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A few moments pass.
Huan does not move, and I try to raise my hips up and down, but his hands clamp me in place.
“Close your eyes, brat, and maybe I’ll fuck you.”
His voice is bossy in the most shivery way.
“I could lie and say I have them closed?”
He reaches over and slowly pinches my clit. “But you won’t. Now listen to me, or I’ll have to keep punishing you.”
Part of me—the part that loves to push for the sake of pushing—wants to win and keep refusing, but buried on him like this, I'm too impatient for retaliation. I want to give in. I’ve got no defenses when he takes his time like this, and when his mouth goes back to my shoulder and sucks that one spot. Or when his teeth graze my neck, when his fingers circle lazily above the wetness between my legs, not giving me enough, only hinting at what more there could be. I’m lost. Can’t even beg, can only make noises.
“Come on, darling Komal,” he whispers. “Be a good girl and listen to me.”
Huan shuts off my brain, and I’ll obey because my thoughts have dissolved. He’s filled me up and my pussy is weeping, and I just need… I need…
“Eyes shut,” I moan. “They are shut!”
Huan shudders out a groan. His victory cry, and evidence that being inside me without doing anything wasn’t as easy as he pretended it was.His palms help raise me up and down on his cock in deliberate movements, the sensation ofthis, ofhim, roaring through me. Against my back, his heart thunders as he pulls all the way out before sinking into me again. I feel him expanding even more. So thick and perfect. With my eyes shut, everything is so intensified.
And in this way, he tortures me. I’m brought to the edge, pulled back, edged, pulled back again. It’s like he can read the flutters of my walls around his cock because when I’m sobbingly close to an orgasm, Huan takes a break. Then he builds me up again, using the back of his knuckles to spear through my wetness. I’m loving it, hating it, loving it, pleading with him. We’re damp with sweat when he finally finds mercy and lays me forward, tilting my hips upward, and driving into me withhard strokes. My clit loves the friction against the bed, and that’s when I break apart.
After he comes too, he captures my jaw, and we stare at each other. The way I caress his soft hair, and he runs his fingers across my bottom lip, is achingly gentle. Fighting off the minutes, I think. That’s what we are doing.
Trying to make this last.
“Say thank you, Huan,” he says. “Thank you for making me come so hard.”
I roll my eyes and swat at his ribs.
He catches my hand and kisses the centre of my palm, grinning like this is incredible fun.
It is. It fucking is.
I am brimming with the most maximum of feelings, trying to brand these moments into my brain while they are still happening. Even more treasured are the hours of us talking about our opinions on the taste of peppermint, shows we wished we watched versus what we actually watch in our downtime, arguing about the definition of meritocracy. Really, anything and everything. He tells me his love of cooking stems from an early countryside trip to this farm, and I tell him about my dislike of fish because I mentally imagine squishy eyes on the meat each time.
Then, at some point, we drift off to sleep—before waking up starved for more.
TWENTY-SEVEN
I think Huan feels guilty, as if he’s the reason I’ve stopped obsessively adventuring across London. That… isn’t the full story.
It’s about being seen, and how I don’t want to deal with it. About pictures that can come from anywhere and anyone. How this anonymous city suddenly doesn’t feel as anonymous anymore. That I’ve got anxious ripples in my stomach at the thought of going out there ever since Mohinder Uncle called.
Huan holds out sunglasses. “No one will recognize you.”
I put them on, and after an annoyed huff, follow him outside to the road.
“I still think we can order in,” I say as we watch the cab arrive.
“You had Brick Lane on your list. We’re doing Brick Lane.”
I pull my baseball cap further down on my head when the cab parks by the curb. Huan timed it so we don’t waste any minutes, because he is also cautious of being papped or maybe it’s in consideration of my obvious reluctance. Either way, before long, we’re moving towards London’s East End to eat Indian food.
Brick Lake has a bunch of restaurants in a row that fight to get the customer.The one I had researched and picked offerstwenty percent off and a handful of free beers. Their menu also rocks. Tonight’s dinner plan is vindaloo, karahi, chana masala, garlic naan, pilau rice, cucumber raita… and if I really think about it, calm and collected Komal would be disappointed if she didn’t visit a curry house for all that food.
But I’m not that person right now.
