Chapter Thirteen: Strokes of Rivalry

The gallery smelled faintly of turpentine and old wood, its walls draped with canvases splashed in furious color. Vienna’s elite whispered reverently around the paintings, wine glasses in hand. Ayan felt the weight of it all pressing against him — but it wasn’t the art or the prestige that unsettled him. It was the man at the center of it all.

Tahir.

He was polished, immaculate in his tailored black suit. His salt-and-pepper hair was combed back, his beard trimmed so precisely it looked sculpted. There was an aura of restrained intellect about him, as though he carried a library of poetry in his veins — but his eyes, cold and detached, revealed an emptiness Ayan found impossible to respect.

“Ah, Saba,” Tahir greeted, his voice low, polite, distant. “You came.” His gaze flicked over her, slow but careless, as though admiring a painting he no longer wished to buy.

Saba’s smile was courteous, yet brittle. “Of course. I said I would.”

“And this must be Ayan,” Tahir added, offering his hand. “The musician. You’ve made quite a name for yourself. Though music is… ephemeral, isn’t it? Fleeting. A painting endures.”

Ayan took the hand, squeezed firmly, and smiled faintly. “Perhaps. But music doesn’t just endure — it haunts. It burrows into people’s skin, their hearts. A painting waits to be looked at. A song finds you even when you close your eyes.”

The words landed with precision. Tahir blinked, then chuckled softly. “Poetic.”

Throughout the evening, Tahir addressed Ayan with surface-level courtesy but repeatedly skimmed past Saba, as though her worth had expired once she left his life. Every time he did, a heat rose in Ayan’s chest, protective and possessive. And each time, he found a way to slide in with a clever, pointed remark.

When Tahir gestured toward a chaotic canvas of red and black, Ayan tilted his head. “Impressive. But a man who only paints storms risks forgetting the calm that follows. Sometimes the survivor matters more than the storm.”

Tahir arched a brow. “You see storms?”

“I see a woman,” Ayan said calmly, his gaze flicking toward Saba. “A woman stronger, more radiant than any canvas. I wonder if her artist ever noticed that.”

Saba’s breath caught. Tahir faltered. For the first time, the man of art had no words, and Ayan knew he’d struck home.

The cab ride back was cloaked in silence — but the silence wasn’t awkward. It was charged, heavy, filled with unspoken heat.

Saba turned to him suddenly, pressing her middle finger against his lips. “Shh,” she whispered, her eyes gleaming with wicked delight. “No more words. You’ve already won tonight.”

Before he could answer, her hand trailed downward, deliberately slow. Ayan sucked in a breath as her fingers brushed over his thigh, then toyed at his zipper.

“Saba…” he rasped, already hard beneath her teasing touch.

“Patience was never your strength, was it?” she purred, unzipping him with agonizing slowness. Her slender fingers wrapped around him, stroking lazily, drawing a hiss from his throat.

He gripped her wrist, his voice hoarse. “You’ll drive me insane.”

“Good.” Her wicked smirk flashed just before she leaned down. Her hair spilled over him like silk curtains, her hot breath ghosting over his length. Then her lips closed around him, warm and wet, her tongue circling deliberately.

Ayan groaned, his head falling back against the leather seat. “Fuck… Saba…” His voice was broken, reverent, needy.

She hummed around him, the vibration making his hips jerk. Her tongue flicked and teased, taking him deeper with every bob of her head. The wet, obscene sounds of her mouth filled the quiet cab, mingling with his ragged breaths.

He tangled his fingers in her hair, guiding her rhythm but never forcing, praising her between gasps. “So perfect… my goddess… don’t stop… you’re mine…”

She pulled back just before his breaking point, wiping her lips with her thumb, her smile smug. “Not yet,” she whispered. “You don’t get to finish here.”

He laughed breathlessly, half-crazed with frustration. “You’re cruel.”

“I’m rewarding you,” she corrected.

The moment the cab stopped, they adjusted themselves with a quick efficiency, though Ayan’s body still throbbed with aching need. Once inside her apartment, the façade of composure shattered.

Saba pushed him hard against the wall, her lips crashing onto his in a kiss that was nothing short of feral. Their tongues tangled, wet and ****, as his hands roamed her body with urgency — cupping her breasts, sliding over her waist, gripping her ass.

They kissed as though oxygen were secondary, their teeth nipping, lips bruising. Her moans vibrated against his mouth, spurring him on. Twenty minutes blurred into heat, into wandering hands, into the taste of her lips and the heady perfume of her skin.

Finally, with a guttural growl, Ayan scooped her into his arms. She gasped, laughing breathlessly as her legs wrapped around him. “Where—”

“Bedroom,” he cut her off, his voice thick with lust.

She wriggled free at the threshold, dropping gracefully to her feet, her robe slipping off her shoulders and puddling at her ankles. The sight froze Ayan in place — her curves, the gleam in her eyes, the confident arch of her body.

She crooked her finger at him. “If you want me,” she teased, her voice low and commanding, “follow.”

And without another word, she vanished into the bedroom.

Ayan’s cock twitched at the sight. His heart hammered. And like a man bewitched, he followed, knowing the storm between them was about to break all over again.