“I said I’d pay rent but—”
“Oh, he won’t have money off you.” Dad sounded like his usual self again. “He doesn’t need it, and he’s your friend. You know what friendship means, don’t you Jazzy?”
“Mmm,” she said awkwardly. Because really, no matter how many friends she managed to get, she’d never really trusted the concept. Sometimes, thinking badly about herself required her to think badly of other people, too. To imagine cruelties and ulterior motives and falseness behind every smile.
But then, as much as her insecurities tried to twist Rahul into that mould, the idea wouldn’t stick.
He was so… difficult.
Maybe Dad could tell she was having one of her minor internal crises, because he changed the subject. As he recounted the most recent evidence of his mini golf expertise, things slowly returned to normal. By the time Jasmine said goodbye, she’d almost forgotten her emotional blip.
Almost.
And then, on her way back to the office, she found Asmita.
“Where’ve you been?” Asmita asked suspiciously. Her arms were full of folders, so she flicked her glossy hair over her shoulder with a shampoo-advert sort of swish.
“Talking to my dad,” Jasmine said. She crossed her arms and leant against the wall. “He’s on a cruise.”
“Right. Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Jasmine said, her tone shamefully unconvincing.
Asmita arched a brow. “You sure?”
She meant to say, For fuck’s sake, yes, but when she opened her mouth, “I don’t know,” came out instead.
Asmita’s eyes widened in alarm. “Okay. What’s up?”
Jasmine tried to come up with a decent answer, even inside her own head, and failed. “I think… I think I’m having feelings.”
“Oh my,” Asmita deadpanned. “How disturbing.”
“I know!” Jas was momentarily pleased that Asmita understood. Then she saw the sarcasm written all over her friend’s face and deflated again. “Oh, piss off, you cow. It’s alright for you. You have a girlfriend now. You’re deeply in love and living happily ever after.”
“Yes,” Asmita said dryly, “it’s definitely that simple. Completely uncomplicated.”
Jasmine felt herself blush. “Whatever.”
“So you’re carrying on like a pantomime dame over a girl? Or guy? Or otherwise categorised person?”
Well, when she put it like that…
Jasmine became suddenly aware of how very embarrassing her behaviour was. She stood up straight and cleared her throat. “No. No, I was just having a moment.”
Asmita pursed her lips. “Don’t clam up on me, sweetie. I want to know.”
What simple words. I want to know.
That wasn’t something Jasmine heard often. Then again, she didn’t have conversations like this often—or ever.
Sometimes she’d forget to keep things light, and get all emotional—usually when she was drunk. And whoever she was with might say something like, Are you alright? Or, Is everything okay? Because human beings were conditioned to pretend to care about each other’s trivial bullshit. But no-one actually wanted another person’s sadness vomited all over them. No-one liked a whiner. So she’d cut them off, avoid the issue, change the subject, and everyone was happier for it.
Except Rahul. She told Rahul everything. She couldn’t tell Rahul about this.
“I’m just… confused about something,” Jasmine said.
Asmita’s brows shot up. “Okay, wow. Wait a second. Just processing the fact that you’re actually going to answer.”
She snorted. “Shut up.”
“Please, don’t let me distract you. Do go on.”
Jasmine bit down a smile. She opened her mouth, frowned, closed it. Where to go from here?
I’ve spent three days tip-toeing around the most important person in my world because he doesn’t need the only thing that I know how to give. I can’t want something without trying to take it. I’m struggling not to ruin everything, as always. I don’t know why I’m wasting your time. What do I do?
“Don’t ask questions when you have no intention of listening to the answer.” A tutor of Jasmine’s had said that once, a barrister who spent her Thursday and Friday afternoons tutoring students. Olivia. She was rather brilliant, in every sense of the word.
Jasmine didn’t ask the question. Instead she said something that felt, in that moment, more important.
“I’m sorry if I’m ever… kind of a shitty friend?”
Asmita blinked. She appeared genuinely surprised. “You’re not a shitty friend. You’re a distant and mysterious friend, sometimes, but not shitty.” She smiled gently. “But if you wanted to be less distant and mysterious, that would be great too.”
Jasmine huffed out a laugh. “I’ll take that under advisement.”
“Good. Hey, are you busy this evening?”
Um… Busy trying not to desperately want something I cannot have. “No. Not really.”
“Why don’t we have a girls’ night? With Pinal, maybe?”
Jasmine widened her eyes in mock astonishment. “You still want me around her now she’s your super-official girlfriend?”
“Be cool or you’re disinvited.”
“Does cool mean I can’t tell her about the time you threw up pure vodka on your Mum’s—”
Asmita slapped a hand over Jasmine’s mouth. “I should not have invited you, should I?”
“Are you alright?”
Rahul wondered vaguely why his jaw ached, then realised it was because he’d been clenching his teeth for… God, how long?
Three days fucking straight.
“Rahul.”
He looked up. Blinked. “Oh. Jo. Ah… Yes. Thank you. What’ve you got there?”
The small, round woman came into the room with a wary look, a stack of files in her arms. “Ian said you wanted the Hubbard Services assets on paper.”
Had Rahul asked for that?
Oh, yes. He had. For reasons he couldn’t quite remember. Oh—because he was going over the Hubbard account, because Ian was an incompetent prick. Rahul pulled off his glasses and ran a hand over his face. The past three days had been a sunset-red haze of frustration and confusion and…
“Why did Ian send you? I told him to do it.”
Jo gave him a look. “Probably because you’ve got him and half the office shit-scared. What’s up with you?”
“Nothing,” he said, the word automatic.
She snorted, perched on the edge of his desk and dumped the files. “You’re a shitty liar.”
Jo had seven thousand grandkids and silver—literally silver, like starlight—hair. She wore floral shirts with linen trousers and slip-on shoes. She swore like a sailor and was the only friend Rahul had ever made at work.
“I’m not lying,” he lied. Badly.
“Right.” Jo gave him a skeptical look. “Where’s your stress ball?”
Everyone loved to laugh about his stress ball. It wasn’t really a ball, because it was shaped like a unicorn’s head, but it served the same purpose.
He should never have brought it to work, except Jasmine had given it to him, and it made him smile, and he was absolutely pathetic. The stress ball was shoved in his drawer today. He wished hiding away thoughts of her were that simple.
“Never mind my stress ball,” he said, with what he hoped was at least a scrap of dignity. “Tell Ian he is an unchivalrous pig for sending you in his place.”
“It was a calculated choice,” Jo smiled. “Everyone knows you won’t shout at an old woman.”
“You’re not an old woman,” he muttered, rifling through the files. “Could you shut the door when you leave?”
She clucked her tongue. “Hark at you. You’re such a misery.”
“I’m aware.” He studied the first few pages in his hands, hoping some issue or other would leap out at him—something he could use to occupy his mind, to push out almost-painful thoughts. Nothing appeared. But he had p
lenty more pages to go.
“Enjoy whatever it is you’re doing,” Jo snorted, pushing herself to her feet.
“I’ll try. Thanks, Jo.”
“No problem. Just… try and leave the office before ten, would you?”
There was no chance of that. Today’s strategy was to stay at work as long as possible, to avoid home at all costs. But he glanced up and flashed Jo what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “I’ll do my best.”
She gave a highly skeptical humph before shuffling off. And she shut the door behind her.
Rahul let himself relax. Or rather, deflate, safe from prying eyes.
He had no fucking clue what to do about Jasmine.
She’d clearly meant her apology, because from that morning on, she’d left him alone. Or rather, she did her best to annoy him, and forced him to play poker, and beat him at poker, and wasted his time with far too much TV—but she didn’t call him anything outrageous, or touch him for just a little too long, or watch him watching her with that sharp little smile.
And he wanted her so fucking much his teeth hurt. His everything hurt.
She wasn’t even doing anything to cause it. She was just Jasmine with her hair up and her words blunt and her laughter uncontrolled, all the fucking time. It was painfully perfect and it left him achingly thirsty. He had no idea how he was supposed to resist her.
The numbers before him blurred as if he’d taken off his glasses, so he gave up completely and actually took them off. Now she’d disrupted the cool simplicity of his beloved numbers, and he couldn’t even resent her for it, because it was his fault. Rahul squeezed his eyes shut, rubbed a hand over his face, and was barraged with memories of the past few days.
He felt her lips every time he closed his eyes. Sleep was for other people now; Rahul lay in the dark and lived through desperation until the sun rose. His cock felt like it had been hard all week. Hard and begging him to do something about it—but he couldn’t, because if he touched himself he’d think of her and that would make things worse. If he called a woman, and he could, he’d still think of her. And that would just be disgusting.
Holy fucking shit, he was so sick of this. Rahul surged to his feet and strode to the door Jo had closed. Hesitated. Locked it.
He leant a hand against the door’s cool wood, and closed his eyes, and tried not to hate himself. It was pretty fucking hard.
Why can’t you just fuck her? Why?
Because I’ve lasted this long. Because she’ll eat me alive.
So enjoy it.
His right hand moved to his belt without permission, just like his mind moved to that night without permission, over and over again. He felt himself undo the belt with jerky movements, felt himself unzip his trousers, shove them down, grab his aching cock through his briefs. Rahul exhaled, hard, shuddering at the pressure—at the relief.
Thoughts couldn’t hurt anyone. Thoughts didn’t mean anything. He dragged down the waistband of his underwear, releasing a low hiss as his length sprang free. He’d do this, and he’d feel better. His head would be clearer. He could focus on his work, go about his business—without his thoughts straying to the taste of her lips every five minutes. He’d just take the edge off…
He saw her come into his office. Fuck it; naked. She came into his office naked. He pieced her together with scraps of memory. Her body had changed since he’d had her all those years ago; he knew that. He’d seen some of it. Most of it. He knew how her arse shook with each step and how the muscles in her calves moved, and he knew how thick her waist was and how her tits were almost non-existent. He knew that her nipples begged to be taken into his mouth, and God he fucking wished he’d done that, but he hadn’t.
He should have. Years ago, when he’d had the chance, or even last night. He should’ve taken those hard little points gently between his teeth—but he was getting ahead of himself. She’d just come into his office. So he’d kiss her first.
He kissed her, tasted tea with too much sugar. He wrapped an arm around her waist and pinned her to him, felt every inch of her nakedness. Rahul’s thumb and forefinger squeezed the head of his cock so hard it was almost painful. He opened his eyes and watched pre-come seep from the swollen tip, slick and clear. Used his thumb to spread it around, and groaned at the sensation.
He couldn’t wait and he couldn’t go slow. He took himself firmly in hand and started the rhythm that always worked, fast and hard along his shaft. When his eyes closed again, he saw Jasmine pull him towards the desk, heard her beg for him because she knew how to ask, he’d taught her, and she knew what he liked, he’d taught her that too.
He felt her push him onto the desk, and then she climbed on top of him, took him inside her sweet cunt—fuck, he could’ve had her like that. Rahul’s hand moved faster. Just a few nights ago, if he hadn’t stopped, he could’ve pushed her onto his cock and come inside her.
No, he couldn’t—she wouldn’t have let him do that. Would she? Didn’t matter. This was his fantasy, so he did it anyway. He fucked her raw, felt her squeezing his cock as she came, felt her pull his hair and kiss him and demand more—
The release that tore through him was almost violent. He felt half-destroyed, almost revived, light-headed with relief. And breathless with the realisation that it wasn’t enough. His spine tingled, his blood sang, his come was hot and wet in his palm—and it wasn’t enough. He needed her.
Rahul focused on his breathing, focused on slowing down the pounding of his heart. He had no idea how long he stood there before he became aware of the fact that he was… well, first of all, standing. Leaning against the door of his office. His office. He’d just come in his own bloody hand at work.
He was absolutely fucked, wasn’t he?
Rahul straightened, found his handkerchief, cleaned himself up. He yanked his clothes into place with something close to fury, though he wasn’t quite sure at what—or whom.
Oh; himself, perhaps. Yes. Almost certainly himself.
He raised a hand to his hair, and was relieved to find it in order. Adjusted his glasses, as though they needed it. Realised that the mild headache he’d had for the last couple of days had receded. He rolled his shoulders, working the tense muscles.
This was ridiculous.
Why should he feel like this, like such a fucking mess? Why was he denying himself the only thing he needed?
Rahul ignored the irritating voice in his head and went back to his desk. Except now, his desk reminded him of Jasmine, and he hadn’t even had Jasmine on it. Fantastic. Perfect. Brilliant. All the pain, none of the pleasure.
His temper snapped.
“Fuck it,” he ground out. The empty room listened in silence. “I want her. She wants me.”
Common sense told him that human beings weren’t as simple as basic equations. Rahul decided he’d had enough of common sense.
He’d take Jasmine instead.
11
Now
Asmita and Pinal had graduated from cute to painfully adorable. Jasmine had declined drinking anything alcoholic, because the couple-ness made her dangerously nauseous, and combining it with gin and pub snacks was probably a bad idea.
She felt rather proud of that decision.
But she wasn’t proud of the fact that she came home vaguely deflated, oddly flat and childishly envious. Because feeling anything other than ecstatic about the fact that Asmita was in love made her an evil human being.
Probably. She wasn’t sure. She’d make some toast and think on it.
Jasmine let herself into Rahul’s flat and kicked off her shoes by the door, fanning herself slightly. Her white shirt and long skirt combo had seemed fine in that morning’s cool air, but the day had ripened into unexpected heat, and now she felt… not sweaty, exactly. But in need of a cold glass of water. Maybe an ice lolly.
Ha; as if Rahul would have ice lollies.
She dumped her bag in the living room and found the man himself sitting at the kitchen table. Her smile came quick and automatic, as it alwa
ys did with him, and some of the her lurking dissatisfaction started to fade.
“Hey,” she began. Then he looked up at her, and she stopped. Couldn’t speak. Practically lost the ability.
He’d never looked at her like that. Not ever. His eyes seemed almost harsh, framed by the thick slashes of his brows, by that furrow between them. He raked his gaze over her, from head to toe and back again, and she felt as if he’d just ripped her clothes off.
She licked her lips. “Rahul?”
He drummed his fingers against the table. Long, strong fingers that had felt so fucking good in her hair, between her legs. His voice was even deeper than usual, rougher than she’d ever heard it. “Where’ve you been?”
She laughed. “What?”
His scowl deepened. He drew in a breath. “That sounded… I was just asking. I’m sorry.”
She raised her brows. “Okay. Where are your glasses, by the way?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere. Bathroom.”
He was shirtless, which wasn’t so very unusual. Shirtless, and wearing some of those basketball shorts; she caught sight of them under the table. His skin glowed slightly, enough to let her know that he’d been working out. But he usually went to the gym for that, and in the morning too.
She moved past him to get a glass. “You want a drink?”
“No.”
“Is everything alright?”
“Yes.”
Liar. She walked past him to the sink, sneaking looks at him. She could see the tension in his back, in his shoulders, just as easily as she could hear it in his voice. She knew that he exercised because controlling his body helped him concentrate, and burn off frustration, and handle stress. She wondered if something had happened at work. She poured him a glass of water, though he claimed he didn’t want one.
Then she put the glass firmly in front of him. “Water helps everything.” For him, anyway. For her, the equivalent was vodka.
He glared.
She sat down across from him, and her hands moved to the pack of cards they’d left there the night before. Jasmine pulled out the cards and shuffled, the movements absent. “Want to play? The mood you’re in, you might actually win.”
Wanna Bet?: An Interracial Romance Page 11