Page 40 of The Spark

He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. He justwatchedme, like he was daring me to look away first. And I couldn’t. My breath caught in my throat.

The same mouth that had been on every inch of my body last night was now tight with tension. The same hands that had held me like he’d die without me were now balled into fists. That same deep voice that had whispered filth into my ear was silent now, but his eyes... his eyes saideverything.It scared me if I were being truthful.

But it also made my thighs clench. I felt like I was straddling something invisible—desire and doubt, certainty and chaos. And all of it pulsed around him.

Taraj didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he did and just didn’t give a fuck. He gave me a small smirk, then stepped back. “Let’s talk soon,” he said. “I want that piece.”

I gave a tight nod, my voice lost somewhere between my lungs and my mouth.

He walked off and out of the studio, leaving the music playing low, the lights dim, and me sitting there—still tangled in Amir’s stare.

When I finally forced myself to look away, my whole body buzzed.

Not from Taraj.

FromAmir.

16

The sizzle of butter filled the kitchen, the scent of garlic and herbs curling into the air, but I barely noticed it. Because behind me… I felt him.

Amir’s gaze pressed into my back like a brand—hot, deliberate, claiming.

He hadn’t said much since we got back. He didn’t have to. The silence between us was heavy, thick with tension and the weight of everything we still hadn’t said. It sat there—dense and pulsing—curling between my ribs and stirring up everything I’d tried to bury.

I focused on the salmon in the pan, flipping it with a steady hand. I needed control. Something to hold on to. But the longer I stood there, the more aware I became of the space between us. Or how little of it there was.

Then, his voice cut through the quiet. Smooth. Laced with that deep, teasing edge that never failed to find my center.

“So… Taraj, huh?”

I didn’t jump, but my fingers tightened around the spatula.

Here we go.

“Don’t start,” I murmured, eyes on the fish, pretending like I hadn’t heard the challenge in his tone.

He shifted behind me. Slow. Intentional. I could feel his presence like gravity.

“Funny how he took one look at your art and suddenly, you’re designing his album cover.”

I rolled my eyes, but the tension in my belly pulled tighter. “That’s how the industry works, Amir.”

I heardthe smirk in his voice before I even turned around.

"Or maybe he just liked what he saw."

My pulse skipped. Then it pounded.

The heat from the stove wasn’t the problem. It was him. The way his words dripped possessiveness. The way I knew exactly what he meant without needing him to spell it out.

I turned, slow and deliberate, and met his eyes.

Big mistake.

Because he was looking at me like he already knew—what I felt, what I wanted, what I was scared to say out loud. His eyes were dark, smoldering, cutting through all my defenses.

My voice was barely steady. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

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