Here There are Strawberries

"I--wow," I shook my head slowly, "You look... wow." Her lips quirked upward. I cleared my throat, lifting the bottle in my hand, "I brought wine. I don't know if that's what you're supposed to drink, with Indian food?"

"Wine's perfect," she took the bottle as I passed it to her, "Come on in."

As soon as I stepped through the open doorway, two things struck me. The first was the coolness of the air conditioning. The second was the smell. It drifted from the kitchen, so strongly that I was amazed I hadn't smell it approaching the house. It was similar to curry--but lighter. The smell of cumin and cayenne, almost overpoweringly; but below them I could make out the distinct smells of oil, and thyme, and cardamom. I breathed in deeply.

Following Godja down the hallway, I unlaced my boots and left them by the entranceway to the kitchen. I stood to the side as she moved two pots off the stovetop and onto heat mats. Bending down, giving me a very definite idea of the shape of her behind, through the fabric of her dress, she pulled a tinfoil-wrapped package from the oven.

"These need to sit for a moment," she took a corkscrew from a bottom drawer in the cabinet and passed both it and the bottle to me. I opened it, and she filled two wineglasses about half-way each. She passed one to me, and then gestured toward a second doorway in the kitchen, which I could see lead to a living-room, "Shall we sit for a moment?"

"Sure," I nodded, following her out and into the space. It was surprisingly modern, for what the outside of the house would have suggested. Most of the furniture was square-looking and white; with a woven carpet that I figured had come straight from India. A glass-faced table sat on top of it, just in front of the couch. There was a fireplaces, clearly decorational, and a sliding glass door set in a bank of windows that faced out toward the strawberry fields.

Seating myself on one side of the couch, I set my wineglass down on the table in front of me. I was slightly surprised when Godja, instead of sitting near me, set her wineglass down directly beside mine and sat directly on my lap. She slid off slightly, propped up between the back of the couch and my shoulder, but her legs remained draped over mine. The position was comfortable, but incredibly familiar. As I turned to face her, I fought the urge to lean in and kiss her--she'd asked me to, yesterday, but today was an entirely different day. I was going to take my cues from her.

"I like your eyes," she stared into them as she spoke, tilting her head slightly as she studied them deeply, "The green of them... reminds me of the rivers in Chapari. Sometimes, in storm season, the green went brown from the banks. That's what your eyes look like. Good eyes."

"Does it bother you that I'm white?" I asked. I'm not sure where the question came from, or why I felt the need to ask it at this moment.

By the look in Godja's eyes, I knew she was equally confused. Confused, and at the same time, strangely understanding. I swore I could almost see myself reflected, in the dark circles that stared back at me from the other side of the couch. My hand rested on her thigh, and she made no move to take herself from under it. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, in a way that made the sweep of her black hair swing outward from her shoulder. She studied my face carefully.

"No. Does it bother you that I'm..." she trailed off.

"Indian?"

"I was going to say devastatingly sexy, actually."

I laughed, a full-bodied sound that made me lurch forward slightly. Godja answered by cocking the corner of her lips upward, in something that combined a grin and a smirk. Lowering her hand from my shoulder, she trailed the tips of her fingers across the back of my hand. Her voice, when it came, was soft.

"You have a good laugh, Thomas. And you're a good man. No, your whiteness does not bother me." She was one to talk, about a good laugh--as if the sound of hers didn't make me want to live inside a room of that sound. Her laughter was the sound of rain falling on thin shingles. It was a tipped-over rainstick. Just thinking about it, seeing the hint of it in the corner of her lips, was enough to make my mouth feel dry and my chest go tight.

Before I could think of a proper response, she pushed gently against the back of my hand, just below the knuckles, with the tips of her fingers. Urging my hand higher. I complied. Leaning forward, I brought my mouth to hers. As they met, I slid my hand upward, slowly, until I felt the fabric of her underwear against the side of my pointer finger. Her thighs hugged either side snugly. Against my mouth, I felt the slightest shudder entered the exhale of her breathing.

She smiled, her lips still touching mine, making me feel the movement of them through the whole bottom of my face. She moved her face away, then. Her cheek rested against mine, her breathing a hot whisper just in front of my ear. When she spoke, her voice was somehow even softer than before.

"You still kiss like a Cancer. But even so, I--want you."

It was a request, I knew. The gentle pleading of her tone punctuated at the end by another warm exhale against the bottom of my ear. I exhaled in response, through my nose; the sinking of my chest drawing me closer against her. With every breath, I can feel the slope of her breasts against the bottom of my chest, rising and falling. Reaching up, I curl my free hand around the side of her neck, my thumb stroking over her cheek and coming to rest in the small hairs just in front of her ear as I guide her backward into the pillows. My other hand, the one between her thighs, begins to move slowly. Not going upward, for what I know waits behind her underwear, but instead sideways. With my thumb and fingers, I massage the roundness of her inside thigh. Only the side of my pointer finger remains high, my knuckle stroking over her fabric-covered cleft with each upward movement.

Beneath me, I felt her breathing begin to dissolve. It was still deep, but there was an edge of unsteadiness to each rise and fall. Her eyes were closed, giving me a close-up view of the dully shimmering blueness to her eyeshadow. Her black hair tangled with the white and navy tassels of the throw pillow on which her head rested.

"Don't..." her voice was a bit breathless, "be a tease."

The words almost gave me pause. She wanted to fuck--and I wanted nothing more than to fuck her. To pull the underwear down her thighs and bury myself, to the hips, in the warmth behind them. To prop a pillow beneath her back and slide an arm underneath her, feeling her cry out against my neck.

But something stopped me. She was enjoying this; I could tell by the way her hips were moving against my hand, upward and forward, down and backward. I could tell by the blissfulness of her expression and the sound of her voice--and that, more than anything else, is what made up my mind. The light hint of hopefulness, that ran entirely contrary to her previous four words. Raising my hand slightly, I gave her thigh a gentle squeeze. I was rewarded by an answer from her body; her hips pushing foward, legs widening slightly. Against the side of my finger, I could feel dampness beginning to work its way through the thin fabric of her underwear; like dew on the grass in the early hours of the morning, warmed by the sun. Sticky and slippery all at once.

"Wait--dinner," she said suddenly.

"Hmm, no." I shook my head, "I think I need an appetizer."

Before she had a chance to follow that line of thought, I tucked my arms beneath her and lifted her from the couch. Carrying her to the doorway of the kitchen, I set her on her feet. Still working mostly on adrenaline, I went to one knee in front of her legs. I felt her hands go over my shoulders, and I leaned in to kiss the inside of her thighs. She leaned back against the doorframe, head turned up to the ceiling, as I slowly kissed my way up from her knee, as high as I could go without spreading her legs further.

"Open," the sound of my own voice surprised even me. I was used to the feeling of control I took, during sex; but not that--an almost sharp word. But before I had a chance to apologize for my tone, Godja had opened her legs further. She rocked back against the wall, leaning her lower body out slightly.

It was a knack I had--normally. The ability to know what people liked during sex; a firm hand, or a gentle. But Godja was an anomaly, to me. I'd never met a woman like her before, and I found her strangely unreadable. I figured that what she liked very much had to do with what day it was, that she fluctuated as frequently as the weather. Whether I'd simply caught her in the right moment, or whether this was something that she usually found arousing, I still had no idea. But I was going to work with it.

Using the top of my hands, I pushed the dress up from her waist. It was slightly tight, which helped hold the fabric against her skin as I set it in place. Her underwear went the opposite direction; not off, but just pulled down just below her knees. Raising myself slightly, I brought my mouth to the bottom of her stomach. My mouth left wet circles on the smooth, brown skin of her stomach. It was sun-flushed and warm. I felt her muscles contract slightly, moving upward as she breathed in, and down as she breathed out.

Working slowly, I tucked my hands behind her legs. They hugged the top of her thighs, just below the cheeks of her bum. As I went lower, I heard the loosening of her breath above me. It had been about three years, since I last went down on a woman--but I didn't let that give me pause. Truthfully, experience was helpful, but every woman was different enough that it didn't truly mean very much. Certainly not enough to give me pause.

Bending down, I breathed in deeply. The smell of her, this close, was intoxicating. A fragrance not unlike that of her body, but stronger--deeper, saltier. It made my mouth water more than any smell from the kitchen.

Bringing my lips to her skin, I opened my mouth and let my tongue do the easy work. Spreading the glistening folds of her labia with the side of its tip, moving slowly upward with each stroke. Each one went slightly deeper, until my open mouth was nearly pressed to her skin--nearly, and then. I heard Godja's inhale from above me as my mouth touched her properly for the first time. Pulsing the base of my tongue slightly, I let the front trail slowly up the wet cleft between her legs.

The taste of her, even more potent still than her smell, was enough to make my head spin pleasantly. It was a bay leaf, steeped in sea water. A wild strawberry dipped in salt. It was all at once earthy, and saline, and female. Burying my face between her thighs, so that they squeezed each cheek and made it difficult to hear, I worked with practiced patience.

It was a bit like cooking, I thought--add too much, too soon, and you'll ruin the entire thing. Instead, I waited until I felt Godja's weight descend slightly against the wall; then, only then, did I tighten the grip of my hands against the back of her legs. Moving higher, I felt the throbbing heat of her clitoris against my top lip. I didn't focus on it; instead only brushing it with the curve of my lip while my tongue rolled beneath.

She wouldn't know it, but it was her name. That was the pattern that my tongue followed. I wrote it slowly, in cursive; taking up a steady pattern while I focused my attention between my own breathing and her body.

She was going to cum. I knew it, because I could feel the muscles of her legs tightening under my palms, pushing back against their grip. I knew because the taste of her changed, ever so slightly; becoming at the same time both heavier and more reminiscent of water. Against my mouth, the space between her legs was impossibly hot. Hotter than the sun outside had been. Hotter than the fire of the cookstoves.

"Thomas," her voice was a near-gasp above me, "I'm... almost..."

I broke my pattern only long enough to nod. And then my tongue was back. This time, I let the flat of it brush her clit with each pass, at the top of G and ; each one making the sound of her breathing go just a bit higher. It was a matter of moments, I knew. Beneath me, against the front of my knees, I felt her toes curl into the floorboards. She'd gone tight as an elastic, stretched between a thumb and finger--one more moment, and something would give. I focused on nothing but that. I wanted to feel the snap of her, against my mouth.

***

On the far side of the house, I heard the sound distinctly. A key sliding into a lock and turning. Obviously Godja heard it as well, because suddenly her eyes were open wide. I looked up at her from between her legs, and she stared down at me--our expressions matching perfectly. The door opened, and we heard the sound of booted feet scuffling on wood, and then the entrance carpet.

Moving quickly, I tucked my fingers into the band of Godja's underwear and pulled them back up. As I stood, she stepped away from the wall. Arranging her dress around her hips, she rolled her shoulders back slightly and drew a hand through her hair. We were both sweating slightly--but that much, I knew, could be passed off as having come out of the summer heat and into an air-conditioned house. The flush of her cheeks on the other hand--the still slightly hot touch to the roundness of her dark eyes, the points of her nipples that her bra and summer dress only somewhat hid; those, on the other hand, spoke undeniably of sex.

"Bathroom," I mouthed. She looked confused for a moment, and then understood.

"Miss Dharyani," a man's deep, Indian-accented voice called through the house, "We're home!"

I gave Godja a moment, watching her move quietly through the living-room and slip down the hallway. Then I straightened, tucking my hands into the pockets of my jeans in a way that I hoped hid my mostly lowered erection.

"Mr. Dharyani?" I called back, "It's Thomas."

A man's head appeared around the open frame of the doorway. Today, his turban was orange, almost matching the open-chested shirt that he wore tucked into a pair of grey work pants. His eyebrows scrunched together slightly, upon seeing me. Not suspiciously, but confusion touched with open curiosity.

"Godja asked me to take a look at a couple of the doors," I explained, thinking fast, "She mentioned that they were scraping." I gestured to the scratch-marks on the wooden floor, just in front of the carpet, "I worked in construction for a couple of years, so I offered--"

"Oh, that's wonderful." The man nodded gratefully, "Just wonderful. It's been on my list for months now. Very generous of you. Is that dahi papdi chat I smell cooking?"

"Dahi bhalla," Godja's voice spoke from behind me as she emerged from the hallway. I turned, catching her eye and getting a small, hidden smile in return. She came forward and gave her father a light kiss on the cheek, "I thought I'd make it, to say thank-you to Thomas for helping. Did you know it's his birthday on Friday?"

"Happy birthday," the man turned to me with a smile, his heavy accent bringing the words close together, "It smells delicious. It's been so long since I smelled your cooking," he put an arm around his daughter and pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head.

Damn, she's impressive. The thought came to me, unbidden. It was true. There was no sign any longer of what we'd been doing for the last half an hour. Her face was perfectly composed, the last of her flush washed away and her sweat dried with a handtowel. Just a young woman who'd spent the morning cooking and invited me in to make repairs. If her father suspected anything, his face certainly didn't show it, and it wouldn't come from her. Silently, I thanked the dish in the kitchen for covering the smell of sex that I'm sure either we or the living-room otherwise would have given off. I quickly wondered whether that was planned on Godja's part. Anybody else I would have said it was a lucky coincidence--but the way she smiled into her father's eyes before glancing at me made me suddenly realize that, despite my very high estimation of her, I'd still managed to underestimate the young woman.

"Thomas was just saying that we need to pick up some more hinges, to reset the doors. Ours are a bit warped. We have screws in the garage, right?"

I was?

"Screws in the garage," her father nodded, "Might be hinges in there too."

"Oh, we should get some new ones. Wouldn't want to do all this work for nothing, right?"

Her father nodded.

"I'll give him a ride into town. I just need to grab my purse," she ducked into the kitchen, her voice calling back, "You and mom help yourself to some of this dahi bhalla. There's roti on the oven." Her voice rose slightly as she came back into the living-room, now with her purse hanging over one shoulder, "You just be sure to save some for Thomas and his brothers. I promised I'd have some for them to try."

"You drive safe," the man gave his daughter a final kiss on the top of her head as he walked past her to the kitchen, "Good to see you, Thomas. Thank you again."

"My pleasure, sir."

"Yes dad. Truck," Godja mouthed, pulling a thumb over her shoulder.

As we pulled on our boots, we traded glances. As soon as the door swung shut behind us, Godja burst out laughing. I couldn't help but smile--partially at the sound of her laughter, and partially in relief. I shook my head, exhaling heavily.

"Okay, you're seriously amazing."

"Thanks," she flicked her hair over her shoulder, "I know."

"You also know that we absolutely do not need new hinges, right?"

"Sure," Godja nodded as she fished her keys out of her bag and started toward the truck. I followed a step behind her, "but I thought need hinges sounded better than hey dad, welcome home, Thomas and I are just going to have sex in the living room now, okay?".

"Fair enough. Where's the closest hardware store?"

She paused, one foot on the step of the truck. Leaning sideways, she narrowed her eyes slightly as she looked at me over the truck bed, peeking out from behind the dusty red cab. For a moment, I had the strange feeling that she was considering me; the way that somebody looks at a particularly slow-witted child. She blinked once, and I saw the hint of a smile playing over her lips.

"Thomas," she spoke slowly, "there's hinges in the garage. About forty of them. I know, because I bought them a month ago."

"Then--" I trailed off, realizing suddenly where she was heading. Where she was leading me, while I stumbled. I raised my eyebrows slightly. Unbelievable, I thought, how long it had taken me to get there. Shaking my head, I opened the door and stepped up into the truck, lowering myself into the seat beside Godja. She turned the key, and the truck complained quietly as the engine turned over and came to life beneath us.

"Sundaranaaya aankutti," Godja whispered, under her breath. It was followed by a small smile.

"What does that mean?" I asked, as she guided the truck down the long driveway and onto the gravel road. She glanced at me.

"Oh, just something my grandmother used to say." Her lips quirked slightly higher, "How to translate that? It's a bit like... hmm, not pretty boys. There's a bit of extra meaning, there." Her dark eyes widened a fraction, "Oh! It's a good thing you're handsome."

"Rude," I answered, directing my grin out of the window.

"Aw, did I hurt your feelings?" She joked, reaching out and touching the top of my thigh with two fingers. As they moved over the slightly rough fabric of my jeans, I felt a small spark of electricity run up from the bottom of my spine to the base of my neck, "I'll make it up to you?"