34. Lonely #2
“Bollywood royalty,” I added.
Her expression flattened in a way that told me she had heard that phrase too many times.
“Our manager Stefan’s words,” I said quickly. “Not mine.”
“And what would your words be?”
Dangerous question. I met her gaze. I could have flirted. I could have said beautiful, stunning, whatever. All true. All words she had heard from men since she was old enough to understand what her face did to them.
Instead, I said, “The woman who made me forget every other woman I've ever seen.”
Her lips parted. For the first time all night, she looked as nervous as I felt. At least we were dying together.
I nodded toward the empty corridor behind her. “Where did your friends go?”
“Back to the hotel. They have flights in the morning.”
“And you?”
“The host is a friend of mine. I’m staying here tonight.”
Heat moved over me so quickly I was grateful for the dim lighting.
My mind immediately became an unhelpful montage of bare skin, tangled sheets, her gold dress on the floor, my mouth learning whether every part of her tasted as good as she looked.
Her gaze dropped to my mouth. Coy but knowing.
I took another drink because otherwise I might say something that got me removed by security.
“So,” she said, “are you going to continue avoiding me?”
“I wasn’t avoiding you.”
“You spent half the night looking at me and the other half walking in the opposite direction. You're nervous.”
I gave her my best offended look. She smiled into her glass.
“I don’t get nervous,” I said.
“What do you call this?”
“Heat exhaustion. I mean, if you stand too close to the sun it happens,” I said with a shrug.
She laughed again, and whatever tension had been holding us apart loosened.
After, we talked. About music. Movies. London.
India. Seattle. The friends she was visiting and the project that had brought them all to Los Angeles.
She asked what it was like to play behind a veil.
I asked what it was like to have half a country believe they knew her.
“Lonely,” she said. The word surprised both of us. She looked down into her champagne. “Sometimes,” she amended.
“I get that.”
Her eyes lifted. She knew I did, that I was sincere.
That was the beginning, I think. Sharing the loneliness of what this life does to you.
The noise of the party grew around us, so we found another room.
Then a quieter corner. Then the terrace after most of the guests had gone.
More champagne appeared. Someone brought whiskey.
Time became slippery. At some point, her bare knee rested against mine.
Then my hand found the top of her thigh to rest on and she didn't stop me. Eventually, she looked at my mouth and stopped pretending she hadn’t.
I kissed her. Or she kissed me. I could never remember who moved first. One second there was space between us, charged and unbearable.
The next, she had both hands in my hair, and my mouth was on hers.
She kissed like she'd been waiting her whole life to stop being careful.
We made a clumsy retreat to her guest room upstairs, hands everywhere.
I backed her through a doorway, one hand at her waist, the other braced against the wall beside her head.
She tasted like champagne and something sweeter, like desire itself.
Her laugh broke against my mouth when I nearly caught my boot on the edge of a rug.
“Very seductive,” she whispered.
“You’re still kissing me.”
“That may be the champagne.”
“Then we should find more.”
Her fingers shook slightly as she worked at my buttons. I was having considerably less success with hers. There were too many. Tiny, delicate things down the back of her top, apparently designed by a sadist who hated drunk, horny men.
“Who invented these?” I muttered.
Radhika laughed into my mouth.
“I think you’re meant to go slowly.”
“That's not a skill I've practiced.”
I turned her carefully, sweeping her hair over one shoulder.
My fingers fumbled over the first button, then the second.
She shivered. That helped my confidence considerably.
When the last button finally came free, she turned in my arms. The gold fabric loosened, one shoulder slipping bare.
For all her teasing, her expression had changed.
Nervous and real. She looked as young as we both felt in each other's hands.
Suddenly, it was like my first time all over again. Maybe that's how it was for her, too.
“I don’t do this,” she whispered.
I could have lied, told her I didn’t either.
Pretended this was equally unfamiliar territory.
That I hadn’t taken women home from parties before, hadn’t woken beside strangers and forgotten their names before breakfast. But something about her just made me open, honest in a way I didn't understand until it was coming out of my mouth.
“I do,” I admitted. A flicker crossed her eyes. I touched her cheek. “But I’ve never felt like this while doing it.” She searched my face.
“Does that make it any better?” I asked.
At first, I thought I'd fucked up. Then she laughed, tipsy and warm, the sound spilling straight into my mouth as she kissed me.
“Shut up and take my clothes off.”
And I did. Fuck, in that moment, I'd have done whatever she asked.