She did not ever want to let him go.
The salsa music faded, but a ballad set to a slower beat came on. No furious fancy footwork, just the intimacy of dancing so close together their bodies brushed with each perfectly matched step. A saxophone wailed in the background, a counterbalance to the melodic crooning of the band’s lead singer. The glare of colored spotlights gyrated over the wooden dance floor, and the body heat of other dancers kept the room comfortably warm. Anjali was content to let her mind drift as her body, trained to respond to and dance with Jon, settled into the comfort of his arms.
“Are you falling asleep on me?” His amused voice sounded in her ear.
She smiled. “Comfy.”
“I love holding you. It feels right.”
It had always felt right, from the first moment he took her into his arms at that first salsa lesson six years ago. Several weeks passed before they officially began dating, but she had been his from that first moment. Was it the way he held her, the way he looked at her, as if he could not believe his luck? Did he know how precious it was to be cherished the way he cherished her, to know that he saw only the best in her?
He shifted his weight, and she chuckled, low in her throat. She knew that movement all too well—his uncomfortable need to shift the hard press of his aroused body against her inner thighs. “Do you want me?” she murmured, her voice a husky whisper.
“You know it, babe.” His voice was rough. He tugged her against him, as if she needed to know the extent of his physical attraction. “Come with me.” He pulled her away from the dance floor, pushing past the crowd of dancers to escape through the front door. The relative coolness of the night was a welcome relief from the stuffiness of the club, but it did not cool the heat pulsing through her body.
His hands pressed against the curve of her buttocks. The firmness of his grip betrayed the urgency of his need. “My hotel is closer than your apartment,” he said.
“No time.” She breathed into his ear as she unlocked her car and pulled open the door of the backseat.
“Damn it, Ange. We’re too old for this.”
“Never too old.” She leaned her weight into him, sending him sprawling on his back against the smooth leather seat. His breaths came hard and fast as she unbuckled his belt and tugged down on his zipper.
“No, not like this,” he gasped. His objection ended on a ragged sigh, his head falling back and baring his throat as she closed her mouth around him. His hands clutched at her shoulders; she could not tell if he was trying to hold her back or push her on. His body tensed as she teased him with lips and tongue.
He grunted; his eyes squeezed shut, fighting against his release.
No, it would never do to leave him aroused and unfulfilled. Anjali gripped his narrow hips, knowing that the sensation of being restrained would set him off. She drew him into her mouth, as deep as she could go, and hummed.
His fingers dug into her shoulders. “Ange!” he croaked. His hips jerked against her mouth as he came hard, spurting into her throat.
A rush of relief flooded through her as she swallowed the familiar salty taste of him. He had come, thank goodness.
He sagged against the leather seat, and his hands stroked her hair as his breathing slowed into its regular pace. “Why did you rush me through it?” he asked, as he did every time. “What about you?”
She shifted around in the backseat of the car, laughing at the snug fit of their bodies in that small space. “Come on, baby.” She spread her legs, giving him a glimpse of her tiny black thong.
His mouth closed around hers, sharing the same breath as he deepened the kiss. The heat of his hand closed over her thong, and she pushed into his touch. Every nerve ending in her body seemed concentrated right down there, craving more of him.
His expert fingers slid past her thong and into her slick folds. He broke the kiss to whisper against her cheek. “You’re so wet, so ready for me.”
A mewling sound escaped from her throat as she arched against him. His thumb thrummed against the heat of her body. She could have sworn lights exploded in her brain. “More,” she wanted to beg, but the sound emerged as a pleading whimper. She almost sobbed with relief when his other hand tugged down on the collar of her body-hugging nylon dress to cup her breast. Her nipple hardened in his hand, so aroused it almost hurt.
“You’re gorgeous,” he whispered. “Come for me, baby. I want to see you fall apart in my hand.” He pulled his finger out of her and plunged two in. He knew where and how to touch her; he had known for years. She arched sharply as he stroked the spot that overloaded her senses and sent her plummeting over the edge, screaming and burning as she fell. His mouth closed over hers as she had always known he would, swallowing her cry of ecstasy.
Drained by pleasure, she lay unmoving in his embrace, content to wait until her heartbeat settled into its normal rhythm. His chest rumbled with low laughter. “You couldn’t wait.”
“No, I couldn’t.”
A moment passed in silence, and Jon broke it with a quiet question. “Will we ever actually have sex?”
A cold fist seemed to close around her heart as he voiced the question he had asked more than once, the question she always dreaded hearing from him. When will we actually make love? She forced the answer through the lump in her throat. “We are.”
“You know what I mean. I want to be in you.”
“I’m not…I can’t.”
“Why not? Do you love me?”
“You know I do. More than anything.”
“Then why won’t you? You’ll do practically anything, including go down on me in the car, in public, but you won’t let me come in you. You’ll rush me into coming just to avoid the possibility that I might find the time to enter you.”
Anjali flushed. “I just want to make sure you come.”
“I will, but I want to come in you. I can use protection, and I know you’re on the pill. You won’t get pregnant.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about.”
“Then what could it possibly be?”
She shook her head. “You don’t understand. It’s complicated. It’s different where I come from.”
His narrowed eyes glittered with frustration even in the dim light of the car. “And where is that? London?”
Chapter 2
His teeth gritted with annoyance, Jon closed his hotel room door and slid the bolt into place. Damn it. He had left Westchester with the best of intentions. He had sworn that he would not pressure Anjali into having sex; whatever her reasons, it was her decision.
His resolutions, however, had dissolved in the face of her eager and heated reactions to his touch. If she were so responsive to his hands and his lips, how would she react to having him in her? How much more pleasure and ecstasy could he wring out of her?
He could not deny that she met his physical needs. Heck, she gave incredible head; she could drive him wild with her hands and her mouth, but he wanted more. He needed more, physically and emotionally. He needed the intimacy of being in her, uniting with her.
He needed to know he meant as much to her as she did to him.
Jon shrugged off his clothes and stepped into the shower. The water pummeled his back, beating against the tight muscles. He could use a massage; no one could work tension into him faster than Anjali. The sounds she made when she was on the brink of falling apart—
His gut clenched at the memory. Fresh lust churned through him. He pumped against his hand. Without any effort, he summoned an image of Anjali, the flush of pleasure on her dusky skin, her large brown eyes glazed with pleasure. Her long black hair, gently scented with jasmine, evoked the sensuality of night-blooming flowers. She was as exotic as she was beautiful in a way that many Indian women could be, but she was his in a way that no one else was.
In his mind, her naked body arched against him, welcoming him. Her long legs wrapped around him, drawing him deeper. Those soft sounds, the mewling whimpers, urged him on, begging for more of him, mo
re of them.
More love.
With a low grunt, he came in his hand. Sagging against the cold tiles, he watched the water wash his semen down the drain. Although he was physically tired, his thoughts and emotions churned. What’s wrong with me? With us?
Why is she holding back? Why won’t she talk to me?
At least he had made progress of sorts. Obviously stricken and guilt-ridden by his sarcastic challenge, “And where is that? London?” Anjali had invited him to join her parents for dinner the next day.
Six years into his relationship with Anjali, he would meet her parents for the first time. Physical distance had something to do with the lack of contact, but even when he and Anjali had spent lots of time together while he was still at college, he had noticed that she never seemed to initiate contact with her parents. Telephone conversations took place once every few months, a stark contrast to some of the other women Jon knew who spoke to their mothers several times a day on all matters both profound and trivial.
Anjali rarely spoke of her family or her home in London, and when he had asked her about them, her replies had been perfunctory and not particularly illuminating. He had the sense she did not find it worth discussing, although now, on the eve of meeting her parents, he wondered if he should have asked more questions.
Her father, he knew, was a doctor, her mother a housewife. They had emigrated from India before Anjali was born, and she was their only child. That was it. Jon grimaced. He knew pitifully little about the parents of the woman he loved.
Time to change all that, he thought. The dinner tomorrow night would be his chance to meet her parents. A slow smile eased across his lips. It’s about damned time. The barely perceptible flicker of uncertainty he dismissed with a shrug. Nothing could possibly go wrong.
Chapter 3
Anjali stopped in front of the unobtrusive entrance of The Corner Bistro and Wine Bar. Her parents’ footsteps came to a pause behind her, their presence pricking the hairs at the back of her neck. Her shoulders were taut, the muscles knotted. The feeling wasn’t unusual; the streets of Baltimore were not safe, and Anjali was accustomed to looking over her shoulder as she walked, but she had not expected to feel the same way when her parents accompanied her.
“Is this the restaurant?” her mother, Kashi, asked.
Kashi’s tone was querulous, but it was just the way she always was. Anjali tried not to react to the tone, but it was difficult. She had hoped that the years and distance from her mother would give her perspective, but apparently, it had not. She swallowed hard before responding. “The food’s quite good.”
Kashi snorted, and stepped up to brush a few strands of hair away from Anjali’s face. Her mouth turned into a frown. “You should have used more makeup.” She pinched the skin underneath Anjali’s cheekbones.
Anjali took a startled step back, and shook her head like a horse trying to swat away a fly. What was her mother doing? Didn’t her mother realize she was twenty-six years old? What twenty-six-year-old wanted or needed her cheeks pinched in public? “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. You must take the time to look pretty. Otherwise, men will be frightened away by your degree.”
Not any man worth having, Anjali thought, but bit her tongue.
“Leave her alone, Kashi,” Paresh, Anjali’s father, said. His tone was more absentminded than dismissive, but Kashi seemed to gather herself up—a porcupine bristling its needles.
“You don’t care if she can’t find a husband. That’s my job.”
“I’m the one paying for her wedding expenses; I consider myself highly invested in her search for a husband.” Paresh’s solemn nod at Anjali was enlivened with a wink. He offered her his arm. “Shall we go in? We don’t want to be late for our reservation.”
Paresh escorted Anjali into the restaurant, but she cast uncertain glances over her shoulder at her mother who had been left to follow on her own. The smoldering expression on her mother’s face and the stubborn set of her jaw did not bode well.
Dinner was unraveling, and it hadn’t even started.
Anjali swallowed through the lump of panic clogging her throat, and smiled nervously at the hostess. “A table for four, please. Anjali Bhanot.”
“Actually, it’s for seven,” Paresh interjected.
Anjali stared at her father. “What do you—?”
“This way, please.” The hostess gathered seven menus and led them to a large table in a quiet corner of the restaurant. “Your waiter will be with you shortly.”
Anjali did not sit. She turned to her father. “Seven? Who’s coming?”
“I called to change the reservation. It was to be a surprise for you. Bharat and his parents are here for your graduation. They’ll be joining us at dinner tonight.”
Her brain short-circuited; her jaw dropped. Her stunned gaze flicked to her mother, who looked smug, as if her critical comments on Anjali’s appearance had been justified. “But—” Jon. Oh, no… She bit down on her lower lip. Perhaps she had time to send him a text message and ask him to stay away—
“Good evening,” Jon’s voice came from behind her.
Anjali jolted and spun around.
His eyes met hers, and a slight furrow touched his brow. He did not need to speak for her to hear his unspoken question, “Are you all right?”
Too late. Oh, damn. Think. Think. Think.
Do something. Anything.
Dying instantly of a cardiac arrest was her first and best option, but failing that—
Anjali’s smile felt too wide and artificial on her lips. “Father and Mother, this is Jon Seifer. Jon, my parents, Paresh and Kashi Bhanot.” Her voice sounded thin to her own ears. Her stomach churned; panic turned into nausea, and horror into the certainty that she was headed straight for World War Three.
“It’s good to finally meet you.” Jon extended his hand in a firm handshake. “How was your flight from London?”
“Tolerable,” Paresh said. “We had some bad weather leaving London, but it cleared up within an hour.”
Kashi studied Jon through narrowed eyes and then glared at Anjali. The anger in her eyes demanded both an explanation and an apology.
Anjali had neither. The tension headache pulsing through her skull threatened to explode into a migraine. She sat down and picked up her menu. Staring at food she had no appetite for seemed like the best way of staying out of the conversation and out of trouble.
Her mother sat beside her, and Jon claimed the seat on her other side. He leaned forward to look at Anjali’s parents. “This restaurant is one of the top. The steaks here are excellent.”
Anjali cringed. Oh, no.
“We are observant Hindus,” Kashi said. Her chin tilted up to match the cool disdain of her voice. “The cow is a sacred animal for us.” The look she shot Anjali was scathing. “Of course, we do not know what Anjali eats, here in this country, but I raised her to do the right thing.”
Beneath the table, Anjali’s hands clenched into fists, but she glanced up at Jon, startled when his hand closed over hers. His eyes were questioning, but his smile was the one he had given her when he had dropped her off to take the MCATs, and at the airports before she flew off to attend medical school interviews. Years later, she had taken the memory of his smile into her residency interviews. How much of her apparent success had been grounded in his faith in her, propelled by his unflagging encouragement?
That same smile from Jon steadied her now. The stifling air clogging her lungs dispelled enough for her first clear thought to emerge. Why does my mother make me feel like a snapping chihuahua? Furious and snarling, teeth-bared, but completely ineffective? How can she make me feel like a child again with just a look, a touch, a word?
Kashi’s glance darted past Anjali’s shoulder, and a dazzling smile transformed her face. Her haughty distance vanished as she rose and forward to greet another Indian couple and a man who walked up to their table. “How good it is to see you again, Esha and Dev.” She embraced the woman,
and inclined her head to the older man. “And you, Bharat.” With obvious fondness, she embraced the younger man. “How wonderful you look, and how good of you to come all this way for Anjali’s special day.”
“We should always be together for the big moments,” Bharat said. “Anjali, how are you?”
She forced herself to look up and smiled at the man she might have…perhaps, maybe…recognized if she had passed him on the road. “Hello, Bharat.” She stood and held her hand out to him.
He took her hand in his for a long moment, as if testing its familiarity. His brown eyes searched her face. Was he looking for his childhood companion in much the same way she was looking for hers? Their parents had been close friends, their fathers physicians at the same London hospital. Bharat had been nine years old when she was born—much too old to be a playmate. He had been, however, a protective presence when she was growing up, tagging along whenever she sneaked away from her house to explore London.
He had left to pursue his undergraduate and medical degrees in America; she had followed several years later, but to a different part of the United States. Their contact was limited to the occasional e-mail, and their rare visits home to London had never coincided.
She would not have known him if they had passed on the streets, but she would have taken a second look. At thirty-five, Bharat was entering the prime of his life. His neat goatee accentuated the sculptured edges of his northern Indian good looks, and he wore a Hugo Boss blazer over his denim jeans with the confidence of a man accustomed to casual but expensive style.
What she hadn’t expected, however, from a man who had graduated at the top of his Harvard Medical School class and who was Mayo Clinic’s rising superstar cardiac surgeon was the easy flash of his grin and the warmth in his eyes. He had been kind and down-to-earth as a boy; meeting him as an adult, she had reason to hope that those endearing elements of him had not changed.
Jilted: A Love Letters Novel Page 2
