by Ayesha Patel
I gently shoved him. “Admit it. You love them.”
He laughed. “Some of those songs are catchy. I just wish there was more variety, you know?”
“Like American genres?”
“Yeah. It’s cool that more recent Bollywood movies have superheroes, or gangsters, but those are variables, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And variables are minimal, but the exponential constant is the romance. It’s always there, no matter what the rest of the movie is about. It can be twenty percent of the movie or ninety percent, but it has to be there.”
He looked thoughtfully at the ceiling as he nerdified the Bollywood equation. I tucked my legs beneath me and watched his beautiful face shrouded by shadows and hidden by his flexed biceps.
I inhaled. Since we were on the subject of romance…
“Bollywood is about living a life that would never exist in the real world. Love is nonsensical ideology, but ninety percent of Bollywood movies are about overcoming diversity and trials to be with the one they love.”
“So, what? Indians don’t love their spouses?” he asked.
“My mom explained that we get married to a suitable mate, someone who benefits the other and vice versa. They have to match in education, come from a good family, and be free from bad habits like smoking and drinking. Oh, and of course women must be virgins. She says love comes later, practicality first.”
“You guys still do arranged marriages?”
“In a sense. It’s not horrible like how Americans think. We don’t arrange our baby to marry someone else’s baby in twenty-five years. Our parents network and find people to present as possible spouses. We have the right to decline, but it’s frowned upon.”
“Your parents were arranged?”
“Yes. They were really old school. My dad saw my mom one day when he was visiting her village. He liked her and asked his parents to arrange a marriage through her parents. She didn’t see or meet him until the wedding.”
“But they love each other now?”
“Yes. They never say those words or hold hands or kiss in front of anyone else, but they love each other.”
“They don’t tell you they love you?”
“No. It’s implied through action. Those words—I don’t even think it sounds right to translate it.”
“You’ve never said it to your parents?”
“No. I tried to, but it’s awkward. Never said it to anyone, although I say it about food.”
He chuckled. “I love your obsession with food. Does your mom want you to marry an Indian, someone she chooses?”
“Yes.” My heart burned as I gathered the courage to tell him about Manuk.
“You’re okay with that?”
“I know how Americans feel about obeying parents as an adult.”
“Why do you keep differentiating yourself from us? You’re American. You grew up here.”
“Yes, but my cultural roots are strong. I’m part of that group that is half and half. I’ll wear short shorts and tank tops, drink once in a while, live on my own, but I’ll make my parents happy and take their advice.”
“And marry the person they choose?”
“Yes. Though it’s my decision who he’ll be.”
“Only if they approve?”
I tilted my head. “Are you close to your parents?”
“Yep.”
“Could you marry someone they didn’t approve of?”
“Assuming it’s for a solid reason. But I don’t believe in the institution of marriage.”
I gawked at him. “Why not?”
“Why should I? Marriage began as proprietary rights on women and is used now more for legal issues than anything else.”
“It’s how people commit to each other. It holds families together.”
“I don’t really see myself having children, and I can commit without a piece of paper. And whoever I commit to won’t have to worry if I’ll leave one day.”
“Interesting development.”
“Why does my opinion bother you?”
“Why are you really against marriage?”
“It adds unnecessary stress. If people feel trapped, they make their issues worse. People need space, and people should be able to get that space without society giving them a hard time.”
“We’re so different.”
I moved my legs forward to keep them from going numb. Ty scooted closer, wrapped an arm around my legs, and straightened them over his lap. He kept his hand on my lower thigh. The warmth from his touch seared my flesh and sent tingles to the core of my body. I bit my lower lip as he stroked my skin with a thumb. He rubbed my foot over the sock with his other hand. My feet ached. The light massage relaxed me, but the way he stroked the toes and the arch was somehow erotic.
“Would your mom be okay with you dating someone not Indian?”
Clearing my head, I responded, “She’s adamant about me marrying this Indian dentist from Dallas.”
He swallowed, the play of this throat muscles alluring, enticing, tempting me to lick him there. “Are you interested?”
I looked away before I acted on my desires. “Not really. I’ve met him and his family.”
“Do you like him?”
“He’s okay.”
“Can she force you to date him, marry him?” Question by question, his hand moved up, making it difficult to think straight.
Fighting off a gasp, I answered, “I don’t think she would, but she can be persistent.”
“Would she be mad if you dated someone else?”
“Yes.”
“Would you?”
“Would I what?” I forced myself to pay attention to the conversation and ignore what my treacherous body was telling me.
“Date someone else.”
“I don’t know.”
“Because you don’t want her mad at you? What if the guy’s worth it?”
“Making her mad is one thing, but disappointing her to where she doesn’t look at me the same is unbearable. I don’t know if any guy is worth that.”
“You can talk to her. She strikes me as someone who would listen to the daughter she clearly loves so much. You have to say something, though, otherwise…how would she know?”
He looked at me then, expecting an answer, a resolve. I didn’t promise anything. In fact, I broke eye contact and watched the flickering flames. The largest candle, golden in color, had three wicks, while four smaller candles had one each. Together, they created a breathtakingly romantic room. What a time to realize we’d stumbled into a quixotic situation.
Ty squeezed my inner thigh. My gut clenched. Fluttering butterflies set fire to my chest and swarmed downward. He massaged at the hem of my shorts, his fingertips just under the cotton fabric.
I closed my eyes and enjoyed the sensation, but trepidation took its toll. “Ty—”
Before I could protest, he kissed my neck the way he’d kissed my lips: slow, seductive. I’d lost all grip on logic by the time he moved on to nibble my earlobe. His free hand found my back and pushed me against him.
As I clutched his shoulder for dear life, my head whirled with so many things, but the anticipation of more of this incredible feeling overpowered everything else. The only thing my body wanted was Tyler O’Connor. As if he read my thoughts, or maybe for the fact I didn’t push him away, the hand between my legs moved up. I surrendered to the euphoria, the heated, throbbing collision of so many things I’d never felt.
Things I’d never felt? No, I was a good girl, raised by decent, God-fearing, eastern traditionalist (for the most part), strict parents. I’d stayed away from guys this long to make my parents proud and to uphold the diminishing morals my culture expected. Besides, in my friends and coworkers, I’d seen firsthand the devastations a sexual experience brought when the relationship went sour. And in my case, when I’d have to drive this magnificent man away because I’d have to marry an Indian man Mummie approved of.
I grabbed Ty’s wrist and pushed hi
m away.
“What?” he asked, his breathing heavy.
“It’s just that…”
My body heated from admitting this to an American, but my virtue wasn’t something that should shame me. Sure, in western society a woman my age who hadn’t given in to sexual temptation was unrealistic, but that was one of the many things wrong with the world.
Ty sat back, kept a hand on my side and the other on my lap. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No.” He did everything right. Too well, in fact.
“Oh.” Disappointment spread across his face. “If you don’t want to do anything, I totally get that. Well, not really, but I’d respect it.”
“Ty, I’m a virgin.”
He stared at me. Then he laughed. “No, you’re not.”
“Why is that funny? And what do you mean, I’m not?”
“You’re at least twenty-six years old.”
“I’m twenty-four.”
“How the hell are you a twenty-four-year-old doctor?”
“I graduated high school early with college credits, went through full-time college year-round instead of taking summers off, and then four years of med school. Which is another point. I’ve always been too busy studying to screw guys. Besides, in my culture—”
“Your culture,” he interrupted. “Where you’ll never date me, much less marry me. Of course, you’ll never have sex with me, either. Because you’re so worried about what other people think, even if they’ve treated you wrong and don’t deserve your constant attention to make them happy.”
“That’s not fair. We come from different cultures.”
“No, we don’t. You’re an American.”
“And not everyone on this side of the world just goes at it because they’re attracted to someone. You know what those people are called? Sluts and man-hos.”
He lost it and laughed—hard.
“It’s not funny!”
“Yes it is. How did you keep guys off you?”
“First of all, I spent most of my time studying or hanging with friends or doing stuff with my family. I was too busy to notice guys. Second, I don’t let guys flirt with me, or touch me, or get anywhere near alone with me. Guys never had a chance.”
“Interesting.”
“What?”
“I’ve done all those things. Guess this is the test, then, to see if two people attracted to each other as much as we are can keep our hands to ourselves and behave. You have your beliefs, but you’ve never been in an ideal situation to test them.”
I crossed my arms. I was in trouble. I’d never fallen for a guy, never allowed one to touch me or even flirt with me, and never all at once while alone. The full gravity of the situation hit. All those times I’d scolded Tulsi for being easy meant nothing if I was about to find out that two people into one another as much as we were could be alone and not have sex.
We didn’t speak for several minutes. Ty cocked his head and peered at me out of the corner of his eye.
“What?” I asked.
“I promise you’ll like it.”
My breath caught in my throat. “Ty…”
He took the launch of another protest as an invitation because his mouth returned to my neck. “Just stop thinking and go with what you want,” he muttered against the goose pimples on my throat.
Our lips met. When I clutched his hair, his hand slipped between my legs again. This time, I didn’t stop Tyler O’Connor. This time, I let go of everything placed in my head about love and sex from Indian society and did what my body wanted. And without a doubt, my body yearned for this man. So much so that it frightened me.
Ty was gentle and excruciatingly patient. Every touch and kiss left tingles in its wake, leaving me yearning for more. My breathing quickened to panting. My body went from relaxed to squirming with need. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I definitely didn’t know what to do to him in return.
Before I knew what had happened, I was quivering in his arms. He’d cracked me wide open, stretched my floodgates to unleash pleasure I’d never known…and all while still keeping our clothes on. How much better could it possibly get if we moved to the bedroom?
He smiled against my neck as I gasped. “Did I mention how beautiful you look in the candlelight, especially now that you’re flushed?”
Saying something witty or sexy seemed like the smooth thing to do, but all I managed was a breathy, “Oh, Ty…”
“Didn’t I promise?”
“Yes,” I rasped, drawing the hair at the nape of his neck into my fist.
“The kissing, the touching, the sounds you make…I like doing that to you.”
I glanced at his lap. “I can tell.”
“I wanna do more to you.”
I played along, falling into sinister territory. “Like what?”
In a gritty voice, he went on to tell me the sorts of things a man intoxicated with passion planned to do to an innocent woman like me.
“Like slip these off.” He hooked a thumb under both my shorts and my panties. Something about the way he caressed my hip, skin to skin, drove me wild.
“And kiss you here.” He stroked the inner edges of my thighs.
I nearly had a heart attack when he lowered himself. I couldn’t breathe, and oh lord, if I let Ty do what he wanted to do, I might just spontaneously combust. For the sake of my sanity, and my lungs that burned from oxygen deprivation, he stopped at chest level, his eyes dark with desire.
“Let my mouth explore this.” He splayed his fingers wide across the expanse of my stomach beneath my shirt. When his thumb grazed the bottom of my breast, I hiccupped a breath.
“And taste here.” He kissed my breast, over my shirt, and I may have dug trenches into his shoulder, considering how hard I gripped him.
My head reeled out of control.
Euphoria wasn’t a strong-enough word to describe the sea of pleasure I was drowning in, or the way my skin tingled and burned wherever he touched. His mouth, wow, who knew a man could make me go weak with that thing? He kissed the hollow of my throat and a whole new roller coaster began.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Tyler
I was chest to chest with Pree as I whispered a few more of the things I wanted to do to her. There were so many. She hadn’t done anything, which blew my mind, and I couldn’t wait to open up an entire world of pleasures to her. I wanted to be her first and only, and everything started with a touch.
I leaned in to kiss her when her phone buzzed and ripped through the increasingly strong sexual tension. I was just hitting my groove, and Pree was just letting loose.
Reaching behind her, she checked her phone and spat, “What the heck?” and shot off the couch.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, half worried about her reaction and half disappointed at the timing.
She ignored me and texted like crazy. Her cell rang ten seconds later. She held up a finger and paced the area between the door and the hallway. I leaned back and stared at the ceiling. The mood had been perfect!
“What are you doing? Raj?” she asked into the phone. “Why would you think that?”
Pree glared at me. Was she mad at me?
“Be careful what you do… What! This is too fast. What are you thinking? You of all people! So you can wait at least until after the engagement, right? What if he said those things to get you to go home with him?”
She paused and tapped a foot. “Think about this,” she ended and hung up.
“What was that about?” I asked when she plopped down next to me.
“Vicki dated Raj for months before telling me about him. Now, she’s thinking about going home with him.”
“Several months and they haven’t had sex?” I tried not to laugh.
“She tries to be religious and moral. Anyway, people can date and not have sex.”
I shot her an incredulous look. “I doubt that. A couple can’t date for that long and not get caught up in it. You think Vicki’s an angel, but she ain’t.”
“Do you think maybe she didn’t tell you about Raj because she didn’t want you judging her?”
“I wouldn’t judge her! She’s my best friend.”
“You just yelled at her.”
“Because she didn’t tell me at the time when she’d met him, dated him, was ready to get engaged to him, that she’s wanted to have sex with him. We’re best friends. I tell her every time a guy hits on me, and that’s trivial compared to this.” She stood. “You know what? I’m going to bed. My head hurts.”
That was the last thing I wanted to hear. I wanted to get back to where we were ten minutes ago, relaxed and kissing. “Do you want me to sleep on the couch?”
“I’m a big girl.”
Monstrous thunder shook the apartment. Pree jumped. Another one of Texas’s infamous flash floods, insane thunderstorms, or tornado touchdowns. Outside, hail poured, car alarms went off, and trees bent in the wind.
She shuddered as I walked up behind her. “Did you change your mind?”
Pree jumped.
I chuckled. “Still a big girl?”
I headed to the kitchen and pulled out an open bottle of red wine. “Vicki said I could have the rest of this if I came over again. Do you mind?”
“No. Glasses are in the right cabinet.”
“Do you want a glass?”
“Guess it couldn’t hurt.”
As I poured crimson gold into two glasses, I said, “So if sex is taboo, why do you drink? That’s taboo, too.”
“Because all my friends do it.” She took the glass from me.
I grinned. “Seems like all your friends are having sex, too. What does that tell you?”
She sipped on wine. “That I draw the line somewhere. How has work been?”
“Busy. You?”
“Busy. Anything interesting happen? More tripping over your own feet?”
“Ha-ha. No tripping, and I don’t want to talk about work.” I reached down and took her hand, yanking her into the small space between the kitchen and living room, and twirled her. She hit my chest in the most ungraceful way possible as I danced with her.
“I’m a bad dancer, remember,” she warned.
“You danced pretty well the other night.” I smirked at the memory of her in that tiny, plaid skirt and how she’d looked, the way her body and curves had moved. Then I remembered how insanely good she felt dancing against me, gyrating against me. I caught a moan in my throat.