Chapter 28 – Deep Currents

The Dubai summer had turned the city into a furnace air thick, sun merciless, nights that refused to cool. Adeyemi had taken a rare month off from shooting. No contracts, no call times. Just space. She spent most days reading on the balcony or walking the Marina at dusk when the heat finally broke.

One evening she met him at a quiet rooftop bar in Jumeirah Malik, thirty-two, Nigerian-born, raised between Lagos and London, now running logistics for one of the big property developers. Tall, broad-shouldered, skin the deep midnight of someone who never quite left the sun behind. He wore a simple white linen shirt, sleeves rolled, the top two buttons open. When he smiled it was slow, confident, like he already knew the answer to any question she might ask.

They talked for hours first about Lagos (the traffic, the food, the way the city never let you forget you were alive), then about books, then about nothing at all. When the bar started to empty he leaned in close.

“Come back to my place,” he said. Not a question. An invitation.

She looked at him really looked. The way his eyes held hers. The way his hand rested on the table, fingers long, steady.

“Green,” she answered.

His apartment was high up glass walls, city lights spilling across the floor like liquid gold. No small talk when the door closed. He kissed her against the wall slow at first, then deeper, hands sliding under her dress to grip her hips. She felt him hard against her stomach already thick, insistent.

He carried her to the bedroom without breaking the kiss. Set her on the edge of the bed. Knelt between her legs the way men used to in another life, but this time there was no script, no audience, just want.

He pushed her dress up, tugged her panties to the side, and put his mouth on her slow licks, broad strokes of his tongue, sucking her clit gently then harder when she arched. She threaded her fingers through his short hair, hips rolling against his face, already wet enough that she could hear it.

When she came the first time it was sudden thighs clamping around his head, a low cry she didn’t bother muffling.

He stood up, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smiling like he’d won something.

“Turn over,” he said.

She did on her knees, ass up, face pressed to the sheets. He undressed behind her slow, deliberate. When she looked back over her shoulder she saw him: thick, dark, heavy, veins standing out, the head already glistening.

He stepped closer, rubbed the blunt head along her slit teasing, coating himself in her wetness. Then he pushed in slow, inch by inch, letting her feel every ridge, every stretch.

She moaned into the pillow low, raw. He filled her so completely she had to breathe through it, hands fisting the sheets.

“Fuck,” she whispered. “So big.”

He paused when he was all the way in hips flush against her ass giving her a moment to adjust. Then he started moving long, deep strokes that dragged against every sensitive spot inside her. She pushed back to meet him, wanting more, needing it harder.

He gave it to her.

One hand on her hip, the other reaching around to circle her clit fast, firm circles that matched his thrusts. The room filled with the wet slap of skin on skin, her moans, his low groans, the bed creaking under them.

When she came again it hit like a wave whole body locking down, walls pulsing around him so tight he cursed under his breath. He didn’t stop kept fucking her through it, deeper, harder, until she was shaking, whimpering, oversensitive and still begging for more.

He pulled out suddenly, flipped her onto her back, hooked her legs over his shoulders. Looked down at her eyes dark, hungry.

“Want to see your face when you come again,” he said.

Then he slid back inside slow this time, letting her feel every inch again. She wrapped her legs around his waist, nails digging into his back. He fucked her with long, rolling thrusts deep enough to make her gasp every time he bottomed out.

She came a third time head thrown back, mouth open, a broken cry tearing out. He followed right after burying himself to the hilt, groaning her name (her real name, not the stage one) as he pulsed inside her, hot and thick.

They stayed like that for a long moment sweat-slick, breathing hard, bodies still joined.

When he finally pulled out he collapsed beside her, pulled her against his chest.

“Still green?” he asked, voice rough.

She laughed breathless, sated.

“Still green.”

Outside, Dubai glittered on neon, traffic, endless night.

Inside, two people who had found each other in the heat kept breathing together.

No cameras.

No scripts.

Just skin, salt, and the quiet satisfaction of wanting exactly what you were given.

To be continued…