“Maybe.” She grabs her martini before leaving the booth to join her friends. I’m thankful she took the rejection in stride. Her graciousness is not lost on me, and I feel terrible I wasted her evening. Beth-Brit—god, I’m a dick for not remembering her name—was someone I would’ve enjoyed spending time with.
She’s easy on the eyes, nice vibe. She deserves someone better than me, even if for one night. She deserves someone who seesherwhen he looks at her, instead of picturing someone else altogether. Someone with dark hair and kissable lips. Someone whose shy smile and gentle laughter have become my reason for losing sleep.
Snatching my drink, I chug the last of it. Maybe it’s time to call it a night and return to the hotel. Sliding my phone out of my pocket, I swipe it open to text the guys when my gaze falls on the chat right below. I have no control over myself when my fingers automatically open the text thread between me and Alia.
I scroll slowly, reading through the history with a wistful desperation I’ve never experienced before. I’m no different than a toddler reduced to licking a chocolate wrapper to make the taste last longer. Needless to say, the old texts only make the absence of new ones more conspicuous.
Alia has been distant since I all but rejected her. I groan into my empty mug, reliving the horror of that moment. It is now part of the collection of memories I will cringe at even when I’m sixty, because what fucking idiot pats a beautiful woman on the head when she’s expecting a kiss?
I’m not a fool. Usually. I understand things well enough to know Alia is attracted to me. And a dirty politician in a church has a better chance at salvation than I would if I tried denying my attraction to her.
I thought being friends with her would be fine, but then she looked at me with those gorgeous, fuck-me eyes, practically begging me to lap her up like a man starved. Which I am.
I’m famished and craving Alia-à-la-mode with a cherry on top. Or on her tits.
My mind explodes with visions of a naked Alia laid out in bed with some strategically placed whipped cream and cherries. I go from being hungry to sporting a painful half-chub. I could cry butthen I’d have to explain why I’m sobbing alone like a little bitch while holding my boner in public.
If it wasn’t for my promise, Alia would’ve found herself propped up atop that park bench with her legs wrapped around my hips and my hands marking her ass. The image of it flares to life in my mind and my cock stiffens.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. I reach under the table to adjust myself, forcing myself to think of things to deflate my unintended erection. Slimy lettuce on my burger. The sticky floors of a movie theatre. Having to hug an ultra-sweaty fan who’s trying to grope me. Novak parading around the locker room naked, asking us if his butt is round or flat.
I breathe a little easier when this disgusting exercise helps. My eyes fall on her contact and I pause. The little green phone icon beckons me like a siren call, enticing me to re-establish lines of communication.
She needs friends. I’m her friend. I should check in on her. What if she’s thinking of me like I’m thinking of her?
No! She’s Rohan’s little cousin!
Off. Fucking. Limits.
I turn my phone off and shove it into my pocket, determined to stay the hell away from her. It’s bad enough that I wrap my hand around my rock-hard cock each night and beat it like it owes me money, all the while picturing the only face to which I’m currently able to climax. I imagine her tan skin moving against mine, the length of her hair wrapped around my fist, her curious gaze widening in wonder as she writhes under me, her body twisting when I fill her up.
It’s disconcerting that, every time I’ve spoken with another woman, my cock refuses to light the fuse.
Sitting in a noisy bar in Seattle, surrounded by revelry and drunken cheer, I come to the terrifying conclusion that, while Rohan Moore has the ability to dislodge my balls, Alia Joshi is the one with a firm grip on them.
17
ALIA
Inever thought I’d say this, but Callum Finnigan, arguably the hottest man I have ever laid eyes on, looks like shit.
“You’re not pulling a Ross, are you?”
Irsia snickers beside me but my concern is genuine. Why would anyone do this to themselves?
“I’m not Spudnik, if that’s what you mean.”
Cal’s lips twitch as he stands on the porch of my uncle and aunt’s house, wearing an atrocious brown costume that, at the risk of repeating myself, looks like shit. Poop. Crap. Take your pick.
“Who’s at the door?” Irsia turns at the same time I do to reveal my maternal aunt, Suchi, walking down the hall. Chitthi, as I call her fondly, is like another mother and I adore her.
My Tamilian mother fell in love with my Maharastrian father and their intercultural love story caused tension within their conservative households. Chitthi, Mom’s younger sister, took it a step furtherand eloped with an American Scot who, thirty-three years into their relationship, still worships the ground she walks on. I hope I’m lucky enough to find a man who adores me a fraction of how much Ian Moore loves his wife.
Chitthi tips her chin up, silently repeating her question when I step aside to reveal the man behind me. She stops immediately, her eyes dragging down before she cackles out loud.
“Alright, alright! It’s not that bad, Mrs. M.” Cal throws his arms up, dropping them against the sides of his rounded costume with a thump. “I knew I couldn’t trust Novak to pick something decent.”
“Did you lose a bet?” Chitthi asks, making no effort to contain her amusement.