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  Claimed by the Native

  Rea Thomas

  Rosie, unable to deal with the fallout from a failed engagement, decides to backpack through India with the misguided notion of “finding herself”. She has spanned the country, visited temples and explored the culture—all without finding anything but the realization her problems have come abroad with her.

  Then, as her southward journey brings her to Kerala, Rosie meets a local farmer, a man who barely speaks English but who manages to reignite a zest for life within her. She is instantly attracted to him, for not only is he exquisitely gorgeous, he is also mysterious. When he invites her to his modest home in the rural outskirts of town for the sole purpose of sex, Rosie knows agreeing would be foolish and dangerous. All the guidebooks warn about such stupidity and yet she is powerless to resist.

  Soon Rosie finds what she came to India for—liberation from her sadness and a little adventure.

  An Exotika® contemporary erotica story from Ellora’s Cave

  Claimed by the Native

  Rea Thomas

  Dedication

  To my own Kannur man. You enrich my life every single day we are together.

  Chapter One

  I wanted him.

  There was no preamble, no doubt, no inner quibbling. The moment I glimpsed him, standing on the beach as dawn broke over the Arabian Sea, I wanted him.

  Perhaps it was the ethereal light, casting his silhouette in a golden halo, projecting him in almost godly radiance.

  I had come to India two months ago, roaming state to state with a backpack and my old camera that still used film. I’d never had a love of digital photography and felt it somehow lacked any spark. I had come to this land of religion, culture, festivals, colors and musical movies expecting to “find myself”. Although it was clichéd, I had boarded the plane in London, hoping the diversity of India would evoke something deeply spiritual inside me. That it might put my life into some kind of perspective. The kind of perspective I knew had been desperately lacking recently.

  In some ways it had. India wasn’t quite as lost in the past as I imagined it would be. The cities were modern, telecommunication as good as the Western world. But still, there remained a part of the vast, diverse land that was filled with history, myth, legend and ritual. I had seen perhaps one hundred temples already and I still wasn’t bored. One would have thought traveling alone was a solitary and lonely choice, but I had not felt any pangs for company.

  Kerala, where I had arrived three days ago, was my favorite place so far. They called it “God’s Own Country” and I could easily understand why. The land was lush with vegetation. Coconut trees, mango trees, banana trees and lime trees grew in haphazard abundance. Everywhere I looked there was fruit readily available for picking—although I didn’t for fear of being branded a thief. The air smelled heavily of this natural beauty too. Especially in the morning, which was why I had left my hotel room for a wander along the beach.

  Where I saw him for the first time. Where I felt a sting of loneliness for the first time in two months.

  I did not anticipate the wonderful racing of my pulse as I rested my weight against a sloping coconut tree and watched him. It had been so long since I had felt even the merest flicker of desire.

  He wore a cotton mundu—folded up to expose his thick, dark legs—and nothing else. I couldn’t see his face, only the curls of his black hair against the nape of his strong neck. He was performing some kind of complex stretches, every muscle in his immaculately honed body tensing and rippling beneath mocha-brown skin. His stance was almost warrior-like, his limbs impossibly flexible as he rotated his body in a single, swift movement. Long fingers brushed the sand, sending a spray of powdery grains into the air, gold-dust as they caught the morning light.

  The sun had crested over the horizon, slanting beams across the still-gray ocean. Gentle waves came and went against the shore, occasionally advancing far enough to cover the tips of his toes. The merest breeze teased his unruly hair and sent the cotton fabric fluttering. I was the only other soul on the beach and in the fifteen minutes I had been watching, he hadn’t given a single indication of being aware of me.

  He looked almost majestic, lifting his arms toward the brightening sky, stretching as if in silent worship of this beautiful morning. The thick tendons of his flesh were hard against his skin. He was magnificently gorgeous. I felt as though I had stepped into another era, watching this mundu-clad local man performing sacred martial arts, greeting the sunrise with reverence and respect.

  As his routine drew to a close, the stranger lowered his head and pressed his hands together. I watched him give silent prayer for another few seconds, before he turned abruptly and leveled his eyes upon me at once. I had no doubt then that he had been aware of me all along and the impression he had not was simply a ruse.

  Eyes as black as onyx watched me, hard and appraising. From the front, he was even more breathtaking in his beauty; his body was solid—not bumpy and beefy, but hard and taut. The mundu hung low on his narrow hips, offering me a tantalizing view of his groin. There were crisp, dark hairs leading downward in a delicious trail from the little indent of his bellybutton. His abdominal muscles seemed to flex beneath my scrutiny and his shoulders squared, his posture as rigid and upright as a soldier.

  Perhaps I was yielding some unknown magnetism for his gaze was fixed upon me, unwavering in its intensity. I felt the deep seeds of arousal begin to grow within my belly as his impenetrable eyes narrowed in contemplation. His lips were plush, the lower of the two a delicious curve that I could imagine sweeping my tongue across. I broke our gaze long enough to study his mouth and imagine what he would kiss like. Something about his pure, potent sexuality told me he would kiss as well as he did everything else—amazingly.

  I knew nothing of this man. Not his name or age, what he did or where he came from—but my instinct told me he would be a powerful, possessive and thorough lover. Everything I needed in the aftermath of my recent heartbreak. I needed someone who would make me forget the pain, could reignite my libido with one hard and obstinate stare.

  I was surprised when he began to move, his strides wide as he crossed the beach. I expected him to stop, to introduce himself and make inane small talk while we navigated the awkward preludes. He barely slowed as he approached me, his impressive height suddenly apparent as he drew up level. This close, I could see the length of his lashes as they formed a black frame around his equally dark eyes. His lips parted to speak only a single, heavily accented word.

  “Come.”

  I could imagine the same, gruffly spoken word issued in a different type of command altogether. I was startled by his self-confidence and the assuredness with which he spoke. He didn’t afford me a moment to reflect or refute, striding up the stone steps to the ancient fort wall—a relic of the British rule—above my head. His bare feet slapped against the hard, dry stone.

  I watched him go, noticing the stiff, ropy muscles in his calves and the backs of his thighs. I was immersed in the fantasy of that body thrusting against my hips, claiming and possessing me.

  The golden sunlight caught his beautiful features as he paused for only a moment, looking down at me with unspoken command. I was compelled to move. Casting off my inner doubt, I retraced his footsteps, climbing the steps to the top of the fort. He remained ten paces ahead, affording me a perfect view of his backside. I wondered if he wore underwear beneath his native dress. I hoped not.

  I had lost all sense of personal safety. I had two travel books in my backpack that devoted whole chapters to traveler safety. Rule number one, especially for a lone woman, had to be not going away with strangers. I heard the small, weak voice in the back of my mind as it warned me against the stupidity into w
hich I was walking. I remembered my reason for coming to India in the first place—for adventure, for a fearless leap into the unknown.

  As I began to doubt myself, I remembered Jerald. I pictured his face as I burst into our newly purchased home and saw him with the unnamed brunette with the big tits, fucking on my brand-new kitchen table.

  I forged onward, determined to vanquish the memory of the man who had broken my heart almost a year ago. My mind played a colorful montage of the months that had passed since. I saw myself sobbing, alternating between total despair and red rage. I envisioned the estate agent as he sadly hammered the “For Sale” sign into the lawn of the house he had only recently sold to us. I could so vividly remember the moment I carried boxes of my belongings to my car, taking only the essentials and never wanting to see the furniture Jerald had tainted ever again.

  After everything I had endured in ten months, I was ready to leap back into the art of living. I knew my friends and family would be outraged if they could see me following the stranger. I didn’t care. I was boundless, free to make whatever foolish decisions I wanted. I felt alive, adrenaline thrumming through my veins as I increased my pace. I was only a few steps behind him, close enough to smell the pheromone-infused scent of his taut skin—a mixture of coconut oil and something woodsy I could not place—close enough that I could see his hair was damp with sweat. I wanted to sink my fingers into the strands, tugging until his head fell back to expose the column of his strong, thick neck.

  I had no idea where I was being led. The sun was low enough not to cast warming beams of light upon the coastal town’s narrow streets. We walked past humble dwellings, the inhabitants of which were still asleep. There were long shadows created by the coconut trees growing in profusion along the roadside. The smallest breeze had the palm fronds rustling, but otherwise this mostly residential area of town remained quiet. My feet, clad in brown leather sandals, slapped against the ground, loud in comparison to his silent footfalls.

  We may have walked for ten minutes or an hour. Time was measured here only by the increasing light and shortening shadows. I followed him, not daring to speak in case the anticipation I felt was shattered by some anti-climatic rebuke. He made no attempt to initiate conversation, and the mysteriousness of him was only strengthened by his unwillingness to communicate. I was either being led down a dangerous, potentially deadly path…or I was approaching sexual nirvana with a man who wanted the same as me. I was drunk on my craziness, giddy with excitement. Where I should have been afraid, I felt deeply and profoundly aroused.

  The buildings thinned out, giving way to uninterrupted rice fields stretching far to the east. I was inclined to stop walking, to absorb the unparalleled beauty of the plantations. The vivid green met the dark, ragged shadows of the mountains in the distance. The dusty road, lined with ever-present coconut trees, was empty. There were no vehicles, no cattle and above all—no people. I was in the middle of nowhere, following blindly into a situation I could not predict.

  The man cut off the road, traversing a grassy pathway between the wet rice fields. I hesitated for a moment, a shred of common sense breaking through the fog of adrenaline. Where was he going? Did my decision to follow him go beyond insanity? No one knew me here, and if I went missing there wouldn’t be a single person who could verify which way I had gone. I hadn’t passed another human being in ages.

  He stopped abruptly, turning his head only a fraction to look at me. His body remained rigid, succulently dark and tempting. I thought he might speak again, and offer me a morsel of pleasure in his accented voice. He did not part his lips, striding onward as though he didn’t care one way or another if I followed. Somehow, his indifference reassured me. I inhaled deeply, and hurried on.

  Focusing on his body, I guessed he had to be at least six-two. His shoulders were broad, but his muscular stature was the type earned by physical labor and not, as I had seen so often back home, the product of seven-day gym sessions. He was like a warrior, his physique natural, and there was something virile and deeply sexual about his every movement. He moved with refined grace and certainty, navigating the rice field with expert knowledge. The longer I followed him, the more I wanted to touch my fingertips upon his brown skin and taste the sweet, coconut scent.

  We approached a wooden hut, mounted on stilts above the field. The roof, constructed from dried palm leaves, sloped gently downward. There was a single door at the top of the wooden steps, and a rectangular window covered by a piece of fabric. I bent my head back to study the little structure. While I observed his home, the man climbed the steps and turned to me. He did not smile.

  His home was modest in its simplicity but meticulously cared for. The wood was smooth, the steps sturdy and the ground on which it sat was clear of weeds and debris. In the middle of marshy paddy fields, the stranger’s shack was an oasis. He continued to wait at the top, proud of this place as a king might be proud of a sprawling, opulent castle. With his arms crossed over his strong, bare chest, I thought he looked very much like royalty, surveying his kingdom.

  I took a tentative step forward, wondering what was wrong with me. Back home, I was the woman with such an indecisive personality I struggled to decide between tuna salad and egg salad for lunch. I second-guessed every choice I made, and yet as my sandal-clad foot hit the sturdy wooden step, I felt only a surge of excitement in knowing I was doing something so dangerous. My heart was pumping louder and faster than it ever had before.

  My senses were heightened, absorbing everything from the fresh, fruit smell of the surrounding trees, to the warmth of the sun as it touched upon my bare shoulders. The scenery around me was vivid in its colors—a thousand shades of green, contrasting with the cobalt-blue skies. Morning had arrived, and standing there, I felt as though I had stumbled upon the Garden of Eden and not a rural village in Kerala.

  The man made no attempt to interrupt the moment. He stood in the doorway to his shack, watching me. He blended into this place, belonging entirely in the environment. In my mind, I likened him to Tarzan. He possessed the same incredible physique, the same rugged lack of finesse that was guilty of blighting the otherwise good-looking men back home. The men I knew were poseurs, pretending to be strong and virile men. This stranger, with thick, ropy muscles and an unsmiling face, had my insides knotting with scorching anticipation.

  My ascension of the steps seemed to take an eternity, for my legs had turned to the consistency of jelly. Was I walking into the lion’s den? At home, if I had read about a foolish tourist who had gotten maimed at the hands of a lunatic after wandering willingly into his lair, I would have found it very difficult to extend sympathy. It was ridiculous, insane and in so many inexplicable ways exactly what I needed.

  When I reached the top step, my heart was beating so rapidly I could hear nothing beyond the persistent pulsing in my eardrums. I was giddy with expectation. The man dropped his arms, exposing the flat, hard planes of his chest to my eyes. He was divine, impossibly beautiful in his strength. He could dominate me in a second, for I was half his weight and almost a foot smaller. Yet, as he gazed down at me, his obsidian-black eyes drilling into mine, I detected no menace, no danger to my physical well-being, but he was certainly going to be dangerous to other parts of my body.

  He took a deep breath, filling his lungs and expanding his chest. I caught the scent of coconut oil on his skin, the column of his throat close to the tip of my nose.

  He spoke in Malayalam—his native tongue—and looked upon me with disapproval as he shook his head. I sensed he thought I was crazy, foolish, demented. As his voice became quiet, the corners of his lips quirked into a half-smile. He bent his head forward, leaning so close I could smell the sweetness of his breath. “Are you frightened?” His English was faltering and uncertain, but his gloriously dark eyes were articulate. I was able to read more from those stony irises than I could from the heavily accented words he spoke.

  “Should I be frightened?” I asked, my voice breathless.

 
; He tilted his head sideways, regarding me as one might an exhibition in a museum, or a painting in a gallery. There was fascination, contemplation and erotic musings in his eyes as his gaze swept over me in a long, regarding stare. “Perhaps,” he decided, nodding once. I could not explain why, but his response pleased me.

  “My name is Rosie,” I said, placing my satchel on the floor.

  “Okay,” he replied, as though my introduction was of no consequence to him. Instead of reciprocating, the man stepped back and invited me into the single room of his rice-field abode.

  The shack was dimly lit and smelled of an array of spices. I detected sandalwood at once, and couldn’t really determine what anything else was. The perfume reminded me of the joss sticks my roommate in college used to burn to help her concentrate. The aroma was soothing, coaxing me into the small space.

  “Would you like some tea?” he asked me, crossing the room to fill an aluminum kettle with water. I assumed he intended to heat it over the gas-powered tabletop stove.

  “Are you going to drug me?” I asked, hovering in the doorway. There was an easy efficiency in the way he went about preparing the tea. He stopped, glancing over his broad shoulder to regard me with a steely glare. Inside, my stomach gave a painful squeeze. Whatever sexual prowess he had, it was incredibly difficult to resist.

  “I don’t think I need to drug you…Rosie.” He added my name as an afterthought, knowing it would arouse me to hear him say it in his thick, exotic accent. I swallowed hard and he offered another faint smile.

  Within moments, the shack was filled with the delightful, homely smell of fresh tea. I inhaled deeply, thinking I had never smelled such an intoxicating mixture of scents in my life. I knew I would never be able to adequately describe to another how the combination affected me. I felt a loss of inhibition, a freedom I had never experienced before. All my craziness seemed almost acceptable in this foreign land with its foreign smells, foreign scenery and deliciously foreign man.