Jeddah Jewel
"Amira runs the most exclusive jewelry boutique on Tahlia Street. When Omar, a wealthy widower, commissions a piece for his late wife's memorial, their sessions become increasingly intimate. 'Inti aghla min ay jawhar' (أنتِ أغلى من أي جوهر) - You're more precious than any jewel."
Amira's fingers trembled as she clasped the diamond necklace around the client's throat. After twenty years in the jewelry business, her hands were steady as stone.
Until Omar Al-Mansouri walked into her Tahlia Street boutique.
"Marhaba," he greeted, voice like warm honey. Hello.
She turned, and forgot how to breathe.
He was magnificent at fifty—silver temples against jet-black hair, a neatly trimmed beard framing full lips, broad shoulders beneath his tailored thobe. But it was his eyes that undid her—deep brown wells of grief and something else she couldn't name.
"I need a custom piece," he explained, settling into the velvet chair across from her desk. "For my wife's thikra." Memorial.
"Allah yirhamha," Amira murmured. May God have mercy on her. "How long?"
"Three years." He met her gaze. "Long enough to remember. Long enough to want again."
The consultations stretched from one hour to three, from weekly to daily. Omar brought old photographs, describing pieces his wife had loved, but increasingly their conversations drifted.
"You have an artist's hands," he observed, watching her sketch. "Yadayki jameel." Your hands are beautiful.
Amira felt heat climb her neck. At forty-five, with curves that local designers never catered to, she'd grown accustomed to invisibility.
"Shukran," she whispered. Thank you.
"I mean it." He leaned forward. "Everything about you is beautiful, ya Amira."
The evening he arrived after closing, she knew something had shifted.
"I have the finished design," she said, voice carefully neutral.
"Wareeni." Show me.
Her hands shook as she presented the sketch—an intricate gold pendant with his wife's favorite flowers rendered in precious gems.
Omar studied it silently. When he looked up, tears glistened in his eyes.
"Mumtaz," he breathed. Perfect. "She would have loved it."
"I'm glad—"
"But I didn't come for this." He stood, crossing to her side of the desk. "Jeet la ajlik." I came for you.
The first kiss tasted like Arabic coffee and yearning. Amira melted against him, years of loneliness dissolving in his embrace.
"Inti aghla min ay jawhar," he murmured against her lips. You're more precious than any jewel.
"Omar—" Guilt and desire warred within her. "Your wife—"
"Would want me to live again." His hands spanned her waist, pulling her closer. "And I want to live with you."
He worshipped her body like she was the precious artifact—kissing down her throat, across her collarbone, reverent fingers unhooking her abaya to reveal the soft flesh beneath.
"Ya salam," he groaned at the sight of her curves. "Mashallah, Amira. You've been hiding treasure."
She laughed breathlessly. "I'm not—"
"Perfect," he finished. "You're perfect."
Omar lifted her onto her own desk, scattering design sheets. His mouth found her breast through thin silk, and she arched into him with a cry.
"Abgha asmaa sotak," he demanded. I want to hear your voice. "Don't hold back."
"Please—" She wasn't sure what she was begging for until his hand slipped beneath her skirt.
His fingers found her soaked and ready. "Ya rabb," he groaned. "So wet, ya hayati."
"For you," she gasped. "Only for you."
He stroked her with expert precision, thumb circling where she needed him most. Amira clutched his shoulders, expensive fabric crumpling beneath her desperate grip.
"Taali," he commanded. Come. "Come for me, my jewel."
She shattered with his name on her lips, wave after wave of pleasure crashing through her. Before she could recover, Omar was freeing himself, thick and ready.
"Mumkin?" he asked, poised at her entrance. May I?
"Aiwa," she breathed. Yes. "Allah, yes."
The first thrust seated him deep inside her warmth. Both of them groaned at the sensation.
"Inti harra," he gasped. You're hot. "Like holding fire."
Amira wrapped her thick thighs around him, pulling him deeper. "Harrak." Move.
He obeyed with powerful strokes that rocked the antique desk against the wall. Somewhere, a display case rattled. Neither cared.
"Ana bahebik," Omar confessed between thrusts. I love you. "I didn't mean to—ya Allah—but I do."
Tears pricked Amira's eyes. "Ana kamaan." Me too.
Their climax built together, bodies sliding slick with sweat, hearts pounding in desperate rhythm.
"Sawa," he commanded. Together.
They fell over the edge as one, his roar mixing with her keening cry, pleasure and emotion crashing through them both.
Later, tangled together on the plush carpet, Omar traced the necklace design tattooed on her wrist.
"Marry me," he said simply.
"Majnoon." Crazy.
"About you." He kissed her palm. "Quli aiwa, ya Amira." Say yes.
She looked at this man who'd come seeking memorial and found revival instead.
"Aiwa," she whispered. "A thousand times, yes."
The memorial necklace was completed two months later, delivered by both of them to his wife's grave.
"Shukran," Omar told the headstone. "For blessing me twice."
Amira squeezed his hand, her new engagement ring glittering in the Jeddah sun.
Some jewels, she'd learned, couldn't be found in any mine.