the laundry bag right now. I should. My hand reached out… and I threw them...
towards my suitcase in the bed. They were the only beautiful set I had left. The one Marie picked for me. Practicality, I told myself. Just practicality. My cheeks burned hotter as I folded them small, careful, like they were precious. I slipped them into the silk pouch and buried it deep in my suitcase. No one will know. No one.
I dressed like I was trying to become someone else. Charcoal pencil skirt—too tight around my hips, I thought, too soft, too much of me. Crisp white silk blouse that whispered over my skin and made my nipples tighten. Astaghfirullah. Navy blazer. Neutral silk hijab pinned perfect with the magnetic pins so nothing slipped. Heels taller than I was used to. In the mirror I looked… different. Executive. Sharp. Like I could stand next to him and not disappear. But I knew what the blazer hid. One hundred ninety pounds. Ugly, the girls used to whisper. Obese. I smoothed the skirt again, wondering if the blazer really hid it. He had touched me anyway. Wanted me anyway. The thought made warmth bloom low — then shame burned hotter. Why would he want this body? Ya Allah, don't let me believe I'm worth wanting.
The Escalade was exactly on time—5:30 a.m., same as always. Company car. Company driver. I greeted Marcus and slid into the back seat, suitcase beside me, heart going too fast. We were directly headed to the airport to get a head start on the day. My first private flight. My first international trip for work. I never thought I would go to Canada. Not like this.
I got down the Escalade, Marcus wished me luck for my first merger discussion. It felt as if people around me have a lot of expectations of me. I need to live up to them. It's scary and exciting at the same time. I gathered all my nerves and walked into the private terminal where everyone was already waiting.
Marcus—legal head, friendly but sharp. Elise—our CFO, elegant, cool, French-Canadian accent. The two junior analysts, both men, looking nervous. And him. Lucifer. Dark suit perfect, tablet in hand… but his eyes looked tired, shadows beneath them. For a moment he seemed almost human. When I walked in his eyes lifted. For one second they held mine—remembering everything from last night. My stomach flipped. Then he nodded, professional.
"Morning."
"Good morning, sir," I said, too soft, too breathy. I started to add his name — "Lucif—" but the word caught in my throat.
"How was your rest last night ?" He asked me face softening just a touch.
He asked me about how I slept. I thought about yesterday when I was sleeping naked in bed, and flustered in front of him. He does not need to know the details.
So I said, "It was comfortable."
The flight was quiet. I worked the whole time—reviewing slides, checking numbers, fixing tiny mistakes before anyone saw. Elise asked questions; I answered clear and calm. But I felt his gaze on me across the aisle. Like a touch. My thighs pressed together under the little blanket. I pretended to read.
Old Montreal was like a dream in summer—sun warm on the cobblestones, old stone buildings glowing golden in the light, street performers playing music on every corner, outdoor cafés spilling onto the streets with people laughing and eating. The St. Lawrence River sparkled blue, boats moving slow, terraces full along the Old Port. Beaumont Capital's office was in one of those beautiful old buildings. Henri Beaumont was polite but careful. His daughter Sophie—early forties, perfect suit, perfect hair—was sharper. She asked the hardest questions, The questions that aligned to her business values.
When they said they wanted to meet the "young analyst who rebuilt the model," my heart jumped. That was me. I stood. I spoke. Quiet, clear. I saw the questions coming before they asked. I answered before they finished. Sophie's eyes changed slowly. By the end she nodded. Even smiled a little.
I felt him watching. Proud. It made warmth spread low again. Haram. Stop it.
Dinner was formal—long table, candles, French food in a restaurant with stone walls and history. I sat between Elise and Marcus. Sophie sat across. She was telling me about the maple sweetness that the Canadian whiskies have. And the slow burning sensation when it flows down the throat.
She gave me a nosing glass of Sortilège Prestige. No Ice. No water.
Amber liquid, sweet maple scent. My hand trembled. Alcohol. Haram. But refusing might look ungrateful, damage the deal… I took the tiniest sip, felt the burn slide down like punishment. Astaghfirullah. The sweetness lingered on my tongue and guilt choked me harder than the whisky ever could.
Sophie was proud that her experience in drinks were helpful to me. And Elise and Marcus praising my tolerance to the burn that seemingly not many girls have. Yet I could only think about the haram I just committed willingly, Astaghfirullah.
While talking to them I felt someone watching me, I glanced around as if my eyes were searching of the source. And then I found him, looking at me. A little bit proud and a little bit intense. He sat too far in the front along with Henri and his cousins. I felt guilty for not looking for him until now.
Then he looked away from me, and didn't look at me again. On purpose. I almost felt anxious. I kept my voice steady while i was shaking inside. I thought he's ignoring me now. Maybe that was why. But the reason isn't important now. I texted him asking what happened. But he didn't touch his phone.
I had decided to let it go for now and talk to him later.
Back at the boutique hotel everyone went to bed early. Meetings tomorrow. I went to my room on the executive floor. Same floor as him. I tried to sleep. Couldn't.
At 11:02 my phone buzzed.
Private steam room 02, spa level.
My heart slammed. Private steam room. With him. Alone. My fingers shook. I should ignore it. Pray istighfar. But my legs were already moving.
I went down still fully dressed. Tablet in hand like an excuse. I told myself it was just to talk about work. Nothing else.
The elevator took me down to the spa level. The hallway was quiet, dim, already warm and humid. A small desk with a woman in a white uniform smiled at me.
"Bonsoir, madame. Vous êtes ici pour le hammam privé?"
I nodded, cheeks heating. "Y-yes… it's reserved."
She glanced at a list, smiled again. "Ah, oui. Monsieur has already arrived. For the steam room, we ask guests to change into towels only—no clothing inside, please. Locker room is just there." She pointed to a door. "Fresh towels will be on the shelves."
My stomach dropped. Towel only. No clothing. Mixed. With him. Ya Allah. Haram. Everything haram. My mouth went dry.
"I-I… are you sure?" I whispered.
She nodded kindly. "Standard policy for the hammam, madame. Keeps the space clean."
I stood frozen. Run. Go back upstairs. Repent.
But his message. Five minutes. He was waiting.
My hands shook as I went into the small locker room. Empty. Quiet. I folded my blazer neat. Blouse. Skirt. Shoes lined up. I kept the crimson lace on underneath—couldn't bear to be completely bare. Wrapped the thick white towel tight around me. It barely reached mid-thigh. Too much leg showing. Too soft. Ugly. I left my hijab pinned. Couldn't take that off too. Not completely yet.
Bare feet cold on the tile, I walked to the door marked Hammam Privé – Réservé. Steam curling out from under it.
I pushed it open.
Inside, amber lights low. Thick steam everywhere. Eucalyptus sharp and hot. Tiled benches gleaming. And him—upper bench, towel low on his hips, chest bare and already damp. Broad shoulders. Strong arms. Sweat tracing down his skin. He looked up. Eyes dark.
"You texted me during dinner."
He crooked one finger.
I closed the door. Click.
My legs carried me over. I sat close. So close. The hot tile burned through the towel on my thighs. Steam stuck to my skin instantly. Droplets forming everywhere.
His hand rose slow. Fingertip caught one drop above my collarbone. Traced it down. Down. Over the curve where the towel gaped. So light. My nipple tightened hard. Shame burned hotter than the steam.
"You wore it again," he murmured, voice rough. His fingers brushed the lace edge through the towel. He knew.
My face was on fire. I nodded tiny.
He followed another droplet lower. Stopped at the towel's knot. Never below.
"You were brilliant today," he said against my ear, breath warm and moist. "It was an impressive presentation, and I wanted to praise you for your hard work."
Another drop. Teasing the swell of my breast.
His finger circled lazily, tracing the path of another bead of water, grazing the soft swell of my breast.
"I've rarely seen anyone surrender so completely to their talent," he continued, voice velvet and dangerous. "Giving everything. Holding nothing back. It's… intoxicating."
I swallowed hard. The words sounded like praise for work. But the way he said surrender. The way his eyes darkened. My body understood the hidden meaning my mind didn't. Heat pooled low, shameful.
Another droplet. His fingertip chased it, slow, deliberate.
"Tomorrow, when the papers are signed and the victory is ours… I want to see that same beautiful surrender again. Just for me."
I whimpered—small, helpless sound I couldn't hold in. Steam. Guilt. Want. Mixed hammam. Near naked before a man not my husband. Haram haram haram. My thighs pressed together tight. Wet. Aching. I was already panting. I told myself it was only the steam. But the ache between my thighs knew better.
He leaned closer, lips barely brushing my ear.
"You'll be perfect, Aafreen. You always are… when you finally let go."
Then he pulled back. Eyes steady. Control snapped tight again.
"Go to bed," he said quietly. "Rest. Tomorrow you finish what you started."
I stood on shaking legs. Towel clutched like a lifeline. The cooler hallway air hit me like a slap.
In the elevator I squeezed my thighs together, breath ragged, guilt and longing twisted so tight I could barely think.
Ya Allah, forgive me. Please forgive me.
But tomorrow night the deal would be done.
And some trembling, secret part of me was already wondering how it would feel to surrender completely… just for him.