down. His pulse was a rhythmic punch against his throat, so violent it must be dangerous. He’d be in the news tomorrow: MAN KILLED BY OWN AROUSAL. ARTERY BURST BY THE FORCE OF HIS BLOOD.
No messing around with Danika, he told himself firmly. Not before they’d gotten this fucking interview out of the way. His nerves about the whole thing mixed with the hot, electric anticipation of what they’d do after, and it was making him shake as if he’d downed three espressos in a row. Or maybe he was shaking because he had downed three espressos in a row. Hadn’t wanted to yawn midinterview.
Then again, was he even capable of yawning with a woman like Dani beside him? Probably not. His dick had been hard before he’d even crossed her threshold. He’d never seen her wear anything other than black, never seen her barefoot and braless without a scrap of makeup, so the way she looked tonight had hit him like a fist to the gut. Who else saw her like this? Not many people, he’d bet. It was a tiny and ridiculous and meaningless thing, but to Zaf, it whispered intimacy, and the fact that it was all in his head didn’t stop him from biting his fist. Hard.
The pain didn’t help; it just reminded him of that tattoo. He’d bite her all right, if she wanted it. He’d kneel at her feet, put his hands on her hips—soft, she’d be so soft—and turn her around. Slowly. Drag down those shorts to expose the full, fat curve of her arse, and sink his teeth so fucking gently into all that ripe flesh, until every inch of her was marked by him.
Then, obviously, he’d stand up, push her against the wall, free his greedy cock and spread her pussy open. Cram her full of him and rut until he couldn’t see, burying his face against her neck, all that lovely skin so bare and vulnerable for him and, holy fuck, his dick was thick and leaking in his jeans and he really needed to stop this or they’d never get to the fucking radio station.
Slow and deliberate, he breathed in through his nose, then out through his mouth, a twisted smile curving his lips. He was officially using his old anxiety tactics to deal with an erection. His brother’s laughter rang in his head, so real he almost turned around to see if Zain Bhai was there. But he didn’t turn, in the end. Because Zain was never there.
“Nope,” he muttered under his breath. “What we’re not going to do is swing straight from horny to depressed.” He rubbed a hand over his freshly trimmed beard—what? Every guy wanted to go out looking his best—and turned away from the window, since Dani wasn’t around to spot the fucking baseball bat stuffed down his jeans. “Distraction. That’s all I need, a distraction.” He had a feeling he was going to spend this entire fake relationship looking for distractions, because Danika got impossibly prettier and sweeter and smarter and sexier every time he saw her, like a very sophisticated torture device.
But he wasn’t going to think about that, not when he couldn’t do anything about it just yet. He was going to think about . . . about all the things in this huge studio apartment he’d never seen before. Like the books and statues and the pink sticky notes on the wall. Like the countless plants packed onto windowsills and counters, standing tall in ceramic pots, hanging from the ceiling, even. He ran his fingers over the fine prickles of a nearby cactus, and when that didn’t help, he wandered across the room to the bookshelf. It was made of some glossy wood, taller than Zaf and twice as wide, taking up the whole sunshine-yellow wall by the front door. He squinted at the titles, failed to find any he’d heard of, and gave up when he saw something called Summa Theologica, which didn’t sound like English, Punjabi, or Arabic, and was therefore none of his business. Some of the shelves held glass jars, too, like fishbowls—but instead of water, they were filled with cut leaves and dried flowers and random crystals. He recognized lavender in one of the jars. Another held a teardrop stone that gleamed like the moon.
When Zaf and Zain were kids, their dad used to tell them stories about the moon, just before bed. Zaf should’ve flinched away from the memory, but he didn’t. And nothing