by Rea Thomas
The bathroom door swung open and Vikram stepped out, dressed and shaved. His inky black hair glistened, still wet. His eyes settled on her at once, appraising her with the same penetrating gaze that had unsettled and aroused her to unimaginable ends yesterday.
“Morning,” he said, his voice rough. “Do you want to take a shower before we go? We can head north and stop for breakfast. If we make good time, we might get to Mumbai sooner than planned.” This seemed to please him but, for some reason unknown to Lisabeth, at that moment it disappointed her.
“What’s your hurry? I don’t know about you, but I like to start my morning with some vigorous exercise.” She smiled pointedly, lowering her lashes.
Lisabeth’s irritation began to rise when he sighed loudly and glanced at his wristwatch. She had hoped yesterday’s adventure in the river would have made Vikram more willing to give her what she wanted. He had seemed to enjoy touching her and his efforts had made her orgasm perhaps the best of her life. Lisabeth hadn’t expected she would need to remind Vikram of their agreement once more.
“You should have woken up earlier then,” he told her. “We need to go. This isn’t a leisurely vacation, Lisabeth.” He began to organize his belongings, zipping his backpack while she fought a mixture of contempt and confusion. Vikram could so deftly shift the balance of power in his favor; one moment she would be in control and in the next, he would be calling the shots.
“You’re lucky I would prefer breakfast at this point,” Lisabeth told him, edging toward the bathroom. “Don’t forget the rules either. I decide when—and where. I hope you’re not shy about PDAs.”
Vikram looked up. “PDAs?”
“Public displays of affection. I might ask you to fuck me in an auto-rickshaw later.” She glanced back at him and was sure she saw a glimmer of concern in his eyes. Lisabeth smiled to herself. The balance of power had been, for now at least, restored.
* * * * *
They had been driving for hours and had reached the northern border of Karnataka leading into Maharashtra when a thunderstorm descended, turning the sky to an eerie, foreboding charcoal color. The raindrops slamming noisily against the windshield of the car were like continually exploding bullets. Lisabeth knew thunderstorms in India were not always fleeting, and were known to persist for hours.
Rumbles of thunder rolled across the sky, crashing above the clouds in eruptions that lasted for twenty seconds.
“Shit,” Vikram said. “So much for getting to Mumbai early.”
Lisabeth had always loved thunder and lightning—loved the noise and the scale of power that nature held in its arsenal. She felt humbled by storms—and insignificant. Beneath the dark canopy of threatening clouds, she and Vikram were two unimportant people at the mercy of rain and electrical bolts so bright that the sky seemed to almost hum in the wake of each hot flash.
She opened her mouth to tell him this, when a truck pulled forward from a narrow side road, cutting in front of their car. Vikram swore aloud, slamming his foot hard against the brakes. The tires slid across the wet road as though it were smooth ice. The truck blasted a belated warning honk, the sound of which was lost beneath a deafening clap of thunder overhead.
Lisabeth watched as, seemingly in slow motion, her side of the car glided toward the backend of the vehicle, closer and closer until she could see the rust in the rear metal fender. Then the Toyota came to a stop in the middle of the road while the truck advanced on as though it hadn’t almost caused a catastrophic accident.
“Motherfucker!” Vikram yelled at the departing vehicle, slamming his large hand against the steering wheel. His eyes were fiery, like coal that had been ignited by a hot flame.
Lisabeth’s hands trembled and her heart beat furiously within her chest.
The truck had disappeared into the curtain of falling rain, leaving her to wonder if she hadn’t imagined the near collision. Only the flurry of her pulse and Vikram’s wild expression remained as proof.
“Stupid bastards,” Vikram growled, unclenching his fingers from around the wheel. “Are you all right?” he asked, turning to look at her.
Lisabeth nodded, touching her fingertips to her chest.
“Pull over to the side of the road,” she told him, willing her voice to remain calm. Despite her best attempts, however, her words quivered.
For five minutes there was only the sound of their breathing and the raging thunderstorm outside. Neither Lisabeth nor Vikram had any inclination to speak.
It seemed as though the universe was conspiring to delay their arrival in Mumbai, Lisabeth decided. She considered relaying this thought to Vikram, but his jaw was tight with anger and his fingers were curled into fists atop his thighs.
Eventually, he took a deep breath and turned his head toward her. “You all right?” he asked again, calmly. He was satisfied when she gave a sharp nod. “Some people on these roads… They have no concept of safety.”
Lisabeth was surprised at how he had reacted. Vikram’s composure didn’t seem as though it could be easily rattled. She didn’t imagine he would be nervous or twitchy when raiding stately homes or museums of their treasures. It struck her as odd that a near miss on the highway would rattle him so much. Vikram seemed not only on edge but downright infuriated. She thought it fortunate that the truck had not stopped, for it seemed likely the driver would have suffered greatly for his misdemeanor on the road.
“It’s okay,” Lisabeth said gently.
Vikram eyes snapped to hers. “It very nearly wasn’t.” His voice was hard and it was clear the emotion beneath his inflexible surface was consciously kept in check. The muscle twitched in his cheek again and when Lisabeth held his glare, Vikram looked away, almost embarrassed. There was definitely something deeper, she knew, some lingering memory of a past trauma perhaps.
Lisabeth made a note to question him later, when the panic from almost getting wiped off the road wasn’t still pumping through his veins.
“Come on,” she urged, reaching out to place her hand flat against his thigh.
He surprised her by unclipping her seatbelt and pulling her toward him, sinking his fingers into her long hair and covering her mouth with his. There was an edge of desperation in his kiss, a fierceness that took Lisabeth’s breath away. The angle of her body was uncomfortable, but she ignored it, submitting to Vikram’s attempts to explore her mouth.
She responded eagerly, mirroring his actions by slipping her fingers into his hair, pressing his mouth hard against her own. Lisabeth was not sure whether Vikram was attempting to erase a painful memory with lust or whether he was simply acting on the primal instincts brought to the surface of his psyche in a wave of adrenaline.
His hand slipped beneath her cotton shirt, upward over her rib cage to cup her breast through her bra. Lisabeth leaned into him, forgetting it was not in the agreement that Vikram could initiate sex. At that moment she didn’t care that it was him making the decision. Nor did she care that they were parked at a roadside in a country with the second largest population in the world and that there was a certain inevitability that someone would sooner or later drive by.
Lisabeth straddled his thighs, a moan rising in her throat when he gave her nipple a hard squeeze through her bra.
“Take this off,” he ordered her, pulling at her shirt. “Now.”
She hurried to pop the small clear buttons, exposing her bare skin to him. The cool air-conditioning sent a shiver along her spine, tightening her nipples to hard points. At the apex of her thighs, Lisabeth could feel Vikram’s cock harden in response and unlike the night before, she knew there was nothing that would satisfy her like having him inside her. The moment he had pulled her across the car with desperate urgency, she had been wet and ready—an instantaneous response to being close to him.
Vikram pulled aside the fabric of her bra, flicking his thumbs over the tight peaks of her breasts. She reveled in the darkness of his hands against her flesh—milk and coffee. Each time he rolled her nipple, Lisabeth felt her
clit pulse. She had read about erogenous zones, but she had never experienced such definite responses to touch before. It was almost as though her sensory awareness had peaked.
Vikram reached between their bodies, unfastening his jeans. Lisabeth knew there would be no languid foreplay—that there was a sense of urgency about this impromptu tryst. If their previous encounters had been devoid of romance, Lisabeth expected this to surpass even those.
“Jeans,” he barked. “Off.”
Lisabeth struggled with the awkwardness of removing her clothes in the limited confines of the car. Her hips twisted and her legs stretched in positions not unlike his beloved yoga. When she rose up, Vikram slid his own jeans over his thighs and his cock sprang free. He grasped at her waist, bringing her down on top of him. Lisabeth wriggled, wishing she had time to prepare herself for the delight of having him inside her again.
It was not his desire to delay matters, however, and Vikram drew her toward him, rolling his hips upward to meet the slick wetness of her pussy. She almost asked him to wait, desperate to prolong the moment, but she caught the look in his eye—almost feral—and kept silent. Lisabeth lowered herself to him, a breathy sigh falling from her lips when he slid into her.
“Yes…” Vikram breathed, his fingers cupping the back of her head and bringing her mouth fiercely back to his. She let him lead, following his commands.
Outside the car, thunder continued to rumble through the dark skies, rain lashing loudly against the glass. Intermittently, the vivid landscape behind the wet, speckled windows would light up in brilliant, white flashes that would seem almost apocalyptic.
Lisabeth pressed her hand to the cool glass, rocking her pelvis to the motion of Vikram’s unrestrained pounding. His cock, smooth and hard, was buried in her smaller body, filling and stretching her. She thought of the luminous pink vibrator she had familiarized herself with in the lonely spells in foreign cities. The toy had been daunting when she had first pressed its sleek tip to her opening, and now it seemed like nothing when compared to his impressive width.
“Slower…” she said, pressing her breast to his lips. Vikram drew the bud into his wet mouth, sucking and biting the puckered nub with his teeth. Lisabeth realized her request was either unheard or ignored when he continued to thrust deep into her pussy, a twinge of pain nipping each time he buried his shaft to the hilt in her dripping flesh.
His large hands encircled her wrists, holding her arms together as if in prayer.
“You always want it, don’t you?” he asked roughly. Every part of him—his voice, his grip and even the jerks of his hips—was rough at that moment. “You just love being fucked. Anytime, anywhere.” He said it as though it were bad. As though it was a flaw in her character and yet she knew it was a part of her that intrigued Vikram. His anger, whether at the reckless driver or something else, had taken full control of him.
“You’re hurting me,” she whimpered, sensing this was what he wanted.
“And you love it. Don’t you?” When she didn’t reply, Vikram released her left arm and pulled hard on the strands of her hair. She yelped. “Don’t you?” Lisabeth nodded quickly, loathe to admit she did enjoy when sex took a rough turn. It symbolized a loss of control that was so unacceptable in the world she inhabited. “You want to be fucked hard, don’t you, baby?”
Lisabeth chose to ignore the term of endearment, reaching down to touch the wet bud of her clit. She rode him, their bodies slapping noisily together. When she leaned back, grabbing hold of the handle above the window, Lisabeth could see her abundant juices coating his dark shaft. Each time she glimpsed the length of him, she wondered how it would be possible for him to fit inside her.
Vikram ran his fingers over the damp strip of curls between their bodies, parting her pussy to roll her clit in tight, hard circles.
Lisabeth watched as he brought his wet fingers to her mouth. “Taste yourself,” he ordered. She could smell her own musky scent, evidence of how much he aroused her. “Suck them.” Lisabeth held his wrist steady and covered his fingers with her mouth, running her tongue along the slick length, suckling until she had removed every trace of herself from him. Vikram’s eyes were the color of dirty gold, darkened by desire.
His hips slowed and Vikram’s strokes became almost gentle—as leisurely as they two were ever likely to be. She allowed herself to feel every inch of him and how her nerves flamed when he brushed against her G-spot. Lisabeth fell against him, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in his shoulder. He smelled of sex and something else she could not place, but it intoxicated her. She wanted to immerse herself in the heady, exotic scent for an eternity.
“Make me come,” she whispered against his ear, her tongue gently flicking the tender lobe.
Vikram’s arms encircled her, reminding her of just how big he truly was. She was almost slight, comparatively.
His thrusts gained momentum once more, like a man on a mission. Lisabeth widened her thighs, making no efforts to halt the orgasm building in her loins. In fact, she had been rather swept away by the urgency of it. The likelihood of someone seeing them made her pussy flood with wetness. She thought of the days when she would not have dreamt of fucking at the roadside in a car. When she could have been absolutely scandalized by such a bold, shameless encounter and now, she felt wonderfully liberated.
She was moments away from climax when Vikram went still beneath her and inside her body she felt his cock convulse as a moan tore from his throat, muffled by her shoulder. Lisabeth rubbed hard at her clit, bringing forward her own orgasm as he spilled semen into her body in long, hot bursts. Unlike the seemingly endless orgasm of the night before, this one came fast, hard and didn’t last long. Much like the whole encounter. Her breathing was still labored as she slumped against Vikram, permitting him a thirty-second spell in which she allowed him to hold her.
A low rumble of thunder rolled across the sky, like an exclamation point to what they had done, and the wind howled along the stretch of highway, battering the Toyota as though warning them to move. Lisabeth lifted her head, brushing unruly hair from her face.
“Feel better now?” she quipped, noting his eyes had returned to their usual crystalline amber hue. She thought they were not unlike the sky, in fact—wild and dark in the midst of stormy emotions and almost serene in the aftermath. Lisabeth wanted to share this discovery with him, but remembered their relationship was not built on sentiments or personal observations.
She slid off him, resolving that it was all right to lose herself in the wild, uninhibited sex, but not at any other time.
“Yeah,” Vikram replied, pulling his jeans back over his legs as she began to get dressed, once again twisting herself into odd angles. “It’s probably best if we refrain from any more of this until we get to Mumbai. It almost feels as though we are never going to reach there.”
Lisabeth didn’t reply. Not even to recite the agreement—that it was she who decided when and where. It seemed pointless to engage in the petty tit-for-tat arguments, especially now. She wanted to get to Mumbai anyway. The sooner she could take the car and get to Kathmandu, the better. Order would be restored in her life and Vikram Singh would be nothing but a sexy memory.
Masturbation material, she reminded herself. All she needed to do was remember it.
Chapter Nine
“Wait here,” Vikram told her as he reversed the car into a parking space outside a sleek office building in Mumbai’s Andheri West. “I’ll be less than thirty minutes.”
Lisabeth gave a sharp nod, turning the radio to a station playing popular English music.
“Give me your bag.” Vikram extended his hand.
“I don’t think so,” Lisabeth replied, eyebrow raised.
“I take your diamond, you keep the flute. I have what you want, and you have what I want. Fair deal?”
Lisabeth thought about it for a moment, contemplating the notion of losing The Lotus Star. She decided it was unlikely Vikram would leave the flute behind�
��not after the effort he had gone to so far. “All right,” she conceded.
Taking a smaller black bag from her backpack, Lisabeth rummaged for the diamond and slipped it into one of the many zipped compartments and passed it across the car.
Vikram held tight to the strap, turning to lift his eyes to the business complex stretching more than forty floors skyward.
Lisabeth suspected the mysterious Lorna worked in one of the offices—probably an executive one, facing the sparkling Arabian Sea. Something about how Vikram jumped to her command indicated a certain power.
In less than half an hour, Lisabeth would know—for she had slipped an electronic listening device smaller than a British penny into a compartment in the zipper bag.
Vikram stepped out of the car, stretching his long legs before heading toward the steps leading to the glass-fronted entrance. Lisabeth watched him go before she turned off the radio and pressed the receiver into her ear.
* * * * *
Vikram had never liked Lorna Reilly.
The native New Yorker possessed the kind of pompous arrogance that made her a great businesswoman, but a dreadful person to be around. She was demanding, loud and condescending. Worse, her personality oozed a blatant fakery, which she made no attempts to hide.
Back in the eighties she had married Amit Saini, a wealthy real estate tycoon from Gujarat who had moved to the then-named Bombay.
Lorna was a former beauty queen who had slinked along the runways of New York’s modeling scene and Saini had been captivated by her stunning exotic features and slim hips. Within four weeks he had married his American swan. Lorna, being untraditional, had never taken his surname as her own, citing she was afraid to lose her identity in the unfamiliar and foreign land that was India.
When Saini had died at age fifty-five of an untimely heart attack, Lorna had taken control of his empire. If possible, she had made a better success of it than Amit had himself. The company thrived, with considerable yearly profits, even when the economy had taken a nose-dive. Lorna Reilly possessed indisputable business acumen—even though she was loathsome and it was tempting to criticize every aspect of her.
