by Lane, Nina
Everything looked foggy and mysterious through the thin netting. Devora rolled onto her side and hugged a pillow to her chest, thinking that all English storms were so cold and frozen in comparison to this Indian torridity. She wished Gerald was home. She usually enjoyed rain, but this was the first real storm since she’d arrived in India and it made her somewhat edgy.
Devora pushed back the mosquito net and swung her legs to the floor. Moisture dampened her skin, causing her to feel both hot and sticky. She pinned her hair into a knot to cool the back of her neck and padded out to the sitting room. The bungalow was eerie in its silent movement, with shadows cast from wind-blown trees sliding about the room like lost souls.
With a shiver, Devora got a glass of water from the icebox and went to stand by the veranda door to gaze out at the black, wet night. She drank thirstily, feeling the water spill down her throat in an icy stream. The rain didn’t appear to have cooled the air off at all. If anything, the moisture intensified the heat.
Devora looked at the dark outlines of the juniper bushes and geranium plants that lined the veranda. Rohan wouldn’t have to worry about watering those for at least a week. She started to turn and go back to her bedroom, but then she caught sight of a shadowed figure seated on the veranda. Her heart leapt with fear for a moment before she recognized the man’s figure.
Frowning, Devora turned on a light in the sitting room and pushed open the door. As she stepped onto the covered veranda, the sound of rain and a rush of cool air greeted her like an old friend.
“Rohan?” Devora let the door close behind her as she approached him. “What are you doing out here?”
His eyes opened with a start and focused on her. “Memsahib.”
“I came out to get a drink of water and saw you sitting here,” Devora explained. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“It is cooler out here.” Rohan dragged a hand through his hair and sat up. “My room gets very hot.”
Devora glanced down at his attire, realizing that this was the first time she had seen him in anything other than his very proper white jacket and trousers. The light from the sitting room spilled onto the veranda, illuminating Rohan’s loose, cotton trousers and shirt. His feet were bare. For some odd reason, Devora found him to be very approachable.
“You sleep out here?” she asked.
“Sometimes.”
Devora rubbed her arms and glanced out at the inky hole of the garden. “How can you? It’s a bit eerie, isn’t it?”
Rohan shrugged. “Just rain. There is nothing to be frightened of.”
Devora gave him a disdainful look. “Well, of course there isn’t. I never said I was frightened of rain.”
A smile quirked his mouth. “Of course not, memsahib. My apologies. Might I ask what you are doing out here?”
“I saw you and thought I’d come out,” Devora said. She sat in one of the wicker chairs, painfully aware that she was clad only in a thin, cotton nightshift. She crossed her arms over her breasts in the hopes of concealing the fact that the cooler air had hardened her nipples.
“You could not sleep?” Rohan asked.
Devora shook her head. “You’re right, it does get hot inside. Sometimes the fans barely seem to work. I never knew that rain could be so hot.”
“It is Indra at work.”
“Indra?”
“The ancient Vedic god of rain. He is like the Zeus of Greek mythology. He splits clouds with a thunderbolt and causes them to open. He is said to be the leader of the waters.”
“Well, he certainly is doing his job,” Devora said, gazing out at the sheets of shimmering water. “I don’t understand how you Indians can remember the names of the Indian gods, let alone what they do. It’s all very confusing.”
Rohan shrugged. “You have multiple saints, disciples, and historical figures in Christianity, I believe.”
Devora nodded as she recalled her own habit of bringing up Western traditions whenever a British colonizer criticized the complexity or strangeness of Indian heritage.
“Yes, that’s very true,” she agreed. “Christianity is just as complex.”
“Father, son, and holy ghost,” Rohan murmured.
Devora glanced at him. “What about them?”
“We have a trinity as well, you know,” he said. “Shiva, Vishnu, and Brahma.”
“Ah, yes, Shiva,” Devora replied. “The god associated with the phallus.”
“That bothers you?”
“No, not at all,” Devora said quickly. “I find it unusual, but then, as I’m sure you know, plenty of ideas in Western religion are unusual.”
“Indian gods have very human traits,” Rohan said. “I think perhaps that is what makes it so easy for us to worship them. They inspire awe and fear, but they have also exhibited anger, happiness, jealousy, revenge, and love.”
“Those are human traits to you?” Devora asked.
“They are something else to you?”
“No, I agree, they sound very human. I’m merely surprised that you even know what being human is all about.” She knew she was goading him, but she couldn’t help it. The energy of the rain and wind pounded into her skin, stimulating her blood.
“Have I just been insulted?” Rohan asked.
“Yes.”
“Regarding what?”
“The fact that you rarely exhibit any emotions,” Devora replied. “I’ve hardly even seen you smile, do you know that? You never seem happy, never seem to laugh or get angry. Even when I know you’re angry, you’re not angry. Do you understand what I mean?”
“I understand you, but I fail to know why this is of such importance to you.”
“It’s not important to me,” Devora said snappishly. “I just find it to be highly maddening.”
“It is not my intention to madden you, memsahib.”
“Oh, for lord’s sake, stop calling me that! I’m tired of being called a memsahib. In fact, I’m not a memsahib. My name is Devora.”
“I cannot call you by your Christian name.”
“No, of course you can’t.” Suddenly feeling very peevish, Devora sat back and glowered at the dark garden. “Heaven forbid that the British and Indians actually treat each other as equals.”
“You must know by now that equality is not part of tradition in British-ruled India,” Rohan said. His voice was surprisingly kind despite Devora’s outburst.
“Yes, I know that, but I don’t have to like it.”
“Ah, if things were different, you would not be here in India at all,” Rohan said. “If equality were a characteristic of life, you would find it to be very intolerable.”
“What does that mean?”
“Merely that it is easy to criticize inequality when one is of the ruling class.”
Devora sighed. “Oh, don’t start with that business, Rohan. All right, I admit that it’s easy for me to criticize inequality in India, but that doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t criticize it at all.”
Rohan inclined his head. “Point well taken. And this is another difference between you and the other memsahibs. They are very bigoted. They thrive in the inequality of their status.”
“Yes, and they think all Indians are uncivilized animals, particularly the men.” Devora leaned her head against the back of the chair. “They warned me against the men straight away.”
“And what did they warn you of?”
“Mrs. Thompson is convinced Indian men can’t control their physical urges,” Devora replied. “Something to do with spicy food and erotic art, she claims. Those things have adverse effects on Indian men.”
“Physical urges are adverse?” Rohan asked, his voice lined with humor.
“Not all of them.” Devora’s thoughts went back to the maharaja, and she shivered. She had been enraptured with the idea of him and what he could offer her, but now she was just grateful she discovered his true nature before she became even more involved with him. “According to Mrs. Thompson, physical urges are adverse if they take pla
ce in Indian men.”
“But not in Mrs. Thompson herself.”
Devora chuckled, remembering when she had encountered Mrs. Thompson getting a thorough fucking from the squat Major Cuthbert. “No, definitely not in Mrs. Thompson.”
“Or in you.” His suggestive words floated on the damp air.
Devora looked at him and shook her head. Her heart began to pulse a slow, steady rhythm. “No, not in me. Although I don’t consider physical urges in Indian men to be necessarily adverse either.”
“Necessarily? Then what is your criteria for determining the adversity of such urges?”
“The Indian man himself, of course.”
Devora met his gaze, stunned by the attraction that crackled in the air between them. His black eyes watched her through the dim light that spilled onto the veranda. Not five seconds could have passed, but to Devora it felt like an eternity. She pressed a hand against her chest, trying to calm her racing heart.
“Perhaps I should go back inside,” she murmured, rising from her chair.
“Perhaps so.” Rohan stood in a gesture of respect. “Goodnight, memsahib.”
“Yes.” Devora ran her hands down her nightshift. She felt hot and cold all at once. “Goodnight.”
She started to turn, but couldn’t help pausing and glancing back at him. God, no man had ever looked at her like that, not even Gerald and certainly not the maharaja. Rohan’s eyes, usually so unreadable, looked at her now the way a man looks at a woman he desires. Devora’s heart pounded against her ribcage as she recognized the magnitude of what might happen. And the fact that she wanted it to. A thousand thoughts splashed around in her mind, but a dominant one broke through her momentary confusion.
I want him. I’ve always wanted him.
Without pausing to question her thoughts, Devora crossed the veranda to Rohan, meeting him halfway. Their bodies collided with sudden urgency. His arms went around her swiftly, pulling her tight against him as he bent his head to kiss her.
Devora clutched at his cotton shirt, sinking against him as if he were the only solid element in the rain-washed world. A moan escaped her when his mouth fitted against hers with clumsy perfection. Warm and slightly rough, his lips felt utterly delicious, sparking the heat of desire in her blood.
Devora returned his kiss with an intensity borne of desperation, unbearably relieved that the sexual tension between them had finally given way to sweet surrender. Rohan urged her lips apart to explore the cavern of her mouth with his tongue, his movements probing and seductive. His hands stroked down her back to clutch her rounded buttocks.
Devora gasped when he pulled her lower body against his groin, making her feel the hard bulge of his erection. Her pulse pounded wildly in her throat, her senses fogged with pure need. She thrust her fingers through his hair, stroking the coarse strands as he lifted one hand to the back of her neck. He slanted her head so he could deepen their kiss. His tongue slid lusciously over her lips as if he had known all along that an erotic kiss could affect her with such potency.
Heat broke out on Devora’s skin. She drew in a sharp breath when Rohan stepped slightly away from her. He clutched the transparent material of her gown in his fists and pulled it off her body, his gaze raking over her nakedness with such thoroughness that Devora couldn’t help but be self-conscious.
She crossed her arms over her breasts, but Rohan grasped her wrists and pried them apart to expose her to his gaze. His dark eyes seemed to see right through her as he looked at the slender proportions of her body.
Without a word, he bent to capture one of her nipples between his lips, sucking on it so lightly that exquisite sensations rained over Devora’s skin. Her self-consciousness slipped away like pieces of torn silk.
She watched Rohan with fascination as he clutched her bare hips and went down on his knees in front of her. His lips stroked a path down her abdomen, his tongue dipping into the indention of her navel as he moved towards her mons.
Alarm fluttered briefly through Devora as she realized his intentions. No man had ever touched her so intimately with his mouth, but she knew with an instinct as old as time that she had nothing to fear from Rohan. He urged her thighs apart gently with his hands and pressed his mouth between her legs.
Devora gasped, clutching the veranda railing to steady herself. Rohan’s tongue slipped into the damp folds of her sex, teasing her sensitive nerves with such finesse that Devora’s entire body went weak. Sheer arousal coursed through her body with a power made all the stronger by the driving force of the rain. She gripped Rohan’s hair with her other hand, almost unable to bear the acuteness of his touch.
“Wait,” she said breathlessly. “Wait. I want to touch you, too.”
Rohan stood, his dark eyes burning into her as he clutched her against him and kissed her. The flavor of her own nectar was a powerful aphrodisiac. With a moan, Devora reached between their bodies to massage the hardness of his erection. Her sex swelled with a rush of moisture at the thought of Rohan burying his cock inside her.
“Take off your clothes,” she murmured hoarsely.
Rohan stepped away and pulled off his shirt and trousers to reveal his nakedness. Devora stared at him unashamedly, drinking in the sight of his lean, muscular body. A mat of dark hair covered his chest and arrowed down to his groin, where his deliciously long and thick penis jutted forth from a nest of curls.
“You’re beautiful,” Devora whispered.
“As are you, memsahib.” Rohan approached her again and gripped her bottom in his hands, kneading and stroking the resilient flesh. His fingers dipped into the crevice between them, causing Devora to start slightly before she gave herself up to the pleasure of his intimate caress.
Urgency lit in the air around them. Rohan’s cock pressed insistently against Devora’s belly. She grasped the thick stalk in her hand and stroked it, thrilled when Rohan gave a low groan of pleasure. His muscles went tight with tension as she rubbed her thumb over the hard tip, massaging a drop of moisture back into his skin.
“Turn around,” Rohan ordered, his voice rough with the onslaught of need.
Excitement sparked in Devora’s belly at the mere thought of being in such a position. She turned, allowing Rohan to clutch her hips and position her over the veranda railing. She closed her eyes, drawing in a sharp breath as he pushed her thighs apart and exposed her fully to his hot gaze.
Devora knew she had never been so utterly stimulated. Droplets of heavy rain splashed on her face to cool her heated skin. The knob of Rohan’s cock pressed against her sex, teasing her before he started to push himself into her. Devora let out a choked gasp, clutching the railing as he began to fill her body with his stiffness. Her inner flesh clenched around him. He immersed himself in her inch by luscious inch, leaning over her body to stroke his fingers over the ridge of her spine. His breath rasped hotly against her back, and then he began to pump inside her with increasing force.
Arousal surged in Devora’s loins as her tension began to ascend. The railing pressed hard against her belly, but she welcomed the abundance of sensations. Rohan’s cock thrust in and out of her like pliable iron, his hands gripping her hips. His belly slammed against her buttocks as the wet, delicious sounds of sex filled the air and seemed to drown out even the noise of the rain.
Devora’s heart pounded so hard she could hear it inside her head as Rohan filled her again and again, his hard testicles slapping against her sex. He slipped one hand underneath her, sliding it over the surface of her belly and through the damp curls of her mons. Devora gave a cry of pleasure when his fingers began rubbing her sensitive nub.
“Oh, yes,” she moaned. “Harder. Oh, please…”
Rohan thrust into her with rapid strokes, his pathway eased by Devora’s slickness. With a groan, he pulled out of her and pressed his shaft between her buttocks, sliding it up and down before spurting onto the round globes.
He leaned over her, reaching around to massage her breasts with one hand as his other hand continue
d working at her sex. Devora couldn’t breathe for an instant as her body hovered on the precipice of rapture, and then a final stroke from Rohan sent her over the edge into a swirling mass of color.
Gasping, they both remained locked together for a long moment. Devora straightened slowly, her limbs both shaky and weak from the overflow of such intense carnality. She turned to look at Rohan, whose expression was sated and filled with lingering hints of passion. His chest still heaved as he tried to catch his breath.
He reached out to run his finger down her cheek.
“That is not an adverse physical urge,” he said.
Devora smiled slightly and shook her head.
“No,” she agreed. “Not at all.”
She bent and picked up her shift, slipping it over her head. She suspected she would be entirely confused about this tomorrow, but right now she felt nothing but pure contentment.
Rohan tugged on his loose trousers and sank down into a chair. “You will regret this,” he remarked.
Devora shook her head again and sat down across from him, pressing her thighs together to urge every last sensation from her body. “Will I? What makes you so certain of that?”
“I am still a servant.”
“You’re also a man.”
“An Indian man.”
Devora frowned. “Now, don’t you start acting the part of a martyr with me. For all I know, you might be the one to regret it. Either that, or you’ll think it’s something to be proud of. Screwing a memsahib.”
Amusement lit in Rohan’s eyes. “Proud of or ashamed of?”
Devora couldn’t help chuckling. “Well, even I find the idea of screwing a memsahib to be rather hideous.”
“However, you claim not to be a memsahib,” Rohan said.
“Yes.” Devora wrapped her arms around herself, thinking she had never felt quite so replete. “Do you think I’m a memsahib like all the others?”
“No. Not like all the others. Not at all.”
Devora knew that his words were a compliment. And for now, they would have to suffice. “Goodnight, Rohan.”
“Goodnight, memsahib.”
Devora went back into the stifling bungalow, closing the door against the relieving coolness of rain-drenched air.