"So, you're telling me that you're redesigning the orphanage?" asked Bashir as he plopped a popcorn in his mouth, sitting across from me at the dining table. "What happened to your job interview?"

I frowned. "The lady hated my guts."

"No way," he chuckled. "How can anyone hate you? You're like the nicest person."

"She thought I was incapable as a designer because I married Ibrahim," I shrugged. "Honestly, she seemed extremely angry that Ibrahim's business was so successful."

"She's probably jealous."

"But why? It's not like immigrant workers hadn't gone through obstacles to get their jobs. With all the discrimination swirling this country recently, I would be more surprised if they had no difficulties," I stated, going back to my rough sketch of the orphanage.

"People don't really see both views," he said, paying more attention to his math homework. "Tasneem, do you happen to know anything about quadratics?"

I nodded, pushing stray hairs back into my hijab, and taking a look at his worksheet. Although I had explained quadratics to Bashir before, the young boy seemed to be falling asleep through my explanations, occasionally zoning out and imagining a world where the complications of mathematical equations ceased to exist.

"I hate math," he groaned, hitting his head on the smooth wooden countertop.

"How unfortunate because you still have many more years left of math classes before you're free."

"This is slavery of children," he argued. "I demand justice!"

My lips cracked a smile. "I doubt you'll get far with that argument."

"You're right," he agreed, "I need a lawyer first."

"Do your homework."

Just as Bashir opened his mouth to retort me, the front door opened, heavy footsteps following afterwards. Immediately, excitement ran through my veins at the thought of Ibrahim being home. The day was long, tedious, and mentally draining, yet the anticipation of seeing my husband after such a disastrous day made everything worthwhile.

Ibrahim didn't know that my heart was his for the taking, that my laughter was exclusive to him, that my beauty was bare to his eyes only. His past was a reoccuring nightmare, but it never stopped him, a feature I admired the most. Through every trauma and stone thrown his way, he managed to shield himself in stronger armor, coating himself with determination for his future that he had total control over.

Stepping into the dining room, our eyes instantly connected, dark eyes staring deep into mine. I offered a small smile, suddenly feeling bashful under his intense gaze. A phone was pressed to his ear, his fingers gripping them hard. His jaw clenched at whatever the other person was saying and the mood in the room shifted at the tone of his voice, deep with a hint of fury.

"What do you mean my lawyers can't get involved?" he seethed.

Bashir and I exchanged glances with one another, but I silently pressed a finger to my lips, gesturing for him to stay silent. Reluctantly, Bashir chose to do his homework rather than meddling with his brother's business affairs.

I turned my attention back to Ibrahim. He loosened his tie, walking behind me to pour himself a drink. A frantic voice spoke on the other line, but the words were too mumbled for me to understand anything. Ibrahim gulped down his water after muttering a silent 'bismillah.'

"Are you kidding me right now, Thomas? He threatened me! Explain to me, and mind your words, how a womanizing Russian can get away with threatening me," his voice cut through the uncomfortable silence. "I'm taking this to court."

Now, my body was the one that tensed. I dropped my charcoal pencil at the mentioning of a lawsuit. Slowly turning to face him, I gave Ibrahim an incredulous look, wondering who had gotten on his bad side for him to even suggest a lawsuit. Ibrahim chose to not regard my look and continued yelling on the phone.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I am ten seconds away from pummeling him. Get me lawyers now." Then, Ibrahim ended the call, throwing his phone on the table.

"So," I started after a brief silence, "what was that all about?"

Ibrahim stayed silent, lips pressed in a thin line. Clearly, he was in no mood to be talking and judging from the vein popping on his neck, he was in no mood to do anything. Ibrahim stalked out of the room, his face a prime portrait of bitterness. I had never seen him so worked up.

What happened?

* * * *

Ibrahim had barricaded himself in the weight room he built for himself. The house was enormous, and the basement had been transformed into a gym for Ibrahim to vent his frustrations out in a healthy way, a fact I was privy to. The basement consisted of four separate rooms, three being used as different areas for muscle training.

The other room was Bashir's gaming place, where he would spend time yelling at the screen for hours at the ignorant players he was stuck with. However, Bashir decided to put more attention to his homework than his gaming abilities, especially with the raging of Ibrahim's temper. No one wanted to upset the beast that lurked within.

Except me.

Taking cautious steps towards the weight lifting room, I heard Ibrahim's heavy breathing on the other end. My hands shook, holding a plate of a grilled-cheese sandwich and a cup of orange juice in my other hand. My hands were full, so I knocked the door three times with my elbow, waiting for Ibrahim to open it.

After several moments and a brief pause, the door swung open, revealing a shirtless Ibrahim, who was trying to catch his breath.

I felt myself choke on air as my jaw slightly fell ajar from seeing his naked torso. His sculpted, pale chest caught my eyes, glistening from an intense workout. I watched his muscles tense under my gaze, his biceps flexing as he opened the door wider. Taking in a deeper breath, I walked in.

I glanced around the room, surprised at the amount of equipment he managed to keep at every direction I turned to. Weights that ranged from double digits to hundreds were stacked neatly against a rack, a rock climbing wall on my left, and a couple of benches beside it.

To my right were the chest, leg, and bench presses. There were so many, but I didn't know the name of half of them. Against the wall in front of me was the power rack and squatting stations.

Ibrahim cleared his throat behind me.

Instantly, I turned around. "I brought you something to eat," I said nervously, keeping my gaze on the floor. He caught me staring and admiring his strength. Could this get any worse?

He walked closer, silent as the night, and stood in front of me. Ibrahim wore his sweatpants, pocketing his hands in them, his tall frame towering over mine. My heart beat faster with each passing second, racing against my chest in a constant rhythm, yet Ibrahim made no move. I inhaled a sharp breath when his fingers grasped my chin, forcing me to look into his eyes.

"Why are you nervous?" he asked in a low voice.

"I'm not."

"Don't lie to me," he murmured as he brought his lips up to my cheek, letting them linger against the soft skin. "I'm your husband. You don't have to be nervous."

I took a step back, holding the plate and glass for him. "I thought you'd be hungry."

"Thanks," he smiled, "let me just freshen up."

I nodded, placing the food on a bench nearby. Ibrahim used a white towel to wipe the sweat from his hair, damp black hair being swept back as he took a chug from his water. His adam's apple bobbed at the movement, and I found myself staring at the lean muscles on his body. Sweat beads fell down his toned stomach, soaking into every ridge and corner.

"You can take your hijab off," he said, absentmindedly while toweling his hair, "Bashir knows better than to walk in here."

Stop it, Tasneem, I scolded myself

Turning my back to him, I gently unwrapped my scarf, sighing as the air touched my exposed neck. Then I remembered that I only put my hair in a messy bun earlier, and I probably looked like a mess. Not letting the thought bother me, I busied myself by paying more attention to my curiosity, feeling Ibrahim's gaze on my back.

I walked over to the lateral pull machine. The objective was to pull the bar down, but a person would have to adjust the weights attached to it. A leather bench jutted from the machine. Walking over to the weight adjustments, I figured I should go easy on myself and set it to thirty pounds. I sat on the bench and pulled, feeling my nonexistent muscles work.

After a while, I seemed to have gotten the hang of it, so I kept going. I felt my arms numb at the burning sting of the exercise, but it didn't seem like thirty pounds was enough to get me really tired. I got up to change the weights again when Ibrahim's arms wrapped around my waist and pulled me against his hard chest.

"Ibrahim!" I exclaimed. "I am trying to be fit. Do you mind?"

He nuzzled his head in the crook of my neck. "At least let me show you the correct way," he whispered.

"Go eat," I demanded, swatting at his arm.

"Already did."

He loosened his grip and I managed to break free. Ibrahim, still shirtless, walked to the weight adjustments. Bending down, Ibrahim changed the weights and sat down on the leather seat, lifting his arms to pull down the lateral bar.

His pale skin was taut as his biceps ripped with the movement. "Sit straight like a board is pressed against your back," he strained, breaths coming in short pants. "Pull the bar straight down till it is level with your chest," he demonstrated. "Then slowly release."

I watched, transfixed, as he did multiple repetitions of the same movement. I tilted my head to see how much he was lifting, and my eyes widened. He was lifting almost two hundred pounds, meanwhile, I could only do thirty. Even more surprising was the concentration he put in his lifting.

Ibrahim squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the sting of his workout, before he heaved a final breath and got off. "Your turn," he grunted, grabbing his towel.

I changed the weights, and positioned myself just like Ibrahim told me to. My back was straight and I pulled the bar down to my chest, making sure that I didn't accidentally injure my lady parts, which barely grazed the bar.

Throughout the workout, Ibrahim came at my side, positioning me properly the bar wouldn't come so close to my chest. By the end of the workout, I was panting as hard as he was. Sighing, I leaned against him, my arms feeling like a bowl of jelly.

"You know," he whispered in my ear, "you make working out very entertaining."

I smiled. "How so?"

He softly nibbled at my earlobe. "There's something about seeing you sweating and panting that drives me crazy."

I blushed furiously. "Ibrahim!"

"It makes me think about some other activities."

"Stop," I laughed, playfully pushing him away, but he just pulled me right back.

He dropped feather-like kisses on my neck, warm lips brushing against heated skin, and I felt his hand pull my shirt down lower, exposing a bra strap. Gasping, I turned and pulled his head to mine, capturing his lips.

All sense and reasoning left our minds as the frustration of the last couple of days burned the back our minds and the only way we seemed to express it was physically. Ibrahim grasped my thighs, lifting them to wrap around his waist. I locked my legs around him as Ibrahim's tongue slipped into my mouth.

He groaned at my willingness and I felt him moving, but I didn't care. My husband was giving me the attention I had been craving for. He was loving me in a way that Islam forbade any other man to do. My body ignited with fire and I arched myself against Ibrahim as he pushed me against a wall.

He detached his lips, moving them to my neck and collarbone. I let out a soft moan, unconsciously grinding myself against him. Ibrahim's hands roamed all over my body, squeezing my thighs, brushing against my extremely sensitive breasts, and sliding down the curve of my waist.

He brought his lips up higher, licking, nibbling, and sucking my neck. "Tasneem," he panted, "here or the bedroom?"

My mind had gotten hazy, and Ibrahim consumed every thought, my desires burying into me. I wanted him to touch me, to kiss me, to love me. Gripping his shoulders, I felt myself slipping into a pleasurable bliss as his fingers kneaded the soft globes on my chest, the power of love tantalizing in every way.

"Tell me," he whispered. "What do you want?"

His erection in between my legs was not helping my case. He pressed his body closer to mine, capturing my lips in a passionate kiss. I tangled my fingers in his thick, black hair, pulling at them as he bit my bottom lip.

"Tasneem, I can't hold back," he groaned.

"Ibrahim," I gasped, unable to take his sensual tactics and torturous lips any longer.

I need him.

Maybe it was because of my failed interview, maybe it was because of the amount of work I had to get done for the orphanage, or maybe it was because Ibrahim and I never had our wedding night. Either way, there were no doubts or hesitations this time.

"Bedroom. Now," he rasped against my lips.

Nodding, Ibrahim hastily wrapped my scarf around me, and rushed us away. The night was filled with our tangled bodies, naked between the sheets, and a passion that only existed between the couples that Allah had showered his blessings upon. Our love strengthened and blossomed just as we deflowered each other.