Khobar Confession
"Sara is a marriage counselor in Khobar. When her most challenging client—a wealthy businessman named Faisal—confesses he's fallen for her, professional boundaries crumble. 'Inti al dawaa mish al diktoor' (أنتِ الدواء مش الدكتور) - You're the cure, not the doctor."
"My marriage is over."
Sara wrote the words in her notebook, maintaining professional detachment. Faisal Al-Dosari said this every session.
"What's different this time?" she asked.
He looked up, dark eyes piercing. "This time, I know who I want instead."
She should have referred him out months ago. From their first session, something electric had crackled between them. Professional ethics demanded distance. Her body demanded something else entirely.
"Faisal—"
"La." No. "Let me finish." He leaned forward. "I've spent two years in this chair, pretending to fix a marriage that died before it began. All because I couldn't admit the truth."
"Which is?"
"Bahebik, ya Sara." I love you.
The notebook fell from nerveless fingers. "Eih?"
"I love you," he repeated in English, certainty carved into every syllable. "Your mind, your laugh, your ridiculous collection of degrees." His eyes swept her form. "Wa jismik kamaan. Your body too."
"This is inappropriate—"
"This is honest." He stood, circling her desk. "For once in my life, completely honest."
Sara rose, putting the chair between them. At forty-four, she knew her worth—PhD, successful practice, respect in her field. But personally? A string of failed relationships with men intimidated by her intelligence or disappointed by her size.
"You're projecting," she said, voice steadier than her heart. "Transference is common—"
"Tawaqqafi." Stop. "I'm not your patient right now. I'm a man who's watched the most brilliant woman he knows hide behind professionalism because she's afraid."
"I'm not afraid."
"Then prove it." He reached across the chair. "Qabblini." Kiss me.
Later, she'd blame the years of loneliness. The way he looked at her like she was the answer to every question. The simple fact that she wanted him with an intensity that terrified her.
She kissed him.
Faisal groaned against her mouth, hauling her over the chair and into his arms. "Ya Allah, Sara. Tawaqqa'at inti tiqabilini." I expected you to refuse me.
"Shut up," she gasped, pulling at his expensive suit. "I've wanted this for two years. Don't make me think about it."
His laugh was dark and delighted. "Amrayn." Your command.
They barely made it to the therapy couch before clothes started flying. Faisal was fifty, silver-templed, wealthy beyond measure—but he knelt before her like a supplicant.
"Mashallah," he breathed, parting her thighs. "Jameel. Kul insh feeki jameel." Beautiful. Every inch of you.
"Faisal—"
"Khalleeni." Let me. "Abgha adooqik min zaman." I've wanted to taste you forever.
His mouth found her center, and Sara's doctorate didn't prepare her for the sensation. He ate her like a starving man at a feast, groaning his pleasure against her flesh.
"Aktar," she begged, academic composure shattered. "Ya rabb, aktar."
He obliged with devastating precision until she screamed her release into the professional silence.
"Zain," he praised, rising with glistening lips. Good. "Wahda thanya."
"I can't—"
"You're the expert here." His smile was wicked. "But I think you can."
His fingers replaced his tongue, stroking that spot her vibrator could never quite reach. Sara clawed his shoulders as another orgasm built impossibly fast.
"Inti sahla," he murmured. You're easy. At her look, he amended: "Sahla li. Bas li." Easy for me. Only for me. "Your body was made for my hands."
She came again with his name a scream.
"Daheena," he demanded, freeing himself from tailored trousers. "Abghaki."
"Aiwa," she breathed. "Tafaddal."
He sank inside her with a groan that vibrated to her bones. "Ya rabb. Inti harra wa dhayqa." You're hot and tight.
Sara wrapped her thick thighs around his waist. "Harrak."
He moved with urgent purpose, months of tension finally releasing. The therapy couch creaked beneath them—thousands of riyals worth of furniture used for decidedly non-therapeutic purposes.
"Ana bahebik," he gasped between thrusts. "Mish transference. Mish projection. Hubb haqiqi." Real love.
Sara's eyes stung. "Ana kamaan."
"Ana qareeb," he warned.
"Ma'aya." She pulled him deeper. "Sawa."
They crested together, her cry muffled in his neck, his roar lost in her hair. Pleasure crashed through them both, obliterating everything except this moment, this connection.
Afterward, tangled on the narrow couch, Faisal traced her face like memorizing it.
"Inti al dawaa mish al diktoor," he murmured. You're the cure, not the doctor. "You healed me, Sara. Not through therapy—through existing."
"This is still ethically complicated."
"Then I'll find a new therapist." He kissed her forehead. "Wa inti takooneen marati." And you'll be my wife.
"You're still married."
"Paperwork." He shrugged. "Signed the divorce papers this morning. I came to tell you."
"Eih?"
"I was going to confess either way." His smile was tender. "Lakin afdhal akoon hurr." But better to be free.
"I can't believe this is happening," she whispered.
"Believe it." He pulled her close. "Inti nasebi, ya Sara. Ma abi hada ghayrik." You're my destiny. I don't want anyone else.
One year later, Sara closed her private practice to join the university faculty. Her new husband supported her career with enthusiasm, attending every lecture, reading every paper.
"Inti too smart for me," he'd tease.
"Wa inta too rich for me," she'd counter.
"Khalas." Enough. "Nihna perfect for each other."
Sometimes, her former colleagues whispered about the unconventional beginning. Sara didn't care.
The best relationships, she'd learned, didn't follow textbook formulas.
They followed the heart.