Page 102 of The Princess Trap
“A raindrop?”
He watched as Jasmine leant forward. She put her finger over a fat drop dribbling on the outside of the glass. As it moved, her finger followed it. She had a dark, raised scar on the inside of her forearm, long and narrow. “Go on,” she said. “Choose.”
Feeling self-conscious, Rahul ignored the stares from the people around them. He got up to stand beside her and chose a drop at random.
She clucked her tongue. “That’s higher than mine. Choose one about the same.”
“For what purpose?”
She smiled up at him. “I like the way you talk. You should talk more.”
He didn’t point out that he’d had no reason or opportunity to talk to her before now. He didn’t point out that they didn’t know each other, so for all she knew, he might be the most talkative person in the world.
Instead, he repeated, “For what purpose?”
“Your raindrop is your horse. The windowsill is the finish line. I bet your coat on my raindrop.”
Gambling. Dad would smack him upside the head for even considering it. But it wasn’treallygambling, because he intended to give her his coat no matter what. It was a game, a game that brought a smile to a pretty girl’s face. He wanted that smile to stay. He wanted a reason to stand beside her. He chose a raindrop.
“So we start like this?” he asked, frowning slightly.
“Yes,” she said. “This is how we begin.”
Rahul’s raindrop won, and she refused to take a rematch. Refused to accept his coat, either. So he put it over the back of her chair, packed up his things, and left her laughing protests behind. She’d have to take the coat now.
He remembered belatedly that his iPod was in the inside pocket, and prayed she wouldn’t be stubborn enough to leave the coat behind.
She didn’t. The next day, she was there, coat and all. She’d found his iPod and listened to every song. She had very strong opinions onSongs About Jane.
As she spoke, animated and carefree, he realised that she was the most compelling person he’d ever met. He was so sure of that fact, it almost disturbed him. Rahul didn’t count himself certain of many things. There was his life plan, which could be summed up asstudy and succeed; his beloved family; his numbers, which would never deceive him. And now, apparently, he was also certain of Jasmine Allen’s brilliance.
His attraction to her was unsettling—but not unsettling enough to make him stay away. It didn’t stop him talking to her for hours, far too loud and enthusiastic for the library. It didn’t stop him taking her to lunch in the cafe downstairs and buying her a small mountain of sweets, even though he disapproved of refined sugar. It didn’t stop him saying her name as often as he could, loving the way it rushed from his lips like a waterfall, loving the way it tasted like connection.
When she’d asked his name, he wondered if she’d pronounce it right, or if she’d ignore thehand lengthen theu,and he’d have to teach her, have to press his lips against her skin as he sounded it out.
She’d pronounced it perfectly, of course.
Their library meetings became something of a habit. He’d study; she’d stare out of the window. She’d interrupt to make him laugh, or to draw him into some ridiculous bet. He’d bore her with his thoughts on the accrual principle, and laugh when she said she was allergic to spreadsheets, and then a library assistant would come over to shush them, and they’d both apologise and laugh harder.
And whenever they parted, she’d hug him.
The first time, she did it so easily. So casually. She slid her arms around his neck and pressed her body against his, and her hair brushed his cheek, and at every single point of contact he felt a surge of skin-prickling heat, like the air before a summer storm. And then he felt her breath catch in her chest, and she pulled back and looked up at him with wide eyes, and he thought…
He didn’t know what he thought. In an instant, her face cleared, and she smiled, and she left.
But after that, every hug seemed fraught with tension, heavy with a delicious sort of pressure. Every accidental touch of their hands felt like a secret held close to the chest. Sometimes, when they laughed, he’d catch her eye, or she’d catch his, and shared humour would turn into something slower and thicker and sweeter, like dripping honey. Something he wanted to taste.
He wasn’t surprised that Jasmine made the first move. Wasn’t surprised when, two weeks after they met, she invited him back to her flat.
She shut her front door behind them. He looked around at the real wood floor and the art on her hallway wall, and remembered that Luke Schnaigl had said her family was loaded.
Then she caught him by the shoulders. He expected her to kiss him. Hewantedher to kiss him. But she didn’t. Instead, she pushed him down, down, down, until he sat on the cool wood. He wondered what she was doing, then decided he didn’t care. Wondered if he should mention the fact that he’d never done this before. She looked at him with every inch of her champagne sparkle, and he thought that this must be drunkenness.
Then she reached beneath her skirt and pulled down her knickers, and everything came into sharp focus. When she began to touch herself under the skirt, he almost died. It was a bad idea, but still he gritted out, “Let me see.”’
Her confident smile softened into something breathless and wide-eyed. Slowly, she raised her skirt, and showed him.
She was one of those women who seemed petite above the waist, but below it, things got deliciously heavy. He had seen and salivated over her muscular calves before, but now he saw her heavy thighs, her wide hips, the softness of her belly and the dark curls between her legs. She slid a finger through those curls, spreading her delicate folds for him. He saw the stiff nub of her clit and the deep pink of her inner flesh, stark against her brown skin.
