The light of the morning was brutal; it was a hard white that took the colour and the magic from the room and the night. I was awake in the big bed with the sheets all knotted and tangled around me, with no one else in the bed, and a holey, tender ache between my thighs as the only physical reminder of Alex ever being there. The bedframe was dented next to me, and the mattress was cold.
He was gone.
There was this peculiar emptiness in my heart. It wasn't heartbreak. It was the sad silent deflation of a dream come true.
So Danish was right! Beautiful and fleeting,
Alex was a wave that had washed over me and then gone, and I had the sense of salt on my skin and the power of the wave still in my memory.
I found Danish in the kitchen, dressed, on his phone, a cup of black coffee. When I walked in, his eyes were raised as if to look me over. One of his shirts I wore, it draped off my body. Well, he asked so neutrally, "Sleep well?" I only closed my eyes and clutched myself.
On the counter was a scrap of hotel stationery, he said, pointing to it, "He left a note."
A stupid little jitter of my heart. I took it up in my hands, with shaking fingers. Handwriting was good and neat.
Zeenat, I didn't want to wake you! You were like an angel to me. It was an unanticipated last night. As best as possible. I'm in Goa for another two days. If you desire to see this beautiful tourist again, I will be at the southern end of Anjuna beach this afternoon. It will be my job to find you.
Alex
I felt a warmth in my chest, a threatening happy one. He wished to meet me again. Small knowing smile on his lips as he watched. A wonderful little epilogue, and now the next chapter shall begin! He finished his cup of coffee and got up.
We decide to go to the beach.
There was chaos on the beach; a riot of colour and sound. The sun beat down on me and the sand was a hot blanket beneath my feet. The beaches of India were not part of the exclusive, elegant club settings that they were in other countries. They were a hodgepodge, chaotic, colourful public display. People picnicked under striped umbrellas, vendors were selling everything from mangoes to massages, and coconut oil and fried snacks permeated the air. I had picked a conservative one piece swimsuit, a sensible dark-coloured that would not have been revealing. It was enough that I felt exposed as is, with my white skin standing out in the crowd of bronzed bodies.
Danish glanced at me and laughed. It was not a cruel laugh, it was a pitying laugh. "Well, no, that's not going to be it!"
"What could be the problem with it?" I asked, sucking my knee up the high-cut leg.
"We are not here to go for a workout or get some exercise Zeenat," we are here to continue your learning.
He took out a little piece of red cloth from his bag. It was a bikini. A little tiny, and really, really revealing bikini. The top ones were so small that they were as big as my hands and the bottom ones were little more than a thong.
I said, "Oh, I can't wear that," my voice was a horrified whisper. "Are you insane? I will be arrested. Or worse!"
"Do not get so dramatic," he said and tossed it to me. "This is Anjuna, not a temple in Varanasi; you will see far less on a European beach, anyway," he went on, his eyes shining in that same predatory manner, "but you're not just 'a girl on a beach'; you're a work of art - and art is meant to be seen."
I shook my head, my stomach twisting and both shame and fear filled. "No Danish, please. I can't."
His expression hardened. "Can't, or won't?" He came closer and lowered his voice to a persuasive mumble. "Ask yourself if Alex would have noticed you yesterday night if you had worn a sensible black one-piece? He was attracted to the woman who didn't fear to shine and the predator in red."
He was spinning my pretty memory of my night with Alex as a sword. That was nothing like this. That was a club.
"A stage is a stage," he replied calmly. "This is a different type of stage and I want to see my star performer." He was reaching out, and lifting my chin with a gentle pull to make me look him in the eye. "Do it for me. Do it for you. Experience what it's like that you're so hot people don't care who you are."
Shame struggled with excitement, fear with a glimmer of authority he was wielding. I thought of Alex's note; of him waiting for me. What would he think if he saw me like this? The idea was dreadful and mind-altering. I sighed, took the remnants of red cloth and made my way to change. One of the most difficult things I've ever had to do was come out of the makeshift changing room.
The sun was like a punch in the face, the staring eyes of all those who were on the beach like a thousand needles pricking my skin. I was almost naked. The thin string of the bikini ripped into my skin, and did little to cover my swell breasts, or the curve of my ass. It was such a hot blush I could feel it on my face that it would have steamed in the air if it weren't humid.
A slow, victorious grin spread across Danish's face, his eyes widening. "Perfect," he breathed. "Absolutely fucking perfect." He took me to the lounge chairs and I almost went down on the other chair as small as I could be. He said, "Sit up! "Let them see you." I obeyed, my spine hard, my eyes fixed on the sea, churning. I felt the looks upon me, I heard the whispers. I was a spectacle. Display of meat.
Then, somewhat, things started to change. All those eyes were burdening him, and power was beginning to grow weird and remote. They could see, but they couldn't touch. They wanted, but they couldn't get. Beautiful and untouchable, I was Danish's creation.
I shut my eyes, turned my face towards the sun and allowed myself to be filled with the sensation.
"You're pink as a rose," said a deep accented voice. My eyes flew open. There was a man, standing above me, blocking out the sun. He was tall; impossibly tall; he was all muscle, all cord, all bronze, to a beautiful gold. His hair had gone white with the sun, his eyes a startling shade of ocean blue and he was smiling, a slow and confident smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. He was the epitome of a handsome, white tourist.
"I'm sorry?" My hand was pressing my chest; my voice was shaking.
"Your blush," he said again, in a warm, melodious baritone. "It's the colour of a perfect sunset, It's... charming."
I was speechless. Not the same crude, leering attention that I was used to. Totally disarming, smooth, practiced.
"May I?" he asked, pointing to the lounge chair next to me that appeared to be empty.
I noticed, Danish had conveniently disappeared. There was only a nodding and my throat wouldn't open; it was too tight. He sat with an easy grace, his long legs stretched out in front of him.
He extended a hand, "I'm Leo.
I whispered: "Zeenat."
I felt small and fragile in his strong warm grip. "Zeenat," he repeated as if savouring the sound of this. "A lovely name, it's certainly a good one."
My face turned red and my neck and chest flushed.
"Thank you" I gasped.
After a moment we sat in silence. He didn't look at the shape of my body. His eyes were open and focused on my face. He started speaking with a casual tone, "I'm not going to say it's rude--well, maybe it is, but you have a rather... commanding presence. You're not like the other ladies here."
I said, "I... I don't know what you mean... confused."
"You're not blushing, you're not trying to get away, you're not being a brazen fool. You're... you own it." He had an uncanny intuition. He witnessed the battle, the terror and the newfound confidence in one single moment.
But, I said, "I am just trying to make use of the sun."
He smiled as he said, "An excellent goal". "But a woman like you shouldn't be having fun by herself."
He moved in a little closer, his voice becoming more intimate. "I was wondering... if you'd let me the pleasure of your company for a while? Let's stroll by the water, or just stay here and be super-attractive together."
I was thrilled and elated to be so close to him, his words being a potent cocktail. I could feel Danish's eyes on me from somewhere, watching, waiting. This was the test. This was the next shot.
Go back, go back, go back, why did you do this? Against all my instincts, against the voice screaming in my head, why did you do this? I began to nod my head. "That would be great," I said, and it sounded brave and crazy.
A smile lit his face and his golden skin, a smile of perfect white teeth. He stood up and held out a hand. I accepted, his hand firm and steady, and he had me up and standing. The world turned for a moment, and I was conscious of all the eyes on us as we started to walk towards the water's edge. I planted my feet into the damp sand, which was cold and solid beneath my feet, a relief from the extremely hot, dry conditions. The waves were frothy and cold, over my ankles.
For a while we walked in silence, and the surf was a regular beat to my heart. He didn't reach out toward me again, but the pull of his being, the warm magnetic force that came from him pulled me in.
He spoke softly, "You're quiet."
I said, "I... I'm not used to...," and I looked out at the horizon.
"To be complimented?" he asked, his voice tinged with amusement.
I explained, "To be... seen."
He took a few steps back and turned to look at me. The sun was shining behind him, casting a golden glow on his blonde hair. "Then those that have been looking at you are fools," he said solemnly. "There is such a blindness when you see her and don't notice the fire in her eyes, the intelligence in her silence."
My breath hitched. He was back to his old trick. Seeing past the costume, past the performance, to the woman underneath. It was fearsome and thrilling.
He came close, his arms moving slowly and with purpose, and delicately smoothing a stray strand of hair that the wind had caught on my face. He touched my face with his fingers; it was an electric touch.
We continued on, leaving behind more and more people, until we reached a section of quiet sand, with a group of palm trees battered by the wind. He stopped again and turned to me.
He asked, "Can I tell you something true?" I nodded my head and got my heart pounding.
"I came here to Goa to escape," he went on, his eyes looking out at the wide endless expanse of the Arabian Sea. "I am a photographer and I was supposed to go to the Himalayas for a shoot, but that was cancelled so I came here instead. I wanted to go for some noise and chaos, but all I have found is that I wanted something quiet and something real."
He returned his gaze to me with his ocean-blue eyes; they were sharp and probing. He came nearer, intruding on my space, but it wasn't threatening. It felt... right. He lifted his hand once more but this time up to my other cheek. His fingers went over the line of my jaw and his touch was gentle and slow, my body shivering with pleasure.
"Your figure is so amazing," he whispered and his voice was a rumble of intimacy. "Like a sculpture." He put his thumb on my lips, a gentle touch and a curious gaze. "Since the first time I saw you, I've been wondering what it would feel like, and your mouth."
My body was shaking and my mind was racing with sensation and emotion. This was it. The precipice. I could retreat, I could pull back, I could move to Danish's twisted game, or I could go into the unknown, to this beautiful, perceptive stranger. I didn't have to make the choice.
He leaned into me and kissed me. It wasn't as tender, it wasn't as romantic, as Alex's tender, romantic kiss. It was none of the Danish ones that were demanding and possessive. It was a slow kiss, a deep kiss, an exploratory kiss. His lips were soft, his lips were firm, and he was so intoxicating, kissing me with that kind of confidence. He wasn't in a hurry. His tongue was dancing with mine, exploring, probing, and his fingers were working on my skin, making me shiver, and I had a sudden urgent desire that was much more than I ever had before.
One hand went to my waist, gripping the flesh of my ribs, and his thumbs were touching the skin just over the line of my bikini bottoms. He squeezed me tighter, hard planes of his chest against my soft breasts, the thin fabric from my top a frustrating barrier. His heart beat a steady, strong beat against mine, a comfort and a command.
I melded into him, my arms around his neck, my fingers tangling in his sun-warmed hair. I was lost and drowned in the kiss, in the way his hands moved across my body, in the feel of his hands, in the masculinity of him. He was luring me with a slow, deliberate playfulness that was consuming me, inch by inch. And I was allowing him. I was willing and eager to be my own undoing.
The kiss broke but the connection didn't.
We stood there together for a long-time pressed forehead to forehead, breathing in the moist air. It now seemed like the world had shrunk between us, a private world right here in a public space.
The sun, the sea, the faraway noise of the crowd was all but humming noise. There was the physical touch of his hands on my waist, the smell of his skin, salt and sun and something intoxicatingly male about it and then the beat of my heart, frantically pounding, hopeful.
He whispered, "Come with me," and his command resonated like a deep, intimate voice, vibrating through my soul.
He didn't wait for my reply. He took my hand, his fingers laced like the threads of a rope around mine, and pulled me away from the water's edge towards the group of wind-swept palms that I had spotted earlier. The sand was softer here--a series of rolling dunes that was a natural privacy.
He paused in the small sheltered hollow where the sun's rays were diffused and the air was still. He looked deep and serious into my eyes. He didn't speak. He simply looked at me, his eyes moving slowly and deliberately, like a man looking at a woman. He gazed at my face, at the red triangles that hugged my breasts just a bit too tightly, at my flat abdomen, at the length of my legs. He was looking at me, my whole self, and that intense look in his eyes wasn't just for sex, it was sheer unadulterated appreciation.
"You're a vision," he murmured, his voice thick with an emotion more than just desire. "A goddess," and she is right by us.
He stretched his hand over and my fingers caught him by the tie of my bikini top behind my neck. This knot was easy and light. He could have ripped it out of his hands in a heartbeat. But he didn't.
His fingers played on the strings, his touch a gentle teasing caress, his eyes played a game of fire and ice, his breath caught, my skin tingled. His eyes looking mine, for permission: "May I?".
Out of my throat came only a nod, my throat was so tight. He pulled one end of the string, with infinite care. A soft, whispery sound was heard as the knot came undone. He turned to my back and his fingers were on the second knot. He unfastened it with the same careful slowness, his knuckles brushing my back and forming a fire on the way.
The red cloth slipped from his hands and he grabbed it before it hit the sand, setting it out of the way. I stood there with my bare boobs in the sun, and his gaze was hot on me.
I had a moment's doubt about the old self-consciousness, but it faded away when he looked at me with such respect. He was not making eye contact with me as his object of desire. He was gazing at me like I was a piece of art.
He knelt before me, bowing in respect and devotion to me and I cried at the sight. He lifted his gaze to mine and his face was even with my breasts. "You're even lovelier than I thought," he whispered.
Then he leaned in, and gave me a soft, lingering kiss on my lower bust. It wasn't a sexual act. This was a time of worship. He followed the curve and gave my hard nipple a series of soft and warm kisses that rose all the way up all the way up until he reached my hard nipple. He put it in his mouth, not like a sucker but like a fondling, a caressing touch. His tongue danced around the tender end, his lips were made soft and firm, and I felt a jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure, straight to my core.
I gasped my head fell back, my hands lifted up to tangle in his hair. His hands, steady and warm, embraced my hips, other breast, he lavished on them all as if he were an anchor man, his touch a steady anchor.
He was getting to know me, to map out my reactions, to learn my sighs, my moans. He straightened up, his eyes dark and intense. He surrounded my face with his hands, his thumbs touching my cheeks.
"All of you," he whispered, his voice a raw declaration, "I want to see all of you, Zeenat. "Every inch."
He put his fingers in my sides of the bikini bottoms. The cloth was floppy, unimportant. Then he lowered his eyes to mine and asked me for one final permission. I took it with a slow deliberate blink. He worked the lace down my hips, his knuckles touching my skin, a fire trail. He began to peel them down my legs, his eyes tracing their way.
When I was completely, utterly naked before him, he didn't immediately touch my sex. He just stood there and looked at me, his gaze, a touch and a caress that covered every inch of my being. He was writing it in my heart, imprinting it on his mind. "You're...perfection," he whispered, his voice trembling with excitement.
He grasped my hand and guided me to a soft sand which is under the shade of a broad-leafed palm tree. He didn't take me down. His touch was gentle, respectful, and he guided me.
Lying down on the warm sand, the sun caressed my skin. He was kneeling and never taking his eyes away from mine! He came up to me and started to feel my body, his hands moving slowly and deliberately. He followed the outline of my collarbone and the curve of my ribs and the dip of my waist. He wasn't in a hurry. He was enjoying me, but not in a sexual way, like a connoisseur tasting a fine wine. He was getting to know me and my geography - not for conquest - but for connection. His fingers, flat and warm, pressed their way down my belly, spreading their fingers over my neat triangle of curls between my thighs.
My breath hitched. Every nerve in my body was shouting, 'go lower, go lower, stop that sweet torment. But he didn't.
My other hand patiently, delicately, worked on my breasts, while he kept his hand there, a promise, a tease.
"Please," I whispered, a word I tried not to say.
It was a comfort to him, a torment, and a chuckle, deep and warm. "Please what, Zeenat?" he asked again, his lips tickling my ear. Tell me what you want, "Tell me how you want it done."
"I want... I want you to touch me."
"I am touching you," he said, his voice as if it were formed with amusement.
I plead, "Lower, I beg you," my hips restless against the warm sand.
He did, but not as I would have wanted. Sliding his hand down my stomach, his fingers touched my folds. But he didn't plunge inside. He simply set them there, a comforting and constant presence. Then with slow and deliberate precision he started stroking me. His fingers were a muslin glove, a sensorial instrument, his touch was a slow maddening rhythm that coiled the tension into my belly that I had never felt before. He found my clit, but he didn't attack it. He slowly, teasingly, barely touched it, as though it were a torture. It was like a delightful wave, rising gently, like a humming tone, low and resonant, throughout my body.
I felt I was lost; I felt I was drowning and I felt like my body was a willing instrument in his hands, because he was a very skilled man. And then he bent and kissed me. It was a special kiss. It was deeper and more possessive, but still had the same vein of tenderness.
His tongue came down into my mouth, taking me, tasting me. A kiss of profound irrefutably passionate, an introduction to a frantic run. He kissed me until I was winded, until my body was shivering with desire. Then he finally released the kiss, his forehead pressed to to mine.