**Author’s Note: I do indeed live although you would never know if you checked when the last time I update my story. Terribly, terribly sorry. Anyways I have another, er, “short story” for you. Except it’s not really, well, short. It’s over twenty pages on my processor. Yes that’s write, this story is about as long as two chapters. Yay me? No? Well, shoot. Anyways, I’m not sure people will like this one. It’s different, but still as lustful as all the others. I really, really hope you like it, if you don’t, I may cry. Lol, no I won’t, I’ll frown and possibly curse. Okay so I am exhausted and I hope you read, review and enjoy!**

Reckless

          Vivaldi blared out of the car speakers as I aimlessly drove around the city in my electric blue Volkswagen Beetle.  It was one thirty in the morning. People were leaving parties to go home or to go to other parties. Drunks were wandering out of bars utterly inebriated and hookers were on every corner soliciting their goods, themselves. And of course, somewhere out there, someone was getting mugged. Toronto was considered a good, safe city, but it still had its vices.

          Me, I had no where to go and energy to burn, energy that was fueled by anger and frustration. Anger at fate, God, other spiritual deities, and of course, my parents. Frustration at my own ineptitude when it came to controlling my life. So why Vivaldi’s Four Seasons instead of some of the hard-core rock songs I normally listened to when I was spitting mad? Why, that’s just it right there. I wasn’t spitting mad. I had been at first. I railed and raved at my parents. I broke down and cried, sobbing inconsolably. Did their resolve weaken? No. They were just, “There, there,” pat, pat. It won’t be as bad as you think.

          You see, they had magnanimously decided to have my marriage arranged. Arranged! No, I’m not a member of the extremely wealthy who see an arranged marriage as a means to a lucrative business merger. I’m not some poor girl in Asia who has no rights or say in this matter, though I am Indian, Sikh to be exact. No, don’t give me that oh-if-she’s-brown-shouldn’t-she-be-resigned-to-the-fact-she’d-be-forced-into-an-arranged-marriage look! I was born in Canada. Believe me, it makes all the difference.

          I am just Sonya Kaur. I grew up like a normal Canadian girl, believing that I would fall in love and marry that man. When I was four years old, I used to imagine myself in a pretty, frilly pink gown and the perfect-looking, flaxen-haired, blue-eyed Prince Charming would ride up on a white steed. We’d fall in love, get married and happily ride off in the sunset.

I know, I know, I cringe, too, while admitting this, but hey, I was four years old and obviously watching too many Disney movies. However, note that never in this fantasy of mine did my parents and King and Queen Charming get together over tea and decide their offspring would be perfectly suited for marriage to each other.

          This meeting never occurred in grade five while I daydreamed about Brian, from the Backstreet Boys, or Richard, a cute boy in my class who was short, but really funny. It never occurred to me while I mooned over Justin Timberlake (although I do confess I did regress back to the blonde hair and blue eyes bit).

          It never entered my thoughts during high school while I was fixated with Jacob Underwood from Otown. However, I had been too busy defending my crush and insisting that his dreadlocks made him look sexier, not less. And when reading a steamy romance novel about some tall, dark, seductively rakish man, I thought, Good Lord, what I would give to have him chained to my bed for just one night… maybe a week. I definitely never thought, Oh please, let Mummy and Daddy meet his parents and set us up!

          Arranged marriage just never came into play during my delusions of grandeur. Sure, I wasn’t allowed to date, which probably was why at twenty-six years old I was still single and a virgin. Yes, a twenty-six year old virgin! Not that I actually followed that no dating rule. I just went out with my “friends” which was actually just one friend, a male friend.

          However, I didn’t sleep with anyone. Remember, I am Canadian, but my parents grew up in India, came here and got an arranged marriage to each other. And yes, maybe it worked out for them, but my soon-to-be husband had just moved from India to here. Whereas here, my parents were considered by some of my friends as strict-Nazi-parents, in India, their parenting was considered loose and lenient. That meant my soon-to-be would be even stricter. Not to mention if he ever found out that I had dated… two words: bride burning.

          Anyway, the point I was trying to get across earlier that though I was Canadian—mind, body and soul—I still was forced to live by Indian traditions and conventions. One of the foremost would be death before family dishonour. So therefore when my parents told me that I was too old and had taken too long to find a husband for myself, so they had taken the liberty of already arranging my marriage with some nice Indian guy, I did not say, “To Hell with that! I’m not marrying some immigrant stranger!”

          No, I simply looked at them dumbfounded, a teacup frozen halfway to my lips and asked them if it was a joke. See twenty-six and single in India is like being eighty-nine unmarried and still a virgin in Canada. Unbelievable and very pathetic. (My sincerest apologies go out all Canadian, eighty-nine year old virginal spinsters.)

          So my parents gave me pitying looks. They assured me they weren’t kidding and that when I got older, I would thank them for it. They insisted that what they did, they had done with the “best of intentions”. Those three words were the most damning in the English language because as soon as those words came out, you know something bad is going to happen.

          Their words were overly bright and happy as they rushed to inform me how handsome he was and how smart. He had been married, but it didn’t work out (naturally it was the woman who was to blame for the break up of the marriage) and now he was single. He had gone to university and gotten two degrees. One was to practice medicine. An Indian doctor! Instead of caustically commenting on how doctors in India ended up being taxi-drivers here because of Canada’s high, rigid standards, I remained mute, still trying to absorb this shocking news.

          Oh and his second degree was in business, he had an MBA. He was a business mogul and had businesses in India, all over Europe and was rapidly gaining eminence in North America. Why, a doctor and a businessman! Sonya, you couldn’t even dream of ensnaring such a prized catch! Thank you Mum for the vote of confidence. Besides, if he was so great and handsome, why did he need an arranged marriage?

          Still I didn’t voice this thought. I slowly put my teacup on the table and turned to confront my parent’s eager faces. In a calm, firm voice, I said, “No. I don’t want an arranged marriage. I’m sorry, but I won’t marry a complete stranger.”

          Their faces fell and the happy chatter died an instant, painful death. Mum gaped at me. I could see her mind reeling. How could I not see what a great catch this was? She probably wondered. I’m sure he was a great catch, but it didn’t matter because I wasn’t fishing. My father took off his glasses and cleaned the lenses with his shirt. He always did this right before he was about to say something I wasn’t going to like.

          “Well, beta,” which was the equivalent of sweetheart in English, but the direct translation was child, “we’ve already agreed on your behalf. Think of the bhasti we would have to endure if we backed out for no good reason.” Bhasti pretty much meant shame or dishonour… so you see it all went back to that.

          “No good reason!” I spat out. “My wishes for my own future aren’t good enough reasons? I can’t believe you went ahead with this without even consulting me!”

          “Beta, you were in Europe,” my mum appealed. “We couldn’t discuss something like this over the phone and besides, that phone company is practically stealing money from us when they charge us with such exorbitant prices for simple long-distance calls! Why I could buy a new sari for the amount they charged me for the calls I made to your Auntie Preeti and I don’t even like talking to her.”

          I had been in Europe with a bunch of my girl friends for the past few months. We had had a blast. We went out every night, flirted with plenty of guys, poked fun at the English royal guards and their hats, visited castles and museums and of course, flirted with hundreds of guys. We had returned only yesterday afternoon. I had slept in until late this afternoon and had awoken to realize I was apparently getting married soon to a man I’d never met.

          “It doesn’t matter now. I can’t go through with this,” I told them. “I won’t marry him.”

          There was a hard silence and then my father delivered the blow. “You don’t have a choice in the matter, beta.”

          I gawked at him. “No choice? Of course I do and it’s no!”

          He wiped his glasses some more. “If you want to stay a part of this family, you’ll do what you are told.”

          Stay a part of the family. He was going to disown me if I didn’t marry this man. I stared at his severe, unyielding features in silence. This was not right! It was not fair. I glared back at him as my temper threatened to explode. How can a supposedly loving father turn his back on his only daughter and deliver this ultimatum?

          Quite obviously he was not the loving father I had assumed him to be for he would not capitulate. I turned to my mother in dire need, but she looked away. She had been raised in India, remember. A good wife does not argue with her husband. Yes, that was completely bullshit. My parents argued over stupid things all the time. My mother was not arguing on my behalf because she agreed with my father.

          I was all set to explode when my cousin, Simirin, who had been sitting so quietly in the corner of the room that I had forgotten she was there, intervened. “Okay, everyone, calm down, let’s not be unreasonable.” Finally an ally, I thought. At least someone else could see how absurd all of this was. Simirin could understand where I was coming from.

She must have realized that had she not married the love of her life at the early age of twenty-two, she also could have been subjected to a doom-laden life married to some drunken foreigner who would probably faint when he realized that his perfect little Indian wife didn’t know how to cook, loved dancing at clubs and drank alcohol, to boot. That was another Indian custom: Husbands could be drunkards, but their pure, angelic, little wives didn’t dare take a sip.

          “Now, listen Sonya, I know you think this is a crazy idea and that we are all off our rockers for even suggesting it, but I really, really think that this will work,” Simirin was saying.

          I snapped out of my stupor and stared at the girl. She had been my best friend ever since we were in diapers. She was more like a sister to me than a cousin. When I kissed my first boy, she was the first to be told. She was the one who told me about sex. (Indian people don’t talk about sex with their children. It is never brought up. It doesn’t exist to them, unless in gossip whereby it is permitted to talk about as long as you mention the woman involved is shameless.)

          But back to the point, my best friend, cousin, alleged sister had just betrayed me. She might as well have stabbed me in the back. She was one of them! The ramifications struck me like a blow in the heart. It occurred to me that I had no ally. Without Simirin’s support, I was doomed before I had even known what was going on.

          When all hope is gone… become enraged. It doesn’t help the outcome much, but you feel a lot better.

I glowered at everyone, shouted out the depths of my pain as everyone I knew had turned their back to me and, well, railed at fate some more. I didn’t care if my words were hurtful for they had become a united front… battling me. I got tired of hearing their excuses, their assurances that they only wanted me happy. Couldn’t they see my independence and freedom made me happy?

          Abruptly, I stopped shouting and picked up my keys. Everyone in the room tensed and worry flitted in their eyes. Where did I think I was going? They asked and my reply was simply, out. Simirin, who knew me well, sometimes even better than I knew myself, raced after me.

          “Sonya, wait!” She cried. “Where are you going? What are you going to do?”

          I didn’t reply and when I cranked up the speakers to play Vivaldi instead of Linkin Park or Puddle of Mudd, her eyes widened. It didn’t occur to me then why she had reacted that way, and I didn’t care. She tried to stop me one more time until I fixed her with a melting glare. “Simirin, if you weren’t six months pregnant with my niece or nephew, I would throttle you right now or at least tackle you down to the ground and make you eat dirt. As it is, I’m not going to do either. You can thank your unborn child for that. Now, if you will kindly excuse me, I’m leaving.”

          And that brings us back to where I am. Right now, when I am finally beginning to comprehend her reaction to Vivaldi, because I am beginning to notice now what she noticed then. I was mad, but like I said, not spitting mad. Really, there is a significant difference. I had given up on hope. I knew that I would, in the end, relent and end up marrying an old man who had probably burned all his previous wives (there could be more than one) in haystacks in India and probably felt the number of goats, cows and chickens he owned were signs of his prosperity. He probably expected me to come with a dowry of three cows, a pig and a flock of sheep… all I had were goldfishes and only two.

Okay, even I will admit the previous comment is probably a gross exaggeration… or at least, I hope it is. Alright, so maybe I still retain some hope, but any hope of getting out of this fiasco still single had died. People who had lost hope in a situation were dangerous because now that they had lost hope, they didn’t give a damn about the repercussions of their actions. In laymen terms… it made them reckless.

          Yes, reckless definitely described how I felt. Wild, rash, unruly and impetuous were also apt when it came to how I was feeling, but then, those words were all synonymous with reckless. I felt like I would dare to do anything, that I could do anything.

          Relax, I didn’t plan on scaling the C.N. Tower only to go bungee jumping off of it nor did I plan on attempting to swim across Lake Ontario, naked. (I mean, honestly, it’s so murky and only God knows what people throw in there!) I simply drove around with certain energy, a buzz that was there, just beneath the surface biding time until the right moment had come to throw caution to the wind all together. I would be a completely wild woman, but until that moment, I drove. Okay, well I stopped for more gas and then drove.

          Perhaps I could convince the guy that he didn’t want me. What was his name? Oh lord, I realized that I didn’t know his name! That set me off on thinking of things that I could do to turn him away without being obvious about it with my parents. I contemplated it for awhile. I came with three solutions.

          I could pull him aside and quietly inform him that I was a lesbian. I mean, I don’t think he would willingly marry a lesbian. Indian men had egos just like any other men. Or perhaps he would marry me just so my supposed dowry would increase his livestock.  Of course, he would follow that with throwing me into Lake Ontario and claiming it was an ‘accident’. He’d probably say I ‘slipped’ into the water. Just like his ex-wives ‘accidentally’ fell into burning piles of hay or ‘slipped’ down the stairs.

          Maybe if I claimed I had AIDS or something along that line. No, that wouldn’t work. My parents would just force me to take a blood test and then the results would come back negative and boy, would I hear about it until my ears started ringing then.

          Perhaps I should just go about this the normal way, the way he probably got rid of his ex-wives. I should probably just kill him. Unfortunately, Canada kind of looked down on burning spouses in haystacks, so I would have to find another method. Maybe I could feed him manioc. It was a type of fish, sort of like the blowfish. It was an excellent source of cyanide and had to be prepared properly in order for one to eat and not croak. I seriously considered the idea, but then I figured my parents would figure out it was me, not to mention the authorities.

          What if I wasn’t a virgin? No, that one was iffy because I didn’t know who I was going to marry. My soon-to-be might throw a fit and decide he was not going to be saddled with used goods or he could be completely down-to-earth and accept it pragmatically. Something deep inside of me cried out and brought to mind that I was a virgin.

          Silly of me to be startled, I mean, it’s not like I hadn’t known this. However, I now realized all the years that I went through the ridicule and embarrassment of still being a virgin had all been for naught. Yes, yes, technically, being a virgin was supposed to be virtuous, but get real. In this day and age, a twenty year old virgin raised eyebrows and I was twenty-six. People automatically assumed that either something was very wrong with the virgin or that said virgin was soon planning to join a convent or priesthood.

          People assumed you were either an ignorant sexual leper or decided to treat you like a thirteen year old and try to protect your virgin ears. Come to think of it, considering all those pre-teen mothers that appeared on daytime talk shows, even thirteen year olds got more action than I did. Just for the record, just because one decides to wait until marriage to have sex, that doesn’t mean that they don’t get horny like everyone else. However, unable to get well and truly laid, it definitely adds up into a lot of pent up sexual frustration.

          All this trouble and for what? To give it all up to a stranger who didn’t know the meaning of foreplay? God help me… oh wait, I forgot, God had jumped on the band-wagon and abandoned me with everyone else. I frowned and realized just how much I resented having to give my virginity to someone who would expect it and not realize what a gift it was. That energy that I had mentioned early had started burning restlessly.

          I was being forced into marriage. Wasn’t that bad enough without having to spill my virgin’s blood as some sort sacrificial gift to a man who not only did I not know, but at this current moment, hated with a passion? With something almost like an audible snap, it became clear to me what I was going to do. Like Hell I was going into this marriage a virgin. I was going to commit the ultimate Indian sin: Go to a club/bar and pick up a man for a casual fuck.

          … Okay, so that wasn’t the ultimate sin, but admit it, the idea sounded more exciting and wild when worded that way.

          Blinking out of the stupor that had settled on me since I left my home, I looked up at the intersection to find out where I was. I smiled for the first time, since I had heard the news, when I realized how close I was to my favourite nightclub, Fluid Lounge.

It was a nightclub affiliated with a new, expanding hotel chain that was doing relatively good. Conrad Hotels were popping up everywhere after the takeover of the Conrad London Hotel. The names changed depending on the destination. For instance, this hotel was called the Conrad Toronto Hotel, get the picture?

It didn’t matter where the hotel was, the nightclubs were always top-notch. I went there all the time with friends or occasionally even by myself. I knew some of the staff members, so I felt perfectly at home there. Plus, they wouldn’t close until three. Seeing as it was now nearly two o clock, that gave me an hour.

          I arrived as most of the crush was leaving. I first saw the bouncer who never made me wait in a line. Mitchell O’Leary’s lips quirked in a smile at the sight of me and he made a tsk tsk sound when he regarded my clothes. “Now, sugar, if you were anyone else I’d send you one your way.”

          I now recalled that I was still dressed in black jeans, a plain black cotton t-shirt, and sneakers. My almost black hair with fading indigo blue streaks was pulled in a messy ponytail and I was sans makeup. “Oh… yeah,” I murmured, distractedly.

          Mitchell chuckled, his green eyes gleaming. “You are just lucky it’s you and I love you and you look like hell.”

          I shot him a wry look. “You really know how to lift a girl’s spirit, you know that, Mitch?”

          “Hush, honey, just go inside and tell them ol’ Mitch is giving you the drink that you so desperately need on the house.”

          I put my hand on his broad shoulder and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “My hero,” I declared and waltzed into the club.

          I followed Mitch’s directions and went straight to the bar, ignoring the feelings of eyes on my back. I knew I wasn’t dressed for a nightclub. I also didn’t care. I hopped up on one of the silver cushioned barstools that stood before the metallic looking bar. There were still plenty of people, most of them quite thoroughly drunk, but hardly the amount of people there would have been earlier.

          “What will it be?” the bartender asked.

          I considered it. “A Vodka Gimlet.”

          The bartender nodded and gave me my drink. I drank without a care that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I drank this one, another and was nursing my third when a shadow fell across me. I looked up to see some blond Adonis with bright, shining blue eyes that spoke of quite a few drinks. “Wanna dance, pretty lady?”

          I considered it for a moment, then drained my glass and hopped off my stool, only a bit unsteadily. He gave a slow grin that could wreak havoc on a girl’s nerves. He reminded me of a seven year old boy who once asked me to dance at a wedding or something like that. However, at that age, we thought dancing was holding hands while spinning wildly on the dance floor.

          When we got on the dance floor, there was nothing boyish to his moves. Or mine come to think about it. We both automatically adjusted our movements to the rhythm of the upbeat, hot music. Our bodies brushed once and then twice as he gauged how close I would allow him to get. It was nice to know even while drunk, he was thoughtful enough to consider my wishes. He didn’t plaster his body to mine, well, not until he subtly checked to see if I had any problems with it. Safe to say, I didn’t.

          Our hips moved against each others. Our bodies rubbed against the other. His hands loosely held my hips while mine roamed all over him. From the ever-present grin on his face, I knew he didn’t mind. His hips ground against mine for a few beats of music before they moved away and my eyes widened. It became quite obvious that he really didn’t mind as parts of his lower body were awakening. His eyes were still friendly instead of lustful.

          I still felt safe dancing with him. After all, I did plan to lose my virginity. It would not be such a hardship to lose it with a guy whose body was built like Brad Pitt’s in Troy with a boyish smile that could give Orlando Bloom a run for his money. So I quirked my eyebrow and pointedly looked down.

          He laughed and brushed a soft kiss, as innocent as the one I gave Mitch, across my cheek. “Sorry, pretty lady, I like the way you dance, but I have a boyfriend.”

          “Lucky him,” I replied, not really disappointed.

          We continued to dance for a few more songs and though it was strictly platonic between the two of us, I knew it probably looked hot and heavy for onlookers. There were quite a few, most of them leering. Eventually, he pulled away as his friends motioned him it was time to go. Before leaving, he grabbed my hand, kissed it and thanked me for the dance. I sighed. The good ones were always gay or taken; in this case, gay and taken.

          Some of the leering guys were approaching and I decided that I would rather drink than dance with them so I turned to go to the bar. I didn’t get very far seeing as with my first step I bumped into something warm, breathing and solid; a male chest. I rubbed my nose and looked up only to realize I recognized this male. It was Arman.

          One could hardly forget Arman. He was six-feet-something with a built (drool-worthy) body that was almost always covered in a conservative dress shirt and black dress pants. He always looked like he had come from his office, or something. His hair was jet black and stood up in spiky disarray. His features were rugged and slightly angular, his skin was smooth and tanned, but it was his eyes that took breaths away. His deep pools of obsidian added an intensity to him that could not be explained but made people sit up and notice him.

          He was another frequent guest at Fluid Lounge. I had seen him many times before and eventually met him as he became good friends with some of my friends. He was years older than me, maybe late-twenties or early-thirties. We didn’t get along much. He was too, how shall I put this, stoic, conventional, serious? I liked coming to this club to relax and well, like I had been doing moments ago, dance with strangers. I saw him often enough, but he never danced and he never drank. He just walked around and mingled.

          He would also come to scold me. He once came up to me after getting a bouncer to kick out a guy I had previously dancing with when said guy began to bother me. He stated that if I didn’t intend to go home and fuck the man, that I shouldn’t have teased him. That obviously was one of the reasons I did not quite love him as much as everyone else seemed to.

Another time, he decided I was too drunk and told the bartenders not to give me anything more to drink. And even though I had on my own realized I was a bit too tipsy and mentally promised not to drink more, it was quite another thing to have him insure that I couldn’t drink more. I mean, really, who was he to decide that I couldn’t have more?

          “Hello, Arman, why the hell are you here?” See, I could still be civil to him even though I didn’t particularly like him.

          He smiled slightly, but it didn’t reach the jet orbs that were his eyes. They were so dark; it was like drowning in a pool of nothing. Yet as I looked at him now, he looked sort of pissed off. “I’m here to dance, Sonya” he said in a deceptively light tone.

          “Dance? You don’t dance.”

          He looked irritated with me. “I’m here now to dance, though aren’t I?”

          “Dance,” I repeated in an astonished voice and then added, “With me?” I know, I know, but I was quite drunk and Arman… dancing… that was a big thing. It wasn’t my fault if it took me awhile to grasp that.

          A slow smile dawn on his features and this one reached his eyes. “Definitely with you”

          In drunken confusion, I asked, “Why me?”

          He must have taken that the wrong way because the smile faded and he stepped back. “If you rather dance with someone else…”

          “No!” I cried, thinking about the leering men that were circling us like jackals waiting for the jaguar to lose interest in the prey so they could descend on the remains. “No, I accept your offer to dance,” I said and beamed to show him I meant it. I knew he didn’t offer to dance, more like ordered it, but I would dance with the devil himself if he would fend off the other men.

          His smile returned. His arms went around me and he drew my hips to his own. I blinked and realized that the music had shifted, as it tended to a bit before closing, to slower, sultry songs. He began to move sensually to the rhythm and I remained pliable in his arms, moving with him, against him.

          His arms tightened ever so slightly, bringing us closer. I swallowed as suddenly my mouth went desert dry. His head was lowered and every so often lips would brush against my neck, so lightly I shivered every time. This was completely different from dancing with my homosexual blond Adonis. We weren’t plastered against each other, the moves weren’t blatantly sexual, yet this was so much more subtly erotic that it made my breath catch. Spanish men really did know how to dance.

          His head lifted so he could see my face and I could see a spark of amusement in his eyes. “Who says I’m Spanish?”

          It took a second for me to realize that he had not read my mind and that I hadn’t noticed I spoke aloud. “You call me querida,” I said with probably a horrible accent.

          He grinned. “That means ‘wanted’. I call you querido.”

          “What does that mean?”

          His grin widened and his head lowered again. I realized he wasn’t intending to tell me. I was about to insist he tell me, but his lips returned to my neck and I shivered. However, instead of a slight brush, his lips remained in that soft spot, sucking, nibbling and licking. This time I shuddered at the titillating waves of heat that rippled from where his mouth met my skin and coursed through my entire body.

          “Oh,” I gasped.

          This was only some of the havoc dancing with him was causing on my nerves. As we moved, oblivious to the music and only intent on one another, his chest brushed against my breasts which tingled and became sensitive to the point they ached for the slightest contact. However, it was his hips, softly grinding against mine, which caused the heat to pool in my loins as it ached and pulsed to be touched, by his hands, by his mouth, by his member.

          His lips bit softly into my neck and I moaned quietly, “Oh God.”

          “No, querido,” he whispered hotly in my ear. “It’s Arman, not God, though I am flattered.”

          My hands threaded through his hair and pulled his mouth against mine. It was hardly, by any means, a chaste, innocent kiss. The kiss was highly wicked and highly erotic, and yet it was only a kiss. It was only his hot, rough tongue slipping past my parted lips for a taste. Our hips swayed in an indistinct imitation of a more primal dance while our tongues outright imitated it.

          I gasped as he pulled away and broke the lascivious kiss. A small, dire voice cried out in my head. What was I doing? This was far more than just an innocent dance with Arman. It was foreplay! The worried, scandalized voice shrieked. Hmm… so maybe part of me was in touch with my inner Indian after all. But I tossed my inner Indian into a burning haystack. I was a wild woman tonight looking for nothing more than a roll in the hay… preferably hay that was not burning.

          However, I didn’t need to cool off the moment, even if my constitution was strong enough to do so. It was Arman who backed off. I nearly groaned as his lips left mine to place light, butterfly kisses across my face. It hadn’t even occurred to me that the song had changed, but it didn’t matter because we were moving to our own music, our own heart beats, as a carnal cloud of fog settled around us, casting everything else out to oblivion and beyond.

It wasn’t until he lowered his mouth by my ear and started singing the words to the song I did not recognize, that some of the fog dissipated. His heated breath tickled my ears which caused me to giggle and squirm against him, closer to him of course. Without realizing, I forgot about my predicament and simply enjoyed the lighthearted moment.

          It was only during a second kiss, even hotter than the one before it did the fog around my brain dispelled long enough for me to hear the announcement that the club was closing. I looked up at Arman to find him staring at me with an enigmatic smile. It was slightly disconcerting, but how was I to know he found looking at me, with my disheveled hair, dazed eyes and lips slightly swollen from kissing, arousing.

          “Come with me,” he asked.

          I didn’t even hesitate. I nodded and followed him out the door that led inside the hotel. As we crossed the lobbies to the elevator doors, someone began to hail us over, but was stopped by one look from Arman. Wasn’t that interesting? As the doors closed, he pulled me in for another kiss. Nervous and eager, I put everything I had into the kiss, but then the elevator dinged and the doors slid open again to the lobby as we separated.

          Two elderly women stepped into the elevator, in front of us and waited as the elevator made its ascent. It moved so slowly it was difficult not to stop, run out and take the stairs. However, the ladies were facing forward; not looking at us and Arman took the advantage to subtly slide his caressing hands up underneath my shirt. I stifled my gasp.

          His hands made slow circles on my abdomen and slowly rose until they were gently kneading my breasts. I struggled desperately not to moan and to control my breathing. I was very nearly panting due to his clever ministrations. Just when I thought I couldn’t take anymore, his hands retreated and I wanted to cry out at the loss.

          However, I was quickly distracted as I felt his hands undo the button on my jeans and slowly, silently pull down my zipper. His hands slid in and all that separated him and the core of my body was a white scrap of lace called panties. His fingers pushed the lace aside and plunged a finger inside of me. This time, I gasped aloud, but either it was that or scream. Oh God, it was the slowest elevator in all of history!

          It felt so right, so deliciously good, but then the two elderly ladies were only a foot away happily chattering about how the weather affected arthritis and helpful arthritis creams. That was so wrong. His finger began to move in slow, long strokes and I bit my bottom lip to keep from crying out. Lord, what would happen if the looked back, just slightly turned their heads? As their floor approached, Arman withdrew his fingers and buttoned and zipped up my jeans.

          “Come on, Maybel,” one of the elderly ladies said as the doors opened, “let’s leave these two kids alone so they can get down and dirty.” Both Arman and I froze as the two ladies left, cackling.

          “That is so wrong,” I whispered. “She said down and dirty.”

          Arman laughed. “Yet that is exactly what we are going to do.”

          With that said, he turned me into his arms as the doors once again slid shut and pushed me up against the wall. His hands ran up and down my body leaving trails of fire wherever his hands touched. His hardness settled between my legs, pressing against the place that was afire from his touch. “Please, Arman, please!”

          His mouth crushed against mine in a hard, fierce kiss that bespoke of his unrelenting desire. “Soon, querido, very soon,” he breathed into my mouth.

          The elevator halted at the top floor, but the doors did not slide open. Arman cursed and pulled out a card from a pocket in his pants and slipped it into a discreet slot. The doors automatically slid open as he entered. I was distracted the instant I glanced in. It was large, spacious and obviously expensively decorated. The room was elegant, yet equipped with sleek, dark furniture that was masculine. It was the perfect accommodation for a man, for Arman.

          I looked at him with curious eyes. “You live here?”

          “When I am staying in Toronto, yes, I stay here. I have ties with some of the staff and they arrange for me to have this room,” he replied easily.

          I glanced around the room, at the fireplace, at the incredible view the large, expansive windows offered. “Those are some ties.”

          And just like that, wild woman was no more. I didn’t know this man. Giving my virginity to him would be just like giving it to a stranger, to my soon-to-be husband. I was now quite nervous. I had come up here with him giving him every indication that I wanted him. Now I was here alone with him and I almost wanted to back out. What if he wouldn’t let me back out? I could hardly overpower him.

          As these thoughts flashed through my mind, he stood there watching me, his gaze was calculating. He walked away then, deeper inside the suite, to a side bar. “Do you want a drink?” he asked. “I used to be a bartender a long time ago.”

          I entered the suite instead of standing in the threshold and perched down on a couch. “I’ll drink anything, thank you. How long ago?”

          He started mixing a drink. “When I was in university, I worked part-time at a nightclub.”

          I nodded. “How old are you anyway?”

          “I’m thirty-three years old and you?”

          “Twenty-six.”

          He poured in a drink for himself and handed a cocktail to me as he sat down next to me on the black leather couch. I thanked him again and took a sip. “No need to thank me,” he insisted. “I’m just giving you an orgasm.”

          I choked. “A what?”

          He smiled benignly. “Orgasm, it’s the name of the drink. Like I said, you don’t need to thank me; I took great pleasure out of giving you the Orgasm. Do you like it?”

          I cleared my throat. “Ahem, yes. It’s quite good.”

          “I know,” he grinned. “I’m really quite good when it comes to giving Orgasms.”

I could feel my face aflame. I knew it was silly of me to blush, but I couldn’t help it. For lack of anything else to do, I picked up the glass and drained it in large gulps. He raised an eyebrow and drained his too.

          “Don’t worry,” he said as he picked up the glasses and refilled them at the sidebar. “I’m sure those are only the first of Orgasms for this evening.”

          “Uh, yes.” I know, aren’t I just the brilliant, witty conversationalist?

          He came back and sat closer than before. I could feel the heat from his body. It was tempting, even as it was frightening. I hated myself for playing the part of a skittish virgin, but I could hardly change the fact that I was.

          “What no more questions about me?” he asked, lightly.

          I looked up at him. He wasn’t accusing or even put off. “I was curious. We don’t know each other very well.”

          “And now your curiosity is sated?” he asked. It wasn’t, but before I could ask, he continued, “I’m curious too.”

          Somehow, I was glad that he wanted to know me more, that he didn’t just want me to strip, lay back and then leave when it was all done. “What do you want to know?”

          “What’s wrong?” he asked, with eyes serious and utterly focused on me. It was slightly scary. It felt as if he could look into my eyes and know all my secrets, my dark desires and my every thought. He knew something was wrong, but I could hardly tell him.

          “Nothing, everything is fine,” I lied and he knew it, too. He looked disappointed that I didn’t divulge it all to him. Still, he smiled brightly, though it never reached his eyes. Even now, I don’t know why I told him, but I did. I told him everything, more than he ever probably wanted to know. By the time I was done, I was lying back against him with his arms wrapped around me. He laid his cheek down on the top of my head and listened as I poured all my anger, frustration, worry out. And when I was done, I was only feeling one thing. Reckless. I was wild woman, hear me roar!

          “Doesn’t it feel better to get that all out into the open, querido?” he asked with a kiss on my head. I still couldn’t believe I told him everything, I told him all about my crushes and livestock dowry and even my plan to lose my virginity. All because I didn’t like it when his smiles didn’t reach his eyes.

          I turned around in his arms to face him. My hands rested on his chest. Every so often, the muscle would flex and I would smile. A man was after all a man. “I do feel better, although I know I could feel even better.”

          His eyes searched mine. “What can I do to make you feel even better?”
          My eyes lit up with glinting amusement. “Well, you could give me another orgasm.”

          He froze in the act of brushing a wayward strand of my hair behind my ear. In a carefully, neutral voice, he asked, “You want another drink?”

          I grinned and began unbuttoning his shirt. “Nope.”

          A spark of heat flared in his eyes, but it was tamped down quickly. Still in that neutral voice, he asked, “Is this because you don’t want to give your, um, virginity to your future husband?”

          I tugged the shirt off and began dropping kiss all over his chest. Oh what a chest it was! Clearly, Arman worked out often, if not everyday. I could also tell by the tension that had suddenly wracked his body that he was holding himself in control until he knew if I really wanted to do this. I loved that control and knew I would love breaking it all the more.

          I slowly kissed my way up his neck, along the line of his jaw and then cupped his face in both hands. “I would have wanted this if I was getting married or not. Besides, I’m not married yet, am I? And I really, really want this. I want you.”

          I pressed my mouth against him and coaxed him into responding. As I delved further into his mouth, deepening the kiss, I could feel a shudder wrack through his control, but still he pulled away, eventually. “Sonya, wait,” he groaned. “Maybe we should talk.”

          I laughed and kissed him while laughing. I moved so that I was straddling him on the couch. I loved running my hands over his chest, over his shoulders and over his unshaven cheeks. Yet even as our tongues dueled, I knew his control hadn’t quite cracked yet. Ending the kiss, I pushed him back into the cushions of the seat.

          Running a finger down his chest, I asked, “It seems unfair that you are half-naked and I am still fully dressed, don’t you think?”

          “I—uh,” was all that Arman managed to get out.

          I smiled innocently as I pulled my top over my head. I reached behind me and then smiled as I put my hands on my lap. “I’m sorry. I can’t get my bra unhooked. Could you please do it for me?”

          In all those stories I read, it was always the guy seducing the scared virgin. Let me tell you, I liked seducing him so much more. Even if I was still uncertain about the things to come. Arman was staring at my breasts, not leering. It was a very appreciative stare. He raised his hands and cupped my breasts. His thumbs brushed against my already puckered nipple and I closed my eyes in pleasure.

          “Are you sure?” he asked in a husky whisper.

          I opened my eyes and kissed him softly on the lips. As I did this, I unbuckled his belt and slid it out of the loops to throw somewhere behind me with out shirts. “What do you think?”

          His thumbs brushed over me again and then slid around to deftly unclasp the bra. It fell to the floor. “I can’t think, not right now.”

          “Good,” I whispered back and then moaned as his lips came down hungrily on my breasts. His lips, his tongue and oh God, his teeth tortured one breast and then the other. I gasped for air and then used the air to beg him to stop and then begged him to never, ever stop. He only raised his mouth when he felt my hands start tugging on his pants. I wanted him inside of me now.

          “Soon,” he promised.

          “Not soon enough!”

          He pulled my hands up and placed them around his neck. His lips then melded against mine for a scorching kiss. His hands ran down my back to my bottom and flexed his hands. Holding me to him, he thrust. The layers of clothes didn’t diminish anything.

          “Oh God, Arman, now!” I cried out.

          He stood up then, taking me with him. I wrapped my legs around his waist and dropped kisses on his face as he walked into his bedroom. He lay me down in the middle of his king-size bed and stood next to it as he unbuttoned his pants. They dropped to the floor and were followed by his navy blue boxers. He was so large and so very hard. I rolled on my side and touched it.

          Arman inhaled sharply and I looked up, questioning. “Keep touching it, Sonya,” he said roughly.

          I wrapped my hand around him and stroked the length of him. He was so hot; it was like holding a burning steel rod covered in silky skin. I lowered my head and kissed him there. He reacted instantly. “That’s enough,” he ordered and in the blink of the eye, he had pressed me back into the mattress. He held my hands over my head and loomed over me. Through the haze of desire, uncertainty cropped up. Had I done something wrong? Had I been too forward? All he had to do was look at me and knew my doubts.

          “You are perfect,” he whispered.

          “But you—”

          He kissed me, effectively halting the flow of words. “This is your first time. I want it to be as perfect as you, to be slow and sweet. If you kept doing that, I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself.”

          “Oh,” I replied.

          He grinned and then began nuzzling my neck. “Yeah, oh.”

          “Arman?”

          “Hmm?”

          “I don’t want you to stop yourself,” I admitted.

          He froze and then lowered down for a slow, drugging kiss. He pushed pillows behind me to prop me up. “Watch me, Sonya” he demanded.  His mouth trailed down my neck and kisses were brushed across my breasts. He continued lower and pushed his tongue in my navel. I arched, begging for more. He went lower still. He unbuttoned my jeans and then dragged the zipper down with his teeth. Those intense midnight eyes watched me as he yanked off the jeans.

          His hand found me and kneaded tenderly. My breath caught. The lace that separated me from his hand only added delicious friction to the caress. He continued the stroking me until spots danced behind my eyes and heat pooled in my loins. I was undeniably slick with pleasure and both his hand and my panties were damp. I was panting as the feelings escalated into a whirlwind of carnal bliss, yet there was more, so much more I yearned for.

          I was writhing and bucking with desire. My eyes were shut tight and I tossed my head back and forth, wanting so bad for him to be in me. Just as I approached the edge of the cliff, he stopped. “Look at me, mi novia.”

          My eyes fluttered open, dazed with craving him. I watched him as his hands slowly dragged the white, lacy, damp panties down my legs and threw them behind his shoulder. I watched as he nuzzled my mound with his face and my breath caught as I knew what he was going to do. His hands slid beneath my bottom and lifted my hips upward.

“Arman!” Even watching him couldn’t prepare me for his tongue. He thrust his tongue deep inside me and pushed me off the edge of the cliff. White-hot, scorching pleasure coursed through me, shattering me. I shouted out his name again as I felt him thrust inside me again and this time, not with his tongue. I felt all of him, all that male hardness. The pain was fleeting. The pleasure was immense. I was drowning in it.

          He remained still, his face strained, sweat beading and dripping down his back. He waited until I was ready, until I was floating on a cloud of contentment. He waited until my still-pulsing body clenched him and then his control broke. He pumped furiously within me. Fast. Hard. However, it wasn’t fast or hard enough. Still he held off, waiting for me.

          “Cum with me,” he urged, desperately. Unconsciously repeating the words he had used when inviting me up here in the first place. “Please, cum with me, Sonya.”

          With his actions, his words, he dragged me, screaming, back up that cliff, only to push me off again. With a final, fierce plunge, he lodged himself deep inside me and came. He collapsed on top of me as we both panted for air. When I could, I lifted my head and gave him a long, sultry kiss.

          “That was the best orgasm of them all. Thank you.”

          He groaned and he pulled himself out of me. My inner muscles quivered. He rolled onto his back, taking me with him. Dropping kisses only interrupted with a yawn. “I know. I’m really quite good when it comes to giving orgasms.”

+*^*+

          “Sonya, get up,” a voice ordered.

          I ignored it. I had spent the last week acting like a defiant, unruly child around everyone and crying when I was alone. I missed Arman. He was consistently in my thoughts during the day. At night, I tossed, turned and yearned all because of him and when sleep finally consumed me, it was only to dream of him. However, I refused to be one of those girls who would fall in love or become obsessed with a guy over one night of sex. I sighed. Oh, but what great sex it was.

          It didn’t matter. He would either forget about me or be too infuriated to bother with me. We didn’t exactly go off our own ways on a pleasant note. In fact, he left early because of some problem at work that he had to see to. He left a note on his pillow to stay so we could talk. I showered and left before he returned. My parents believed I had gone to Simirin’s house. She had told them that, not I.

          Furthermore, the date I was supposed to meet this husband of mine got delayed because his parents couldn’t get on the proper flight. So I still had yet to meet this man I was going to marry. I didn’t know his name now either. I refused to let anyone talk about him in my presence. I didn’t care, didn’t want to care.

          “Get up, Sonya!”

          “Go to Hell, Simirin!” I snapped back.

          Simirin glowered at me. “Your fiancé will be here in less than an hour!”

“Whoopee,” I muttered sardonically as I pushed the covers off of me and rolled out of bed. Pulling on an old sweatshirt over the customary tank top and pajama bottoms I wore to bed. I trudged toward my bathroom, when Simirin stopped me, with an evil smirk.

          “Have you ever stopped to consider what your mother-in-law will be like?” she asked.

          I froze. Try to act cool. “Is there a reason I would care?”

          “You’ll probably be living with this woman,” she reasoned sweetly.

          Oh God! Oh God! “If my fiancé is as rich as everyone claims, then I’m sure he can afford more than one house.” I applauded my calm as I flounced out of the room and into my bathroom. Once I closed the door in Simirin’s smirking face, I freaked out. My mother-in-law! I hadn’t even stopped to consider her.          I know, I know, you are probably wondering what the big deal is, but that’s because you don’t understand!

From an early age, Indian girls are raised to be afraid of their mother-in-laws. This woman will hold the reins on your husband, who holds the reins on you. This woman is the bogie monster you were afraid was in your closet or under your bed. This woman is an evil witch who will either love you or destroy you. If my husband threw his wives in burning haystacks, it was his mother who had set the haystacks on fire in the first place!

          The mother-in-law is evil in India like the step-mother is evil in Western culture. Or even better, there is that TV show, Everyone Loves Raymond. The mother-in-law, Marie lives across the street and she is nosy, intrusive and downright critical of her daughter-in-law, Debra. Now imagine if Marie lived with you instead of across the street and imagine now that she was Cruella Deville and now imagine that you are a puppy. Are you getting the picture?

          As much as I didn’t care what my fiancé thought about me, I didn’t dare facing my mother-in-law in my pajamas! In a panic, I threw open the bathroom door. “Simirin, help me!”

          That’s when I saw a nice Indian suit, consisting of an embroidered silk kamese (shirt) that went down to my knees, like a tight dress, with slits up to the waist and a pajama (pants) made of the same material and the same indigo blue colour as the top with a little more embroidery on the bottom hem of the pants. Appropriate accessories and shoes had been placed on the bed next to it. Simirin sat next to the ensemble, still smirking.

          “I thought so,” she said smugly.

          I grinned. “I still hate you.”

          I took bathed, washed my hair, shaved my legs, brushed my teeth and then blow-dried my hair all under twenty minutes. I ran out of the bathroom, put on the clothes, shoes, jewelry and sat down while Simirin put on my make up and finished my hair while I thought about (I know, I know, I’m pathetic) Arman.

          The doorbell rang and I shot Simirin, who, yes, was still smirking, a panicked look. “Oh God, I can’t go through with this,” I moaned. “Quick, help me climb out the window and down the side of the house!”

          “Sonya,” she said with severity.

          I glared back at her. “I hope your kid is born with seven toes on three legs!”

          She chuckled. “Look, after that day we told you, it’s too late for you to back out now.”

          I froze. She couldn’t possibly know. I had been worried what would happen if I ended up pregnant. Arman hadn’t used protection. We had been a bit… too caught up. However, I told no one this. I didn’t tell anyone what I had done that night. However, a knowing gleam lit Simirin’s eye. I hated the fact she sometimes knew me better than I did.

          “Shut up,” I said and then stared at the door while I heard voices down below. “Shouldn’t I come in and serve them tea or something? Isn’t that what they always do in the movies?”

          Simirin smiled at me. “Let them be seated. Tea will be ready on a tray for you. All you have to do is carry it into the room. Don’t drop it or anything.”

          “I’m not stupid!”

          “Uh huh,” she replied. “Let’s go downstairs.”

          We got into the kitchen, which would lead right into the room that they were in. I could hear my mother and father talking to my in-laws. I strained to hear the voice of my soon-to-be, but the idiot wasn’t saying much. Simirin winked and left to join the crowd, announcing that the tea was on its way. Yes, that’s right, the tea was announced, not I. Damn Simirin.

          I wiped my sweaty palms on my kamese. Oh Lord, I was nervous. I finally gave in and prayed to a God that I had been claiming for a week, didn’t exist. Oh Waheguru, please forgive me for saying you don’t exist. I was lost and confused. Please let everything go alright. There, I was ready. I took deep breaths and picked up the tray laden with tea and sweets. I straightened my back and held my head up high. Stupid Simirin.

I may not have been able to make the roundest rotis (which was a kind of pita bread we ate with almost every meal) and maybe I burned chawal (that’s rice and yes, it can be burned) once or twice, but any idiot could carry a tray and not spill anything. I carried the tray into the room and first saw my in-laws. They looked nice enough and they were smiling, but who knew what lay underneath that pleasant façade. They could be cannibals. Or maybe they were serial killers. The family that slays together; stays together. I turned to look at their son, my soon-to-be.

          Crash!

          I looked down at my feet. I had dropped the tray of tea. My gaze immediately flicked back to him. Arman! Was I hallucinating? It was one thing to think of him, but it was quite another to see him everywhere. But, no I wasn’t hallucinating. Relief spread through my quickly but just as quickly, it was tamped down. “You!”

          He stood up. “Sonya, calm down.”

          It all came back to me then. That night, while I poured my heart out, he knew everything that was wrong. He continued to let me think he was some sort of good guy, while my supposed fiancé was the bad one when they were one in the same. It occurred to me that Simirin had probably told him I would eventually end up at the Fluid Lounge. That’s why he had been pissed off when I saw him. He had come down to find me and he did find me, dancing with the blond Adonis.

          “Sonya?” my mother questioned. My in-laws looked baffled. My father was wiping his glasses. Simirin was bewildered. Only Arman stood and understood my reaction. He was smiling again, and again it didn’t reach his eyes. His eyes were almost pleading. However, I wasn’t in the mood to care. I entered the room, grabbed my keys and left.

          As I left, Simirin grabbed Arman and was whispering furiously. Both of them looked grim. Both of them were in on it, little snakes; devious, conniving, little snakes. My in-laws still looked confused. My father continued to furiously wipe his glasses while my mother wailed, “Not again, Sonya!”

          I flung open the door and marched out of the house… only to find their car was blocking mine. My beautifully dramatic exit was going to be ruined. I threw my keys on the lawn. I considered running on foot, but heels were never meant to run in. I sensed him coming, he wasn’t even out of the house, but I knew he was coming.

          I turned around and saw him stop in the doorway watching me. He had known I would be blocked. The bastard probably did it on purpose. Calmly, I slipped off my heels and stood next to them. He quirked an eyebrow and wondered if my gesture was supposed to mean something.  I gave him the finger, whirled around and ran away. Wild woman lived.

          He would chase me, of course and he probably would catch me, eventually, but at least I had a head start. I was already halfway down my street. I winced as I stepped on something sharp. The next second my feet were off the ground and I was in the air. The moron had simply swept me off my feet while I was running.

          “You little idiot,” he gasped. “What kind of idiot runs down a street with no shoes?”

          “A little one, apparently!” I snapped back. “I hate you!”

          He glared at me. “Really? That wasn’t what you said that night?”

          “That night, I was being reckless, I was just looking for casual sex,” I replied. 

          “Since when do virgins, reckless or not, have casual sex?” he scoffed.

          I fisted my hands at my hips. “I told you then exactly what I was doing.”

          “You also told me you would have wanted me whether you were going to be married or not,” Arman pointed out.

          Stupid, stupid man. “I was in lust! Besides, how dare you bring up that night! It was all a lie. You lied to me. You were the man I was running away from in the first place. I’m never going to marry you. Did you hear that? Never!”

          “You were all set to marry a stranger. Now you won’t have to marry a stranger, you’ll marry me,” he reasoned.

          I gave him a disgusted look. “You are a stranger. For God’s sake, I thought you were Spanish.”

          “I am… sort of. I lived and grew up in Spain until I went off to university, Oxford, in London. My parents still live in Spain,” he offered.

          I eyed him warily. “My parents led me to believe you lived in India.”

          “I had until for a couple of months. I was working out a deal so I could construct and open Conrad Delhi Hotel. I, well, own the hotel chain,” he admitted.

          “You said you got the room through your ties with the hotel staff,” I accused.

          “I didn’t lie. I just refrained from mentioning that the tie was that I was their boss,” he pointed out.

          “Why did you decide to force me to marry you instead of just asking me?” I demanded. “If you wanted to marry me so damn much, why didn’t you just ask me?”

          “Because querido, you refused to notice me.”

          I glared at him. “I noticed you. I just didn’t like you and I was right to. You are the idiot who is trying to force me into marriage!”

          “I didn’t know you were being forced,” he shouted back. “I thought you had accepted. Imagine my surprise when Simirin calls me and tells me you’ve gone AWOL and that I should look out to see if you come to Fluid Lounge that night. Imagine me finding out first from her and then from your own lips that you hadn’t agreed. This was right after I saw you rubbing up against that other guy. Had he not left, would you have gone to his bed instead of mine?”

          “He was gay!” I said and gave a withering stare when Arman smiled.

          “Give me six months,” he suddenly said. “If in six months, you still don’t want to marry me, I’ll leave you alone. Give me six months and I promise I won’t take your goldfishes as a dowry. I promise I don’t measure my prosperity by how many cows, chickens, pigs or flocks of sheep I have, because I don’t have any. I promise I’ll never push you into a burning haystack. I’d rather die first than ever letting you get hurt.”

          It was hard to stay mad at a man after that; after all, he was letting me keep my goldfishes. Still, I didn’t relent and, well while he was offering answers… there was no harm in assuaging curiosity.

          “What’s your last name?” I demanded.

          “Singh.” Sonya Singh… it would work.

          “Are you really a doctor?” I asked suspiciously.

          He laughed and nodded. “I really am.”

          “What would you so if I said I was a lesbian?”

          “I would say you sure fooled me that night.”

          “What if I had AIDS?”

          “We had unprotected sex, querido. It would mean I probably have it, too, then.”

          “What if I made you manioc for dinner?”

          His brow furrowed and then his eyes narrowed. “Isn’t it poisonous?”

          I laughed. “Very poisonous. What does querido mean?”

          “Darling,” he said, in that deep, husky bedroom voice of his. I shivered.

          “What about mi novia?”

          “Heard that, did you? I didn’t think you would remember. It means ‘my bride’,” he said with a slow, seductive smile.

          I cleared my throat. “What happened to your previous wife?”

          He looked a bit baffled by the turn of conversation. “Anjali? We both were too young to get married, barely twenty. It just didn’t work out. Oh wait, that’s not what you want to know, is it? Well, I assure you she is alive, healthy, married to an accountant and has never been pushed into a burning haystack.”

          I considered that for a while. “What if your mother-in-law doesn’t like me?”

          He smiled. “I’m pretty sure she will and by the off chance she doesn’t, we’ll manage. It’s not like we’ll be living together.”

          “We won’t?” I asked. Stupid, stupid Simirin.

          Arman grabbed my hands and drew me to him. “Mum enjoys living in Spain and I am becoming quite fond of Toronto. Don’t get me wrong, I love my mum and we talk all the time on the phone, but we don’t live together. She and Dad like their own space.”

          “I can’t cook,” I blurted out.

          He grinned again. “I’ll teach you.”

          “I like dancing at nightclubs.”

          “As long as you are dancing in my nightclub, preferably with me, I think I will manage to live with that,” he joked.

          “I drink alcohol.”

          “Trust me, querido, I know and do not mind. I mixed your drinks, if you recall. I drink too. There is nothing wrong with it as long as you can hold your drink and you can.”

          “Why do you want to marry me?” I asked him in a near whisper.

          His head lowered until his lips were less than an inch away from mine. “Because I think I love you.”

          “Be—you think!” I sputtered.

          “Don’t worry, love, we have six months to figure it out,” he laughed.

          I looked up at him, drowning in his striking eyes. “Will I get a lifetime’s supply of orgasms?”

          His grin widened. “Which kind?”

          “Both.”

          “You drive a hard bargain, but I think that can be arranged,” he stated. His lips closed the distance and brushed once against mine and then twice and then melded. Happy, giddy warmth filled me until I was half-ready to burst into song like in any decent Indian movie. It was a round of applause that broke us apart. Finally noticing things around us, we realized the neighbours had been watching the entire time.

          I grinned at Arman who surprised me as he got down on one knee and pulled out a ring. He was finally asking me. “Sonya, given that I don’t screw anything up within the next six months, will you marry me?”

          “Yes,” I said in a bare whisper as he slid the gorgeous platinum ring with a large, beautifully set diamond. He stood up and kissed me again. This time we both ignored the applause. And well, I didn’t even make it to six weeks before I demanded we get married and soon. I guess it being reckless paid off.

**See, see, I told you it was long. Was it worth all my time and effort? Did you like it? Admit it, you liked the elevator part and now you are all thirsty for orgasms, right? Really, I’m okay, I think. So maybe you should just ignore my author’s note… but well, yes, review now and tell me what you think, please? Pretty please? With a cherry on top? Actually, I’m hungry so there is no cherry any more. Maybe I should be medicated? Okay, I’ll shut up if you review? How is that for a deal? Sounds good? Okay, bye Flawless Storm.**