40. JAKE

A woman presses against me. Her curious touch is enough to make a man beg for more. I'm trying to figure out if I should pull her on top of me, or endure more fluttery touches for longer before I take over.

Her palm explores a path down my abdomen, my muscles tightening wherever she goes. I suck in a sharp breath, rubbing my thigh along the length of her legs. God, she fits against me perfectly.

"Coleman," her voice moans softly.

Well, alright.

I prefer Jake.

Sirworks fine, too.

My last name isn't used by anyone other than?—

Fuck, it's not any woman who has wrapped herself around me. No, I know who it is, and in my conscience, I feel condemned. Because now, in my very fucking soul, I know that my situation isn't helped by learning Patel is the one touching me. It's been made much worse.

My cock goes completely hard.

How did her hand get under my shirt? She's pulled out the hem from where it was tucked into my pants. Her palm strokes leisurely, as if counting my abs. (There are enough of them, it should take a while). Not that she is patient. She slides her hand almost all the way down, so fast that I have to rush to catch her wrist. She can't—not there?—

One stroke and I'll finish. How am I so close already? Christ, my control is in fucking pieces this week. I need to see a doctor as soon as I go home. There must be some sort of deficiency that acts up whenever she is around.

Looking down at her face, I see a wrinkle form between her eyebrows. She doesn't like the hold I have on her wrist, and is trying to pull out of it, whimpering at me. Even in her dreams, she doesn't like being told no. Her fingers are straining to—cup me?—or explore the hard ridge of my very happy cock.

There's accidental contact, and I can't stifle my groan.

Her eyes pop open, and Patel's soft dreamy gaze is a devastating punch to my gut, before it sharpens and she shrieks. "What are you doing?!"

"I should ask you," I grit out, "since I'm the one getting felt up!"

She looks down at her hand, and how it's splayed against me, gasping at the sight.

"Sorry! I didn't think it was real!" She tries to tug her hand away. I don't want to let go, but I do.

With a twisting of her body, Patel detangles herself and clamors upright on the bed. She's panting.

"Were you having a sex dream?" I ask, my voice gravel-rough from… sleep.

She pinches her nose.

"With who?" I wonder. "Who was getting you off?"

She whispered my name, but it's not enough. Confirm it.

"It wasn't—you."

What a liar. I fight the urge to bring her over my knee. To have her squirming on my lap as I convince the truth out of her with my fingers. Instead, I ruin the sheets with my fist. They wrinkle heavily under it. And then, with a lot of effort, I force a smirk on my face. "Is that so? Tell me his name. He must have been doing a great job, considering the needy sounds you were making."

"It was nobody!"

"Nobody had you one touch away from exploding? Are you always such a quick-draw?"

"When it's been a while," is what tumbles out of her mouth. A confession she immediately regrets, I can tell considering the way her nose scrunches.

"How long?" I jump to ask.

Having learnt her lesson, she stays quiet.

I repeat, "How long?" Except my voice is more of a growled rasp than it should be.

Her cheeks tinge a bit. You have to look closely to notice them getting pinker, but I'm always looking. Does she like it when I push? In that case, she has no idea how much I can push.

"Patel."

Her last name does the trick of breaking through, almost as if she's reminded of who we are to each other. Her eyes flash brightly at me. "Who knows how long? I've been busy with work. Forty-five million busy. Maybe I'm waiting until the bonus hits my account."

"Oh? So you do have a plan to take care of yourself after?" I ask casually, as if the front of my pants isn't tented. As discreetly as I can, I cover myself with a pillow because it's not going away. Especially since I've got half-formed thoughts about her getting herself off. Would there be a vibrator involved? What kind? The visualization sears my brain, bringing with it another disturbing realization.

I would give up a lot—too much—to watch that.

"Of course, there is a plan." She crosses her arms. "Did you forget? I'm on Finder now. There's interest there."

No shit, there's interest. Who wouldn't be interested? More half-formed thoughts flit through my head, like how no man from that stupid app deserves her. That it's Patel—and she can't?—

"You said my name," I tell her. "It was me you thought about. Admit it."

Her expression shifts through a few phases. Shock is obvious… some residual embarrassment?… and panic as if she's been caught. When she looks away, it kills me. She doesn't want this. I shouldn't want it either.

There's an order to how things need to be between us. It's a controlled enmity fueled by healthy competition. Not whatever this is. Trying to brush the whole thing off, I stand up. "Right. We'll blame the bed. It was—confusingly comfortable."

"Yes!" She runs her hand along the duvet. "You're completely right. These linens. So sexy. That's what I was dream-lusting over." She lets out a fake little moan, except tell my body it's not real, for I can't seem to tell the difference.

"Fuck! Don't moan right now." My eyes close. "The sound kills me."

"Kill you?"

"Always." The confession is dragged out of me.

"Ah. Your weapon is back. But I don't see any mannequins in the room."

Yes, the pillow has dropped. I attempt to cover the situation with my hand. "You know, when you call it a weapon, it does wonders for my ego."

"It shouldn't." She rolls off the bed and stands up. "I mean that it's for show. Big bang, little reward. More than it's worth."

Now those are fighting words. Is she kidding with the challenge in her tone? I stalk up to her, tilting my head down so our noses almost brush. "Don't be afraid, Patel. I'd show you how it works. Gently at first, of course."

"Is that so?" she mocks.

My voice drops as I taunt, "We'll ease you in, so you don't get overwhelmed."

I inch forward, almost stepping on her feet. She's forced to move back, more and more until her back hits a wall. My palm shoots out and cages her in from one side.

She's going on her toes, trying to intimidate me by sticking her chin up at me. My hand loosely grabs the front fabric of her top. The tension between us glitters dangerously.

"Are you brave enough?" I wonder.

"As if you could take me," she challenges.

I'm fisting my hand in her shirt, raising her up. Her eyes lower to my mouth.

Fuck, are we really?—

A brisk knock sounds on the door. A voice calls out her name.

We snap apart as if hit by an electric prod.

Patel puts her hands on her hips. "It's Manu," she gasps.

Ignore her!is the demand fighting to come out of me.

The knocking doesn't stop. Patel straightens and points in the general direction of my pants. "Get rid of that, please."

While I adjust myself, she runs to the door. Patel cracks it open and steps outside, instead of letting her cousin in. Her voice carries. There's embarrassed laughing. They both say something about falling asleep. The time is mentioned, which makes Patel squeak.

I look at the clock. We overslept. The Jago starts in twenty minutes.

Patel is back, alone, huffing, and frantic. A garment bag is thrown on the bed. "That's for you." She swipes her lengha off the hook and drapes it over her arm. "You get ready out here. I'm getting ready in the bathroom."

Before I can say anything, she barricades herself in there.

Alone, I scrub a hand over my face. I need to pull myself fucking together. This is just another memory I'll have to incinerate in my brain. Swallowing hard, I tell myself it's still possible. That I can return to work after this week and we can function like we used to. That I won't spend every day staring, tortured by these moments.

Inside the bag is a long-sleeved tunic, trousers, and a scarf meant to be draped over across the chest. It's a kurta pajama, I recall from my research. The tunic and trousers are solid navy, but the loose cloth is made of paisley patterned silk. It reminds me of battle, for the way it's hung across the shoulder is like a breast-plate, but the fabric feels like royalty.

Undressing quickly, I try it on.

The top is a bit snug across the chest, so my wide shoulders stretch the fabric taut. Other than that, the length and arms hit exactly where they should.

When Patel first messaged me, agreeing to bring me as her date, there wasn't enough time to get traditional Indian clothes for the wedding. I knew I'd stick out like a sore thumb without them, and I hated the thought of not being prepared.

But now I have this.

At least for tonight, I look like I belong next to her.

Her phone starts buzzing on the side table. Someone is trying to reach her.

"Your phone is going off," I shout.

"Don't look," she yells back, through the closed bathroom door.

"Why would I look? It's probably your sister."

"Or—it could be my Finder date. The one I was dreaming of. Not you."

My eyes narrow. So, we're back at that, I see. I pretend my fingers don't curl, and flames that definitely aren't jealousy don't ignite in my gut. That I'm not trying to crane my head to read her phone screen.

She walks out of the bathroom, not yet dressed. She's here to grab her phone, except mid-step after grabbing it, she glances at me and drops it to the ground.

Her mouth parts as she takes me in.

I smirk, absolutely fucking delighted. "You like this outfit on me, don't you?"

"No, I don't."

I'd believe her if she didn't immediately run back into the bathroom. Looking down, I examine myself. Whoever her cousin's husband is, I'm going to find him tonight so I can buy this from him. And so I can ask for the shop where he bought it.

They have a lifelong customer.

Whatever it takes to keep her looking at me like that.

Whatever keeps Patel on her toes, is what I mean.

Because it's a tactical advantage.

My smug pride lasts until she comes out.

Her outfit was confidently loud on the hanger, but on her it sears the senses. I'm holding my breath, lost at where to look. If I get drowned by the oranges, I'll think how nicely they set off her golden-brown skin. If I look at the dangling jewels, I'll imagine her shining under the dark sky, pulling attention from the stars no matter how much they try to compete. There's also a certain transparency to the arms, and it's not even indecent, but I can't stop staring and thinking of more ridiculous star metaphors.

When she faces me, my mind blanks.

Her eyelids are shimmery.

I'm at a loss for words. If anything, I'm reduced to a rudely put question that flicks through my head.

How can you do this to me?

I should tell her she looks…

She looks…

Enchanting.

Thankfully, Patel is too bothered by how late we are running, that she doesn't notice me gaping at her like I've got a fucking head injury.

"Let's go!" she yells, impatiently rushing out the door.