Authors: Diana Persaud
Her legs wrapped around him, forcing him deeper with each thrust. He lowered her to the table, his body covering hers. His mouth captured her nipple and she writhed beneath him. He rose above her and thrust deeply, sending her sliding a few inches along the polished table.
A laugh bubbled up inside her and she laughed as his hands gripped her ankles.
“You’re not getting away from me that easily,” he promised.
Her laughter turned into a gasp when his tongue flicked across her clit. He entered her again, slowly this time. Pinning her hips to the table, he thrust faster and harder until her legs trembled. She clamped her legs around his waist and gripped the sides of the table.
A throaty groan escaped her. It grew louder as her silky softness gripped his cock, massaging him until he released his seed. With a grunt, he pounded into her until the last drop of his seed was buried deep inside her.
On shaky legs, he withdrew. His eyes drifted to the smooth skin above her patch of curls.
“Tommy?”
He licked his lips before his eyes met hers.
“Just thinking about having some honey for dessert.”
When her legs no longer felt like Jell-o, she slid off the table.
“I’m going to take a shower. Join me?”
Eying her naked body, he promised, “I’ll follow that sexy body anywhere.”
Because he was trapped with his pants around his ankles, he pulled them up and took off his shoes. After undressing, he joined her in the shower.
He soaped up his hands.
“Turn around,” he said.
As he washed her breasts, his cock came back to life, twitching against her bottom.
“For someone who isn’t interested in being a fa—”
“Move in with me,” he interrupted.
Is he joking?
One glance at his eyes told her he was serious.
“Is this about Sanjay?”
“This is about us,” he answered.
“There’s an ‘us’?”
He slammed his palm against the tile.
“Are you fucking someone else?” he demanded.
“Of course I’m not,” she sputtered. “What kind of question—”
“Since
we’re
fucking there’s an ‘
us
’.”
She grabbed her shampoo bottle and poured some into her palm. She turned away from the spray so she could shampoo her hair. As if he realized she needed time to consider his offer, he didn’t say anything until they were drying off in her bedroom.
He stood with a fluffy white towel wrapped around his hips, waiting for her answer.
“I can’t move in with you, Tommy.”
She picked at a loose thread on her towel.
“Why not? Downstairs you said you wanted me. Or was that in the heat of the moment?”
“Because you live in a tiny apartment.”
“We can manage until I can get us a bigger place,” he insisted.
“I have a house. Why would I move into a cramped—”
“To be with me.”
“It’s not necessary for us to live together to continue dating.”
“I thought you wanted a commitment.”
“Moving in together isn’t a commitment, Tommy. Not for me it isn’t.”
“Jack and Mikey have been living together longer than I can remember.”
“I’m happy that works for them. It won’t for me.”
She sat on her bed.
“Why? What magical qualities does a marriage certificate possess?”
“Tommy—” she warned.
“Seriously. Why are you so gung ho about getting married?”
“Why are you so much against it?” she countered.
“Because it’s just a piece of paper. It can’t keep a couple together.”
“I disagree. I think it can
keep
a couple together.”
“How?”
“If two people live together and they have a fight, one of them can just pack up their stuff and move out. That’s it. Relationship over.” She paused. “But if two people are married and they have a fight, they can’t just pick up and leave. They have to work it out.”
“Divorce,” he replied in serious tone.
“Tommy.”
“Not all marriages can be saved.”
“Well
I
want one that’s worth saving.”
She stood in front of him.
“Would we have had this conversation if it weren’t for Sanjay’s roses?”
He didn’t respond.
“Then I’ll pretend this conversation never happened. Now let’s go heat up that pizza.”
Chapter Twelve
“All right, Tommy. Your bed is set up,” Mikey said with a mysterious smile.
He leaned the roller handle against a box and crossed his apartment. His mouth dropped open.
“What the fuck is with all those pillows?”
“I wanted it to be romantic, Casanova,” came the sarcastic reply. “Women
love
pillows.”
“But all those ruffles. And lace? It’s too girly.”
Jack stood silently in the corner, watching their exchange.
“Jack, tell Mikey—”
Jack held his hand up. He wasn’t getting involved in their squabble.
“Anjali will love it,” Mikey insisted. “You can thank me tomorrow.”
“She’s not coming over tonight.”
“Going to spend the night at her house again?” Mikey asked, wiggling his eyebrows. “Tell me all the juicy details.”
He stomped back to the unpainted wall and picked up the roller.
“Last night I asked her to move in with me.”
He winced at Mikey’s high-pitched squeal.
Mikey clapped his hands.
“Oh, I knew it! I just knew Anjali was diff-wait a minute. Why the grim face?”
“She said no.”
He rolled a thick coat of Seafoam on the wall.
“Why?”
“Reasons.”
He loaded up the roller with paint.
“What reasons?”
“Does it matter?”
He hated the pity in Mikey’s eyes. He couldn’t bear to look at Jack.
“But earlier today everything seemed fine between the two of you,” Mikey said quietly.
“What’s your plan?” Jack asked.
The roller stopped in the middle of the wall.
“My plan?”
“To change her mind,” Jack said.
“I don’t think I can,” he admitted. “She knows what she wants.”
“Then you must compromise,” Jack stated.
“I did compromise. I asked her to move in with me.”
He pressed too hard on the roller and paint started dripping down the wall.
“Fuck.”
He rolled over the area, removing the globs of paint.
“Maybe she’s not ready to commit,” Jack suggested.
Or not ready to commit to
me
.
He focused on the mindless task of painting the last wall. He didn’t notice when Mikey and Jack left. Alone in his apartment, staring at the freshly painted walls, his thoughts returned to him full force.
You’re nobody, Tommy, and the whole world knows it. She deserves to be with somebody.
But not Sanjay.
He marched to his bathroom. While he showered, he realized something.
Last night she said she wanted marriage. She didn’t mention anything about babies.
He dried off, anxious to drive over to her house.
He parked behind an unfamiliar car.
She didn’t mention having guests tonight.
His brow wrinkled and his lips pressed together in a tight line. He slammed his car door a little too hard. He walked around to the passenger side and withdrew his present.
I’ll just leave this on the porch. I wouldn’t want to disturb her date.
He slammed the door shut. He walked by a dark gray Nissan Maxima, carrying a potted plant.
In state plates. Nice rims. Clean interior. A map. A visitor from her past?
Sanjay?
He squeezed the pot as he headed to the front door. He stood on her porch and jammed his finger on the door bell, imagining it was Sanjay’s eye.
What’s taking her so long to answer the fucking door?
Impatient, he rang the door bell again.
“Tommy, what are you doing here?” Anjali demanded in a loud whisper.
She stepped outside, pulling the door shut behind her.
The muscle in his jaw twitched. What are you hiding, he wanted to ask. Afraid of the answer, he kept his mouth clamped shut. He felt like a dirty secret, standing in the dark shadows of her front stoop.
“Is this plant for me?” she asked.
Her shoulders were tense.
“It’s butterfly weed. It attracts butterflies. I thought you might like it for your garden.”
Her eyes softened and she reached for the pot.
“That is so sweet. I—”
The door opened. Soft amber light filled the front stoop, revealing his presence.
“Beti, what are you doing out here?” a dark skinned man asked.
He frowned with disapproval.
“Who is this?” he demanded.
“Dad, this is my…neighbor, Tom. Tom, my father.”
Confused by her timid voice, he gazed at her face. Her eyes were unnaturally focused on the butterfly weed.
She’s ashamed of me.
That’s
why she won’t move in with me.
A small knot formed in his stomach.
She’s just having a good time until someone better comes along.
He stuck out his hand and shook her father’s hand.
“Beti, why stand outside in the dark with your neighbor? People will talk about you and ruin your reputation.”
“Dad,” she said, not bothering to hide her exasperation.
“Nobody is talking about me. People around here mind their own business.”
“That is exactly what is wrong with society nowadays. No one adheres to-”
An older version of Anjali appeared.
“Beti? What is taking so long? Dinner is getting—” She stopped mid sentence, eying him suspiciously.
Anjali shifted, her nervousness confirming her mother’s suspicion.
“I’m Tom. Anjali’s
neighbor
.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw her lips press together, forming a fine line. Her mother smiled pleasantly, though her smile didn’t quite reach her watchful eyes.
“Won’t you join us for dinner, neighbor Tom?”
“Ma, I’m sure Tom has other—”
“I’d love to,” he interrupted.
He followed Anjali’s mother into her dining room. Earthy, exotic spices filled the room, making his nose tickle.
“We’re having chicken curry for dinner. I’ll get you a plate,” Mrs. Singh said.
Her father sat at the head of the table and Anjali sat next to him. Her mother placed him across from Anjali and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Was it because she remembered how he’d bent her over this very spot just a few hours ago? She hadn’t been ashamed of him then. She’d begged for his cock.
Or had she been thinking of someone else?
His fingers trailed lightly over the embroidered fabric.
“This is a lovely table cloth,” he said. “But it’s a shame to cover the beauty of the wood.”
Her eyes widened. She lowered her head before her father caught her response.
“We cover the wood to preserve it,” Mr. Singh replied.
Mrs. Singh picked up his plate and served her husband.
“I prefer a lovely table cloth than plain wood,” Mrs. Singh added while serving herself.
“I prefer the raw beauty of the wood. Don’t you, Anjali?”
Her cheeks bloomed bright red and she shrugged. Mrs. Singh sat across from her husband, her lips pressed flat.
Anjali chewed on her bottom lip while she stared at her empty plate, her cheeks flushed.
“Aren’t you going to serve him, Beti?” Mrs. Singh asked.
Guilt made him wince when he caught the deep red color of her cheeks.
“After all, he’s your guest.”
Anjali stood and walked around to his side. Her scent overpowered the strong odor of curry. His fingers itched to stroke her thigh. Touch her hip. Pull her onto his lap and demand that she tell her parents about him.
About
them
.
She took his plate and spooned out some rice. She dipped the ladle into the bowl and added chicken, potatoes and gravy to the rice. She set the plate down gently in front of him then returned to her side of the table. She served herself then sat down.
She toyed with her food.
His appetite was gone, but he forced himself to eat. Focused on Anjali, his taste buds barely registered the heat and flavor of the chicken curry. It paled in comparison to what he really wanted, the sweet taste of her honey.
“You seem more interested in my daughter than in your dinner, neighbor Tom,” Mrs. Singh said.
Her father choked and coughed loudly. He stared at him before swinging his gaze to focus on his daughter. His fist thumped the table, making the ladle rattle.
“What’s going on here?
Beti
?” Mr. Singh demanded.
She shoveled a spoonful of rice and curry into her mouth to keep from answering. Her mouth worked slowly, reminding him of a cow chewing its cud. The image struck him as particularly funny and he grinned.
She would kill me if she thought I was comparing her to a
cow
.
His grin faded.
But only if she cared. What if she doesn’t care about me?
Her father fixed his gaze on him.
“The way you look at my daughter…is improper, Thomas.”
Mr. Singh clenched and unclenched his fist.
“What are your intentions toward my daughter?”
“Daddy!”
Her face was pale and panic filled her eyes.
“Anjali is…unlike any woman I’ve ever known,” he answered truthfully.
“You intend to marry her then?”
His brain seemed frozen and he was unable to articulate an answer. Anjali made a strange choking sound. She stood so quickly, her chair fell backward. Shaking, she sputtered, “I’m not getting married! I don’t need to get married. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
“With writing? You need a real job. One where you can meet men. Like your sister, Nandini.”
Mrs. Singh turned to him.
“Nandini met Dinesh through work. He’s a
doctor
,” she added proudly.
He gripped his spoon.
“He’s a real prize,” Anjali muttered, rolling her eyes. “I don’t need a man, Ma.”