Henna Nights
"Nour is the best henna artist in Dammam. When she's hired for a wealthy family's wedding, the groom's divorced uncle Tariq can't stop watching her work. 'Yadayki sahira' (يديكِ ساحرة) - Your hands are magical - became their private joke."
The bride's hands were a canvas, and Nour was painting masterpieces.
"Mashallah," the mother gasped, watching intricate vines bloom across her daughter's palms. "You truly are gifted, ya Nour."
"Shukran, khalti." Thank you, auntie.
But Nour's attention kept drifting to the doorway, where a broad-shouldered man had been watching for the past hour.
"That's Tariq," the bride whispered. "My uncle. Divorced two years ago. Don't mind him—he's always brooding."
Tariq didn't look like he was brooding. He looked like he was studying her with the intensity of a scholar examining rare manuscripts.
"Yadayki sahira," he said suddenly. Your hands are magical.
The bride giggled. Nour felt heat flood her cheeks.
"Shukran."
He didn't smile, but his dark eyes warmed. Then he disappeared into the men's section, leaving Nour's heart pounding.
The wedding celebrations stretched over a week. Each night, Nour returned to apply more henna—on aunts, cousins, family friends. And each night, Tariq found reasons to be nearby.
"You missed a spot," he said on the third night, pointing at her own wrist.
"Eih?" What?
He took her hand, turning it to reveal bare skin between intricate designs. "Hina." Here.
His touch was electric.
"Let me," he offered.
"You know henna?"
"I watched my mother." His jaw tightened. "Allah yirhamha."
God rest her soul. Nour softened. "Tafaddal." Go ahead.
His hands were large but surprisingly steady as he drew a simple flower on her wrist. Nour watched, mesmerized by his concentration.
"You're good."
"You're better." He set down the cone. "Inti ahsan min al kul." You're better than everyone.
"At henna?"
His eyes met hers. "Bi kulshi." At everything.
On the wedding night, while guests celebrated in the main hall, Nour slipped away to pack her supplies. She found Tariq waiting in the corridor.
"Mashya?" You're leaving?
"My work is done."
"Is it?" He stepped closer. At forty-eight, he radiated quiet authority—silver streaked through his beard, lines around his eyes from desert sun. "Ana ma khalast." I'm not finished.
"With what?"
"Ma'aki." With you.
He cupped her face like she was precious. "Mumkin abosik?" May I kiss you?
"Aiwa," she breathed.
His mouth claimed hers with restrained passion, like he was savoring rather than devouring. Nour melted against him, her soft body molding to his solid frame.
"Ta'ali," he murmured. Come.
He led her through servants' corridors to a guest suite, closing the door against the distant music.
"I've watched you all week," he confessed, pressing her against the wall. "Kul layla, ahlam feeki." Every night, I dream of you.
"Tariq—"
"I know you feel it too." His forehead touched hers. "Quli li mish wahdi." Tell me I'm not alone.
"You're not alone," she whispered.
His smile transformed his stern face. "Alhamdulillah." Thank God.
He undressed her slowly, each revealed inch of skin followed by reverent kisses. When her abaya pooled at her feet, leaving her in thin cotton, Tariq groaned.
"Ya Allah, Nour. Inti..." Words failed him.
"Too much?" she asked, old insecurities surfacing.
"Not enough." He pulled her close. "Abgha aktar. Abgha kulshi." I want more. I want everything.
They fell onto the bed, a tangle of urgent hands and hungry mouths. Tariq worshipped her curves like they were sacred text—memorizing each soft fold, each sensitive hollow.
"Jameel," he chanted against her skin. "Jameel, jameel, jameel."
Nour arched as his mouth found her breast, tongue circling until she cried out.
"Abgha adooqik," he growled, moving lower. "Mumkin?"
"Please—"
He spread her thick thighs with gentle hands, then buried his face in her heat. Nour stuffed a fist in her mouth to muffle her screams, but Tariq pulled it away.
"Abgha asma'ik," he demanded. I want to hear you.
His tongue worked magic between her legs, painting pleasure like she painted henna. When the climax hit, Nour shattered into a thousand pieces, his name a prayer on her lips.
"Shatra," he praised, rising. Good girl. "Wahda thanya." One more.
"I can't—"
"You can." His fingers replaced his tongue, stroking that spot that made her see stars. "Taali la'i, ya hayati." Come for me, my life.
She came again, harder than before, and he swallowed her cries with kisses.
"Daheena," he gasped. Now. "Abghaik."
"Aiwa," she begged. "Ana kamaan abghak." I want you too.
When he finally pressed inside, they both groaned at the sensation. Tariq stilled, forehead pressed to hers, breathing heavily.
"Inti kamla," he whispered. You're complete. "Makhluqa la'i." Made for me.
Nour wrapped her thick thighs around his waist. "Harrak."
He moved with deep, rolling thrusts that set her nerves on fire. The distant wedding music masked their cries as they chased oblivion together.
"Ana qareeb," he warned.
"Sawa," she gasped. "Sawa, Tariq."
They crested together, his roar muffled in her neck, her scream lost in his shoulder. Pleasure crashed through them like desert storms—fierce and consuming and utterly devastating.
In the aftermath, tangled in silk sheets, Tariq traced the henna designs on her hands.
"Itzawwajini," he said quietly. Marry me.
"Eih?"
"I wasted two years mourning a marriage that was wrong. I won't waste another moment now that I've found what's right."
"You barely know me," she protested.
"I know enough." He kissed her palm. "A'arif innik inti nasebi." I know you're my destiny.
Nour looked at this serious man who'd watched her work and seen something no one else had.
"Aiwa," she whispered. "Ana razya." I agree.
Six months later, Nour applied henna to her own hands for their wedding. Tariq watched from the doorway, as he had that first night.
"Yadayki sahira," he said softly.
"Wa inta sihr," she replied with a smile. And you're magic.
Some patterns, she'd learned, weren't meant for skin alone. Some were meant for hearts.