She blushes and nods and pushes me, signaling me to go. A smile makes its way onto my face.
I already want this day to end so I can return back to her.
42
SHIVANI
I hold my breath, heart thudding wildly, crouched in the cramped closet like an idiot.
The door opens, just a crack, enough for me to peek out and catch sight of Rudraksh sitting on the bed—my manuscript in his hands. His brows are drawn together in that intense, unreadable way of his, which clearly conveys that he’s completely focused.
Then, he turns the page.
Shit.
I know which chapter that is.
The chapter.
My cheeks heat instantly. Why am I hiding here? Because my husband is about to read smut that I imagine with him, and if I stayed in front of him, I would have evaporated from shyness.
He asked me why I was being so weird, but I couldn’t tell him. I didn’t even give him a warning. I could’ve edited it, skipped it, or made it vague. But nooo, I had to be brave. Bold. “Confident writer, Shivani,” I said to myself. And now he’s reading about—
His eyes widen.
Oh god.
Wider.
He stares at the page as if it had just insulted his ancestors.
“Shivani!” he barks, loud enough to rattle my soul, and I flinch at his shout, bumping my head on the wall of the closet.
“Ouch,” a hiss escapes from me.
“Shivani!” he calls out again, and in my panic, I jerk and knock a hanger off the closet rod. It clatters noisily, betraying my hiding spot. Of course, it does.
I step out slowly, guilt written all over my face, hands wringing the hem of my kurta.
“I—I’m sorry,” I start, my voice too high, too fast. “I’ll remove it. The whole thing. I’ll keep it clean. PG-13. I swear.” Silence follows my words.
He doesn’t speak. Just stare at me. There’s something dangerous in his eyes—amusement, disbelief, a wicked sort of curiosity.
Two long strides, and he’s standing right in front of me. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. My breath stalls, wavers.
He lifts a hand and curls his fingers around the base of my neck, thumb resting gently against my jaw as he tilts my face up.
“I didn’t know you were this wild, biwi ji,” he murmurs, voice like gravel and sin.
I blink at him, my heart hammering against my ribs. “It’s just fiction,” I manage to whisper. “I—I don’t know what I was thinking. I just… I wrote it.”
He lets out a low chuckle. Not mocking. Just... stunned. Like he’s discovering a side of me I’ve kept locked up with rusty chains and a thousand disclaimers. Maybe I have, and he's my husband, so eventually that side had to come out.
“You just wrote it?” he repeats, tilting his head, that teasing edge creeping into his tone. “So casually. Like you weren’t imagining me spreading your legs--”
“I wasn’t!” I squeak. I totally was. I mean, after the last time, I don’t think I cannot.
He smirks. The worst kind—smug, slow, knowing. Oh no. I am going to die. “You described my hands perfectly.”
