Page 51 of Oliver
Sixteen
OLIVER
The party bus'sbass vibrated through the floor, but I barely registered the music. All I could focus on was Zahra's weight in my lap, the softness of her thighs against my hand, her intoxicating scent surrounding me like a gravitational field I had no hope of escaping.
She'd ended up there when the driver took that last turn too sharply. At least, that's what I told myself. A logical explanation. Physics. Momentum. The natural consequence of an object in motion meeting an unexpected change in direction.
But physics couldn't explain why I hadn’t let her return to her seat, or why her fingers were now playing with my collar, tracing the edge with featherlight touches that sent sparks cascading down my spine.
Her eyes darted across the aisle where Ryan watched us, his expression dark despite the party atmosphere. I pulled her closer, nuzzling the soft skin where her neck met her shoulder. She inhaled sharply, the sound cutting through the cacophony of music and drunken laughter.
It was for show, I reminded myself.A performance. Nothing more.
But when her head tilted to give me better access, my rational mind short-circuited. I trailed kisses up the column of her throat, tasting the salt on her skin, breathing in the jasmine notes of her soap. Her pulse hammered beneath my lips, matching the thundering of my own heart.
"Oliver," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the music, yet somehow the only sound in my universe.
Hearing her say my name like that—half plea, half surrender—unraveled something tightly coiled inside me, something I'd kept locked away since the moment I recognized her in that coffee shop.
“Yes, Zahra?” I rumbled into her ear before tracing the shell with the tip of my tongue.
Her barely suppressed whimper wound me up even tighter, and I was thanking my lucky stars when the bus jerked to a stop in front of the hotel.
Zahra slid from my lap, smoothing her dress with trembling hands. I adjusted my glasses, which had gone slightly askew, and tried to regulate my breathing.
Control. I needed control.
But control was becoming increasingly elusive as we filed into the hotel's elevator with the rest of the wedding party. Bodies pressed together in the confined space, forcing Zahra to press her chest against my flank, my hands finding her waist.
We had seven floors to go, the elevator stopping on each one, and we were just one before the last.
Ryan stood behind us, even though he was set to get off before us, and then his floor came and went. Then another. And he was still there, lingering, his sneer caught in the reflection of the elevator doors.
I slid my hand lower, letting it rest on the curve of Zahra’s ass, and looked down at her with a grin that had her breath catching. I bowed my head, licking into her mouth, muffling her escaped moan.
“Jesus, Oliver, some of us are going to sleep alone tonight,” Darryl’s brother, his best man, said from across the elevator, and collective laughter broke out, the entire wedding party jumping in on the teasing. But I barely heard them, and didn’t care enough to listen. I was wrapped up inher—the way her pupils dilated, darkening the brightness of her irises, and the way her lips parted, glistening, begging me for more.
My nose slid across Zahra’s cheek, mouth pressing to her ear. "Ryan's still watching."
She nodded, leaning into me. "We should keep up appearances."
In truth, I'd lost track of him two floors ago.
Each floor emptied a few more people, but I maintained my hold, never taking my eyes off her. By the time we reached our floor, only Parisa and Darryl remained, but the pretense had become a convenient fiction we both clung to, a justification for not stepping away, for not breaking contact.
Parisa said something as we exited the elevator, but I couldn’t hear her over the sound of my thundering pulse.
In the hallway, Zahra turned to face me, her expression unreadable in the dim lighting. We'd gotten good at these moments, these performances. A casual touch here, a lingering gaze there—small gestures that made our relationship seem authentic to observers. We knew exactly how to make it look real.
But when her lips found mine this time, something fundamental shifted. Her fingers threaded through my hair, nails scraping lightly against my scalp. My grip tightened on her waist, pulling her flush against me.
The hallway blurred. I wasn’t walking anymore—I was being dragged under, caught in her orbit, spinning toward impact.
Zahra’s back hit the door. I pinned her there, hips pressing, teeth clanking.God, I was already half-drunk on her, on this.
She yanked at my belt. My hands—fuuuuuck—were everywhere, sliding up her thighs, gripping her waist, tracing every curve I’d spent the past several weeks pretending I didn’t want to memorize.
I fumbled with the keycard, my pulse hammering in my ears.Shit. Dropped it.
