A Bollywood Affair by Sonali Dev

caught a handful of his sleeve and caught her breath at the feel of hard muscles under her breasts.
    Hair spilled around her face, mercifully hiding her flaming cheeks from his sight.
    “You okay?” he asked against the curls covering her ear, his voice so tender, goose flesh started at the nape of her neck and dotted tiny bumps down her spine. For a few moments neither one of them moved. Then he pulled away. “I didn’t plan that. I swear.”
    She twisted her head and looked up at him. “I’m sorry. I should never have said that.”
    He turned her around and held her at arm’s distance. He was about to say something when she noticed rough, sticky dough where his hands cupped her elbows.
    “Is that dough on your hands?”
    “Difficult to make rotis without getting dough on your hands.” He lifted one hand up for display.
    “You can make rotis? I don’t know any man who can make rotis.”
    “I doubt you know any man like me, sweetheart.” His smile was teasing but there was that liquid heat in his eyes again. And it tipped her slightly off balance.
    He slipped his hand back under her elbow and steadied her. Warmth rose from his doughy palms and spread down to parts where warmth had never until now ventured. She swallowed. She didn’t know how it happened, but suddenly they were standing so close she could hear his heart thudding in his chest. Unless that was her own heart.
    This was wrong. Dangerous and wrong in every way. She wasn’t free to do this. But the strange heat spreading through her slowed her reflexes. She was about to push away from him when her eyes started to sting, something burned in her throat, and a shrill siren burst through the air.
    Samir pulled away first and tried to push her onto the mattress. But she clung to his sleeve, refusing to let go, so he scooped her up in his arms and ran into the living room.
    The kitchen was filled with smoke. The smoke alarm was going crazy. “Shit, I left a roti in the pan.” He turned off the burner under the roti, or at least it must’ve been a roti before it had turned to the tissue-thin scrap of charcoal emitting smoke into the room. He put her on the countertop, ran to the living room, and opened the windows.
    The smoke started to clear but the alarm wouldn’t stop shrieking.
    “Get that magazine and fan it.” Mili pointed to Ridhi’s Cosmo magazine lying on the floor. It’s what Ridhi had done when she’d burned the chai.
    He fanned frantically and finally the din stopped. Mili peeked over his shoulder at the cinder roti. He turned and followed her gaze. “I hope you like your rotis well done,” he said.
    And they both started to laugh.
     
    Samir had never met a woman who ate like this. Come to think of it, he had in recent years never met a woman who ate, period. Neha treated food like it was evil incarnate. She was in constant conflict with any little morsel she had to force into her mouth.
    Mili ate as if she were making love to the food. Fierce, hungry love. Slow, sultry love. Every bite sent her into raptures, the pleasure of the flavors bursting on her tongue palpable in the tiny peaks of bliss flitting across her face. What would it be like when this woman orgasmed?
    They were sitting cross-legged on the floor and eating with their hands in traditional Indian fashion. Samir was glad to have the plate in his lap because for all his pleasure at the sight of Mili eating, Little Sam was paying the price.
    “This is truly the most amazing potato sabzi I’ve ever eaten and the dal is perfect and the rotis make me feel like I’m sitting in my naani ’s kitchen in Balpur.” She kept a constant string of compliments going as she ate. They bubbled from her as if she couldn’t contain herself. Samir, who usually found all forms of flattery oppressive, never wanted her to stop.
    “Seriously, I’m starting to doubt your manhood.”
    Samir choked on his roti. Was that a coquettish look she threw him?
    Nope. False alarm, because she ruined