"I think you should stop being so mean to me, Zahed."
"Why would I ever do that?"
Aryan grins, a bright, wicked thing.
"Because I kiss you like this."
•
Mira Zahed and Aryan Shankar are at war.
When her best friend and his cousin decide to fall in...
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♥ ♥ ♥
ZAHED AND I HAVE MASTERED THE ART OF FUCKING everywhere but in a bed.
The Saturday after Fakhoury's lunch and we've gotten car sex down to a tee.
She literally sent her car to wash on Sunday and by Monday, it happened again. I'm not entirely sure how or why or when or what. It's just that something about leaning in to kiss Zahed feels inevitable. But I don't think too much about that.
But we've come to an unspoken rule of no fucking in either of our beds. I'm not sure if hotel beds are up for debate but we haven't gotten there yet. So far, this works. No mornings stumbling from Calabasas, no Kenna knocking on my door and Zahed skittering to hide in the shower or something. It's convenient, it's easy. And her car is big. So is an empty Chem lab, The Locker Room Part Two and the single-stalled bathroom of a Malibu lunch spot that was fancy enough to have argan oil hand soap.
She's good at sneaking around.
I'd noticed that on Thursday night in the backseat of her Range when she'd quite literally grabbed my head and tugged me down in a single rough motion while I'd quite literally been inside of her. Our panting and heavy breaths had died in our throats the moment she'd insisted that she'd caught the flash of a camera in the side mirror.
My entire body went cold because— hell, I'd been joking about the sex tape from TMZ. I might be able to get away with a lot of things but a sex tape would cost me all manner of beatings and last I checked, my grandmother had a lot of slippers.
Then, sense washed over me and I narrowed my eyes down at her in the dark. It was night. The car park was empty. The beach beyond was empty. It was a small strip of Santa Monica on a Thursday night, after all. She was seeing things. Maybe I'd fucked her too hard. I'd told her as much only to get a growl as I tore from her grasp to lift my head and scan out the window.
Lo and behold, it was just some rando far off on the beach taking pictures of the sky. She'd relaxed when I informed her of this. Yet, when we'd picked back up where we left off, I left my head low, her hands in my hair, rocking against her with slow, endless thrusts that had her fingers tightening and the world feeling like it was shifting with us. With nothing but the swallowed sound of each other's names, the world had shuddered to a halt around us, as combined pleasure whipped through both of us together like torrential storm winds, my forehead pressed low against hers. She was good at that too.
It's Saturday and Malibu and Mira's hair is a pretty tangle around her face as she nibbles on a miniature tostada across from me, the overhead light fixture encased in ritzy pink glass that casts her features in a healthy pink glow. It does a good job of hiding the flush from the bathroom.
