Chapter 32 #2
The kiss erased the careful line they had guarded for months. Professional distance burned away under the heat of his mouth on hers. The walls she had built cracked and fell as she kissed him back with equal urgency.
Her hands tightened in his lapels, not to resist but to pull him nearer, closing the last inches between them. His fingers slid deeper into her hair, angling her head to take the kiss deeper, to claim more, to erase any doubt that this was real and permanent and forever.
It wasn't sweet. Wasn't gentle. Wasn't the tentative first kiss of new lovers testing boundaries.
It carried want and denial and watching and aching. Of his hands learning restraint when all they wanted was to reach for her. Of her body craving his touch she told herself she had no right to want.
It tasted of possession and need, of finally surrendering to something that had been inevitable from the start.
When he finally broke away, both of them breathing hard, her glasses askew, his bow tie completely undone. He didn’t pull back. He stayed close enough that his breath brushed her swollen lips.
"That," he said roughly, "was not in the agreement."
A laugh broke from her. Half sob, half genuine amusement. "No. It wasn't."
"Neither is this." His hands slid down from her face to her waist, fingers spreading wide against the thin cotton of her kurta.
"Or this." He leaned down, pressing open-mouthed kisses along her jaw to the sensitive spot below her ear.
"Or anything else I'm planning to do tonight. And every night after."
Her breath caught audibly. Her hands moved from his lapels to his shoulders, needing to hold onto something as the room tilted.
"Vikram…"
"Say it again." His teeth grazed her earlobe. "Say my name like that again."
"Vikram." Less steady this time. More breathless.
"Better." He pulled back just enough to look at her, and the heat in his eyes made her shiver. "But I'm not done with you yet."
He reached into his pocket with one hand, the other still anchored at her waist like he couldn't bear to stop touching her. The small black box emerged, the same one millions of people had seen on television less than an hour ago.
He opened it one-handed, the diamond catching the bedroom light and throwing fractured rainbows across her tear-stained face.
"Divya Mathur." His voice had gone rough again, thick with emotion.
"Will you marry me? For real this time. Not for contracts or arrangements or solving scandals.
Not for families or appearances or two-year timelines.
For love. For always. For the rest of our lives, however long or short, however easy or hard, however ordinary or extraordinary they turn out to be. "
Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.
"Yes." The word came out choked. "Yes. A thousand times yes."
His hands trembled, actually trembled, as he removed the ring from the box and slid it onto her finger. It fit perfectly.
"I got your ring size from Mom," he said quietly, reading her thoughts. "Had this made two weeks ago. Been carrying it everywhere, waiting for the right moment. Wanted it to be quiet. Private. Just us."
He brought her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the ring, then her knuckles, then the inside of her wrist where her pulse hammered visibly.
"But you needed witnesses. Needed it public and undeniable." He kissed her palm. "Needed me to choose you in front of everyone so you couldn't tell yourself I was just being kind in private."
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry I needed that. Sorry I couldn't just believe…"
"Don't." He silenced her with another kiss, this one softer but no less consuming. "Don't apologize for protecting yourself. For being scared. For not believing that someone like me could love someone like you, even though you have it exactly backwards."
"Backwards?"
"You think you're lucky I chose you." His smile held no humor, just painful honesty. "I'm the one who got lucky. You're the one who's extraordinary. I'm just the actor who was smart enough to see it."
She shook her head, but he caught her face in his hands again.
"You're brilliant and stubborn and so determined to be invisible that you don't see how you light up every room you enter. You're kind without expecting anything in return. You're competent without being arrogant. You're real in a world of performance. And I get to keep you."
His voice dropped to something almost reverent.
"I get to wake up next to you. Fall asleep holding you. Listen to you hum off-key. Learn every detail you think doesn't matter. I get to keep you. That's not you getting lucky, Divya. That's me winning the only thing that ever really mattered."
She pulled him down to her, kissing him with everything she couldn't say, with walls crumbling, with years of not believing she could have this, with the overwhelming relief of finally, finally, letting herself want something and getting to keep it.
He responded immediately, the gentleness giving way to hunger again. His hands slid from her face to her waist, then lower, pulling her up to stand, pulling her hips flush against his.
She gasped into his mouth at the contact, at the unmistakable evidence of how much he wanted her.
"Vikram," she breathed against his lips.
His hands tightened on her hips, pulling her even closer, letting her feel exactly what she did to him. "Do you feel that?" His voice had gone rough, almost hoarse. "Do you feel what you do to me? What you've been doing to me for months?"
She nodded, unable to form words, her face burning.
"I've wanted you," he said against her mouth, between kisses that grew more desperate, more consuming.
"God, Divya, I've wanted you so badly. Every night sleeping next to you, feeling you curl against me in your sleep, breathing in the scent of your hair...
" His hands slid up her sides, thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts through the thin cotton.
"Do you know how hard it's been not to touch you? Not to claim what's mine?"
A sound escaped her throat, half whimper, half moan.
"Tell me to stop." His forehead pressed against hers, his breathing ragged. "If you're not ready. If this is too fast. Tell me to stop and I will. I swear I will."
She pulled back just enough to look at him. At the man who'd learned to make chai for her at dawn. Who'd declared his love on national television. Who'd given her time and space and patience even when she'd used all three to build walls between them.
At the man who was looking at her now like she was everything.
"Don't stop," she whispered. "Please don't stop."
Something blazed in his eyes, fierce and possessive and hungry.
"Say it again."
"Don't stop, Vikram." Stronger this time. "I want this. I want you."
His control visibly frayed. His hands slid under the hem of her kurta, palms hot against the bare skin of her waist.
"Can I take this off?"
"Yes."
He pulled the fabric up slowly, giving her time to change her mind, his eyes never leaving hers. She raised her arms, letting him draw it over her head.
The kurta hit the floor.
Cool air hit her skin. She stood before him in just her simple cotton bra and pajama pants, feeling exposed and vulnerable and wanting all at once.
His gaze traveled over her, slow, thorough, heated, and she resisted the urge to cover herself.
"You're beautiful," he said, voice rough with sincerity. "So damn beautiful, Divya."
"I'm not. I'm just..."
"You are." He cut off her protest, his hands settling on her waist, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin just below her ribs. "You're beautiful and you're mine and I'm going to spend the rest of tonight showing you exactly how beautiful I think you are."
His mouth descended to her neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the column of her throat. She gasped, her hands flying to his shoulders for balance as her knees went weak.
"Vikram…"
"I love the way you say my name." His lips moved against her skin. "Like a prayer. Like a plea. Say it again."
"Vikram."
His teeth grazed the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder, and she made a sound she'd never made before, desperate and needy and completely beyond her control.
"That's it," he murmured against her skin. "Let me hear you. Don't hold back."
His hands slid up her sides, thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts again, and this time she arched into the touch, seeking more.
He growled, approval tangled tightly with the last threads of restraint he was still fighting to hold.
"Can I?" His fingers found the clasp of her bra at her back.
"Yes." The word came out breathless.
The fabric loosened, fell away. His hands came up to cup her, and the sensation of his palms against her bare skin stole her breath completely.
"God, Divya." His voice had gone reverent. "You're perfect."
Then his mouth was on her, hot and wet and skilled, and she stopped thinking altogether.
She arched, her body bending backwards on a primal instinct. Her fingers threaded into his hair, holding him to her as pleasure sparked through her body. He took his time, learning what made her gasp, what made her moan, what made her fingers tighten in his hair.
When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were dark with hunger.
"I need this off." He tugged at his suit and then his shirt, fingers fumbling with buttons that suddenly seemed too complicated.
She reached up with trembling hands. "Let me."
Together, they worked the buttons free. The shirt and then the vest joined the growing pile on the floor.
Her hands splayed tentatively across his bare chest, feeling the heat of his skin, the rapid hammer of his heart beneath her palm. Smooth skin over hard muscle. So different from her own softness.
"You can touch me," he said, voice strained. "Anywhere you want. However you want."
She explored hesitantly. The planes of his chest. The ridges of his abdomen. The line of his shoulders. The strength in his arms.
His breathing went ragged. His hands tightened on her waist, fingers digging in slightly.
"Divya." Her name sounded wrecked. "You're killing me."