Dabke Until Dawn
"At a rooftop party in Ramallah, Zeina meets Sami—a dabke instructor whose moves on the dance floor promise even better moves in private."
Dabke Until Dawn
The beat pulsed through Zeina's body as she climbed the stairs to the rooftop. Below, Ramallah glittered like scattered diamonds. Above, the night promised possibilities.
"Inti wahidik?" A voice in her ear, warm breath on her neck. You're alone?
She turned to find the most beautiful man she'd ever seen. Dark curls, laughing eyes, a smile that suggested trouble.
"My friends are somewhere." She gestured vaguely. "I'm Zeina."
"Sami." He handed her a drink. "I've been watching you all night."
"That sounds creepy."
"Maybe." His grin was unrepentant. "But you've been watching me too."
She had. He'd been leading the dabke earlier—commanding the line with athletic grace, his feet a blur of precise stomps and kicks. Zeina had never found traditional dance sexy before. Now she understood its appeal.
"You're good," she admitted.
"I teach dabke at Al-Balad." He nodded toward the dance floor, where a new line was forming. "Want a private lesson?"
Dancing with Sami was intoxicating. His hand clasped hers firmly in the line, but it was the moments between songs that undid her—his body pressed against her back, his lips brushing her ear as he guided her movements.
"Hek—zay hek," he murmured. Like this.
His hips ground against hers in a motion that had nothing to do with folk dance. Zeina's breath caught.
"That's not traditional."
"I'm improvising." His hands slid to her waist. "Freestyle."
The music shifted—slower, more intimate. Sami turned her to face him, pulling her close until they swayed together like one body.
"I want you," he said simply. "I know we just met. I know it's crazy. But I want you, Zeina."
"This is insane."
"Best things usually are." He tilted her chin up. "Tell me you don't feel it."
She couldn't. The electricity between them was undeniable, crackling across every point of contact.
"Yalla," she heard herself say. Let's go.
They barely made it to his apartment—kissing in the elevator, in the hallway, fumbling with keys. The moment the door closed, Sami lifted her against it, her legs wrapping around his waist.
"Allah," he groaned, grinding against her. "You feel incredible."
"Bedroom," Zeina gasped. "Now."
He carried her there without breaking the kiss, dropping her onto sheets that smelled like him—clean sweat, cologne, something indefinably male. Zeina pulled at his clothes while he removed hers, both frantic.
"Inti btijannineeni," Sami breathed, taking in her body. You drive me crazy.
"Then do something about it."
He did. His mouth traced fire across her skin—neck, collarbone, breasts. Zeina arched off the bed as his tongue circled her nipple, his hand sliding between her thighs.
"So wet," he marveled, fingers exploring. "Ya sater."
"Please—"
"Please what?"
"I need you inside me. Halla'."
When Sami finally thrust home, Zeina screamed. He was bigger than expected, filling her completely, hitting places that made her see stars.
"Okay?" he checked, holding still.
"Move."
He moved. Long, powerful strokes that built her higher with each one. Sami hooked her leg over his shoulder, changing the angle until she wailed.
"There—yes—don't stop—"
"Never." His pace increased, the bed slamming against the wall. "Inti mali." You're mine.
"Yours—yes—"
They crashed together, Zeina's orgasm triggering his, both crying out in Arabic and English and sounds beyond language. Wave after wave of pleasure washed through her until she collapsed, boneless, into his arms.
"Ya Allah," she breathed. "That was..."
"Yeah." Sami kissed her forehead, still catching his breath. "It was."
Outside, the first pink of dawn was touching the sky. They'd danced until the sun came up—just not the way either had expected.
"Stay," Sami said later, his fingers tracing patterns on her back. "Not forever. Just... today. I'll make you breakfast. We can sleep. And tonight—"
"Another party?"
"Another lesson." His smile was wicked. "I have a lot more to teach you, ya helwa."
Zeina thought of her careful plans, her timetables, her mother's expectations. Then she looked at Sami—beautiful, passionate, looking at her like she was something precious.
"Maashi," she agreed. "But I want to learn the sword dance next."
His laugh was bright as the morning sun. "Yalla, then. Let me show you how it's done."
They didn't sleep much that day. Or the next. But Zeina learned—about dabke, about passion, about the unexpected magic of rooftop nights in Ramallah.
And she never missed another sunrise.