ClaimedbytheNative (2 page)

When I reached the top step, my heart was beating so rapidly
I could hear nothing beyond the persistent pulsing in my eardrums. I was giddy
with expectation. The man dropped his arms, exposing the flat, hard planes of
his chest to my eyes. He was divine, impossibly beautiful in his strength. He
could dominate me in a second, for I was half his weight and almost a foot
smaller. Yet, as he gazed down at me, his obsidian-black eyes drilling into
mine, I detected no menace, no danger to my physical well-being, but he was
certainly going to be dangerous to other parts of my body.

He took a deep breath, filling his lungs and expanding his
chest. I caught the scent of coconut oil on his skin, the column of his throat
close to the tip of my nose.

He spoke in Malayalam—his native tongue—and looked upon me
with disapproval as he shook his head. I sensed he thought I was crazy,
foolish, demented. As his voice became quiet, the corners of his lips quirked
into a half-smile. He bent his head forward, leaning so close I could smell the
sweetness of his breath. “Are you frightened?” His English was faltering and
uncertain, but his gloriously dark eyes were articulate. I was able to read
more from those stony irises than I could from the heavily accented words he
spoke.

“Should I be frightened?” I asked, my voice breathless.

He tilted his head sideways, regarding me as one might an
exhibition in a museum, or a painting in a gallery. There was fascination,
contemplation and erotic musings in his eyes as his gaze swept over me in a
long, regarding stare. “Perhaps,” he decided, nodding once. I could not explain
why, but his response pleased me.

“My name is Rosie,” I said, placing my satchel on the floor.

“Okay,” he replied, as though my introduction was of no
consequence to him. Instead of reciprocating, the man stepped back and invited
me into the single room of his rice-field abode.

The shack was dimly lit and smelled of an array of spices. I
detected sandalwood at once, and couldn’t really determine what anything else
was. The perfume reminded me of the joss sticks my roommate in college used to
burn to help her concentrate. The aroma was soothing, coaxing me into the small
space.

“Would you like some tea?” he asked me, crossing the room to
fill an aluminum kettle with water. I assumed he intended to heat it over the
gas-powered tabletop stove.

“Are you going to drug me?” I asked, hovering in the
doorway. There was an easy efficiency in the way he went about preparing the
tea. He stopped, glancing over his broad shoulder to regard me with a steely
glare. Inside, my stomach gave a painful squeeze. Whatever sexual prowess he had,
it was incredibly difficult to resist.

“I don’t think I need to drug you…Rosie.” He added my name
as an afterthought, knowing it would arouse me to hear him say it in his thick,
exotic accent. I swallowed hard and he offered another faint smile.

Within moments, the shack was filled with the delightful,
homely smell of fresh tea. I inhaled deeply, thinking I had never smelled such
an intoxicating mixture of scents in my life. I knew I would never be able to
adequately describe to another how the combination affected me. I felt a loss
of inhibition, a freedom I had never experienced before. All my craziness
seemed almost acceptable in this foreign land with its foreign smells, foreign
scenery and deliciously foreign man.

“Why did you come here?” His questioning tone permeated my
hazy thoughts and my eyes refocused on him standing with his back to the
heating kettle. In the shadows, he looked even more intimidating.

“Why did you ask me?” I felt a streak of defensiveness creep
into my voice.

He rested his backside against the counter, folding his arms
again. The fabric of his
mundu
pulled tight across his groin and thighs,
emphasizing the hard length of his cock. “I think you know.” His eyes were
hooded, shaded by long lashes. The black depths became somehow blacker. I felt
as though I were gazing into the dangerous, tantalizing abyss.

Any witty retorts I might have been inclined to spout were
lost. Instead, I gaped silently at his body, at the truth of his intentions,
pressing with unyielding persistence against the soft cotton. When I was able
to pull my eyes away from his impressive manhood, I found his smile to be
reeking of infuriating self-confidence. He was pure sex, pure power. The kettle
whistled, echoing the warning in my mind.

“The…erm…tea is ready,” I said, sounding feeble and lost.
Suddenly I was doubting myself, doubting my sanity again. Damn Jerald to hell
for the epic way in which he had fucked me up. I was destroyed, devoid of any
common sense. I had become a lunatic, following a stranger blindly for the
sole
purpose of sex
! It was beyond ludicrous, it was downright,
no-questions-asked
insane
.

He took a languid moment to straighten, allowing me another
second of viewing his thick cock beneath the fabric. Despite my very best
efforts not to, I was unable to resist lowering my eyes. God, he was beautiful.
I wanted to reach out, pull the
mundu
free, unravel that length of
pristine white cotton and view him in his wondrous entirety. I swallowed hard
and lifted my eyes to meet his.

I wanted him to fuck me.

“Do you have a name?” I asked. The silence had stretched too
long. He was pouring tea into small metal vessels, the thick tendons of his
back rolling beneath dark, smooth skin.

“Navin.”

He turned suddenly, advancing toward me with a cup of
steaming tea. I thought, as I accepted the beverage, that this was the most
surreal moment of my life. Nothing could outdo this, I was certain. I could
climb Mount Everest, skydive from an airplane, bungee-jump from a bridge toward
a raging river and
nothing
would be more surreal than standing in a
paddy-field shack in India with the sole, inevitable purpose of having sex with
an absolute stranger.

“Thank you,” I said. “
Nanni
,” I corrected, trying one
of the handful of words I had learned in Malayalam.

Navin smiled, his dark brows knitting in surprise. “You are
welcome. Drink.”

Despite having no desire for the aromatic tea, the first sip
was ambrosia to my taste buds. There was a crisp perfection to the brew, as
though Navin were a connoisseur. Groaning my approval, I sipped again. Navin
watched me over the rim of his aluminum cup, his plump lips parting to blow
curling steam in my direction. The lack of conversation between us became
almost intolerable, yet I sensed it was part of the brooding man’s game plan.
While it seemed to unsettle me, Navin remained quietly self-assured.

He waited with sturdy patience, never taking his eyes off
me. I wondered if he wanted me to make the first move, or whether he had traits
similar to the tabby cat I owned when I was a teenager. Milo rather enjoyed
playing with his prey before devouring it. Navin, with his sinfully dark eyes
and impassive facial expressions, unsettled me. I was waiting for him to pounce,
to tear the teacup from my hand and have his wicked way with me in the open
doorway of his home.

By the time I had drained the cup of tea, Navin was still
sipping slowly. He waited ten minutes more—or it might have been an hour—before
reaching out to relieve me of my empty cup. By now, the sun had risen far
enough to slant beams through the doorway, catching his impressive frame,
casting the height and breadth of him in soft light. His black hair curled at
his nape, shiny with coconut oil, and it shimmered with the slick iridescence
of spilled petroleum. When he looked up at me, his eyes settling sharply upon
me as though my smallest movement had triggered some sudden reflex in him, the
morning light brought brownish hues forth in his irises, making them the
darkest, richest mahogany.

“Why did you come to Kerala?” he asked, his conversation so
benign it startled me. I was unable to reconcile the casual intonation of his
words with the feral glint in his eyes. For a moment, I struggled to make sense
of the question, to articulate a response.

“To get away for a while,” I said at last, thinking how very
true my answer was. “To find myself.” Getting away had been my very first
instinct in the wake of my failed engagement. I couldn’t bear the pity, the
smothering, cloying sympathy of those who loved me. While a beach holiday in
the Maldives
should
have been my first choice, I wanted somewhere so
busy and vibrant my brain wouldn’t have a moment to reflect too deeply on
Jerald. As it was, reflecting upon him was all I had done, morning, noon and
night until
this
morning, when I had glimpsed Navin on the beach.

It surprised me how close he had gotten, crossing the space
of his shack to stand in front of me again. While I had been ruminating over my
answer, his bare feet had made no sound on the wooden boards. He was fast,
silent and once again drawing parallels to a devious feline.

“Would you like to sit down? You seem uncomfortable.” Navin
gestured to his bed, a makeshift wooden structure with a thin mattress and a
clean blanket. Nothing about this man was ostentatious; he was poor and he knew
it. He accepted it without self-pity. Navin’s modest surroundings didn’t seem
to cause him any discomfort whatsoever, and I admired—envied, perhaps—the
manner in which he lived.

“Okay,” I said, hoping his suggestion would lead me closer
to being in his bed. But I didn’t move. What had become of me, I could not
explain. I felt as though I had been freed of unspoken restraints about the
kind of behavior one ought to conduct. It wasn’t acceptable to follow a stranger
blindly to his home in a foreign country, yet in this place, I had no one to
answer to but myself. The liberation was empowering, filling me with some
confidence that was previously unknown to me.

I cleared my throat. “Or maybe we could just…talk about why
you invited me here, and why I came.” Although my voice was unsteady, I felt a
surge of satisfaction inside my chest at my newfound courage, even more so when
the Indian’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

“Why talk at all?”

My smugness crumbled into pieces in a split second as he
closed the gap between our bodies, sandwiching me between the hardness of his
chest and the equally hard doorframe behind my back. His bare skin was hot,
radiating through the flimsy fabric of my vest-top. His height truly dwarfed
me. I felt I might be cowering with the strain of looking up at him. I thought
Navin seemed pleased with himself, happy to have overthrown my cockiness.

His dark hand rose to caress my cheek, almost lovingly. I
was surprised, for his size and strength did not mesh well with the idea of
tenderness. He turned his gaze away from mine, focusing on the length of his
fingertips against my skin.

“So pale,” he mused, his thumb stroking the curve of my
cheekbone. He touched upon the place I knew was speckled with freckles, and he
seemed amused by them. Then, as his features became somber, his fingertips
caressed the arc of darkness beneath my eyes, evidence of sleepless,
tear-filled nights. “So tired.” I found it difficult to stand beneath his
intense scrutiny, being read and analyzed so thoroughly. I felt emotionally
naked as his gaze rose again, fusing with mine, conveying a complete
understanding of who I was.

I didn’t expect his kiss then. Still reeling from the
reflection I saw of myself in his eyes, I froze when his lips descended to meet
mine, hard and urgent. He tasted of sweet tea, coaxing my mouth to open beneath
the gentle, sensual stroking of his tongue. My muscles relaxed, my body leaning
into his. The longer he kissed me, the easier it became to reconcile my reasoning
for coming to his paddy-field house. In those moments, I was an adventurous
traveler who had become acquainted with a very attractive lover.

Large hands slid into the unruly curls of my hair, touching
the base of my skull and awakening every sensitive nerve ending in my body. I
trembled at his touch, my spine arching as I sought to get closer to his hard,
smooth body. There had never been a time in my life when I had been so
thoroughly kissed, when I had felt worshipped by a man’s lips.

Navin’s teeth nipped playfully at my lower lip. A moan rose
in my throat, stifled by his mouth, lost against his tongue as he soothed the
little infliction. He murmured something through our kiss, something I couldn’t
understand. I didn’t know whether he spoke in English or Malayalam, but the
medium of language was needless, for I understood a whispered plea regardless
of how he verbalized it. Navin was struggling to restrain himself. Suddenly his
hands were cupping my skull hard, pressing roughly against my scalp as his
narrow hips shot forward, grinding against my own. His cock was rigid.

My arms slipped around him, my hand splayed wide across the
expanse of his smooth, hard back. The muscles shifted beneath my touch, and in
a moment of craziness, when my thoughts merged into a tornado of
incomprehensible ideas and themes, I had a clarifying image of Navin as the
Vitruvian
Man
; a drawing meant to represent a perfect anatomical specimen. Navin the
Farmer was nothing short of perfect beneath my wandering touch.

His hands wandered too, moving from my hair downward as his
knuckles brushed my jaw and neck. He broke our kiss, tracing the plump softness
of his lips across my cheek. Warm breath fanned over my skin, but it was his
touch that notched my temperature upward. His palms slid beneath my breasts,
his thumbs stroking my nipples through the fabric of my vest.

Growing up I had always hated my pert little breasts. I
wished for a full bust, the sort men usually liked. Going braless never seemed
like much of a luxury, but this morning, as Navin’s big hands slid over my
breasts, I liked that I didn’t have a cumbersome bra to remove—and that my
breasts were small in comparison to his palms.

He stepped back, breaking contact between our bodies. I was
immediately bereft at the loss of warmth from his bare skin, and in the chasm
created there was suddenly room for self-doubt. I wasn’t sure of myself, when
he could so easily assess me. I thought of all the times I had hidden my body
during sex, thinking my petite frame lacked the feminine curves so often
depicted in movies and porn. I needn’t have worried, for Navin’s expression was
lustful, drinking in the sight of me slumped, flushed and panting, against the
doorframe.

“I don’t want to…erm…” He paused, as though searching
through his limited vocabulary of my language for the correct word. “Rush.”
Navin nodded, seemingly satisfied this was what he wanted to say. “
Athe
,
I don’t want to rush.”

I was sure I had never heard words so beautiful in my whole
life. Sex, which was undoubtedly what Navin was referring to, had always been a
quick affair for me. It became a necessary part of a social contract formed
between two people. I had often felt, in the years Jerald and I were together,
that we were entirely disconnected from the event. To have a man stand before
me, declaring he wanted to take his time with me, was perhaps the most arousing
prelude to sex there had ever been.

He reached for the edge of his
mundu
, tied at the top
of his hip, undoing the easy knot with a flick of his wrist. I watched as the
strip of cotton fell away, my heart almost ceasing to beat as he became bared
to me. I was certain, now, that Navin represented the perfect male form. His
thighs were thick and strong, waist and hips narrow. Between his legs, his
beautiful cock was fully erect, no longer contained by his meager clothing.

My pussy gave a squeeze, reminding me of how much he aroused
me just by existing. I had never felt such powerful, immediate attraction to
another human being in all my life. There was something so inexplicably potent
about Navin—a primal, fundamental sexuality that removed all the other
unnecessary bullshit and left only the reality—he was incredibly hot.

His stare was commanding, compelling me to follow his
unspoken order to undress. I slipped off my vest, letting the still-cool
morning air caress my skin. I trembled, my nipples hardening beneath the black
weightiness of Navin’s eyes. Rigid as a soldier, with his head held high and
his chin pointing upward, he waited for me to flick the little brass button on
my shorts. I felt vulnerable yet bold, encouraged by his obvious lust. Navin’s
cock was a thick baton between his strong thighs, less patient than the man
himself, for the smooth tip glistened readily with arousal.

My shorts fell to my ankles, revealing my whole body with
its many imperfections, to the man before me. The trembles increased, leaving
me shivering in the open doorway. I had never been so exposed before. I felt
like a virgin, awaiting my first sexual experience with both eagerness and
trepidation. Although I tried to resist covering myself, the old insecurities
resurfaced and my arms rose of their own volition, crossing over my breasts and
my groin.

Navin moved with the reflexes of a wildcat, snatching my
wrist as an expert fielder might catch a cricket ball. I froze, stunned at the
fierceness of his grasp and how tightly his fingers encircled my wrist. My arm
looked tiny, captured by his big hand.

He pulled my arm away, and his body came flush against me.
Warm, hard flesh and soft, smooth skin, pressing against my own. I thought we
could have made a beautiful piece of art—an interesting representation of life.
He depicting virility, perfection and masculinity and I, the uncertain and
imperfect. Somehow, as Navin lowered his head to look down at me, I felt like
the most perfect, desired woman in the world.

He kissed me again, his hands resting upon my hips. I
squirmed, eager to be close to him, reveling in this moment of perfect lust and
exhilarating lack of inhibition. I didn’t want the moment to end, and longed
for my brain to stop thinking so deeply. When his hands hooked behind my
thighs, elevating my backside, I whimpered in surprise against his mouth. His
cock was between my legs, pressing against my inner thigh. My legs slid around
his waist, allowing him to support my body as though I weighed nothing at all.

I was impatient, disregarding Navin’s instructions that we
weren’t to rush. Although I wanted this day to last forever, I wanted him
inside me, right at that moment. I longed to be filled, desired,
wanted
.
The insistent rolling of my hips, grinding my wetness against him, forced Navin
to break our kiss. He glared at me.

“
Illa.
No. Wait.” Heavens, his voice sounded good, so
close to my ear. There was something almost choked in the way he spoke, filling
me with a sense of satisfaction. I believed it was difficult for him to stay in
control and it pleased me.

I couldn’t remember ever feeling so aware of myself
sexually. It seemed every part of me was sensitive. My pussy was wet and my
clit throbbing as one would expect in the midst of heightened arousal, but
there was something
more
happening to my body. I felt as though every
one of my senses had become hyper-alert. Even breathing had become sensual, my
lungs filling with musky, woodsy scents. I could almost believe my sweet Indian
tea was adulterated.