Black Suits You Read online

  NOVONEEL CHAKRABORTY

  Black Suits You

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Part 1: Seduce

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  Part 2: Snatch

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  Part 3: Destroy

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Follow Penguin

  Copyright

  For Ishan

  You bring back memories I don’t remember

  About the Author

  Novoneel Chakraborty is the bestselling author of seven romantic thriller novels. His last novel, Forget Me Not, Stranger—the third novel in the Stranger Trilogy—debuted at no. 1 across India. The first novel in the trilogy, All Yours, Stranger, ranked among the top 5 thriller novels on Amazon India.

  Novoneel has also written for seven TV shows. Along with his two business partners, Novoneel runs a one-of-a-kind content company—Act3 Creations—which provides content for films, television and digital media. He lives and works in Mumbai.

  You can get in touch with him at:

  Email: [email protected]

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/officialnbc

  Twitter: @novoxeno

  Instagram: @novoneelchakraborty

  Snapchat: novofy

  Blog: https://nbconline.blogspot.com

  By the same author

  A Thing beyond Forever

  That Kiss in the Rain

  How About a Sin Tonight?

  Ex

  Stranger Trilogy

  Marry Me, Stranger

  All Yours, Stranger

  Forget Me Not, Stranger

  Prologue

  ‘Did I ever tell you,’ she asked softly on the phone, pressing the speaker close to her mouth so that her breathing was audible, ‘The first thing that came to my mind when I saw you at the Delhi book event?’

  ‘You didn’t,’ he replied, moistening his dry lips. He could imagine the way the words would manoeuvre her tongue before escaping her mouth.

  ‘Imagine you and me lying naked beside each other—not even our shyness covers us—on a deserted rail track with our backs against the cold iron of the track. It’s 3 a.m. We can’t see anything beyond a few metres. It’s just us with a dark night sky above. There’s an eerie silence around and animal hunger within. Half a hunger in me, half a hunger in you.

  ‘I slowly sit up, my hair hanging loose, looking at you all the while with thirsty eyes. I take your hands and pin them above you as I make myself comfortable on top of you—the cowgirl pose—and caress your hard-on. Its firmness accentuates my lust. Our eyes lock, looking deeply into each other as I raise myself just a bit to rub the tip of your penis around my wet vaginal lips and then slip it inside. The look on your face arouses me even more. It’s an expression of our lust coalescing. The way you grab my ass with a sense of urgency makes me feel wanted. No guy can ever imagine what it is for a woman to feel desirable. It makes her feel like you are creating your own private world within her. As I gently bounce on you, my lips curl in and then out and my eyes roll back as if I’m losing myself, as if my flesh is vanishing, spool by spool. Remember I told you this world makes me feel like a house of concrete, but your touch—only your touch—makes me feel like a house of cards. It scares me, but then what’s an arousal if not wrapped with unfelt emotions.

  ‘I bend down. My loose hair falls just behind your head, forming a curtain around our faces. Sex is that unreal world where we discover the real us, isn’t it? I take your tongue in my mouth and suck it hard. I rub my face on your chest, tracing its well-defined contours as my pelvic movement gains ferocity. I can feel our muscles tensing but there’s something that calls for our attention. It’s not our orgasms. Not yet. We both hear the sound of an approaching train. The iron track is vibrating slightly. The fear of getting run over only escalates the intensity of our carnal pleasure. As we rock harder, our mutual carnal chant is calling upon the impending climax. The train’s light blinds us suddenly. Its shrill sound now seems deafening. It won’t stop, we know, but it can’t stop us either. Not for one second do we pause because this is all we want at the moment—communion. Right from the time we are born to the time we die, we need someone with us, within us, beside us. We can now read the fear of death in each other’s eyes. But is it more than the unrealized love we seek through lust for each other? The train is getting dangerously close now. We cry out each other’s names, only to be muted by the train. You hold my face, I hold yours. And together we close our eyes. Everything happens in slow motion—the train’s speed, our rhythm, the closing of our eyes and the breeze that hits us. The train hollers past as we attain our spasmodic climax. We open our eyes to realize we are still alive. The train was on the track beside us.’

  There was silence.

  ‘That’s how,’ she continued, ‘I wanted to take you.’ She finally paused. The person on the other side was breathing heavily, as if he was still caught in the scene she had described.

  ‘You there?’ she asked.

  ‘I want to meet you. Right. Now,’ he said, swallowing a lump. He had never come across someone as wildly erotic as her.

  ‘Are you sure?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Remember, not every orgasm is about pleasure.’

  ‘I don’t give a fuck.’

  ‘All right then, come claim me. The way a warrior claims a kingdom.’

  The line went dead. He thought he was getting into a casual affair. He was wrong. Very, very wrong.

  Part 1: Seduce

  1

  India Habitat Centre, New Delhi

  6 February 2016

  Saturday, 6.30 p.m.

  The stage was set. The PR and marketing team from the publishing house was present at the venue an hour before to supervise the arrangements. A few media personnel were also present, with their cameramen setting up equipment at the appropriate angles. There was an elevated wooden stage, with a huge the projector in the middle. Two chairs were placed in front of the projector, along with a table in between. One chair was for the moderator and one was for the ‘star of the evening’. The table had a neatly made bouquet of red roses, two mineral water bottles, two copies of the box set of the trilogy and two mikes. The projector displayed a huge image of the book cover with the heading Meet KIYAN ROY, the bestselling author of the sensational erotic trilogy Handcuffs.

  The initial print run of the first book had been twenty thousand. For a debut author attempting erotica—which has always been a prejudiced genre in India—it had been a decent print run. By the time the third book in the trilogy came out, the series had sold over sixty thousand copies. Kiyan wasn’t the highest selling author in India yet, but the way his debut series had caught on with readers and non-readers alike was something that made him an author to watch out for. One of the reasons for the constant intrigue about the author himself was the fact that Kiyan was a social recluse. In this age of marketing and hype where people seldom tell stories but mostly sell them, Kiyan was an exception. Since the trilogy had come out, no reader had seen the writer behind the books. There was no photograph of him on the book or on the Internet. His social media
was handled by the publisher’s marketing team, and hence his and the trilogy’s Facebook pages, Twitter handles and Instagram accounts were all about the books and nothing about him as a person. This made him all the more desirable to his female fan following. The men who read the trilogy learnt new ways to barter their horniness for maximum pleasure with their partners while the women found exciting fantasies to escape to when reality in the bedroom with their husbands or boyfriends bored them. And now, at the India Habitat Centre, the readers were going to see for the first time the author who had given Indian readers a new subtext to the ever-so-hushed language of sex.

  The publishing house wasn’t initially sure how well the trilogy would sell. As someone once said, a book is a creative proposition till the author finishes it. After that, it is business. The publishing house had wanted to experiment with erotica to determine if it had a future as a genre in the contemporary Indian market, especially if it was written by an Indian. A couple of books that they had previously presented to readers as erotica had failed miserably. What Kiyan had done differently with his trilogy was to charge his writing with emotion, rather than use it as an excuse to garb vulgarity. This was the publishing house’s final shot at the genre written by an Indian. As is the case with most writing, even mediocre erotica by a foreign writer is mostly welcome but gems by native writers need to undergo the test of acceptance. In Kiyan Roy, the publishers had finally found India’s answer to E.L James and Sylvia Day. When they realized there was a buzz around the author and his work, they managed to convince Kiyan to go on a sponsored multi-city book tour to celebrate the trilogy’s success and meet his readers, further enhancing the sales.

  As people started pouring in, one person on the marketing team was counting the number of people in the room. As he finished, he had a big smile on his face. 269, with the majority being women. He quickly clicked a picture with his phone and sent it to the digital team, which uploaded it on their official Twitter, Facebook and Instagram accounts with the caption ‘Delhi is ready for the man behind Handcuffs!’

  The moderator was trying her best to keep the audience interested with some quiz about the trilogy as it was a little beyond the scheduled time and the event hadn’t started yet. At around 6:43 p.m., Kiyan Roy appeared on stage to a loud cheer and applause. The girls could not take their eyes off him. It was as if something edible had just been dished up on stage.

  ‘Ladies and gentleman, the man behind the books is finally here. Please welcome Kiyan Roy!’ the moderator said, beaming from ear to ear.

  There was a sudden blanket of silence.

  ‘Hey everyone!’ Kiyan spoke holding the mike close to his mouth as he settled in his chair amid a collective sigh from the audience. He was wearing a black Lucknowi chikan kurta with sleeves rolled up till his elbows, blue jeans and designer mojari sandals. His hair was parted to the left, and he was sporting thin black carbon-framed spectacles as well as a two-day-old stubble. Against his fair skin, the stubble gave him a rugged look.

  ‘So, how does it feel to finally connect with your readers?’ The moderator asked. She too had been waiting for this moment with bated breath. She couldn’t help wondering how a person who had written such kinky stuff in Handcuffs would be in bed.

  While some in the audience raised their phones to click pictures and a few chose to record the session, most of the women in the audience were mesmerised by Kiyan as he started responding to the moderator’s question.

  He is so handsome, thought one.

  The way he constantly moistens his soft red lips while talking . . . uff, thought another.

  OMG, his eyes . . . so naughty, so playful, so lively!

  ‘Did you do any research before starting the trilogy?’ asked the moderator.

  ‘Since the genre was erotica, I secretly broke into couples’ homes. You see, watching them make love was part of my research,’ he said with a sarcastic smile.

  The moderator didn’t understand it was a joke but the audience did. They laughed out loud. The moderator followed.

  Fuck, the guy has a sense of humour too, thought one of the girls. Her boyfriend sitting beside her glanced at her face and knew immediately he had competition.

  ‘What would be the one thing you would tell young, aspiring authors?’ the moderator asked.

  ‘I would say they should live the stories they want to write.’

  ‘Did you live Handcuffs?’

  ‘Not entirely, of course, but a part of it, yes. In fact, the seed of the idea of the trilogy came from a friend, Tina Awasthi.’

  ‘How wonderful!’ exclaimed the moderator and continued, ‘I know most girls here wish they could be a muse for someone like you.’

  ‘You never know when that can happen.’

  ‘One question which I guess is on every girl’s mind here is . . .’

  There was silence.

  ‘Are you single, Kiyan?’

  Kiyan blushed slightly as he said, ‘I am.’

  Someone in the crowd whistled, which triggered laughter from everyone.

  The Q&A session with the moderator went on for half an hour, after which Kiyan was available to sign copies of his books as well as click selfies. The recluse in Kiyan felt awkward every time a girl stood close to him and asked her husband or boyfriend to click a picture. But he suffered all the awkwardness and embarrassing remarks like ‘I wish my boyfriend had a sexual quotient as high as yours’ with a bright smile. The entire event wrapped up by 8 p.m. The managing director along with the team of editors and marketing team took Kiyan for a sumptuous dinner at Aqua at The Park. From the latest publishing world gossip and how boring the newest superhero franchise movie was to the bombing in Syria, everything was discussed and opinions were exchanged over drinks, sheesha, risottos and chocolate brownies.

  ‘So when are you pitching us your next erotic tale?’ Natasha, Kiyan’s editor, asked as they walked to their cars in the parking lot. The others had already bid goodbye.

  ‘I’m on the lookout for a story. Let’s see when it meets me.’

  ‘Make it fast, Kiyan. Everyone in our team is with you. We don’t want to lose out on the momentum the trilogy has created. One book a year is a must. And it’s February already. You have to submit by May so that we can schedule the book for November this year.’

  ‘I get it. You shall have a synopsis very soon.’

  ‘That’s great,’ Natasha said, unlocking her car. ‘Give me something bigger and sexier than Handcuffs, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘I do,’ Kiyan said with a smirk. They hugged. Natasha drove out of the parking while Kiyan was driven to his hotel by his appointed chauffeur for the day.

  In the hotel, Kiyan checked out all the gifts given to him by the readers—flowers, cards, shot glasses etc. He took a hot shower next, freshened up, made some calls and switched on the television, ensconced in the cosy bed. Just then, the hotel landline rang. Kiyan took the call.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir. I’m calling from the reception.’

  ‘What is it about?’

  ‘Someone has just left a pen drive with us and asked to deliver it to you. If you are free, may I send someone upstairs right now?’

  ‘A pen drive?’

  ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘Who left it?’

  ‘The person didn’t mention any name except for the fact that you would understand who it is.’

  ‘Oh. Send it upstairs.’

  ‘Right sir.’

  Kiyan was puzzled what the pen drive could be about and who could have sent it. Was it her? There was a knock on the door. Kiyan promptly opened it. A hotel staffer handed him a tiny pen drive.

  ‘Thanks,’ Kiyan said and closed the door. He looked at it inquisitively for a moment and then reached into his bag to take out his laptop. Inserting the pen drive into one of the USB ports, he sat down on the chair in the room, stretching his legs out on the bed. After the pen drive was read and scanned for viruses, he noticed a single folder on the drive. It was
titled ‘Love is in the Details’. A curious smile appeared on Kiyan’s face as it was the working title of his trilogy before it was released as Handcuffs. It had to be her, he thought and clicked open the folder. There were, Kiyan counted, 13 pictures of his from the book event. As he clicked on each one, he noticed they focussed on his features. One was a close-up of his tongue coming out of his mouth to moisten his lips, one had captured his smirk, another his fingers, yet others of the biceps covered by his black kurta, his eyebrows and the like. The pictures were so precise and well-framed that they looked like paintings. With a jolt, he noticed that every picture had a single alphabet scrawled on it—u, i, o, c . . . Whoever had sent it knew his penchant for word puzzles. He grabbed the pencil kept beside the room’s phone and quickly jotted down those alphabets on the notepad lying close by. It took him four minutes to crack the words those alphabets could have been possibly arranged into. It read: Black Suits You.

  Kiyan immediately called up the reception.

  ‘Hi, I’m calling from room 611. Could you please tell me if it was a girl or a boy who gave you the pen drive?’

  ‘It was a girl, sir,’ the receptionist said.

  * * *

  A Girl’s Diary

  6 February 2016

  Saturday, 11.13 p.m.

  A human being can fall for another. Age, sex and background have nothing to do with it. People try to define a protocol for every phenomenon. We can’t see anything as limitless or infinite. To understand the infinite, we limit it and bring it under the finite scope of our understanding because it’s we who have limitations. Natural things like love don’t. They can’t.

  I often wonder, at which point does a love story really begin? Does it begin when the individuals involved see each other for the first time? Or, when they start thinking about each other in the days that follow. Or, when they meet up for the first time after they have thought about the other? And revel, in the nights that follow, in the suddenly realized joy of one’s own heart that was hitherto unleashed. Or, when they start talking at length and discover how similar or different they are, depending on whatever excites them more. Or, when they begin to know each other with every passing meeting and surrender, quite involuntarily, to the mystery that the other person seems to be. Or, do they simply fall in love when they are meant to fall in love? Like when they come together and there’s no alternative but for a love story to begin.