Wanna Bet?: An Interracial Romance

by Talia Hibbert

  But he wasn’t asleep.

  Rahul moved his hand to the safe zone of her lower back and stifled a sigh. He already missed her arse.

  And of course, that tiny movement fucked up the entire, delicate arrangement. Because seconds later Jasmine gave an odd little huff, the sound muffled against his chest, and began to stir. Rahul stared at the shadowed ceiling above, because if she woke up to find him staring at her, it might push their current position from awkward to disturbing.

  Although, he supposed, she was the one lying on top of him. Technically, he was innocent in all this. The fact that he happened to be enjoying it was neither here nor there.

  At least his dick was calming down. Maybe she wouldn’t notice.

  He felt the exact moment when she woke up completely and realised where she was. Or rather, who she was on top of. Jasmine’s whole body stiffened for one taut heartbeat—but then she relaxed. Softened against him, just as she had in sleep.

  Rahul abandoned his study of the ceiling. He looked down to find those big, brown eyes staring at him, slightly narrowed with sleep, fine lines fanning the corners.

  She had a crooked little smile on her face, nothing like the biting smirk he’d expected. Then she pressed a little kiss to his chest, just above the neckline of his T-shirt. Which didn’t mean anything; she kissed him all the time. On the cheek, or the forehead, or the back of his hand.

  But not on the mouth, he remembered. He’d been inside her, but he’d never kissed her on the mouth.

  Don’t think about that.

  “Jas?” He murmured, his voice hushed like the pre-dawn city.

  “Rahul,” she whispered back, sleepiness making a soft word softer. Like a cat, she stretched, all smooth and sinuous. She held his gaze as her curves rolled over him. She was like a river, forging its path through earth and stone; so soft, so fluid and seemingly gentle, but powerful enough to mould the world to her will. Jasmine knew how to get what she wanted.

  God, he loved her. He loved her.

  He didn’t want to. He shouldn’t. It was useless. It was true.

  She was looking at him with that pure focus that made him feel like the most powerful thing in the world. And he knew it was an illusion—that it was just one of the many things that made her magnetic. She picked up every needle in the haystack and she didn’t even try. She couldn’t help it. Rahul told himself this, and yet, under her gaze he became a king.

  His hand felt too big and too clumsy against the small of her back, even though there was plenty of space for it. If he moved that hand lower again, where he’d found it when he’d first woken, would she object? An hour ago he might’ve said yes. Now he saw something bright in her eyes, bright like the spots of light dancing across the darkened city. What did that mean?

  He tangled his fingers in her T-shirt, as if that would give him more of her—the kind of more he needed. It wouldn’t, but sometimes desperate people tried pointless things because it was better than sitting and wanting. He thought, Kiss me. Fucking kiss me. Give me something, give me a reason, give me permission, and I’ll give you everything I have.

  Maybe she heard him somehow. Maybe she saw it on his face because he was fucking obvious. Either way, the result was the same. She trailed her fingers up his arm, and he felt fireworks spark and fly in her wake. His core tightened and his balls grew heavy, just because she’d touched his fucking arm. He had no idea how she did this to him, had never understood and doubted he ever would, but he didn’t want her to stop.

  And yet, she did. Her weight shifted as she leaned towards him, raising her chin until their mouths were level. Close. So damn close. So close that there was no space for light between them, so close that he barely saw her in the almost-darkness. He felt her, though, somehow. Felt her like a promise. And then she stopped.

  His pulse was racing, his blood burning its way through his veins like wildfire, his nerves singing in anticipation, but he held himself still. Kept himself quiet. Had to be sure.

  She licked her lower lip again, the tip of her tongue sliding over that plump curve. Ripe fruit. He wanted to sink his teeth into it.

  Her whisper sliced through the nighttime air like a knife. “God, Rahul. You’re so… fuck.” Her fingers caught his T-shirt, tightened as if to pull him closer.

  Rahul told himself, Control, only he’d lost the meaning of the word somewhere along the line; he didn’t recognise it anymore. So instead he thought, Fuck it.

  He closed the space between them. His lips slanted over hers, barely touching, and that was enough to steal the air from his lungs. God. God. In the silence and the shadows, the brush of their lips felt like something holy. Like prayers whispered into the earth, like purifying flames. This was the closest he might ever be to perfection.

  But no. She pulled away, laughed softly. Whispered, a dare in her voice, “Like you mean it, my love.”

  She was fucking impossible, and that was perfection.

  Rahul slid a hand into her hair and pulled her back to his mouth. What was control, anyway? There was only one thing he desired, one thing he needed. More.

  This time, when their lips met, the flames didn’t purify so much as devour. He kissed her hard and ruthless, the way he’d always dreamed, and she responded like a fantasy except it was so much better—so much better—because it was real and it was Jasmine and he couldn’t fucking believe it. She kissed him as if she were starving. He’d die just to let her consume him. Her breath came in short, sharp little gasps and her whole body rocked against his, the pressure painfully sweet against his aching cock.

  Her hair felt like a raincloud in his hand, thick and cool and fresh. He tightened his grip because right now, for who knew how fucking long, he could. He could. As long as she kissed him like this, she was his. His other hand slid from her back to her arse, and the ache in his cock sharpened. She was wearing a skirt; she always wore skirts. So he dragged up the fabric, and she arched her back as if in invitation, and nothing had ever turned him on more in his fucking life. Nothing except the sight he’d never forgotten, the sight of her sinking on to his cock.

  He already knew that whatever this moment was, it would ruin him all over again.

  Rahul slid his palm up the bare skin of her thigh, traversed the soft ripples of her flesh until he reached heaven. Grabbing one cheek, sinking his fingers into the ripe curve of her arse, actually made him moan against her lips. Fuck. He could feel the fabric of her knickers, cotton and unexpectedly plain and in his fucking way. He pushed as much aside as he could, and she laughed against his mouth.

  “Just take them off,” she whispered.

  He shook his head, though he burned to do just that. “If there’s something you want me to do,” he murmured, “ask for it. Nicely.”

  He expected her to laugh or tell him to fuck off, and he knew exactly how he’d respond if she did.

  But Jas never did what he expected.

  “Rahul,” she said softly. “Take them off. Make me come. Kiss me until we fall asleep.” She was slightly breathless, but there was no laughter in her voice, no bright, teasing spark. She recited her little list with something like desperation, and she moved as though she couldn’t be still. Rocked against him, rolling her hips over his erection.

  He caught her chin in his hand, held her tight because he wanted all of her formidable focus. “You don’t know how to ask for things, do you?”

  “No.” She spoke so quietly he almost didn’t hear.

  “That’s okay.” Rahul’s heart seemed to melt in his chest, the soft warmth taking precedence over the need in his gut. He kissed her gently, almost chastely. “I’ll show you.” He hadn’t imagined showing her anything. He hadn’t expected Jasmine Allen to want or need a fucking thing from him, but the fact that she might was sending a surge of electricity through his veins.

  He sat up, pulling her with him. She clutched his shoulders, ended up straddling his lap. His cock was screaming for relief, straining against his waistband, but he couldn’t even
bring himself to touch it because that way lay madness. Instead he focused on the woman in his arms and how much he wanted her. Wanted to make her smile, to make her sigh, to make her scream.

  He raised a hand to her face, ran his thumb over her cheek. “Asking,” he whispered, “is hard. Taking is easy. Doing is easy. But asking for what you want… asking is showing someone everything, and trusting they won’t use it against you. Asking is about feeling safe.”

  “I know that.” The words were ragged.

  “You don’t feel safe with me?”

  There was a pause. Then she said, “Not with anyone.”

  His thumb traced the curve of her lips. “You don’t want it like this?”

  “I want it like you. I want it like last time. Do you remember?”

  “You think I don’t remember? You think I could forget?” His head fell forward to rest against hers. “You are unforgettable. You must know that, Jasmine.”

  She swallowed hard. Then she caught his hand, the one sitting at her waist, and moved it lower. Over the swell of her belly, the gathered-up fabric of her skirt, until his palm came to rest against her mound.

  Rahul squeezed his eyes shut as the last of the blood in his brain evacuated. He couldn’t stop his hand from moving if he’d tried; couldn’t stop himself from feeling every inch of her, from stroking her plump folds through the fabric of her underwear. She made a soft little noise in the back of her throat, rocking against his palm. Yes. That was what he wanted; for her to understand the need, to feel it the way he did. He wanted her hungry.

  He shoved his hand beneath the waistband of her knickers, and then he kissed her. He couldn’t get enough of kissing her. He never thought he’d get the chance. As his fingers tangled in her soft curls, as he nudged at the tight little bud of her clit, his tongue slid over hers. She sank her fingers into his hair, and the part of his mind still capable of thought was grateful that he’d done as she always asked. That he’d washed ‘that shit’ out of his hair. Because now she was pulling, hard, and the sharp pain danced down his spine like something heaven-sent.

  “You have no idea,” he managed to choke out. She kissed him, and he kissed her, and he said between gasping breaths, “No idea.”

  “What?” She panted. Bit his lower lip.

  “How much I want you. How much I’ve wanted you—”

  “You can’t be serious.” She was laughing now, still kissing him, and she’d knocked his glasses almost off his face, but he didn’t need to see anyway. Not when he was touching her.

  He circled her clit, gave her the firm pressure that made her breath hitch. “Of course I’m fucking serious. Don’t say you didn’t notice.”

  She moaned, arched in his arms. “I thought… I mean, you always seem so… Well, I’ve noticed now.”

  “I should hope so.” He lowered his lips to her throat, tasted her, wanted more. Licked, bit, sucked.

  She gasped. “You can’t… you can’t leave a mark.”

  He pulled back. “There? Or anywhere?”

  “There. Or anywhere someone could see.”

  “Hm.” He kissed her, quick and hard. “People see quite a lot of you in those dresses.”

  She snorted. “Are you complaining?”

  “Nope. I’ll just have to get creative.” And he’d enjoy it too. But he hoped, next time she went out barely dressed—next time she walked into a room and made half the occupants fall in love—that they might see his mark on her.

  The thought brought his passion to a shuddering stop.

  See his mark on her… and then what? Fuck her anyway. Because Jas always got what she wanted, and she’d never wanted to be contained.

  “Hey.” Her voice interrupted his thoughts, soft and hesitant. “Everything okay?”

  He looked up and met her gaze. In the low light, her eyes were gleaming obsidian. He slid his hand out of her underwear, let it rest against her hip. “Jasmine… What are we doing right now?”

  She stiffened. He felt every inch of her harden, pull away from him as if repelled. “I think it’s rather obvious what we’re doing.”

  “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t do that.”

  “Do what?” Her weight shifted as she moved to get off him.

  He wrapped a hand around her wrist and pulled her back. “That. I want to know what you’re thinking. I want to be clear. That’s all.”

  She huffed out a quick, sharp breath. But then she stopped herself. He could practically see her cooling down, forcing herself to stay calm. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet. “I don’t know. I don’t know what we’re doing.”

  He swallowed down the lump in his throat and tried not to think too hard. Tried to wait for her to work through whatever else she had to say, because her gaze had become vacant and that meant her mind was churning.

  “Maybe…” She hesitated. “I’ve been thinking. And I wondered—I mean, living with you—”

  His pulse pounded loud in his ears as she broke off. Trust her to come over all quiet and cautious at the exact moment he was desperate for every word she had.

  “Living with you,” she said finally, “has made me think that we could try the… erm, the friends with benefits thing.”

  And there it was. Reality swinging for him like a fist. The hit connected and it fucking hurt. His brain vibrated in his skull. “Friends with… benefits,” he repeated dully.

  She shrugged. “You know I don’t usually… I mean, I don’t like to blur lines. But you know what we are. And I want you.”

  God, what the hell had he been thinking?

  Jasmine, that’s what. Jasmine and nothing but. So caught up in the way she felt against him, he’d forgotten who she was and how she loved.

  Or rather, how he loved.

  He’d never gotten over her at all, had he?

  She must feel him pulling away, even though he hadn’t moved yet. His body stayed frozen while his mind raced. What was he supposed to say? I’m sorry, but I can’t handle that. I can’t fuck you and leave you alone. I can’t touch you and pretend I don’t love you. I know what we are, but I wish we were something else entirely.

  He only managed to choke out the very last of his thoughts: “We shouldn’t have done this.”

  She pulled back. Her voice sounded higher than usual and oddly uneven when she said, “What?”

  Rahul shook his head, trying to push the starshine from his eyes. Straightened his glasses, cleared his throat, wished his cock wasn’t still hard and pulsing beneath her. Wished the memory of her soft, warm pussy against his palm wasn’t imprinted on his brain. Wished he’d touched more of her—but no. That would only make things worse.

  He scrabbled for some reason, a lie that she’d believe, a lie that wouldn’t hurt her. “We shouldn’t… complicate things. We’re friends. And we’re living together.”

  The words could’ve come from Jasmine’s mouth instead of his—yet he thought, for a moment, that he caught a flash of pain on her face.

  Probably a trick of the light.

  After a pause, she said, “I don’t think it would be complicated. You’re a very sensible man.”

  The unspoken end to that sentence was something along the lines of, And I’ve never complicated anything in my life. That was Jasmine. Eternally free. He loved it about her, even if meant he’d never have her the way he wanted.

  In fact, it meant he’d never have her at all. Because one thing Rahul absolutely could not do with this woman was half-measures. If he ever got his hands on Jasmine Allen, for real, he’d be all in.

  He didn’t have to think too hard to find the next excuse. “I only do exclusive. You know that.”

  She gave a drawn-out, airy sigh. “I do what I want.”

  “Exactly,” he said, the word firm. “We wouldn’t—we wouldn’t suit.” Biggest fucking lie he’d ever told.

  Tension burned through the silence. Then, finally, she said, “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps this was… a mistake.”

  And he must be the big
gest prick in the world, because hearing her say it made him want to argue.

  “They’re your rules,” he said. Pointlessly. Foolishly. “I know you hate blurring lines.” Every word tasted like ash in his mouth. Blurring lines? He couldn’t even see the fucking lines. He’d kissed her. He needed her. He was the problem and he wanted to punch a wall.

  She gave a laugh that was soft and light and grating to his ears because it wasn’t real. He’d watched her deploy that fake charm often enough to know the difference, but she’d never used it on him before. She stood and said with false humour, “You’ve saved us from ourselves, my grave muffin.”

  “Jas—”

  “It’s so late. We should really go to bed.”

  She was hurt. He wasn’t surprised. It was unavoidable.

  He still fucking hated it.

  But he forced himself to stand, and tried to sound convincingly unaffected as he said, “Yes. You’re right.”

  8

  Four Years Ago

  It had seemed necessary.

  Rahul stood by the window of his brand new flat, looking out onto the city below, and repeated that truth to himself. It had seemed necessary. It had been necessary. And it had worked. It had.

  He’d spent two years in London; two years away from home, right after graduation. Ostensibly for a graduate scheme in the City with a top accounting firm—but really, he’d done it to get away from Jasmine.

  Or rather, to get away from the fact that he’d fallen quite horribly in love with her.

  As plans went, it had been a wild one. But his problem had been extreme, so the solution had to be extreme too. Since they’d met he’d gone from lust, to infatuation, to soul-destroying, unrequited love—the kind that would’ve decimated their friendship if she’d ever found out. So he’d done what he had to do. He’d cut himself off. Cold turkey.

  His plan had worked. Bit by bit, like the sluggish drip of old blood, he’d gotten over his best friend. He’d gained professional experience, built the foundations of a strong career, made friends with people she’d never even meet. Now he was back home, and he’d spent a week being smothered to death by his family, and decorating his new place with his dad, and—