Rebel Hard (Hard Play #2)(17)

As it was, she’d mumbled something about needing time to think, and her parents had nodded and smiled. Her grandmother had patted her affectionately on the back of the hand. Everyone probably thought she was overwhelmed—and they were right.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t in the way they expected.

Her hormones had danced like crazy around Raj, just as they had at the party. Her fingers had itched to tear off his shirt. And her thighs had squeezed at the thought of being wrapped around him while her mouth watered at the thought of his kiss.

Physical attraction was not a problem.

“Argh!” She buried her face in a pillow and reminded herself that it was highly unlikely she’d have to do anything at all. Not only was he furious with her, but physically speaking, Raj was out of her league. The man was flat-out beautiful and she hadn’t had the advantage of moonlight last night.

Shoving aside the pillow on that less-than-cheerful thought, she wrenched off the sheets and gathered her towel and everything else she needed for the shower before stumbling out and down the hall to the bathroom she shared with her grandmother. It was bright white and clean and felt blinding to her gritty eyes.

Squinting against the burn, she put her stuff on top of the closed laundry basket, stripped, then stepped under a scalding-hot spray in a vain attempt to wash away the dreams that had tormented her all night long. Of a certain gorgeous, serious man whom she much preferred with a bit of scruff on his jaw rather than clean-shaven as he’d been last night.

Her body shivered in secret, unfamiliar places at the memory of how Raj’s stubble had scraped against her when they kissed. He had hair on his chest too. Crisp and silken at the same time. Not too much. Just enough to tantalize a woman into rubbing up against him.

Her clit pulsed.

“You’re heading into cold-shower territory,” she moaned at herself. “You hate cold showers.” But even that warning didn’t stop her from fantasizing, and she was flushed under the rich darkness of her skin when she stepped out of the shower.

As she rubbed the towel over her skin, she couldn’t help but remember how Raj had stroked it, making it patent that he liked it a whole lot. Her nipples pebbled, standing out impudently on the taut mounds of her breasts. He’d liked those too. Tight and firm, he’d called them. Like just-ripe peaches.

Nayna shivered and slathered on the body cream she loved, let it sink in. The rest of her morning routine was fairly quick, and she was soon back in her room, ready to dress for work. Something made her reach deep into her closet to pull out a skirt suit she’d never before worn. She’d bought it on sale because the deep crimson of it looked glorious against her skin—and the fit was flawless off the rack, which never happened with her boyish hips and small breasts.

However, it had always seemed too out-there for an accountant. Today it felt like armor. Because one thing was certain: at some point during the day she’d get a call or a text from her parents saying that Raj had turned her down. Her stomach clenched even though that was what she wanted—for him to be the bad guy. She could then bounce off the rejection—and the sympathy it would engender—to broach the subject of her own change of mind when it came to the plan her parents had for her life.

“Rejection’s a normal part of the process,” she reminded herself. Even if it would come from the only man she’d ever truly wanted. In some ways the arranged-marriage mart, as she and ísa had termed it, was far more honest than dating. No sparing feelings, no trying to be kind and accidentally stringing people along. One set of parents would simply tell the other that it wasn’t the right match and on it went.

Some people got bent out of shape about it, but Nayna liked the idea of knowing where she stood. And it wasn’t as if she’d always been the first one to say no. Three times, the jackasses who’d come to meet her had sent her parents a message before they’d even pulled out of the drive.

“Good riddance,” her father had muttered each time and deleted the number from his phone.

Pulling on a fitted white shirt that she tucked into the skirt, she shrugged into the jacket and buttoned it up. It fit as sweetly as it had in the shop, skimming the lines of her body and making her feel sexy even though the pencil skirt was a perfectly respectable length.

“At least I have a butt.” She patted the only really curvy part of her, which the skirt gently emphasized.

She decided to accessorize the suit with a pair of small gold earrings that her grandmother had given her when she turned eighteen. Of a rich yellow twenty-two-karat gold, the floral design was distinctively Indian, and it spoke to the part of her nature that had grown up watching Bollywood movies with her mother and going to the temple with her grandmother.

Her hair she brushed and pinned into a neat roll at the back of her neck. Makeup took only five minutes—she had the morning routine down pat. Popping her lipstick in her purse to put on in the car after she’d had breakfast, she slipped on low-heeled work pumps in black patent leather, picked up her work satchel and purse, and walked into the kitchen.

To her surprise, her mother was bustling at the kitchen counter, in the process of making roti, the simple flatbread that it was usually Nayna’s job to make. Nayna stuck to cereal or toast in the mornings, but her father and grandmother liked a vegetarian Indian meal. Her mother usually made the vegetable dish while Nayna did the roti.

“Ma.” She put her satchel and purse down out of the way. “I was just about to do that.” She normally did it before she got dressed, but she was perfectly capable of handling the task by throwing on an apron over her suit.