by Rea Thomas
Vikram bent his head, tonguing at her nipple through the fabric of her T-shirt. She regretted not having the foresight to remove their remaining clothes, wishing his tongue could flick and tease her hard, bare nipples. Next time, she thought. There would definitely be a next time, and beyond.
Lisabeth pressed her fingers hard against her clit, her orgasm within reach. She wanted to delay, to luxuriate in the increased endorphins, their bodies conjoined and moving in tandem. They slammed noisily against the wall in a rhythm that could not have been mistaken for anything else. The exhibitionist in her hoped someone next door, another guest, was listening, envious of their passion, their lack of inhibition.
“Vikram, I’m…” He kissed her, drawing her words into his mouth. His fingers covered hers, working her clit in furious circles. She began to tremble, her orgasm washing over her in a brilliant, all-encompassing burst of pleasure, flooding his cock in sticky, hot fluid. The wave came and went, turning her limbs to rubber. She rode the tremors, breathless. Vikram stilled inside her, rocking his pelvis, nudging the soft cushion of nerves inside her body. The subsiding waves gathered momentum, a second weaker, but truly exhausting climax shuddering through her womb.
He slid out of her, teasing at her clit until she begged him to stop, sinking to her knees. A trickle of sweat slid between her breasts, absorbed by the stretched and misshapen material of her T-shirt. Vikram towered over her, his rigid cock inches from her parted lips, glistening wetly from their combined juices. He took her hair in a fist, bringing her head forward. Lisabeth’s protest went unheard, silenced as he brought her mouth down over his length. Her willingness to pleasure him was not considered and she was forced to comply, wrapping her fingers around his cock.
She tasted herself, and him, running her tongue over his length in deft circles until he tightened his fingers into a painful fist around her hair, thrusting into her mouth in two long strokes. Lisabeth struggled to accommodate his width. His thighs stiffened beneath her palms and she felt the pulse of his cock as he came, expelling a stream of slick seed onto her tongue and down her throat, grunting her name in three distinct syllables.
They were quiet for long moments, struggling to suck ragged breaths into their lungs. The bedroom seemed eerily silent in the absence of their moans. Vikram stood over her, hands braced on the wall, and she glanced up, watching the rise and fall of his chest.
She had to concede—Vikram had won this round for she had been powerless to stop him and in the aftermath of their passion, Lisabeth found she was irked by his presumption that he could call the shots.
There were two days left, she thought, collecting her clothes from the heap on the floor. Two days in which Vikram would obey her commands and make love to her with the single focus of bringing her optimum pleasure. She would suck his cock when she decided to, not when he did.
Slipping out from under the shadow of his body, Lisabeth got to her feet, pulled off her T-shirt and unclipped her bra before retreating to the bathroom with a decisive slam of the door.
No words were exchanged.
Chapter Four
Vikram was talking into his cellular phone when Lisabeth emerged from the shower. He glanced over his shoulder at her and then turned away to face the window.
“I’m busy for a couple of days,” he said. She heard the tinny, impatient voice of a female—even from across the room. “Lorna…” It made Lisabeth snicker, watching him as he desperately tried to pacify the woman. She wondered if it was his girlfriend, dutifully waiting at the sidelines for him to return home. It was an interesting theory but Lisabeth knew the mechanics of their shared existence and having a significant other was impractical. Besides, Vikram had fucked her like someone who hadn’t gotten laid in a long time.
She massaged the mark on her neck, the sub-dermal layers tender to touch. The bastard had bruised her, she thought, privately pleased. Still, she was nettled by his savagery, how he had possessed her as though she were without consequence. Perhaps her true willingness had come unveiled by her loss of control. Lisabeth strove for indifference and command; it was unemotional efficiency that made her so good at what she did.
“Lorna,” Vikram repeated firmly, “I am otherwise engaged for the next two days. It’ll have to wait.” He stopped to listen, the muscle twitching in his cheek again. Lisabeth made no attempt to hide her blatant eavesdropping, combing out the tangles in her damp hair while watching him shift. He looked irritated, as though longing to be freed from the confines of his imprisonment in her bedroom. She likened his taut muscles to those of a thoroughbred horse—it would be dangerous to keep such a man contained for too long.
After knotting her hair in a neat braid that would cause her no trouble, Lisabeth slipped into a pair of denim shorts—not the kind of bum-baring Daisy Dukes of Hollywood, for such attire would result in unwanted attention and leering here, in the still much conservative land.
Her eyes flickered to Vikram, a native. Definitely not conservative, she mused with a small smile.
“Fine.” He had submitted, she realized as he ended the call and tightened his fist around the BlackBerry. Like the gun, it looked like a miniature version in his big hands. “I have to go,” he said after a moment.
“The door is just there,” Lisabeth replied, gesturing to the passageway. Vikram didn’t move.
“I need the flute, Lisabeth.” The small part of her that was not fully engaged in a game of tit-for-tat actually pitied him. Whether it was skill on her part to have procured the treasure first, and not just a moment of luck, Lisabeth didn’t know. Intuition had told her to raid the temple at dusk, so she supposed her instincts were sharper, making her victorious. No, she resolved, the Flute of Immortality was hers, fair and square.
“You know the deal, Vikram—nonnegotiable terms and conditions.” The early afternoon sunlight slanted through the window, sluicing over his face and making his eyes glint menacingly. Pushing him over the edge had been so much fun last time; she almost couldn’t wait to tamper with his patience once more.
He tucked the phone back into his jacket pocket, ominously silent. Lisabeth retreated to the bureau, rummaging through her bag of maps, notes and photographs as though the discussion had come to a definite close.
In two days she would move northwest, over the Tamil Nadu border and into Karnataka, when another lengthy train journey would begin and bring her to Goa, where she intended to utilize the tourist presence to rent a car, drive as far north as Uttar Pradesh and slip into Nepal over the Himalayas. The business of bidding for The Lotus Star would take place from a five-star spa in Kathmandu by teleconference.
“Come with me,” said Vikram, coming to stand next to her. “I have to go to Mumbai to meet a client.” He sounded as though he were chewing on something particularly foul, leading Lisabeth to conclude Lorna was anything but a significant other. Or, she thought with some mirth, maybe he was cutting deals all over the country—loot for sex.
Lisabeth shook her head. “I have no need to go to Mumbai.” Turning back to the maps, she kept her eyes on the intricate lines interweaving through India’s many states.
“Then where do you have need to go?” Vikram snapped, pulling the pages from beneath her hands. “Don’t be so hostile, I’m offering a solution to our problem.” Not a fan of being ignored, she noted. Middle-child syndrome, maybe? Being interested in the core of a person did not come naturally to Lisabeth. It was a necessary part of her job that she not be too compassionate or try to see the “person within”.
Her psychiatrist back in London, so blissfully unaware her extortionate fees were paid with money made from high-end theft, was always banging on about the person within the shell. She talked about connecting with others, feeling sympathy, empathy—something. Lisabeth didn’t like the implication she was in some way sociopathic—she didn’t want to see harm to children or animals or intentionally break someone’s leg. The fact she could manipulate and connive didn’t make her unable to feel. But that she was intri
gued by Vikram Singh as a person, however remotely, was an unprecedented change Dr. Mulholland would be ecstatic about. Lisabeth, however, was not.
The shrink had been punishment for a grievous bodily harm conviction two years ago when Lisabeth had put a stop to the unrelenting pawing of a hot-shot attorney in Chelsea. Mostly she told the doctor what she wanted to hear and pursued talk of good mental attitude.
“I don’t have a problem, Vikram.” She gave a tight, almost patronizing smile.
“What if we negotiated the terms in your favor?” Lisabeth suspected it gave him great pain to even think of offering more than previously agreed. Her silence gave him lead to continue. “An extra night for your trouble and six million.” What hold could his so-called client have that would cause him to come running like a lackey?
She moistened her lips. “Do you have a car?” she asked, to which he nodded. “All right,” Lisabeth said, sounding as inconvenienced as she could muster. “An extra night, seven million and your car, once we get to Mumbai.” If she played her cards right, Lisabeth could be kicking back in Kathmandu earlier than anticipated—by cutting out Goa altogether.
Vikram sighed, resigned. “Fine.”
“And you perform when I want it. Anytime, anywhere.” Lisabeth enjoyed watching his body go tense, a glint of fury light up in his eyes.
“Perform?” he asked in a low, gruff tone. “I’m not a fucking circus act.” Lisabeth stayed quiet until he conceded once more. She would enjoy utilizing her right to place demands on him. Her clit was already thinking of deserted roadsides and restaurant bathrooms. She might even take advantage of the Arabian Sea on the coast when they got there.
* * * * *
Vikram pressed his foot to the accelerator, propelling the Toyota along the highway at a speed fast enough to alleviate some of his annoyance. At least it isn’t the Aston. He’d had that car imported and it would have caused him considerable grief to give it away to Lisabeth. The bitch was calling all the shots, treating him like an acquired prize. If the sex hadn’t been so phenomenally good he would have been tempted to perform badly, just to piss her off.
She had looked smugly satisfied after their revised negotiations. He, on the other hand, was deflated. The seven million dollars had punctured his post-coital mood; adding another night to her imposed sex slavery wasn’t as much a hardship as he wanted her to believe. He could recall how her body had felt under his hands, how eagerly she had responded to his savage pounding, how wet and welcoming her pussy had been. The memory alone made him hard—made him wish she would look up from her damn maps and demand he take her, right there on the side of National Highway 4.
Vikram shifted uncomfortably and turned on the radio, breaking a stretch of silence that was anything but companionable with a top-ten countdown of Bollywood hits. Jaadu Hai Nasha Hai filled the car with sultry beats in a slow, sensual rhythm. The damn song practically oozed sexual intent, he thought, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel. He couldn’t seem to catch a break.
The intermission stretched out in breathy whispers and moans, like an erotic soundtrack. Lisabeth looked up, her concentration broken. Her eyebrow arched and their eyes met. The corner of her lips quirked and a shared thought passed silently between them. She was remembering the hotel room, he knew, because he was too. The sighs from the stereo were not unlike hers. The whole song was sung as though on the verge of an orgasm.
When she uncrossed and repositioned her legs, Vikram was certain of her arousal. She was playing hard to get, pretending the various maps held her interest. Her hardening nipples against her flimsy yellow camisole gave her away. He wanted to see her naked, her firm, slender body writhing on a bed, instead of backed against a wall. In terms of fucking her, Vikram would earn his rights to the temple flute.
A car passed them on the highway, the driver glancing in and probably wondering at their strained expressions. Vikram could practically smell sex, their bodies permeating arousal from their very pores. Had driving from Chennai to Mumbai with her really been his idea? Clearly his logical reasoning had been hampered by the last orgasm.
The image of her full lips around his cock made him exhale a shuddering breath.
“So,” he began, his voice roughened by the wayward direction of his thoughts. “Where are you from?”
Lisabeth looked up again, her expression one of amusement. “Really, Vikram? Small talk?” She was impenetrable, he thought, her emotions constantly shielded by mockery and contempt.
“Hey, we have nineteen hours together in this car and that’s if we don’t stop. Do you want to sit in silence the whole way? Fine by me, at least I can understand the radio.”
She crossed her hands atop her lap, linking her fingers primly. The notion of her being prim in any context was a ludicrous one. Vikram didn’t think Lisabeth Baker had played by a single rule in her life.
“All right,” she said. “I’m from London.” Green eyes the color of wet moss turned to watch him, appraising his reaction, gauging the situation. People like Lisabeth spent their lives judging the reactions of others. Vikram knew only too well the importance of understanding people.
He waited a second, running the tips of his fingers over his cheek, afternoon whiskers prickling his skin.
“How interesting,” he said at last. “I could have sworn that was a northern accent.” That she had lied didn’t surprise him. In fact, he would have been disappointed had she become candid.
“If you don’t like my answers, don’t ask the questions,” she replied airily. Vikram laughed, betting she had been a pain in the ass for her parents as a child.
“Siblings?” he asked, thinking he could learn just as much from lies as he could from the truth. Lies had motive, intent, and Vikram enjoyed unraveling the mystery.
“A brother.” Lisabeth put the maps away, daring him to contradict.
“Liar. Everything about you screams ‘only child’.” She straightened in her seat, perhaps enjoying herself. People like them thrived on challenge, sought it out like ants to a sweet honeydew melon. “Go on,” he urged, “admit it. You epitomize everything that is the spoiled, selfish Daddy’s girl. What Lisabeth wants, Lisabeth gets, right?”
She shrugged ambiguously. “His name is Michael.”
Vikram hummed, replying quickly. “When was he born?”
Her eyes didn’t flicker, no indicators of imaginary thought. She was stoic, fast and precise. “August twelfth, 1971.” Lisabeth deserved every dollar and dime she had made swindling others. Her ability to lie was practically flawless.
“Much too rehearsed,” he said. “People with real siblings have to at least think about birthdays.”
Lisabeth re-crossed her legs again, the hem of her respectable denim shorts creeping up just enough that his thoughts sidetracked once again to the hotel room in Chennai, and how much he wanted to peel the garment off and explore the nectar-filled well of her pussy.
“Okay,” she admitted. “Michael is made up, but I really have a sister. Molly. She moved to Somerset with her son after her husband Daniel died in a car accident.” Vikram detected no deception, and absorbed the tidbit of information in silence. He took it neither as truth nor lie, because with a woman like Lisabeth, one could never be sure.
“You’ve nothing you want to ask me?” he ventured, keeping his eyes trained on the road ahead. Lisabeth rolled the window down, coaxing humid south Indian air into the car. Tendrils had come unbound from her simple braid and fluttered about her face, softening her, making the sharp edges of her often scathing personality seem blunter. She was beautiful, with her wide almond eyes, slender nose and full, budded lips he yearned to make moan his name again. The unruly hair made her more wholesome, almost approachable.
“What I want, Vikram, is seven million dollars, this car and your cock. This isn’t a personals listing. I don’t really give a fuck whether you have a good sense of humor, what genre of cinema you like, how extensive your education is or even if you have any flaws in your
genetic makeup that we might pass on to potential children.”
The night ahead was going to be decidedly long, he thought. She was impossible, filled with so much narcissism and self-obsession it wasn’t worth the effort it would take to break the surface of her true self. Perhaps she had been playing the role of Lisabeth Baker—hardened, world-weary criminal—for too long.
“I don’t,” he said after a long lapse of silence following her tirade.
She turned her head toward him, brows knitting together. “You don’t what?” The impatience was still there and if he kept it up, she might punish him by not initiating sex. At least for a while; her need for sex was unlikely to be squelched for too long.
“Have any flaws in my genetic makeup.” He gave her his best cocky smile and turned up the radio. The husky tones of Lucky Ali veiled her frustrated sigh and Vikram suppressed a smile. He had always loved having the last word, courtesy of countless arguments with two siblings, of which he was the middle.
Chapter Five
Lisabeth had never understood the appeal of yoga. Back when the ancient Eastern practice had been brought to the West in a flurry of trend and popularity, she had been one of the few in her circle of acquaintances who hadn’t rushed to spread out a foam mat and knot her limbs into unthinkable positions. Before Pilates, there was yoga and before yoga people exercised by going running, lifting weights and doing a few hundred reps on the rowing machine. Lisabeth was a fan of tough, physical exercise. When she had finished working out, she liked to be sweating—to see evidence of her effort on her flushed, hot cheeks.
When they had checked into a roadside lodging just over the Tamil border into Karnataka, Lisabeth had been surprised to discover Vikram was a practitioner. Admittedly, without the pastel-colored mat.
