Chapter 2: Taking Control
The kiss was a floodgate breaking. It wasn’t gentle. It was a hard, claiming press of mouths, all the pent-up watching and wondering of the last days pouring into it. Josh’s hands slid down from her face, over the strong column of her neck, to grip her shoulders. He felt the power in her, the resilience, and it fueled him.
In one fluid, decisive motion, he bent, hooked an arm behind her knees, and lifted her. She gasped against his mouth, a sound of pure surprise, but her arms immediately locked around his neck, holding on. She was heavier than he expected, solid and real, and the weight of her in his arms was the most exhilarating thing he’d ever felt.
Three long strides took them to the charpai. He didn't lay her down so much as lower them both, following her descent so he was sprawled half over her, the woven ropes groaning in protest beneath their combined weight. The world was her hair fanned out on the pillow, the scent of jasmine from her skin, the dark pools of her eyes staring up at him, wide and fierce.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the English obscenity harsh and foreign in the rustic room.
“Yes,” she said, the word a simple, stark agreement. Her hands went to the waist of his jeans, fingers scrambling for the button. “Off. These are ridiculous.”
He pushed himself up on his knees, straddling her. His fingers, suddenly clumsy again, fought with the denim. The button flew open. The zip rasped down, shockingly loud. He shoved the jeans and his boxers down in one rough push, kicking them off the side of the bed.
The cool night air hit his skin. Then her gaze did.
He was fully hard, his cock thick and upright, flushed and aching. He saw her eyes track down his body, watched her absorb the sight. Her bold, knowing expression flickered. A sharp, audible intake of breath hissed between her teeth. Her lips parted. For a beautiful, suspended second, the woman who commanded the silence was speechless.
“Jesus,” she whispered, not in English, but in Punjabi. The word was a prayer and a curse.
A raw, masculine thrill shot through him. He saw a flicker of apprehension in her eyes, quickly masked by a defiant lift of her chin. But he’d seen it. The power dynamic, for that instant, was his.
“Problem?” he asked, his voice low and rough.
She recovered, a slow, challenging smile spreading across her face. “No problem. Only a question.” Her hands came up, not to touch him, but to the clasp of her own skirt. “Can you use it?”
The challenge hung in the incense-thick air. Josh said nothing. He reached down, his hands closing over hers, stilling them. “Let me.”
He unfastened the hook and eye, his knuckles brushing the warm skin of her lower belly. He pushed the fabric down over the curve of her hips. She lifted herself to help him, and then she was naked from the waist down. He left her choli for now, wanting the contrast of the embroidered cloth against her bare skin.
He looked his fill. The lantern light gilded the strong muscles of her thighs, the dark triangle of hair at their junction. She was utterly exposed, and she made no move to cover herself. She just watched him watch her, her chest rising and falling a little faster.
“Well?” she prompted, her voice husky.
In answer, he lowered himself between her legs, not entering her, but settling his weight there. The heat of her was immense. He rocked his hips forward once, the head of his cock sliding through her slickness, a soft, wet sound that made them both shudder.
“Fucking hell, Preethi,” he groaned, burying his face in the curve of her neck. She was already so wet for him.
Her hands came up, clawing at his back, her nails biting into his skin. “No more talking.” It was a command, but it was frayed at the edges, breathless.
He braced himself on his elbows, his face inches from hers. He could see every lash, every fleck of gold in her dark irises. He felt the tip of him press against her entrance, a pressure that was both an end and a beginning.
“Look at me,” he said.
She did. Her eyes were blown black, all pretense of control stripped away, leaving only a naked, wanting hunger that mirrored his own.
He pushed inside.
It was a tight, stunning, slow invasion. Her body resisted for a breathtaking moment, then yielded, enveloping him in a heat so intense it was almost painful. He felt her internal muscles clench around him, a shocked, involuntary spasm. A ragged cry tore from her throat, her head pressing back into the pillow.
“God… you’re so big,” she choked out, the words strained. Her legs came up, locking around his hips, her heels digging into the backs of his thighs, pulling him deeper.
He couldn’t move. He was sheathed fully inside her, pinned by her gaze and her body and the overwhelming reality of it. This wasn't a fantasy. This was her tight, hot cunt gripping him, the sweat already beading on her upper lip, the rough cotton of her choli under his hands.
Then she moved. A small, sharp roll of her hips, taking him even deeper.
It broke his stillness.
He withdrew almost completely, then slammed back in. The charpai creaked violently. A gasp burst from her, turning into a low, guttural moan. He set a punishing rhythm, each thrust a deliberate, deep piston stroke. There was no gentle coaxing. This was what they both had circled around since the courtyard. This raw, sweating, fucking join.
The sounds were obscene. The wet slap of skin, the ragged unison of their breathing, the rhythmic groan of the rope bed. He drove into her, his world narrowing to the feeling of her slick tightness, the sight of her tits bouncing under the choli with each impact, the raw, open expression on her face.
“Harder,” she demanded, her voice broken. “Yes, just like that. Fuck me. Fuck me, English boy.”
Her words ignited him. He hooked his hands under her knees, pushing her legs wider, bending her almost in half, opening her up to him completely. The new angle was devastating. He plunged deeper, hitting a spot that made her scream, a short, sharp sound she muffled by biting down on her own wrist.
He could feel his own end building, a coiling tightness in his gut. He was losing his rhythm, his thrusts becoming jagged, desperate. “Preethi… I’m gonna…”
“Do it,” she snarled, her own body trembling on the edge. “Come inside me. Fill me up.”
It was the filthy, perfect permission he needed. With a final, deep grind, he buried himself to the hilt and let go. Pleasure ripped through him, blinding and absolute, spurting from him in hot, pulsing jets. He cried out, a raw sound torn from a place he didn’t know he had.
The violence of his climax tipped her over the edge. Her inner muscles clamped down on him in a series of fierce, rhythmic clenches, milking him. She shook beneath him, a silent, soaring convulsion, her eyes squeezed shut, her mouth a perfect, wordless ‘O’.
He collapsed onto her, spent, his weight pressing her into the giving ropes. The smell of sex and sweat and sandalwood filled his nostrils. Her heart hammered against his chest, a frantic echo of his own slowing beat.
For a long time, there was only the sound of their struggling breath and the distant, tinny melody of the radio. He could feel the dampness of their joining leaking between them, a warm, intimate mess.
Slowly, sensation returned. The rough weave of the charpai on his knees. The cool night air drying the sweat on his back. The incredible, heavy warmth of her beneath him.
He shifted, slipping out of her. She winced, a small, sharp inhalation.
He rolled onto his side, facing her. Her eyes were open now, staring at the ceiling. The lantern light danced across her profile. The bold, summoning woman was gone. In her place was someone quiet, introspective, and utterly real.
He reached out, tracing a line from her temple to her jaw. She didn’t look at him, but she turned her face into his touch.
Outside, the first hint of grey was lightening the blackness beyond the door. A rooster crowed, far across the fields.
The night was over.