"Speak of her over my grave and watch how she brings me back to life." — Mahmoud Darwish

Azmaray fiddled with the leather binding of his journal. He had lost it a week back and was surprised to find it inside Laila's suitcase. They had landed in Istanbul last night for their overdue honeymoon, and as he took out Laila's dress he was shocked to find the black worn out journal in between her clothes. He fingered the warm manilla pages, turning them over, all the while is mind still ran wild in curiosity about its sudden appearance. His hand stilled as it came across a page filled in red glittery writing, the crooked handwriting and red pen were the farthest from his black, cursive words.

Two pages filled with 'Laila loves Azmaray'. Pages of confession. Tiny hearts littered across, dated a few days back. She had not said the words to his face, yet. He waited until the day she had enough courage would arrive. However it seemed that the little thief knew how she felt and was only making him suffer. Hiding the journal back in it's previous spot he took out the outfit she had requested before heading to take a shower. A sharp orange turtleneck, one made of the softest cashmere. And a pair of medium washed jeans, that were snug around her legs and made them look longer. Placing them on the hook inside the en-suite Azmaray straightened up the room, running his hand through his hair to loosen them up just a little bit.

Laila hummed under her breath, swaying under the spray of luke warm water. Her hands massaged the skin of her scalp her body still tingling from the toe curling pleasure Azmaray had gifted her with just this morning. Her bones were sated and at the root of her soul there was nothing but endless peace. Running the complementary rose scented soap on her skin she washed each inch of herself throughly, her mind clouded with what if's.

"Laila if you want to have breakfast we need to leave the room now," Azmaray knocked on the shower's glass door.

"Oh. Give me ten minutes," she replied.

Stepping out and wrapping her hair in the fluffy towel, she got dressed in a matter of seconds. Promising herself that she would come clean about her feelings to Azmaray. He deserved to know how she felt, the intensity of her feelings was not something she could bare, all by herself. Drinking in her form in the vanity's mirror, Laila smiled in appreciation. Her skin was glowing, the apples of her cheeks naturally a shade of red. Her eyes were gleaming with something, something she could not put a finger on. The dull pecan of her eyes was like a polished wood now. She rubbed the nude lipstick on her lips, her hands hastily grabbing her crossbody bag as Azmaray dragged her out, their stomachs rumbling in unison.

"You look pretty," he spoke.

She kissed his cheek in reply. Her hand held on to his as they crossed the threshold and went inside the luxurious elevator. The floors made of marble and three walls made of thick gorilla glass. Laila fixed her hair, looking into one of the mirrors. Passing the couple that was with them a smile. The two returned the smiles and soon turned their attention to their young child, who was flailing his arms inside the sleek pram. Laila rested her head on Azmaray's arms feeling worn our already.

The doors opened with a light bell sound coming through the speakers. The young couple moving towards the exit of the seven star hotel whilst they moved into the large dinning hall. The room was painted a cream, long rows of buffet styled tables set up, smells of fresh breads wafting in the room. Waiters ran in and out of the place bringing in more freshly prepared breakfast items. Round tables with white linen table cloth covered the rest of the room and on top of them were maroon embossed menu cards, for guests who wanted to order something specific.

"Do you want to go to the buffet and eat English breakfast or do you want to try the kahvalti?" [Traditional Turkish breakfast] Azmaray spoke.

"The kehva vala," [kehva - is a warm drink, one] Laila mispronounced.

"Alright. Let's take a seat," he walked her to one that had a view of the large pool that was in the last days of functioning.

He called for one of the servers and placed their orders. The two making small talk amongst themselves, their eyes devouring each other. Laila placed her hand on top of his on the table, brushing his skin with her small thumb. His eyes bore holes into her face, a fire inside them as they took the sight of her in. He turned his hand over, gripping her wrist and bringing it forward. Placing a gentle kiss in the inside of her wrists. Laila blushed like a beetroot, slapping his hand away. Sinking into her seat as the food was brought out.

It was served on a thick wooden tray, bread—simit as Azmaray informed her, had been cut into straight rectangular pieces and were placed on one side. Small cups of sweet butter and fig, cherry and apricot jams placed infront. They had chosen Brie and Feta cheese for their breakfast, after Azmaray had thoroughly explained to her what each of those tasted like. To Laila the whole experience was out of this world good. It was something she had never experienced before and her heart yearned to explore the land of the people whose dramas Anbar raved about. There was a deep cast iron pan and a picturesque Sucuklu yumurta [eggs with sausage] rested inside. Topped with fresh cilantro and oregano. The centre of the tray filled with an array of halal cured meats.

"What are these?" Laila pointed at the sliced meats.

"Cured meats". Azmaray replied.

"Astaghfirullah! Yeh log beemar gosht bhi bechtay hain?" [God forbid! These people sell meats full of disease too?] Laila frowned.

Azmaray let out a belly rumbling laughter. Explaining to her that it was a form of meat preparation, much like they salted fish. Still a bit skeptical, Laila nodded her head. Diving straight into the soft bread and moaning as they made contact with her tounge. The food was a bit plain, Laila later told Azmaray. She was used to the spicy food of her own country, and the Turkish palette was like a healthier alternative. However, she wolfed down her share—after all it was still good food.

"Didn't you say it isn't for your tastebuds?" He teased.

"It isn't. But doctors say not too much spice anyways, plus, who can say no to such delicious food?" Laila shook her head, stuffing her mouth once more.

Autumn was setting itself in Istanbul and the temperatures were slightly decreasing. A wind blew outside and ruffled the leaves of the tall trees. As they stepped out of the warm cocoon of their hotel, Laila leaned into Azmaray's figure, his broad shoulders blocking some of the fast winds. He laughed and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She let her body relax and nuzzled into him, looking down at their feet as they smacked against the cobblestone pathways of the Grand Bazaar. It reminded Laila of the old markets in their own country. Ones like Anarkali that had stood the test of time. She sighed on realizing that the marketplace was covered and would offer some form of protection from the winds outside. She swung their hands slowly as the crossed the many streets, stopping at random shops and buying various trinkets.

"We need to get bathlava for Anbar," Laila stumbled over her words.

"It's Baklava jaan," [life,] he corrected.

"Same thing. We need to get a box of it, okay?" She ordered.

"Come on, we'll get it in a few days, for now I'm going to make you try some," Azmaray guided her towards a small store.

The place was glittering as a result of the bright gems that were used to decorate it. An elderly man with a greying beard served customers boxes upon boxes of the country's local dessert, expertly counting down the money before placing them in the till. The two walked to the front and Azmaray asked for a tiny box of the Baklava. Asking the man, who spoke a broken english, how much their bill was while Laila fiddled with her phone.

"It-good Baklava. Hundred seventy year old recipe, for you— 210 Lira," he offered.

"210 Lira is in today's date, 2,810 PKR— Allah maaf kare dada ji qabar mein jaane keh din hai aur kaisay itna mehnga de rahay hain! Azmaray iss sai acha ghar ja kar kaju wali barfi khila dena!" [God forgive, grandfather is in his last days and is selling it for so much! Azmaray it would be better if you buy me cashew dessert back home!] Laila whispered, all the while Azmaray shook his head with a wide smile on his face.

Walking out, he fed a piece to Laila. A smile blooming on her face as she devoured more than half of the container whilst they strolled down the bazaar. Her eyes taking in all the fancy dresses inspired the Ottoman empire that were on sale, and the plentiful shops that sold tiny ornaments. The bronze lamps in particular caught her eye as she walked to the vendor. Her fingers brushing the narrow mouth of it.

"Azmaray look Aladdin ka chiragh!" [Aladdin's lamp!] she spoke in wonder.

———

| Laila's fit |

Laila fixed her hair. The sleek middle parted soft waves framed her face. A smoky, sultry eye makeup covered her almond shaped eyes, a pink flush added to her cheeks, champagne highlighter dusted across her brow bone. A thin diamond chain rested at the middle of her swan like neck, teardrop shaped diamond earrings studded with blood red rubies in the centre. The crimson silk saree was elegantly draped around her frame. The sequin embellished border brushed the floor as she walked. The sleeveless blouse had a deep neckline that curved just above the slopes of her breast. It gleamed like the stars under the warm lights.

Azmaray stepped out of the bathroom dressed in a tux. A black bow in his neck, sat at a weird angle. The sequined lapels of his suit jacket complemented Laila's look. The crisp bergamot and spicy pepper scent of his Sauvage Dior perfume tingled Laila's skin. Especially when he walked up close and rested his warm palm against her bare arm. The chilly breeze from the windows combined with it resulted in a series of goosebumps traveling through her skin. His fingers lifted the thin material from her shoulder rearranging the folds before laying it against her hot skin.

"We should get going," he placed a kiss on her temple.

Still in a haze from his hot touch, she nodded her head, following behind them. Azmaray had bought them tickets to the Bosphorus dinner cruise. Laila had planned her outfit mentally for three days, seeking the advice of Ayna and Anbar on video call. The two blushing as Laila teased about the kind of lingerie she would be wearing. Her hand was loosely wrapped in Azmaray's as he helped her inside the car that had been arranged by the hotel for them. The expensive leather smell seemed to dull against Azmaray's perfume, his warm chest slightly pressed against her frame. He fiddled with the thin bracelet on her wrist his warm thumb igniting a fire in her flesh.

The car stopped infront of the harbor and the two stepped out. His arm around her waist guiding her into the luxurious cruise liner, his hand brushing against her warm back and sinking dangerously low. She elbowed him in the chest, fixing his bow tie as they waited for the line to proceed. Her lips brushed against his cheek as she straightened herself. The sweet notes of her perfume dancing on the tips of his nostril.

"How do I look?" Laila spoke.

"Bohat haseen," [Extremely beautiful,] he whispered.

She hummed in satisfaction, she could notice people around them walk around in evening gowns and cocktail dresses. The truth was she was at home in their country's attire. It was her cup of tea and nothing, or no one would change that for her. Laila rolled her eyes at a group of young girls, their jaws dropped at the sight of Azmaray's figure — she mentally praised her luck. He was a mighty fine man and all hers.

"The way you're staring at them those poor girls will die Laila," Azmaray cleared his throat.

"Its all your fault. They can't keep their eyes in check so I guess we're buying you a burqa!" [Its a loose dress used to cover yourself.] Laila replied.

Azmaray winked at her in reply, the two wordlessly walking into the wide dinning hall. Taking their place near the deck, the two watched the belly dances with eager eye. Or well one of them did, Azmaray's eyes were fixated on to the salad infront of them, his hand rubbing Laila's thigh from above the satin skirt. She pushed his hand away, eyes trained on the show infront. She marveled at them and their water fluid motions.

"I bet you can do better," he teased.

"Would you like to see? Your own private show?" She slid her hand upwards.

Her fingers brushed his groin, his jaw pulling taut, fingers running against the side of his jaw to loosen them up.

"I'm not saint enough to turn that invite down". He replied, his breathing harsh.

"You're in luck. My husband isn't in town, I can show you a few tricks I've picked up," she grinned.

"Like theft?"

His thumb brushed the lime-cilantro dressing from the side of her lips. They had selected on grilled fish, it was served with a fresh salad of lettuce, rhubarbs and red onion. A side of confit potatoes just the perfect gold hue and right amount of charr. Their choice of drink had been a fresh lime drink, although Azmaray had been itching to order a glass of whiskey, one glare from Laila and he backed down.

"No—what do you mean?" She fiddled with her fingers.

"A certain diary went missing," his lips skimmed the shell of her ear, taking advantage of the dark lighting.

Laila's breath quickened as his hands sneak under the drape, brushing her ribs one at a time, dragging upwards at a torturously slow speed. Although, she was never one to back away from a challenge. Carefully making a bite for herself, she wrapped her lips around the fork and let out a low moan at the fresh flavors. Lowering her free hand, she squeezed his erection staring at him all the while. The remaining two hours it seemed, would not pass so easily.

The building tension was palpable. Their skins were laced with anticipation, each honeyed word that fell from their lips like a soft spell, increased the building desire. Anyone who paid heed to them would notice the constricted muscles and light traces of fingers with hands that trembled. The short bites they fed each other were not so innocent with a deeper, more sinister goal lurking beneath the calm surface. The hazel of his eyes turned darker and the streaks of oak in them became more prominent. Laila's turned complete obsidian and a prideful smirk clouded her soft features. Her slender back was straight like a rod attention filled movements as she sipped on the sprite she had got. Her lips slowly wrapping around the thin straw, leaving behind a soft mark on the white plasticine.

Time inched closer to the moment when they would arrive at shore. The sword dance that was traditional to the land performed infront of them reminded Laila of their wedding night. Of the knife Azmaray had used and it sent tingles down to her core, her legs crossed in order to reduce her desire to jump on him at that very second. Once on shore, he calmly guided her into the car and helped her into their hotel room, his hands pinching the skin just above the curve of her derrière.

mature content. Feel free to skip
———

Azmaray locked the bedroom door. Unbuttoning the buttons of his tux one at a time, he walked to her in a slow rhythmic stroll. Laila moved backwards, a smirk dancing on her painted lips, luring him into her web. As soon as he was close enough to wrap an arm around her waist, she pushed him away. Her hands brushed the lapels, nails dragging over his toned skin from above the smooth shirt. Leaving behind sparks of need and desire. She dug her hands under the pads of the suit above his shoulder, pushing it off of his arms.

"Sit down and enjoy the show you were promised," Laila dropped an open mouth kissed on his cheek.

She tugged him towards the bed and sat him down on the soft mattress. Pulling the curtains close, she dimmed the lighting until the room was shrouded in nothing but a soft yellow light. Her skin lit up as her eyes with a fiery look traced his enthralled features. The strictness of her face reminded Azmaray of the days they were just nawab sahab and rani. Two strangers that needed each other, without the intimacy of knowing each other. Laila played a soft tune, that soon turned into the humming of beating drums and whistles. The soulful voice of a renowned singer filling the room as she got in position.

Laila lifted her arms in the air, gravity in full effect caused the drape to lower and give him a full view of her soft breasts. She turned around and moved her hips to the beats of the drum, her hands cutting through the air, the loose hair spilling into the stillness. Her feet moved around in perfect beats as she performed the chakr [its a part of traditional dance, a circle taken in five steps] her crimson skirt lifted a and gave a peak of her toned calves and the strapped heels. Azmaray felt his member stiffen against his cotton boxers. He shifted in his seat, his blood pumping through his veins at a maddening speed.

She walked towards him with slow circles cutting the distance. Her feet smacking the ground, the heels doing little to destroy the rhythm. Like a snake she slithered, without sound, her hands brushing against his cheeks, mouth softly singing the words of the romantic song. A twirl. A head turn. A wink. She smirked before sinking into his lap still in character. Her hands brushing his outer thigh, the dance changing from the pure kathak to an erotic lap dance.

She dug her soft hips in between his legs. Moving softly against the front of his trousers. Both of them felt the heats of each other, the smell of arousal and the tension in their muscles rubbed against each other. Her hands slyly worked on the buckle of his belt, sliding the zipper down her hand snaked into the waistband. She brushed her cold hands against the warm skin of his dick. Azmaray groaned, his face nuzzling into her neck, leaving soft kisses on the naked skin. Tremors traveling from her brain to her toes. He moved his hand over her skirt tugging them open, stumbling under the petticoat, he slid his hand over her lace panties.

"Just—just like that," he groaned.

Azmaray felt her hand squeeze his length, running back and forth with her fingers brushing his head. He moved the fabric of her flimsy panties aside, dipping his fingers into her wet arousal. Rubbing the sensitive clit he pushed a finger in between her folds, leaving haste kisses on her neck and sucking at the skin behind her ear. Laila moved her hand out of his trouser gripping his hair tight and moving his face deeper, moving her hips to meet his motions. Rotating her pelvic floor to engage with the friction, the buildup of pressure getting unbearable. His finger pinched her clothed nipple, they already straining against the fabric of her blouse. The pinch caused her tender skin to brush the coarse fabric, a cruel moan escaping her lips.

Azmaray moved his hand to her back, sliding up her skin sending goosebumps down her backbone. He opened the zipper of her shirt sliding it off and freeing her upper body. His hands massaged her soft breast, playing with her taut nipple while his hand pleasured her. She stiffened her legs, the heels digging into the carpet under the bed. Her juices spilled out of her, the toes curling inwards and throaty moans falling. A serenity filled her as she breathed harshly, her head against his shoulder.

"I loved my private show from my personal thief". Azmaray grinned.

He flopped her onto the bed, unravelling her petticoat and leaving her bare. He sucked her juices of his fingers opening the buttons of his shirt. Throwing his trousers and boxers off. He pushed her legs open, kneeling lower he pressed his lips against hers. The two exchanged a soft, lazy kiss. His lips dug into hers, his tounge forced her mouth open. Tasting the sweetness of the Baklava on hers. She dug her hands into his silken hair and leaned upwards. Their harsh breaths and heated chests pressed against each other.

"Why—why do you call me a thief?" Laila whispered.

Peppering tiny butterfly kisses on his sweaty chest, her fingers brushing the tattoo above his chest. He looked at her from behind hooded lashes, his fingers digging into the soft skin of her neck.

"You stole my heart and well a particular journal that's in your luggage right now," he hummed, leaving red marks on her neck.

"Oh!" She blushed as realization dawned on her.

"Woh ilfaaz ap keh lab sai kab sunun ga?" [When will I hear those words from your mouth?] he stared at her, eye to eye.

"I—I fee shy!" She lost her former confidence.

Azmaray laughed, kissing her once more. His face moving from her lips to her breasts, his hands rubbing the sides of her waist, going under her thighs and lifting her hips. He aligned himself with her slick entrance. Pushing inside softly their hands entwined, soft groans falling as the two felt a satisfaction rush through them. Their hot blood cooled as Azmaray began to move at a gentle and then harsh speed. The ache spread into their bones and their muscles clamped tight.

Laila tightened her lower belly. Holding Azmaray in place. He groaned in satisfaction. Resting her forehead against hers, sweat covering both of their faces despite the cold wind that blew in from the open window. She raised her hips meeting his thrust, taking him in, rotating her hips to increase the friction.

"Just like that," he gritted.

She nodded, eyes shut from the burning passion. She skimmed her fingers above his toned back muscles, digging into his tan skin. Azmaray hastened his motions, his hand reaching to their intimate union, his finger rubbing her clit, giving her the edge she needed to let herself loose. Her heels dug into the soft mattress, lips leaving frantic kisses on his face as she let out a string of moans. Their tired bodies fitting together like a jigsaw puzzle. Azmaray kissed her sweaty forehead, the peace and gentleness of their actions a result of the harsh pleasure they had just went under.

mature content over.
— ——

Laila looked into Azmaray's eyes, almost falling asleep.

"Azmaray?" She whispered.

He hummed in reply, his hands brushing the remnants of sweat from her forehead.

"Mein bas apki hun. I love you," [I'm only yours.] she kissed his lips.

"I love you". He kissed her forehead.

The two snuggling into each other, the warmth of their bodies and the thick duvet warming them up, body and soul alike.

"I saw in your journal your write poetry, recite some for me, please". She yawned.

"میرے زندگی کی سب سے ٹھنڈی چھاوں تم ہو
جیسے ہیں ہم ملے ، اسے گناہ شب کا نام تو مت دو"
[You are the most cool of evenings in my life (a blessing)
The way we met, don't give it the title of the sin of the evening] he recited.

The two shared a sweet smile, falling asleep with bare skins in contact, finally at peace. The pains of their life had dissolved into peace, and there was nothing about their story that they would change.

The End.

Fuck its over and I wanna cry. OMG
EPILOGUE IS LEFT

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