Wanna Bet?: An Interracial Romance

by Talia Hibbert

  He brushed drops of water from her eyes with wet thumbs. Somehow, it worked. She blinked a few times, then gave him a skeptical look. “You didn’t even try.”

  “Prove it.” With that infuriating statement, he pushed himself onto his back and swam off down the pool.

  She scowled. She wasn’t the greatest swimmer in the world; she didn’t like feeling weightless, without anchor. But she was on the taller side, so she walked—or rather, bobbed, slow as an astronaut—in his direction, until the water hit her chin.

  “Swim,” he called from the other end of the pool.

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” she called back.

  He laughed. Then he came towards her, faster than he had any right to be, his arms arcing out of the water and spraying drops of cold light. She rolled her eyes because he wasn’t even trying to show off. He was just kind of sickening.

  When he bobbed up before her with a smile, her heart stuttered. Nothing prettier than Rahul smiling. And he always smiled for her.

  He wrapped his arms around her waist and drew her into his body. “Hold on to me.”

  Do I ever do anything but?

  She clasped her hands behind his neck. Her thighs caged his hips. They were close enough to kiss. If anyone came outside right now, they’d think she and Rahul were… well. They weren’t. So it didn’t really matter.

  He carried her, painfully slowly, to the far end of the pool. When the water got higher, he pushed her up until her chest was level with his face. And even though her vest was thin, white cotton and soaked all the way through, he didn’t look. He kept his eyes on hers like a good boy. Which was slightly infuriating, and completely expected.

  The pool wasn’t full size, so he carried her almost to the end before the water covered his mouth. When her back hit the side and her arms came up to rest along the edge, he released her. She could half-float there for as long as she wanted, supported by the deck and the water.

  But he closed the gap between them. His hands came to rest on either side of her, and his body pressed against hers, and her legs closed around his hips again.

  “Hey,” he murmured.

  She smiled, because the sight of him filled her heart with something soft and warm, and she couldn’t not smile when he was carefree like this. She could see tiny drops of water dotting his long, dark lashes like jewels, could see herself reflected in his eyes, could see his stubble growing in, thick and defiant as always.

  “Hey,” she whispered back.

  And for a single reckless moment, she thought he might… do something. Something he shouldn’t, something that would be a fucking disaster, and something she might—sort of—want him to do.

  But he didn’t, of course. Which was a good thing.

  He said, “You know you’re my best friend. Right?”

  She laughed. “Very mature.”

  “I know. We should make a secret handshake.”

  “We should make a vow,” she corrected. “And become blood brothers.”

  His teasing smile disappeared for a moment. “You’re not my brother.”

  “Don’t be pedantic, love. We don’t have to be related. It’s a blood vow thingy.”

  He snorted. “Blood vows sound vaguely demonic to me.”

  “You’re so closed-minded.” She raised a hand to ruffle his hair, the movement playful—but as always, she got distracted. Even wet, his hair felt like satin. She ran her finger over the water-drenched waves. “I like your hair.”

  “I like yours,” he said.

  She frowned, meeting his gaze. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “What?” He actually looked surprised. He pulled back slightly, a furrow appearing between those fierce brows of his. “Why doesn’t it?”

  “Weeeelll…” she said slowly. Stalling. Because she didn’t think he’d want to talk about this, and really, she shouldn’t have said anything at all. Her gaze strayed from his face up to the wounded sky. But then he cupped her cheek and made her look at him again. His expression was disturbingly serious.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  “Well, you hate your hair,” she blurted out. “Because it’s curly. My hair is extremely curly. Therefore—”

  “I’m going to stop you there,” he interrupted. “First of all, I don’t hate my hair.”

  She couldn’t bite back a snort. “If you don’t hate your hair, why are you always trying to… to suffocate it?”

  His features, already so sharp, hardened. He stiffened against her. Not in the good way, either.

  But then he sighed, and relaxed. “I just… I like to keep it under control.”

  There was that word again. Control.

  “You should take a leaf out of my book,” she said lightly.

  “I could never be like you.”

  She tried not to take that as an insult. There was no reason for her to take it that way. She’d been working, recently, on not expecting the worst from those around her. Actually, she’d been working on that for years—but she wasn’t always very good at it.

  This was Rahul, though, and she trusted him more than most. So she tamped down her knee-jerk response and waited for him to go on.

  He sighed. “You’re… brave and confident and charming. You command attention.” He caught one of her curls between his fingers and pulled. Released. Even wet, it sprang back into place. “Your hair suits you. But I’m nowhere near as interesting as my hair seems to be, and I don’t like people looking at me, or touching it, or asking about it, and it just doesn’t suit me. So I keep it under control.”

  She studied him for a moment. He seemed worryingly sincere. She considered approaching the issue delicately for half a second, then remembered that she was as good at delicacy as she was at swimming. “That’s bullshit.”

  He snorted. “How I live for your nuanced and considerate analyses.”

  “Shut up. Your hair has zero connection to who you are.” She held up a hand as he began to protest. “I know people act like it does, but it doesn’t. And I know you don’t like attention, but… Rahul, you’re brave. You’re confident. You’re charming.” She paused. Winked. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

  He looked pained. “I should never compliment you out loud.”

  “Oh, no, you definitely should. But anyway… if you feel comfortable keeping your hair under control, that’s fine—”

  “Good, because I do.”

  She smacked him on the shoulder. “Shut up. I’m delivering an inspirational speech.”

  “Sorry.” He cleared his throat and attempted a solemn expression. It wasn’t especially believable, considering the light in his eyes and the way his lips twitched.

  Jasmine gave an exasperated sigh. “Fine! My inspirational speech ends here.”

  “Oh, no, please. I was so enjoying it.”

  She put her hands on his shoulders and shoved him under the water. Managed to hold him down for a good few seconds, too, but in the end, muscle overpowered bodyweight. He emerged with a look of laughing outrage, and before she could say a word, he shoved her under.

  They didn’t talk much, after that. Not about hair, or confidence, or each other—or themselves. They just played like kids in a freezing pool under the rising sun, and it was good.

  15

  Now

  The days passed slowly, all at once. Summer dripped over the city like spilled honey. Jasmine found herself disturbingly and unnaturally happy, and it was all Rahul’s fault.

  She would come home after work, and shower the sweat and grime of her commute away, and stare out of the window and convince herself that she wasn’t waiting pathetically for Rahul to arrive.

  And then he’d be there, and it would be painfully clear that she had been waiting pathetically. But the shame and embarrassment that usually arose when she realised she’d wanted someone—someone specific, not just a body—would disappear when he grabbed her as soon as he stepped in the door.

  Rahul’s body was magic in that it had the ability to
pack all of her clamouring thoughts into a box, shove them into the back of her mind, and entertain her so beautifully, she didn’t even hear them screaming for attention. Rahul himself continued to be the only person she could talk to without considering every word that left her mouth.

  She only considered every fifth word. Give or take.

  On this particular, sticky Saturday afternoon, she didn’t consider her words at all. It was the second weekend since she and Rahul had started… well. She liked to call things exactly what they were, because reality had a way of crushing you if you tried to avoid it. So it was the second weekend since she and Rahul had started fucking.

  The first weekend, he’d brought a thousand bottles of water and a ton of protein bars to the bedroom, and told her she wasn’t wearing clothes again until Monday. He hadn’t exactly been joking and she hadn’t particularly minded.

  This weekend, she felt like she should be bored, but she wasn’t, and it was stressing her out. They’d woken up that morning in his bed, which she hadn’t intended—she didn’t like to sleep with him. She preferred to shag him and shove off. But sometimes, when they were done, he’d say something that made her laugh. And then she’d say something that made him laugh. And then they’d start talking, and slip from fucking to best friends like it was easy as pie, and she had no problem falling asleep beside her best friend after laughing in the dark.

  Then the morning sun would wake her and she’d open her eyes and see how beautiful he was and want him, and they’d be fucking again.

  When she’d woken with him that morning, the strangeness of wanting him and needing him all at once had kind of punched her in the face. She’d freaked out, and he’d opened his eyes and caught her freaking out and said, “You’re freaking out.”

  She’d nodded jerkily. He’d found her hand and put it on his chest and said, “Breathe with me.”

  It was a thing they did sometimes. Most often when she was drunk and having a minor panic attack over something that didn’t matter to anyone else. And maybe it should’ve felt different, or worked less, because now his chest was naked and he was lying opposite her in bed, and the night before, he’d made her scream a thousand times with nothing but his mouth—only it worked anyway because he was still Rahul.

  So she breathed with him, but while she felt the rise and fall of his chest, she couldn’t help noticing the beat of his heart.

  Now, about five hours later, she was stressing out again. And somehow, as if he had a magical fucking connection to her brain, Rahul knew.

  He was sitting in the armchair, reading the finance section of the newspaper because he was an adorable nerd. She was reading a Canadian law journal, but that was neither here nor there. She’d put the paper down anyway, once the weird, choking stress hit. Once her brain had whispered, You’re far too content right now. You know you’ll pay for it later. You know it isn’t real. You know he can’t possibly be enjoying this as much as you are, and eventually he’ll break down and admit it, and you’ll feel like more than a fool.

  Across the coffee table, Rahul put the newspaper down and looked her in the eyes and said, “You’re anxious today.”

  She forced herself to snort. “How would you know?”

  He didn’t smile. Just kept watching her as he said, “We should leave the house.”

  The words sounded odd. They’d spent the last ten days only leaving for work, texting their friends instead of calling. It was as if all the years they’d spent not fucking had to be made up for. Now. She was starting to wonder when he’d get bored. Maybe he was bored at that very moment.

  She wasn’t. In fact, she had this terrifying suspicion that she might never be.

  “You’re right,” she murmured. “We should leave the house. Um…” She trailed off, an odd sort of embarrassment choking her. It was funny; that embarrassment came at the weirdest times. She rarely felt it—not even when she arguably should. If fifty of Jasmine’s closest friends were asked to describe her in a word, more than a few would probably say ‘shameless’.

  But sometimes, she was so embarrassed she couldn’t even think straight. She wasn’t entirely sure that embarrassed was the right word, either; but she didn’t know what other word to use. Her skin heated and prickled uncomfortably, and she became conscious of her every breath and blink and fidget. All of her words seemed wrong, their meanings magnified until her intentions were all twisted up in her chest, and it was better not to say anything at all. The embarrassment didn’t come often, but when it did, it gutted her.

  Rahul waited patiently for her to finish, and when she didn’t, he said, “What?” Not with impatience, but gently. She got the impression, from the way he leaned forward, that he wanted to move—to come closer. But he didn’t, and she was oddly grateful.

  “I was just going to say,” she managed, “do you mean we should leave… you know, go out separately, or—”

  Jasmine thanked God when he interrupted, because she hadn’t been sure how to finish that sentence anyway. “No,” he said firmly. “I meant we should go out together. In fact, I have a place in mind.”

  If she’d felt hot before, she was boiling now. Like a lobster. She’d never blushed so hard in her life and was vaguely disgusted by it, but that disgust couldn’t overwhelm the odd, fluttering feeling in her chest. She nodded.

  He sat back in the armchair, his posture relaxed and oddly masculine in a way she couldn’t identify. Couldn’t identify, but really fucking liked.

  She briefly considered going over to him. Felt discomfort creeping back and vetoed that thought.

  It was funny; since they’d started sleeping together, she’d felt the embarrassment more often. If she’d felt it this much around someone else, she’d have pushed them away. But around Rahul, there was an underlying safety net that always turned the nerves into a warm sort of giddiness. Into something positive.

  “Come here,” he said softly.

  There. That was it. That was the safety net.

  She stood and came towards him. He was shirtless and wearing the basketball shorts he’d usually save for the gym, because up until an hour ago, he’d been naked. Plus, it was fucking hot. She was wearing a loose vest, and some comfy cotton knickers that he shouldn’t be eyeing as if they were silk lingerie.

  He did, though.

  His gaze tracked her as she came closer. When she was within his reach, he wrapped those long fingers around her wrist and tugged her into his lap.

  “So,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder. “You have somewhere in mind.”

  “Yeah. You’ll love it.” He looked down at her, and she couldn’t resist. She pulled his glasses off gently and rubbed the slight indent they’d left on the bony bridge of his nose. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, their chocolate depths melting into caramel under the sunlight.

  She smiled back automatically. “I will?”

  He brushed his lips over hers, sending an odd sort of shiver swooping through her belly. With one arm, he cradled her against him, and with his free hand, he pushed her thighs gently apart.

  “Rahul?” She breathed against his lips.

  “Mm?” He reached between her legs and stroked his fingers along the cleft of her pussy, his touch burning even through her underwear. When she let out a choked sort of moan, he deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding into her open mouth. His fingers kept sliding up and down, the pressure devastating and not nearly enough.

  “I—oh. Um… What did you—I mean, where did you… Oh, fuck.” Jasmine gave up on the whole ‘direct train of thought’ attempt and kissed him back, tilting her hips towards his hand. For a moment, as his mouth took hers, he pulled his hand away. Didn’t break contact, exactly—just didn’t let her push into his touch. She growled in frustration, and felt his chuckle vibrate in his chest.

  And then, finally, just as she was considering dragging her mouth from his—but Christ, once she started kissing him, it was hard to stop—he touched her. Really touched her. Palmed her mound,
his hand big and warm and insistent, building pressure over her aching clit.

  Then he stopped the kiss, and she whimpered, and realised the embarrassment was gone. Vanished. All she felt was happy and horny.

  “It’s a surprise,” he panted.

  Well. At least she wasn’t the only one affected. But… “What’s a surprise?”

  His smile was sharp and satisfied. “Tonight. We’re going out, remember?”

  “Oh. Oh! Yeah, of course. Wait—it can’t be a surprise.” She cleared her throat and tried to pull herself together, tried to hide the obvious fact that he’d just wiped her brain clean with a kiss and a touch.

  Rahul didn’t look convinced by her charade. “I assure you, it definitely is.”

  “No, I meant—how will I know what to wear?”

  He increased the pressure of his hand over her pussy. “Dress like… like we’re going to a half-decent pub.”

  “Are we going to a half-decent pub?”

  “It’s. A. Surprise. Take these off.” He tugged at the fabric of her underwear.

  And even though Jasmine wasn’t big on surprises, and even though she loved a challenge, she forgot to badger the truth out of him. Because he kissed her again, and touched her again, and put all her thoughts in a box.

  They drove with the windows down and the music loud because Jasmine had been put in charge. Rahul was clearly regretting that, but she’d won control fair and square.

  Well; he claimed that using her mouth hadn’t been fair. But he hadn’t specified that when they hashed out the terms of their orgasm-related bet earlier.

  Now she belted out the latest crappy pop song while he grimaced in the driver’s seat. Jasmine had a terrible singing voice, and on top of that, Rahul had never learned to appreciate crappy pop. He probably couldn’t see how tinny beats and over-produced vocals were somehow perfect for a lazy summer evening, how plastic music matched the capsule happiness that was warm wind blowing through wild hair.

  But when she looked over and caught his eye, his scowl melted away and he actually managed to smile. And it didn’t just feel like he was smiling at her, but like he was smiling for her.