Bootie and the Beast

by Falguni Kothari

  Gah! There was so much stuff she needed to get off her plate, not the least of which was her non-engagement to the Beast.

  Hasaan yawned. It was after midnight for him. “Right. That’s my cue. Khuda hafiz until I see you, Diya jaan.”

  As her friend and boss had never before called her jaan or darling—though the literal translation of the word was life—and it was something Saira did, Diya burst out laughing. “Someone’s getting awfully smitten and influenced by his lady. That’s so cute, Hasaan jaan.”

  On that teasing note, Diya said good-bye and disconnected the phone. She was happy for Hasaan and Saira, truly. It pleased her that they’d managed to get past their reservations.

  Diya pushed the cart into the deli section where a ridiculous variety of cheeses were on offer. Jeez. Why did life have to be so complicated and so full with hard choices? Cheese should just be cheese, but no, she had to pick between Gouda and cheddar and feta and Muenster. She selected three fresh cheeses from the smorgasbord when her phone buzzed again.

  “Hi, Lovey. What’s up?” Diya answered, pushing the cart toward the cold dairy section. Good thing she’d shrugged on a sweater over her short summer dress.

  “You forgot, didn’t you?” Lovey accused.

  “Forgot wha—oh crap!” She’d scheduled a massage with Lovey for … right now, she realized, checking the clock on her phone. “Give me half an hour. Shit … the groceries. What do I do with the groceries? Should I drop them home first or get them to the spa? There’s fresh cheese and dairy in here.”

  “Leave them in the car. It’s cold enough today. And hurry. I have another appointment right after you. I’m going to try to push her back an hour,” Lovey said.

  “You’re a doll! See you in a bit.” Diya disconnected the phone and ran toward checkout.

  * * *

  Two hours and a Swedish massage later, Diya dumped the grocery bags on the kitchen counter and ran up to her room to use the bathroom and change into a pair of denim shorts and a T-shirt. Twisting her hair into a bun at the nape of her neck, she walked back into the kitchen to begin preparing a late lunch, only to find her personal knave unloading the groceries and putting them away.

  He knew he’d goofed up and was on guard. She could tell from the tense set of his shoulders and the fact that he wasn’t meeting her eyes. Good old Daddy must have yelled at him for upsetting his favorite child.

  “What are we having for lunch?” he asked gruffly.

  Huh. It seemed he was going to ignore everything, including the fact that he owed her an apology.

  Diya picked up a medium-sized cast-iron pan from the drying rack and placed it on the burner, which she ignited and twisted on low. While the pan heated, she tackled the prep work for a couple of omelets.

  Krish hovered by her elbow as if awaiting instructions from her or for the sky to fall on his head—whichever came first. Sideways, his belly looked a little tighter. Definitely a little less round. His white shirt with the rolled-up sleeves contrasted his dark skin well. Actually, the man-of-leisure look suited him really well.

  Focus, Dee.

  She selected half a dozen eggs from the carton and cracked them open in a bowl, wrinkling her nose at the eggy odor. She scooped out most of the yellows and threw them in the trash. As her hands moved, the heart of her diamond fractured into a thousand colors, drawing her eyes. It was too delicious a stone to give back really.

  “Here’s how it’s going to go down, Beast. I’m keeping the ring,” she said, shooting him a dark look when he tried to hug her.

  He lazily stepped back and gestured for her to keep going, looking amused but also wary. Amused and/or wary was fine. If he had looked smug, she would have smacked his head with the cast-iron pan.

  “For all concerned parties, we’re engaged. But, between you and me, we’re together on a strictly probationary basis.” She sprayed the pan with Pam and decided her year in law school hadn’t been a complete waste of time if she could instinctively spout useless legalese. “We’ll take each day as it comes, get to know the lay of each other’s land. And then we will decide together whether we should continue the relationship or not. Together is the word of the millennium. You will not make unilateral decisions from now until forever more. Is that understood?”

  She whisked fresh cheese and eggs into a batter and added chopped tomatoes, dill, chilies, and cilantro to it before stirring once more. She looked at Krish when he didn’t answer. He was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, his brow furrowed.

  “You have five days to woo me and convince me this can be our world together and not your world alone,” she finished. It was a good plan.

  Some weird emotion flickered behind his eyes, through the rimless glasses. “Why five?”

  “I’m leaving for Istanbul on Sunday morning.” Diya turned to the hot pan and poured in two-thirds of the batter.

  “No.” With a giant step, he closed the distance between them, his hands reaching for her. But he stopped as soon as she held up a hand. Not a drop of amusement remained on his face.

  “I have to leave on Sunday.” She made small circles with the spatula in her hand, indicating the kitchen and the two of them. “This little domestic cocoon we have going here is not real, Krish. It’s not my life. It’s not yours either. This isn’t even your house.” Oh, but how she wished it were. She so desperately wanted all of it to be real. But she had to be sensible about this. She could not afford to have her heart trampled on again.

  He gave a harsh laugh, a sure indication of the coming hailstorm. “Isn’t it ironic that you’re talking about what’s real and what’s not when you are the one who lives inside a castle in the clouds?”

  No, he doesn’t know me at all now, she thought sadly. “And that’s why we have to do this. And we have to be completely honest with each other. Agreed?”

  He shook his head, frowning harder. Diya gave him some space to think. She pulled out six slices of bread from the breadbox and slid them into the toaster while keeping an eye on the omelet.

  “What don’t you agree with?” she asked.

  “All of the above.” He smiled faintly, as if he couldn’t help it.

  The omelet was done. As she was copiously scent sensitive, omelets were her least favorite food. But they were also full of protein, so she’d eat them because it was good for her body. She tossed the extra-fluffy omelet onto a plate and set it on the placemat on the counter. Krish grabbed a plate out of the crockery cupboard and piled it with toasts.

  “We have a problem then. But, first, let’s finish lunch. Maybe you’ll understand the equal rights movement a bit better on a full stomach.”

  * * *

  While Diya made her own omelet, Krish made himself a three-toast double-decker sandwich.

  She wanted honesty, did she? But how much honesty could she bear before she looked at him in disgust? And how much honesty could he bear from her before he did the same?

  He was torn between wanting to shake Diya for putting them through this and applauding the ballbuster behind the pretty face.

  “Ask me whatever you wish to know, and I’ll give you an honest answer,” he said, swallowing a mouthful of the egg sandwich.

  She took the barstool next to him and started eating her omelet with dainty little forkfuls. He got up to pour them water. While he was up, he filled up the coffeepot and switched on the coffee machine. Then, he sat back down to polish off the rest of his lunch while the coffee brewed.

  “Why now?” she asked, picking up her glass of water. “I asked you before, and you didn’t answer. Why do we make sense as a couple now and not then?”

  “You’re the one who broke our engagement. Not me,” he pointed out, the lie twisting his gut.

  Diya sighed. “Krish, I’m asking for honesty. I only did what you pushed me to do. You refused to touch me. You refused to kiss me. You were refusing me, Krish. How can you deny that?”

  She wanted honesty? Fine, he’d give her honesty.

 
“Just to be clear, I wanted you then as much as I want you now. I want you in my arms, in my house, in my bed. I might not have wanted marriage, Diya, but I wanted you. And I won’t have sex with you without marriage. If you think it’s old-fashioned, so be it.”

  “You want to marry me to sleep with me? Get serious, Krish.” She rolled her eyes at him. The cheek of her.

  “I’m dead serious, babe.” He grabbed her hand and pressed it against his crotch. He got instantly hard. “Feel that? That’s what you do to me without even trying. I’ve been all kinds of hard since you got off that plane. Hell! You want the truth? I’ve had a hard-on for you since you were freaking fourteen years old and suddenly grew boobs.”

  “Krish!”

  Aghast, she snatched her hand back and set her glass down on the counter so hard that water sloshed in all directions, some of it spilling on his unfinished plate. He pushed it back; he wasn’t hungry anymore.

  “I’m being completely honest.” And he loved the fact that, for all her brazen insolence, his crude gesture had put a fiery blush on her cheeks. Christ, he was a dinosaur in a business suit.

  She snatched up a paper towel and began to mop up the mess.

  The coffeepot began to bubble, and Krish stood up and poured himself a steaming mug. “Want some?”

  She glared at him again—or not again since she hadn’t stopped glaring at him.

  “Do you seriously think we can have an affair without the benefit of marriage and not suffer any consequences?” he asked seriously this time.

  “Just what do you mean by ‘suffer the consequences’? How dare you imply that being with me will make you suffer. I’ll be the one suffering, believe me. Shackled to a prehistoric beast. Oh, what joy—not!”

  He started laughing at her melodrama. “I didn’t mean it like that.” He groaned, rubbing a hand over his face, his rough stubble prickling his palm. He hadn’t shaved today. “Look, Diya. Jokes aside. I won’t have some frivolous flirtation with you. That’s where I draw my line.”

  “What rubbish is this? You’ve had plenty of affairs before, and I don’t see a string of ex-wives behind you. You’ve never once thought of marriage with any of them. You told me yourself that you would never marry because of your fath—” She broke off, her stricken eyes flying to meet his. “I mean …”

  “I know what you mean,” he said, tightening his hold on his coffee mug. He watched the dark liquid swirl as it cooled. Yes, they needed to hash this out but not in the kitchen. “Come on. Let’s go sit on the sofa.”

  He held his hand out to her, but she looked at it as if he were pointing a gun at her.

  “Why?”

  “Because, if we’re going to talk about all of that, then it’s going to take a while, and I want to be comfortable.”

  She narrowed her eyes, searching his face, and decided he meant it. “Fine,” she said ungraciously. “Give me ten minutes.” She began to clear up the remnants of their lunch.

  “Leave it, Dee,” he said when she started washing the damn dishes. “I’ll do it later.”

  “Fine. Fine.” She dried her hands and swept past him into the living room.

  He followed her with a shake of his head. But, before she could sit down, he grabbed her around the waist and sank down into the armchair with her on his lap.

  “Krish, let me go,” she said without struggling. She either wanted to sit on his lap or was mindful of the steaming mug of coffee he was holding.

  He took a hot sip and set the mug down on the side table. She immediately tried to get up, but he held fast. “Please, sit. If we’re going to talk about my defects, I might need your shoulder to cry on.”

  “Oh brother.” She rolled her eyes but didn’t try to get up again.

  He dared to kiss her cheek. “Thank you.”

  “Okay, okay. None of that,” she said, crossing her arms across her chest. Clearly, there would be no cuddling.

  “Ready to hash this out?” he asked.

  “Finally!”

  He dared another quick peck on her nose. “What was your question? Ah, yes. Why do I want to marry you?”

  Chapter 17

  “Do you know that, before Sunday, I’d never seen you with a man?” And he hadn’t liked it one bit. Krish still felt a sick rage whenever he recalled Diya kissing that ass, Neil Upadhyay.

  Diya tensed in his lap. “What do you mean?”

  He twirled a lock of her hair that had escaped her bun around his finger. “I’ve never seen you dress for a date, go on a date, get excited about a date. I haven’t met any of your boyfriends. You’ve never introduced me to any of them. Except for Hasaan.”

  “Surely, you’re mistaken,” she began, frowning. “Hasaan is not my boyfriend. He’s my boss. We wouldn’t cross that line. Bad for business.”

  Krish nodded. “Good to know. But, yeah. I’m not mistaken. I’ve heard of your legions, of course. And seen pictures. And let’s not forget the media harping about your sensational escapades every other day. But I’ve never actually, in real life, seen you with a man—a potential mate.”

  He worked her bun loose, letting her hair spill over her delicate shoulders and down her back. He drew his fingers across her collarbone, the curve of one shoulder, down her left arm, to her hand where his ring adorned her fourth finger. She purred and arched like a cat at his touch, and it made him want to growl like a tiger and bite her.

  What was he doing? She wanted to talk.

  “I hadn’t seen a man hold your hand, wrap you in his arms. Hadn’t watched him kiss you,” he choked out. His hands were on her knees, and he spread them apart. The shorts allowed him to smooth his hands over her skin like silk, glide upward without hindrance.

  “Krish, please stop,” she mewled. Paradoxically, her legs widened, and her hips thrust forward as his fingers tested out the seam of her denim shorts at the juncture of her thighs.

  But he took his hands away. “Shall I stop? Stop what? Speaking? Or touching?”

  He was hard as a rock already, and they’d barely started making out. He wanted to touch her, taste her. He wanted to gorge himself on her.

  “I hated seeing you with Neil. I hated seeing your arms go around him. And I wanted to kill you both when you kissed.”

  Goose bumps sprang up on her arms, and when she tilted her face up to kiss him, he leaned away. She wanted to discuss their relationship. He would discuss it.

  “You see, Diya, I’ve always thought of you as mine, even when I pretended otherwise. It’s easy to fool my mind that I feel nothing for you when I live here and you live in Mumbai.”

  “So, what you feel is jealousy. Possession.” Her chest was rising and falling, as if she’d skipped rope for a half an hour.

  “Protectiveness. Desire,” he corrected, his hands busy on her body.

  “Lust,” she argued, quivering in his arms. “God, Krish. Stop that! You said you only want to sleep with me.”

  “I said, to begin with, I want that.”

  Abruptly, he turned her, so she faced away from him. Her hands clutched the arms of the chair for balance while he adjusted her legs, so she sat astride him. Reverse cowgirl. The diamond on her finger gave him permission to feel every sentiment she forced him to.

  “Shall I stop?” he whispered in her ear.

  She shook her head, so he cupped a hand between her legs, another around her breast. She wore a padded bra beneath her T-shirt.

  “Unhook your bra,” he said, his voice guttural. The second she did, his hand slipped inside and took possession of her breast.

  That damn tabloid had been right. It was a perfect handful. She moaned as he played her body like a guitar. He rubbed and tweaked; he pulled her hard against him, and his hips twitched. Her head fell back against his shoulder as she arched higher. Her nails dug into his thighs.

  “Krish … we can’t,” she panted. “We can’t … I’m on my…”

  He remembered and slowed. He dipped his head to feast on her earlobe, and she moaned. So quickly, he’d
become obsessed with the taste of her, the smell of her, the weight of her, the warmth of her.

  Her breath was coming in puffs. She responded to him like a dream, wild for his touch.

  Already, she was on the brink of climax. He could feel it shuddering through her. Through him. His heart pounded furiously inside his chest, his hands relentless on her succulent body.

  “You asked me why. It’s because I love you, Diya. I honestly love you.”

  She shattered in his arms. “I love you, too, Krish.”

  He knew that. He’d always known.

  * * *

  They spent the day in bed, getting up only to use the bathroom and to eat. It was like they were marooned on a lost island, and until a rescue boat found them and the world invaded, they could live as they pleased.

  It was Diya’s fairy tale come to life on a budget.

  The unlimited budget fantasy had allowed for a more extensive star cast made up of serving elves and knaves, magnificent and ever-changing sets, unlimited glittery clothes, and animals that meowed and chirped and whinnied but did not poop.

  However, this version was also fine. Or was actually better because, in this one, Krish did not gallop about on a horse, brandishing a sword, or brood in solitary confinement under a tree. Rather, he talked to her.

  He gave a broader overview about how and why he’d become involved with OSP. He confessed to feeling dissatisfied with the monotony and general quality of his life—personal and professional—for a couple of years now.

  “Burnout?” she asked, pressing on the pressure points on Krish’s toes that relieved tension, neck aches, and hypertension. “With the hours you keep and the projects you take on, no wonder. And why haven’t you told me … any of us … about these doubts you’ve had for so long?”

  She sat, cross-legged, at the bottom of the bed with his right foot in her lap while he reposed against several fluffy pillows like a rajah, his hands linked behind his head and a blanket thrown over his puppy-shame region. She itched to pull off the blanket, but it wasn’t time to play Emperor’s New Clothes yet.