Chapter 6
CROSSING THE LINE
EVAN
Idon’t ask if she wants me to walk her home, I just do it when she tells me she’s just fifteen-minutes away…in the fucking Tenderloin. In miles, it’s not too far from Nob Hill, but in safety and society…a few light years.
San Francisco at night is sharper, colder, the city restless.
She walks beside me, our steps unhurried. We’re strolling, and I think we both are trying to extend the evening because we’re enjoying ourselves.
She’s a surprise.
She doesn’t know about moules frites, or rather didn’t, but she does know her classics.
Apparently, her best friend Latika is a book nerd, in her words, and she and Navya have a book club of two. They recently read Wuthering Heights for the first time, in anticipation of the upcoming Hollywood blockbuster.
“She works in IT, but her dream is to open a bookstore,” she tells me.
“And what’s your dream?” I ask impulsively.
She takes a long, deep breath and tilts her head one way and the other as if thinking. “I’d love to travel. Once Arjun is done with medical school…then Latika and I are going to go at least once every six months for a week to some exotic place.”
We walk past a man on the phone, speaking loudly about someone needing to get their shit together.
“What’s exotic?”
She lets out a shy laugh. “Probably not so for you…. I’d love to go to Europe. You know, Paris…see the Louvre…the Mona Lisa. Do the touristy stuff. I’ve always wanted to go to Rome…ah…London? So many places I want to see. I’d also like to go back to India. I only went a couple of times as a child.”
I like how candid she is, how she’s not trying to be someone she’s not. She’s not pretending to be more sophisticated or worldly. She’s authentic, and in the world I live in, that’s a rare trait.
We reach the quieter edge of Union Square—where the city subtly alters—when she says, “You don’t have to walk me all the way. I do this all the time. I’ll be fine.”
“I know,” I reply. “I want to.”
The neighborhood changes gradually.
Fewer lights.
More noise.
Voices, music bleeding out of open windows, the city breathing instead of performing.
My awareness sharpens with every block.
I don’t come here often.
It’s very far from my rarefied world. In fact, many people I know would talk about neighborhoods like this the way they talk about foreign countries—interesting, tragic, best observed from a distance.
“This is me.” She flashes me a smile, and I have to blink twice because she’s not a classic beauty, but her honest emotions make her shine brightly.
Her building is as different from mine in Nob Hill as possible.
Old. Narrow. Paint chipped. A door that’s been kicked one too many times.
“Do you feel safe here?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
She arches an eyebrow and scowls. “And here I thought you wouldn’t be a cliché.”
I stall for a second. “A cliché?”
“Dr. Vincenzo, your privilege is showing.” The corners of her eyes twitch in amusement. “Rich guy comes to the not-so-rich area and wonders about safety as an abstract concept.”
“I’m sorry,” I apologize, chastened. She’s right. I’m being a snobbish idiota*.
A spark of humor softens her features. “I think, Dr. V, we’re done with the apology part of this evening.”
How is a man supposed to resist her when she’s generous and charming enough to let me off the hook? Any other woman I know would’ve complained or sulked. Not Navya. She tells me plainly what I did wrong, and when I apologize, she accepts it—no theatrics, no scorekeeping.
We stand quietly, neither of us moving.
The night is charged, electric, like the air before a storm.
“I had a really good time,” she says softly, bashfully, her expression mildly wary.
“So did I.”
I shouldn’t push this further. I know that. The power imbalance. The optics. The very real list of reasons this is a bad idea scrolls through my head with clinical efficiency.
And yet—
“Do you want me to come up?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Her breath catches.
She studies my face, searching…for an answer to a question she hasn’t asked out loud but clearly wants to. The same question I do.
“Yes,” she says, her voice husky now, her eyes hooded, guarded but curious. “But—”
“I know,” I interrupt quickly. Panic flares. This was impulsive. Stupid. “We don’t have to—”
“I know,” she echoes softly. Then, after a beat, she breathes, “But, I’d like you to come up anyway.”
She’s inviting me in more ways than one, and the awareness of it sends heat, anticipation, and want surging through me.
I follow her up the stairs. It’s a walkup, and she’s on the fourth floor.
By the second flight, I expect the place to smell like neglect—old carpet, damp walls, the kind of wear money never has to notice. But it doesn’t.
In fact, it’s…fine.
The stairwell is narrow but clean, the walls freshly painted a soft off-white. Someone’s put up framed prints between floors—nothing expensive, but nice.
A small attempt at beauty where no one would blame you for giving up.
By the time we reach her door, I realize how wrong my assumptions were. Not just about the building—but about her.
She unlocks the door and steps aside in quiet invitation.
Her apartment is small but warm, unmistakably lived-in.
It smells…comforting. Lamps instead of overhead lights. It feels like her in a way no place of mine has ever felt like me.
She slips off her shoes and tucks them neatly into a closed rack by the door. When I step inside, she glances at me, a little sheepish.
“Ah…do you mind taking your shoes off?”
I look at her quizzically, and she gestures vaguely around the open-plan space—the kitchen, the dining nook, the living area, all flowing into one another.
“It’s…an Indian thing,” she says, a little rushed, a little embarrassed. “We take our shoes off at home because….” She hesitates, then smiles faintly. “The temple is here.”
I follow her gaze to a bookshelf near the window.
It isn’t grand. Just a small wooden arrangement tucked neatly between paperbacks and framed photos. A brass Ganesh—elephant-headed, rounded, familiar in the vaguest way—sits at the center. I know the name, nothing more. Something about removing obstacles. Beginnings?
In front of him is a tea lamp holder. Beside it hangs a tiny brass bell. There is a fresh rose in a small shot glass filled with water.
It isn’t decorative.
Her simple sincerity, this adherence to tradition without theatrics, charms me.
I toe off my shoes.
I close the door behind me and lock it.
“You…ah…you want something to drink?” she asks, her back to me, a soft shiver in her voice.
“No.”
I turn her to me and watch as she bites her lip, looking away.
She wants me. I want her.
Fuck it!
I brush my lips against hers, and the earth doesn’t shake. I am in my mid-thirties, so that shit doesn’t happen to me, but it does tremble slightly.
I start slow. Questioning. An ask, not a demand.
She answers by leaning in.
The kiss deepens, hands finding familiar places without urgency. Her fingers curl into my shirt. Mine skim her waist, her back, memorizing without claiming.
I’m painfully aware of how much I want her—and how much I don’t want to be the man who takes too much.
I stop before the edge tips us over.
Foreheads touching. Breathing uneven.
“This might be a mistake,” I murmur.
She smiles. “Probably.”
“But?”
“But it’s nice to want something,” she murmurs. “Even if you don’t take it.”
Fuck me, but this woman is….
I kiss her once more—harder this time.
“Oh,” she breathes, her voice a whimper.
I can’t help it. My mouth crushes hers, my tongue fucking deep like I want to know her, all of her.
I pull her against me and walk her into what passes for her kitchen. I don’t give a fuck. I lift her onto the counter, pull up her black dress, and grind against her.
Her hips buck. The friction is so intense I feel her pulsing through the fabric of her underwear.
My hands slide up her body, caressing, cupping, feeling.
I put my hands on her shoulders and pulled the sleeves slightly down. “May I?”
She licks her bottom lip and nods, eyes wide.
She’s turning me on like no one else ever has. I’m a grown man, an experienced one, and yet I feel like a teenager right now, my cock making my decisions.
I pull her dress down to her waist. She’s wearing a black bra. Lacy.
I slide the straps down, slowly, like she’s a gift I’m unwrapping, because she is.
Her breasts are small but…God! Those nipples are large, dark, and begging for my mouth.
I latch onto one, sucking hard, and she arches into me, moaning. My other hand slips under her panties, fingers brushing against her center, and she gasps, her thighs clamping around my wrist.
“Oh God,” she moans.
I pull away to look at her and watch her as I slide a finger inside her. She jolts.
She’s tight.
“You like that?” My voice is guttural.
“Yes.” Her voice is a whisper. But I hear her just fine.
I move my fingers in and out of her, slowly. She’s clenching around me, squeezing me hard.
“You’re so wet,” I growl and lean down to kiss her. “Have you been thinking about this all day? Thinking about how badly you needed me to fuck you?”
Her gasp is loud.
I stop. “Hey?” I ask.
She lets out a laugh. It’s not happy…more hysterical.
“Cara?” I keep my hands still.
She smiles slowly and then wraps her hands around my neck. “More.”
I pull my finger out of her and taste her. She watches, shocked.
“Taste yourself,” I order as I slam my mouth against hers.
She curls her tongue against mine. If I’ve had a hotter kiss, I don’t remember.
I’ve never been so hard in my life.
“Evan?” It comes out like a question, so I stop—again.
I step back slightly, even though my hands are still on her waist. I couldn’t peel them away if I tried.
“Cara?”
She lets out a short, dry laugh. The kind people do when they’re nervous. “Okay. So. I need to say something before my brain short-circuits.”
“Navya,” I start gently, “we don’t have to do anything you—”
“I’ve never done this before,” she blurts.
I blink. Process. Rewind.
“Never…what?” I ask carefully.
Her face heats, but she lifts her chin anyway. Brave. Honest. “I’ve never…been with anyone. Like….” She gestures vaguely between us. “I mean—kissing, yes. Dating, technically. But this? No. I’m very much a beginner.”
“As in….”
“Sex.”
Everything inside me stills, and through the fog of arousal and desire comes the sudden, crushing understanding of how much trust is wrapped up in her confession.
“Oh.” Then, because she’s watching my face like she’s waiting for judgment, I add immediately, “Thank you for telling me.”
She studies me, searching. “You’re not…weirded out?”
“No. I’m honored.”
Her shoulders drop a fraction. “I just didn’t want you to assume I knew what I was doing and then be disappointed when I…clearly don’t…know what I’m doing, I mean.”
A smile tugs at my mouth. “Navya, I’m a neurosurgeon. I specialize in people not knowing what they’re doing until someone walks them through it.”
That gets a small laugh out of her.
“I just wanted to be clear.” She looks like she’s about to have a case of nerves. “In case I…can’t perform or…I…look I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“You were doing just fine,” I tell her.
She perks up. “Well, I have watched porn.”
I burst out laughing and dropped a loud kiss on her mouth. “Navya, you’re priceless.”
She flushes, and I wonder if she has a praise kink or just starved for someone to pay attention to her, which is a damn shame because she is fucking amazing.
“Ah…Evan…are you…are we not?”
She wants more. Me, too. I push her forward on the kitchen counter and rub myself against her, so she can feel how hard I am.
“You can ask all the questions you want,” I tell her. “And we can stop whenever you want. Or slow down. Or just…talk.”
“I want to…do it.”
I brush my thumb along her lips, deliberately gentle. “And for the record? There’s no version of tonight where you disappoint me.”
She smiles then—shy, bright, completely disarming.
“But….” She frowns.
She’s so fucking sweet!
I kiss her mouth, and it turns heated in seconds.
“Navya, have you had an orgasm before?” I’m panting, which I don’t do, not a man of my practice, but then I’ve never been with Navya before.
Despite her dark skin, she goes beet red.
“Cara, tell me,” I urge.
“Ah…I…there’s Oscar.”
I narrow my eyes. She said she’s a virgin, and now she’s saying there’s a guy called Oscar?
“He…it’s my vibrator,” she explains. “I named him after Oscar Isaac…you know Duke Leto Atreides from Dune?”
Again, for the second time this evening, while we’re making out like teenagers, and for the first time in my life, while I’m intimate with a woman, I laugh out loud.
“Has a man ever given you an orgasm?” I ask softly.
She shakes her head. “No, I’ve never had a manmade one.”
She’s so cute it’s sinful. “Let’s fix that.”
She swallows…then closes her eyes.
“No, cara, you look at me when I make you come.”
The fresh shock on her face is erotic as hell.
I’m not into virgins. I mean, which man is?
But this one?
Oh, this one, I want.
This one, I’m going to take.
* Idiot (Italian)