Page 22 of The Rival in South Africa
Focus back on the smug face, Nikki.
Right, smug and confident, knowing that not only had he had more money pledged than me, but he also roundly beat my time.
I curled up on my side a bit more. Without Alex in bed with me, the temperature was dropping fast. I tugged the blankets toward me from either side to tuck myself in tighter. A hand with a mind of its own wandered over to Alex’s side of the bed. It was still warm, but maybe that was just my imagination.
I flopped over face first, checking with my cold nose. No, definitely not warm anymore. Mmm…but it smelled good.
We were four nights into this crazy trip, and sharing a bed with Alex hadn’t been awful. No, my accidental titty-fuck while watching lions feast was the stuff of dark porn, but that had been the worst of it.
And he’d been surprisingly kind about it, making me laugh rather than teasing me.
The sheets smelled like Alex, reminding me a bit of the ocean. I breathed in deeper, trying to memorize the scent.
There’s something to be said for pheromones. A few wayward thoughts about Alex’s chest and a few whiffs of his bed, and I was clenching my legs together again. Well, I supposed it helped that my sex life had been remarkably unsatisfying too.
I squirmed on the bed, twisting my hand under my shirt and into my pants. It was easy to close my eyes, to remember the way his body felt when we’d been pressed up together in the Jeep. I thought about the way he said my name in the mornings, voice still gritty from sleep.
Dipping my fingers in, feeling how slick I was, I tried to imagine the parts of him I didn’t know. What if we’d had that first kiss, not in the hallway of a loud party, but in one of those quiet moments we’d had at my house? I hadn’t been brave enough to kiss him when we were alone, and teenaged me somehow thought a party was better.
Kids are idiots.
What if we had kissed in private? What if we kissed here? I used to think Alex didn’t respect me, didn’t think I was good at anything. I wasn’t so sure anymore.
I moved up to my clit, pressing harder, giving myself the force I needed to see stars. If I made a move here in this bed later tonight, would he pull away? Or would I have his lean hips between my thighs, his drive and ambition turned into something that would be unlike anything I had ever experienced?
After only a few minutes of touching myself, I came hard, clamping around my hand, gasping into the still-dark canopy of our bed.
Alex could turn anything into a competition. Which suddenly didn’t sound so bad.
NINE
The excited chatterof the guests coming in off of the Jeep interrupted my conversation with Delina, the bartender. It was nearly time for brunch, and I’d been smelling the meal for the past hour during my kitchen photo shoot. I had clicked away while the team of chefs prepared the food, and my memory card was full of swirling steam, crisp, fresh produce, and the laughing faces of the staff. Like the guides, most of them were locals, but unlike the guides with impeccable English, most of the kitchen and service staff spoke Xitsonga around me.
I had eaten a little—bites here and there. On one of my earlier shoots, the one with Ion in the Maldives, I’d learned the fastest way to build camaraderie with the staff, and to make them comfortable in front of the camera, was to be an overexaggerated version of myself. Especially when, like now, the staff didn’t always speak English. The kitchen staff was the way in with the rest of the staff—a few yummy noises and eye rolls of pleasure, and Bob’s your uncle. You’d get delicious food, and people would relax.
I didn’t have to fake it, either. The food was amazing. We’d dined on kudu steaks and traditional Cape Malay curries, a reflection of the diverse faces of the kitchen staff. Today’s brunch meal was bobotie, a dish similar to shepherd’s pie but made with egg custard on top rather than potatoes and heavily laden with curry spices.
The bar was swarmed by the incoming guests, and I took my glass of water and grabbed a seat at the table. I inspected the serving bowls in front of me. Odd. One held sliced bananas, another raisins, and another flaked coconut. What in the world were we eating? What happened to the bobotie?
Alex straddled the bench next to me. “I thought you should know what you missed out on today.”
I raised an eyebrow at him. “Oh?”
“Cheetahs. A family of them rolling in the sand and playing together.” Alex’s smug face was back, and I nearly rolled my eyes.Look, I can safari better than you can.
I was saved a snarky comment by Olivia sitting down and chiming in across from me. She leaned across the table and offered me a look at her photographs. “Nothing as good as you would have done,” she said demurely.
After flipping through the photos and oohing and aahing—she had done a remarkable job—we were interrupted by one of the wait staff setting down the bobotie, deep steaming platters that were filled to the brim with a crisp, crackling top shell of egg.
“This is bobotie,” our server, whose name tag read Sam, said, “one of South Africa’s most popular dishes.” She gripped the serving spoon and scooped out a hearty portion of the dish, leaving heavily spiced steam wafting upward. She then showed us the condiments, the fruits I had noticed earlier, and a tangy and sweet chutney. “That is how South Africans eat it.”
We dug in, piling the banana, raisins, and coconut on our plates and experimenting with the odd mix of flavors and textures. It was shockingly good, though unusual.
“Will you be joining us this afternoon, Nikki?” Olivia asked me.
“No, unfortunately. I’ll be here waiting to join for dinner, though.”
Olivia glanced at Alex and then smiled at me. “Don’t worry, we’ll make sure Alex isn’t too lonely back there.”
