59: Towels, Tease, and Tomorrow

Zara woke up to the smell of skin. Something heavy pressed against her side. Then something softer. It took her a second to realize she was pinned-Sarah’s arm across her waist, Marisol’s sexy leg over her thigh. Both of them were wrapped around her like vines.

She tried to move and failed. “Okay,” she whispered, “I guess I live here now.”

Sarah mumbled something into her hair that sounded suspiciously like ’don’t move, baby’, and Marisol sighed against her shoulder, the breath hot and lazy. Zara froze. They were both out cold. The rise and fall of their fabulous chests pressed into her ribs, their skin damp and warm. Damn, how are they so big and yet so perky? She needed to get into this Apsara yoga thing with them asap.

And that’s when it hit her-she was the meat in a goddess sandwich. No wonder Bharath doesn’t mind sleeping like this everyday. These two feel so good wrapped around her. She blinked at the ceiling, trying not to laugh. So this is what happily ever after looks like. Two naked goddesses hugging me like I’m the last pillow on earth.

A few hours ago, this same bed had been ground zero for the most intense night of her life. Now it was the comedown - the afterglow. Her body still ached in the best way possible. Her thighs hurt, her breasts stung where he’d marked her, and every inch of her felt claimed.

She tilted her head, scanning the bed. Ayesha wasn’t there. Neither was Bharath. She remembered collapsing on top of both of them. That lucky bitch Ayesha managed to sleep with him inside her all night. She was determined that tonight she would usurp that position for herself.

God! Everything that man did made her feel transcendent - whether it was something as simple as a kiss or getting slammed by him. And oh my - that first time he stretched her out. Ugh ... she could swear she could hear violins and tweety birds around her like that Roger Rabbit movie. She rubbed her thighs in heat remembering last night. She needed him in her again.

“Of course he’s gone,” she muttered. “The man probably woke up at sunrise to do push-ups and cook breakfast for us mere mortals.”

Her lips curled into a sleepy smile. That was such a him thing to do. Fight gangsters at night, worship women until dawn, and still manage to make breakfast before anyone woke up. She sighed. Overachieving idiot.

She shifted slightly and winced. “Ow.” Yeah, that was definitely a bruise. She looked down and traced it with her fingertip - one of many. Small crescent marks dotted her breasts, stomach and hips. She counted four on her left thigh alone. “Damn, he really did sign his name everywhere. Not that I can blame him. I begged him for them.” She wasn’t complaining. Each mark felt like a tiny medal. Proof that she’d survived him - no, that she’d belonged to him.

Last night, she thought she was ready. That she would be the one to teach him given that she had more experience. But she wasn’t. She realized she knew nothing about pleasure or sex. She’d slept with men before-casually, strategically, like it was some kind of transaction. It was always about power, not connection. But Bharath had touched her like she was made of meaning. The man had worshipped her. Not just her body - her. She now could understand why so many people waxed lyrical about sex. She had never understood the fuss before. Now she realized that words were not enough to describe what she felt with him last night.

Her cheeks burned even thinking about it. No one had ever looked at her that way. No one had ever made her cry while making love. She’d lost count of how many times she’d climaxed, but it wasn’t just the pleasure. It was what came after-the silence, the warmth, the way Ayesha had held her, the way Sarah had kissed her forehead like a sister, the way Marisol had giggled and whispered, “Welcome to the family.”

And now she believed it. Now here she was, literally tangled up with them. Marisol’s hand rested over her hips, fingers curled like she was afraid Zara might disappear. Sarah’s head was buried against her neck, breath soft and even. It was absurdly intimate.

They were all naked, sticky, exhausted, and yet Zara didn’t feel weird about it. After all, she’d done more than just sleep naked with them for him last night. She had never even kissed a girl two weeks back, and last night she did things with the girls that would have made the editor of the Penthouse letters blush like a virgin at Sunday school.

God! The things they did together for him. Getting creampies sucked out of her, sucking out creampies and sharing them with her sisters in love and more. Zara got hot just thinking about some of the things she had done last night. Somehow, it just felt right - because it was for Bharath.

Hey Ram, look at me, she thought. A week ago, I was ready to trade my soul for a modeling contract and a rich boyfriend with a Corvette. And now I’m lying in a tangle of sweaty limbs thinking about love and lust and everything in between.

She almost laughed. “Okay Z! You’ve officially gone soft now. Like a marshmallow.”

Her old self wouldn’t recognize this girl. That version of Zara had been about image and control. Makeup at all times, nails perfect, feelings locked up tighter than her diary. That Zara thought love was for suckers. She believed men were either tools or trophies.

Then came him.

The weird Indian nerd with floppy hair and that ridiculous penchant for that stupid cologne. The guy who admitted he liked the Backstreet Boys without irony. She couldn’t believe that he actually wanted to be like them. “You know they’re not cool outside of middle school, right?” And he’d grinned and said, “Maybe not. But I like them.”

And she’d laughed. But later that night, she’d looked up the lyrics to As Long As You Love Me and realized - yeah. That was him.

I don’t care who you are, where you’re from, what you did, as long as you love me.

She smiled faintly. “Cheesy bastard.”

And then she recalled what happened outside the club last night - D-Rock, the alley, the shouting. It all came back in flashes. The way Bharath had stepped forward without hesitation, jaw tight, eyes burning, blood already on his lip. He’d thrown himself into that fight like he didn’t care what happened to him. Like protecting her and Ayesha was more important than breathing.

At the time, she’d been too high on adrenaline and shock to think. But now, in the stillness of morning, it hit her like a punch. He could have died.

Her breath caught. The room blurred for a second. What if he hadn’t come back? What if one of those idiots had a knife like the one that stabbed him before? What if this time, he hadn’t been so lucky?

Zara’s chest clenched, cold spreading through her like ice. She could still see Sarah breaking down last night, Marisol shaking, both of them holding him like he’d vanish if they let go. And she hadn’t felt the full impact of it - until now.

He had almost died. For her and Ayesha.

Her eyes stung. “You stupid, beautiful man,” she whispered. “You almost left us.”

She pressed a hand over her heart, feeling it pound against her palm. He’d saved her and Ayesha, just like he’d once saved Sarah. And after all that, after bleeding for them, he’d come home and held them like they were the ones keeping him safe.

And maybe they were. But still—he was the heart that made them all beat. The thought of that heart stopping made her dizzy.

“Never again,” she murmured. “You don’t get to scare me like that again, Bharath.”

Her eyes wandered to Sarah’s face-sleepy, serene, freckles dusted across her nose. The same girl who’d once snapped at her in the cafeteria, calling her “plastic.” Zara had hated her then. Hated how effortlessly she fit into Bharath’s life. But last night, when Sarah had reached for her hand during the shower, whispering, “Let us care for you,” Zara had felt her walls shatter.

Now Sarah was drooling slightly against her shoulder. Zara grinned. “And to think I was jealous of you, you wonderful bitch.”

Then she looked at Marisol-the firecracker Latina who’d once terrified her. Marisol had called her and Ayesha out when they had made snarky remarks about Bharath. Zara had wanted to slap her then. Now she just wanted to hug her.

Marisol’s curls were sticking to her forehead, lips parted, one hand still resting on Zara’s hip like a protective mom. Zara whispered, “Yeah, you’re not scary anymore, lady. You’re my sister.” And now only Mia was missing from this love pile. Mia was awesome. Hot, sexy and yet somehow just adorable. Her missing sister-in-love. Somehow. That word felt right. Sisters. Not competition. Not enemies. Sisters.

She still couldn’t believe how quickly they’d accepted her and Ayesha. It was like they’d been waiting for them all along, as if this crazy, mismatched group had been destined to find each other.

She remembered how Ayesha had looked last night-crying in Bharath’s arms, trembling as he told her she was free. Zara had cried too, silently, because she’d never seen something so raw. Watching him wash Ayesha under the shower, kissing away her shame, had done something to her.

It had made her believe in redemption.

She’d thought sex was just an exchange-something to get what she wanted. But last night, it felt like the universe was giving something back.

Her hand drifted over the marks again. “You really ruined me for everyone else, didn’t you?” she murmured.

Sarah stirred slightly and tightened her grip around Zara’s waist. Marisol’s fingers twitched. Zara froze again. But they didn’t wake. They just breathed-soft, synchronized. Like waves hitting the shore.

Zara’s throat tightened. “I love you guys,” she whispered, surprised to hear it out loud.

She felt ridiculous saying it to sleeping people. But it was true. She loved them. Not like she did Bharath. But like she did her family.

They were all so different - Sarah the calm, Marisol the storm, Mia the adorable chaos, and Bharath the glue holding it all together. And somehow, she, the self-proclaimed gold-digger, had become part of it. Her life had gone from designer handbags to dish towels, from fake smiles to full hearts.

She looked down at her naked body, tangled in two others, covered in evidence of last night’s chaos. It should’ve felt wrong. It didn’t. It felt perfect.

She exhaled slowly. “Okay, Zara, so you’re officially one of the crazy ones now. Congratulations.”

She tried to imagine explaining this to her old friends back home or here at Tech. “So yeah, I joined a harem. But it’s fine, because it’s basically a spiritual cult with great skincare and better orgasms.”

She grinned. “Yeah, they wouldn’t get it.”

Her mind drifted back to Bharath-probably downstairs humming some old A.R. Rahman tune while flipping dosas. He’d promised to make breakfast “like Amma used to.” Whatever that meant. All she knew was that he took his cooking as seriously as his lovemaking.

She smiled and let herself relax again, staring at the ceiling fan slowly spinning above. The morning light poured in through the blinds, cutting across the bed, turning their bodies gold.

She whispered, “You did it, Bharath. You made me believe.”

For the first time in her life, Zara didn’t feel like she was performing. She wasn’t the “hot one,” or the “manipulator,” or the “girl with the plan.” She was just ... loved.

She turned her head slightly and kissed Sarah’s forehead. Then Marisol’s shoulder. Both stirred but didn’t wake. She smiled to herself, whispering, “Sleep tight, sisters. We all earned it.”

Zara stirred again, half-smiling as she felt the warmth of skin pressed against her on both sides. She shifted slightly, but both women’s arms tightened instinctively around her.

“God, you guys are clingy,” she whispered with a grin, whispering more to herself than to them. “I mean, I get it. I am adorable. But damn, let a girl breathe.”

After a moment she sighed softly. “Okay, this is cute and all, but I miss my man.”

It was true. Every part of her felt heavy, content, and yet she wanted to see him. Bharath. The idiot who’d somehow turned her whole world upside down.

She tried to wriggle out of Sarah’s grip without waking her. “Easy ... easy ... Operation: Escape the Sirens is in play,” she whispered like a thief in an action movie.

But Sarah mumbled, “Mmm ... five more minutes ... baby,” and pulled her closer.

Zara groaned under her breath. “Girl, I am not your teddy bear.”

A second later, Marisol made a sleepy sound that could’ve been a curse in Spanish and hugged Zara tighter from behind. Now she was trapped again, squished between them like a human body pillow.

“This is ridiculous,” Zara whispered. “You guys are literally trying to kill me with affection.”

She wriggled a little more and finally managed to slip her arm out. Marisol’s arm slid limply onto the mattress, and Sarah rolled onto her back with a sigh. Zara froze, waiting. Nothing.

She exhaled in victory. “Operation Escape the Sirens is success. 10-4 ... Roger and over and out bitches ... Sexy spies forever.”

Quietly, she tiptoed across the floor, and pulled open his closet, looking for something to wear. Half his clothes were folded neatly; the rest were a jumble of T-shirts and gym shorts. She ran her fingers over the fabric until she found an old gray gym tee.

“Bingo,” she whispered.

She slipped it on. It was oversized for her, soft, and smelled exactly like him - spicy, clean, a little too heavy on that Wild Stone cologne. She wrinkled her nose playfully. “Seriously, dude, this stuff could kill mosquitoes. How do you still smell hot wearing this?”

She inhaled again, smiling despite herself. “Because it’s you, idiot. Loyal even to your cologne.”

That was so Bharath. Once he liked something, he stuck with it, people, music, deodorant brands. Wild Stone was practically a personality trait now. Half the guys at GT probably bought it just to smell like him. The Prince of Pleasure, they’d started calling him. She giggled remembering how embarrassed he’d been when Haiku boy coined that nickname. That site was so cute and yet Bharath was so embarrassed.

“Poor baby,” she whispered. “Hates the title, but lives with it anyway.”

She hugged herself once, feeling silly but warm, and padded barefoot down the stairs.

The faint clatter of pans and the low hum of a male voice reached her before she even turned the corner. Of course, she thought. Cooking. Of course, he’s cooking.