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Real Dubai Call Girls 0501780622 Gold Souk Nights – Deira, the old heart
The alley behind the Gold Souk was narrow, hot, and loud with haggling even at 1 a.m.
Neon signs in Arabic and Hindi flickered over piles of 22-karat bangles, but Zara wasn’t here for jewellery tonight.
She slipped through a side door marked only with a small brass camel, climbed the creaky wooden stairs above a spice shop, and knocked twice on the green paint-peeled door.
It opened instantly.
Armaan filled the frame: tall, Pakistani, thirty-one, sleeves rolled up on a half-unbuttoned kurta, gold chain glinting against brown skin. The tiny apartment smelled of cardamom, oud, and the cheap rose attar he knew she liked.
“Thought you weren’t coming,” he said, voice low, already pulling her.
“Flight from Karachi was delayed,” she lied. She’d actually been in a Burj Al Arab suite until an hour ago, scrubbing another man’s cologne off her skin in the hotel shower.
He didn’t ask questions. Never did.
He just pulled her inside, kicked the door shut, and kissed her like he was trying to erase every fingerprint that wasn’t his.
They didn’t make it to the bed.
He lifted her onto the old teak dining table instead, shoved her short black dress up to her waist, and dropped to his knees on the worn Persian rug. The fan spun lazily overhead; sweat already beaded between her breasts.
“Missed this taste,” he muttered against her thigh, biting the soft skin hard enough to leave a mark she’d have to hide under concealer tomorrow. Then his mouth was on her, rough and hungry and perfect, two fingers sliding inside like they belonged there.
She came fast, fingers tangled in his hair, biting her own wrist to stay quiet so the Bangladeshi neighbours wouldn’t hear.
When he stood, he didn’t bother with the rest of his clothes. Just freed himself, rolled on protection with shaking hands, and pushed into her while she was still pulsing.
The table creaked under them. Gold bangles on her wrist clinked with every thrust.
“Say it,” he growled in Punjabi, forehead against hers, hips snapping hard.
“Sirf tera,” she gasped. Only yours.
He kissed her to swallow the lie, fucked her harder to make it true for the next thirty minutes, and when he came he buried his face in her neck like a drowning man.
After, they lay on the cool marble floor, sharing a bottle of cold Rooh Afza, city sounds drifting up from the creek below: dhow horns, Hindi music, the call for Fajr still hours away.
He traced the faint diamond-shaped bruise on her collarbone: someone else’s teeth mark.
“Next time come straight here,” he said quietly.
She kissed the inside of his wrist. “Next time I’ll try.”
They both knew she wouldn’t.
In Deira, love is cheap and gold is heavy, and girls like Zara only get one or the other.
Tonight she took both, and tomorrow she’d fly first-class back to the man who paid in diamonds instead of promises.
But right now, Armaan’s heartbeat under her cheek was enough.
For one sweaty, secret hour in a cramped apartment above the souk, it was everything.
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