Wanna Bet?: An Interracial Romance

by Talia Hibbert

  He stared at her. For a moment he seemed alien, unnaturally still, every muscle in his body coiled, as if he were a predator waiting to strike. His eyes shone almost amber, so much brighter without his glasses. She tried not to look at his chest, at the expanse of lean muscle and warm skin and dark curls, but her gaze disobeyed for a moment. Flicked to the brown nipples, the taut abs, the thick line of hair that pointed down, down, down…

  He pulled the cards from her hands. His fingers brushed hers, and she had to stifle a gasp—because she’d been surprised. Because he’d moved so quickly. Not because the brush of his skin against hers made her palms tingle and her mouth dry.

  He shuffled the cards himself, his hands moving fast but his eyes holding hers. And he said, his voice a harsh challenge, “Wanna bet?”

  Jasmine swallowed.

  She was good at reading signals. At least, she liked to think she was; and she had plenty of evidence to suggest her belief was correct. A girl didn’t get laid as much as Jasmine without learning to pick up a few signs.

  But this was… confusing. Confusing because he’d said no, and she wished he hadn’t, and she’d stopped trying to change his mind, but fuck she wished he’d change his mind, and now here was, looking at her, shuffling those fucking cards, waiting for an answer…

  Wanna bet?

  She bit her lip and let her gaze travel over his chest—not surreptitiously this time, but bold as fucking brass. Then she said, “Yes. I do.”

  He put the pack in the centre of the table. “One chance. High card. Draw.”

  “What are we playing for?”

  “Time,” he said softly. “Same as always. You win, you get an hour to do whatever you want with me.”

  She’d won before, but she’d never done what she wanted with him. She made him have fun. She made him watch Riddick with her or bake Marianne’s lemon cake. She’d never done what she really fucking wanted.

  “Alright,” she said. “And you?”

  “The same.” His voice was quiet, but raw. “I get an hour.”

  Now, why did that sound like a promise?

  This isn’t happening. He doesn’t want—

  He nodded towards the cards and said again, “Draw.”

  She reached out, tension thrumming through her body. She felt almost giddy, as if she were at the top of a rollercoaster waiting for the drop.

  Jasmine had always liked rollercoasters.

  She slid a card off the deck and laid it on the table. “Eight,” she said, because he probably couldn’t read it without his glasses. Her chest felt tight. She became hyper-conscious of each breath, imagined she could feel her own heart beating.

  Through the open window at the back of the room, she heard a snatch of blaring music as a car drove by. The air felt thick, the tension thicker.

  Rahul took a handful of cards. She frowned. “What are you—”

  He held up a hand to silence her. Used the other to fan out the cards. Then he picked one out and threw it down.

  A nine.

  “Look at that,” he said. “I won.”

  Then he stood, crossed the table in one stride, and dragged her out of her chair.

  Jasmine was feeling more than a little dazed, but her body, at least, caught on fast. She practically jumped on him, wrapped her legs around his waist, and he caught her with a grunt before finally, finally kissing her.

  The painful interlude between their last kiss and this one had been, frankly, torturous. Jasmine only realised how torturous when his lips took hers, desperate and insistent, and his hands grabbed her arse, and the thing inside her that had been restless and bitter and ravenous actually relaxed. This was all she’d had to do, all along? Kiss Rahul again? Well, shit. Good to know.

  She ran her fingers through the thick curls of his hair, like so many ribbons of silk, and kissed him with everything she had. The desire, yes, and the longing, but the confusion too, the tenderness she didn’t know what to do with, the recklessness, the fear. There were things swirling inside her that she didn’t recognise, couldn’t identify, things that appeared without permission or apparent reason. Usually, she buried them. Now she gave them all to him, because he would know what to do. He’d handle it. He could handle her.

  And he did. He carried her out of the kitchen, and if they moved slowly, if they bumped into a counter or a wall or a bookshelf, she understood, because really she had no idea where she was—which way was left, which way was down, if she was right side up—and the fact that he could walk at all was kind of amazing. When he sat down onto what must be the sofa, and her knees came to rest against soft cushions, she felt like giving him a round of applause. Might have, if she weren’t busy running her hands over his bare skin, over the defined muscles of his back, his shoulders, his biceps.

  Now he wasn’t carrying her anymore, his hands moved just as freely. His fingers traced gently over the bandage on her ankle, his touch delicate even as his lips and tongue dominated hers. Then he moved higher and his hands grew hard, demanding. He dragged her skirt up over her hips, until it was just a band of useless fabric around her waist. She felt his hand delve between her thighs, felt him stroke her through the cotton of her underwear, and dragged her mouth away from his.

  He stared at her, panting, black pupils swallowing the brown of his iris. “What?”

  “Two things,” she murmured, breathless. “First… You understand that I want—”

  “I know what you want,” he said. His fingers toyed with the edge of her underwear, sliding along the seam where her thigh met her mound. “Let me give it to you.”

  “Okay,” she said, her voice cracking.

  “But I have a rule,” he added.

  “What?”

  “As long as we’re doing this,” he said, a hand tangling in her hair. “You can’t have anyone else.”

  She licked her lips. Why the fuck would I want anyone else?

  His grip tightened. “Say you agree.”

  “Why?”

  “Jasmine.” A muscle in his jaw ticked.

  She smiled. “Whatever you want, buttercup.”

  “Good.” He relaxed; she could see tension roll away from him. “What was the second thing?”

  For a moment, it was almost a struggle to remember. But then she did. Jasmine reached for her bag at the end of the sofa, rifled through the zipped pocket inside, and produced a condom. “Second thing.” She put it on the arm of the sofa. Wouldn’t want it to go disappearing. The rest were in her bedroom and that was just too far away.

  A slight smile softened the harsh look of need on his face. “You take condoms to work?”

  “Preparation is key.”

  He laughed. Full lips, white teeth, strong jaw; there was nothing prettier than Rahul laughing. Actually, there was; the way he bit his lip when he came.

  She remembered that. She remembered everything.

  Jasmine shuffled back slightly and started to pull down his shorts. He choked on his laughter and caught her hands. “You can’t wait?”

  “Clearly,” she said, “I cannot.”

  His smirk was infuriating and arousing all at once. “You never learned patience, did you, brat?”

  “I suppose not.” She tried to tug her hands from his grip. He didn’t budge.

  “I think I’ll have to teach you.”

  “If you think now is the time to teach me—”

  He released her, only to grab the front of her shirt with both hands. He dragged her forward, kissed her again—oh, she felt so good when he kissed her, as if her body had been slightly out of sync with her mind but now everything was just right. He sucked her lower lip into his mouth, and each strong pull tugged at something hot and electric inside her. Jasmine’s toes curled.

  Then he tore her shirt open. She let out a rather embarrassing screech as the buttons flew, scattering across the floor, and he laughed. If she’d thought his laugh was sexy before, hearing it while he shoved off the remains of her shirt was… Well, it was something.

>   She’d worn a bra to work as a matter of principle rather than necessity. Rahul appeared to be a fan of today’s underwear: white, of course, and thin and lacy and sheer. He stared at her chest for one long, taut moment, a hunger in his eyes that she’d never seen before. Then his arm came around her waist like a steel bar. He dragged her closer, bent his head and sucked her nipple into his mouth through the lace.

  Jasmine sank her fingers into his hair and moaned, a bright desire rushing through her. Fuck. His tongue, so hot and soft and wet, made the lace seem suddenly rough. His free hand found her knickers, and he pulled them down her thighs, leaving them just above her knees. Then, abrupt and deliciously rough, he pushed her back so that her body arched away from him. Jasmine braced herself, her hands resting behind her, on his knees. She panted hard, slightly dizzy, her underwear tangled around her legs, one of her bra cups damp and her nipples tight, her pussy growing hot and wet.

  He raked his gaze over her, hunger in his eyes. “Look at you,” he whispered.

  None of her insecurities arose to whisper misinterpretations in her ear. She heard the reverence in his tone loud and clear.

  She liked it.

  12

  Now

  Rahul fisted his cock through his shorts as he took in the—admittedly blurry—sight before him. The living, breathing manifestation of all his wildest fantasies. Jasmine Allen, gaze heavy and lips parted, her nipples hard and dark beneath that sweet lace, her legs spread wide for him. Her thighs were soft and rippled with stretch marks, like waves across an ocean’s surface. He was more than ready to drown.

  One of his arms held her secure on his lap. He studied her face as his free hand moved between their bodies. He’d barely seen her face last time. He cupped his palm over her pussy and slid his middle finger through her plump folds. Felt slick skin and heartbreaking softness. Wanted. Watched.

  She bit her lip, hard enough to make the deep rose pale. Her eyes were almost shut. When his finger ghosted over her clit, she made a sharp mewling sound that shot right to his cock. So he did it again, rubbing the hard bud gently, and her hips rocked towards him.

  He pulled her closer, because her body was something to look at, yes, but it felt even better. She clutched his shoulders and pressed herself against him, and moaned as he stroked her, and it was heaven.

  “Fuck,” she panted. She was breathless. He made her breathless. Rahul kissed her neck, tasted the slight tang of salt on her skin, and was filled with savage pleasure when she whispered something that sounded like his name.

  The pad of his finger still circling her clit, he asked. “What was that?”

  “Nothing.”

  He released her waist, sliding his hand up to cradle her throat. Her gaze, suddenly sharp and defiant, met his. Rahul smiled. “Liar.”

  She stuck her tongue out. So he dragged her forward and kissed her, thrusting his tongue against hers, devouring her mouth, trying not to wonder how it could be that the reality of Jasmine was so much fucking better than every single one of his fantasies. Weren’t fantasies untouchable? Wasn’t reality disappointing?

  But he’d never felt this much, not inside his own head. He couldn’t have. She held his face and they kissed, frantic and desperate and messy, and he’d never been so free in his fucking life, and nothing had ever been so perfect. He slid his hand from her clit to her entrance, found it slick and swollen, and pushed a finger inside. She moaned into his mouth, the sound ragged, and God, she was so fucking hot, and so tight, and his cock was so hard it hurt.

  He dragged his mouth from hers and ordered in a voice he barely recognised, “Touch me.”

  It was as if she’d been waiting for permission. Her hands finally strayed from his face, his hair, his shoulders, to the place he needed her most. She reached between them and pulled at the waistband of his shorts, and Rahul raised himself up slightly, and she laughed and almost lost her balance on his lap—but he caught her, and he kept stroking her, adding a second finger to the first, and somehow, in the midst of all the clumsy, urgent need, she managed to release his cock.

  He hissed with sharp relief as she wrapped a hand around him. Spread his thighs wider, because his balls ached so badly… and then she reached between them with her other hand and massaged his sac gently, and he thought he might just come all over her.

  Control.

  She caught his earlobe between her teeth for one sharp second, then released it. “Your cock is almost as pretty as you.”

  Rahul bit back a moan. “You’re the only one who’s ever called me pretty.”

  “Don’t know why.” She stroked him hard and fast, all the pressure of her grip on his sensitive tip. “You’re sickeningly pretty. The first time I saw you all I wanted to do was sit on your face.”

  “Don’t say shit like that.” He tightened his grip on her throat, just enough to remind her he was there—and yet, he felt like the one at her mercy.

  “Why not?” She asked, her voice hitching as his fingers brushed over a yielding, tender spot inside her.

  “Because,” he said, and repeated the action. “I’m trying to last longer than I did the first time.”

  She cried out, her pussy clenching around him. “Oh my God, keep doing that. Holy shit.”

  He watched as her face twisted, beautiful and uncontrolled. She writhed against him with every shallow thrust of his fingers, her breath coming in gasps, and all he could think was, Mine. But he’d never be foolish enough to say that aloud.

  Did it matter, as long as he knew? Mine. Now. Always. “Give me the condom.”

  Even as she gasped, even as her cunt tightened and released around him, she managed to laugh. “You’re so fucking bossy.”

  He caught her jaw in his hand, his grip hard. “You can talk back to me when you’re on my cock and not a minute before. Give me the fucking condom.”

  She came. Her gaze pinned to his, her hand on his cock, and his name on her lips. Whether she liked it or not, whether she wanted to admit it or not. Rahul felt her tighten around his fingers until it was almost painful, and then her wetness flooded his hand. His hand, his wrist, his forearm. He raised his brows as he watched the clear fluid trail along his bare thighs. Then he looked up to find Jasmine biting her lip, chest heaving, cheeks dark.

  He pulled his fingers from her gently and raised them to his lips. She tasted like raw fucking heaven. “Did you just squirt?”

  She gave him a look. “What do you think?”

  A smile tugging at his lips, he shook his head. “So you do that a lot?”

  “Only sometimes.” She shrugged. Her gaze skittered away from his. “I probably should’ve—”

  He slid a hand into her hair and pulled her close, until their lips were just a breath apart. “So you can do it again?”

  “Yes,” she said softly.

  He kissed her, not as hard or as desperate as before—even though he was still just as hungry, needed her just as much. He kissed her as if he had all the time in the world to do it, because it suddenly occurred to him that he did. She hadn’t put a time limit on things. She wanted friends with benefits, and they’d been friends for years. They’d be friends for years more.

  And he’d have her. As long as he didn’t fuck it up.

  Don’t. Don’t overthink. Just do.

  He helped her climb off him and stood. The look in her eyes was questioning, but she didn’t speak. Just waited while he got the damned condom himself, and followed when he twined their fingers together and pulled her towards the door.

  He’d wanted this for a very long time, and he certainly wasn’t going to do it in the fucking living room.

  When they came to the pseudo-crossroads of the hall, he looked once at the blurry door to her room before settling on his own. When she left—the flat, he told his wincing heart, not me—her room would be empty, but his room would always be his. And he wanted the memory of her in it.

  “Sex in a bed,” she murmured, as he pulled her through the doorway. “You’re spoilin
g me.”

  She wore the sort of tiny, focused smile that suggested she was more pleased than she’d like to let on. Probably not about the bed—or at least, he hoped not. If she was happy about the bed he’d have to seriously question everyone she’d ever slept with. But she was happy about something. Maybe about him. The possibility swelled in his chest.

  He pulled her closer. Her eyes were bright, her hair was all over the place—she’d definitely complain about him touching it so much, as soon as she remembered to care. She’d lost her knickers somewhere, but her clothes were still half-on. The sight of her skirt around her waist and her pretty, flimsy bra turned useless was almost as arousing as the thought of her naked.

  Almost, but not quite. Rahul led her to the foot of the bed, turned her to face it. Stood behind her. Close.

  He felt her shiver. Then she said, trying and failing to sound unaffected, “I take it we’re not done?”

  He threw the condom on the bed in front of her. “Do you want to be done?”

  “Well, I suppose you—” Her words broke off as he trailed his fingers along her sides, grazing the sensitive skin. She sucked in a breath when he eased down her skirt. Then she tried again. “I suppose you’ve made it worth my while so far.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” He crouched down to help her step out of the skirt. For a moment, he became oddly fascinated with the backs of her knees. The skin seemed impossibly fine, dangerously soft and delicate. He bent his head and kissed one leg, then the other, just because he loved her. He would never say it, but he could kiss the backs of her knees and know exactly what that meant in his own head.

  Before his thoughts could spin out of control again, Rahul slid his palms up her thighs, then cupped her arse with both hands. “I want to bend you over,” he murmured, “and fuck you until you can’t stand.”

  Just like that, she bent forwards, resting her hands on the bed. Her back arched, pushing her flesh more firmly into his hands. She looked over her shoulder with a smile that went straight to his cock and said, “You always have such good ideas.”