Chosen Love

💌-CHAPTER 30

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The light that filtered through the heavy, charcoal-silk curtains of their room was a muted, silver-grey—the color of a city waking up to a secret.

Shivansh lay perfectly still, his head propped against his arm, watching the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of Ruhika's shoulder.

Usually, this was the hour where he was already a ghost in the room, his mind miles away in a boardroom, his body moving with the mechanical precision of a man who viewed time as a commodity to be traded.

But this morning, he was simply a man. He watched a stray lock of her dark hair stir with her breath, resting against the curve of her cheek.

He thought of the hospital—the sterile smell of bleach, the agonizing weight of the cast, and the way her voice had been the only thing that felt solid in a world that had turned to liquid.

She had stayed in the shadows of his recovery, never demanding the light, never asking when it would be her turn to be held. Slowly, carefully, he reached out. His fingers didn't touch her—not yet—but he traced the outline of her jaw in the air, a silent vow hanging between them in the quiet room.

He rose without a sound. The cool marble floor didn't bother him today; it felt grounding. He dressed with a quiet intention, choosing a crisp linen shirt she had once mentioned looked good on him, rolling the sleeves up past his wrists.

Before leaving, he stopped at the side table, The scratch of the fountain pen was the only sound in the room, the ink bleeding dark and decisive into the paper.

He stilled at the bedside, placing the note on her nightstand, weighed down by a single, small sprig of fresh jasmine he had plucked from the vase in the hallway.

He leaned down, the scent of the flower mingling with the lingering warmth of the bed.

He lingered there for a second too long, his breath ghosting over her forehead, before he left a quick peck not to disturb her and walked out.

He didn't leave like a man going to work. He left like a man who was finally coming home.

The prolonged silence in the room pulled Ruhika out of her sleep, she reached out instinctively, her palm meeting the cool, smooth expanse of the cotton where he should have been.

Her eyes flicked open. The bed was made on his side—neat, precise, and empty.Panic flared in her chest for a heartbeat before her gaze settled on the nightstand.

There, resting against the base of her lamp, was a single sprig of jasmine.

Its petals were waxen and white, still holding a bead of dew that caught the morning light like a diamond.

Beneath it lay the heavy cream cardstock.

She picked it up, her fingers trembling slightly as she traced the sharp, dark ink of his handwriting.

Ruhika didn't move for a long minute. She inhaled the scent of the jasmine—his silent messenger—and felt a slow, warm flush creep up her neck.

It wasn't just a request; it was an invitation to a version of him

________

Downstairs, the grand foyer of the house was bathed in the harsh, unflattering light of the early sun. Sunita stood by the tall, arched window of the breakfast nook, a cup of green tea held between her fingers

She had heard the front door click shut ten minutes ago.

She watched through the glass as Shivansh's SUV pulled out of the driveway. She expected to see the usual sag of his shoulders, the hurried gait of a man burdened by the weight of a hundred pending decisions.

Instead, she saw him pause by the car.

He wasn't checking his watch. He was looking up at the balcony of his bedroom, his expression unreadably soft, almost contemplative.

He moved with a lightness she hadn't seen since he was a boy—a fluidity that had nothing to do with the healing of his bones and everything to do with the settling of his spirit.

Sunita's grip tightened on her teacup.

"He's early," a voice said behind her. It was Vikram, leaning against the doorframe, his newspaper tucked under his arm. He looked at his wife, a knowing, quiet smile playing on his lips

"No, Sunita," Vikram murmured, walking over to join her at the window. "That wasn't the look of a man focused on a firm, or his legacy. That was the look of a man who finally knows what he's working for."

Sunita didn't reply. The insecurity, cold and sharp, flickered in the back of her mind. Shivansh wasn't tired. He wasn't hurried. He was happy.

And for the first time in thirty years, she realized she wasn't the one who had provided the reason.

________

The rest of the morning passed for Ruhika in a blur of delicious anticipation. As she moved through her own workday, the weight of the note in her handbag felt like a physical heat.

Every time her phone buzzed, she expected it to be him, but he remained silent, letting the mystery breathe.

She found herself checking the time every twenty minutes. The spreadsheets on her screen seemed trivial, the meetings felt like background noise. Her mind kept drifting back to him

________

Shivansh didn't call a concierge or a high-end event planner. He sat in his office, the door shut

He wasn't thinking about grandeur, he was thinking about her.

He picked up the phone and called a small, discreet bistro in a restored heritage building near Mehrauli. It wasn't "trendy," but it had a quiet, surrounded in lush greenery, away from the noise of the city and the sprawling lights.

As he instructed the manager, his voice calm but immovable. "Just the corner table.The one surrounded by the bougainvillea. And I want the music unplugged—nothing that competes with the wind."

He paused, his thumb tracing the edge of his desk. "And the lighting... just keep lanterns or candlelight, something that is natural and comforting

As he ended the call, the silence of the office was punctured by the heavy thud of the door swinging open.

Rohan lounged against the frame, a smirk already playing on his lips, his arms crossed over a stack of merger files. He let out a low, theatrical whistle as he strolled inside.

Shivansh felt a small, genuine smile tug at the corner of his mouth—Get out of my office, Rohan."

It was around 4 in the evening, Ruhika had still not arrived back home when the doorbell echoed . A courier stood there with a box wrapped in understated navy silk paper and a silver ribbon.

Sunita, who was just walking out of her room, in the hallway, stepped forward instinctively.

"Thank you," she said, her hand reaching for the package.

Sunita slightly shook her head at the interrogation and replied in a haste, "Yes I am Sunita Kapoor"

"Apologies, Ma'am," the man said, checking his device with a polite but firm nod. "The sender was very specific.

The air in the room turned thin. For thirty two years, 'Mrs. Kapoor' had been a singular title in this house—a name that meant Sunita, and Sunita alone.

To hear it redirected—to see it belong so clearly to someone else was a silent, yet a sharp shift

He scribbled a messy initial and took the box, entering Ruhika's phone number on the recipient's information which made the delivery boy return satisfied while Sunita was too occupied in her thoughts to notice anything

Sunita didn't flinch, but her eyes turned a shade darker, more opaque.

She didn't look at the box. She looked at the space where the box had been, her silhouette stiff against the expensive wallpaper.

"Take it up to your brother's room, Aarav," Sunita said

As soon as he reached the staircase, Aarav's thumbs were flying across his screen, his face lit up with the glow of his phone.

Aarav: Yo, Romeo! Your surprise has landed. What's the plan? Is my 'Big Brother finally retiring to become a full-time poet? ??

Shivansh, sitting in his final meeting of the day, felt his phone buzz against his thigh. He glanced at the screen under the table, a soft light entering his eyes that his colleagues had never seen.

He didn't reply to the bribe for information. He simply typed: Stay out of the hallway, Aarav. Let her get ready in peace. And thank you.????

____________

The traffic of Delhi seemed to melt into a background blur as Ruhika was focused on the road ahead with her phone connected to the car Bluetooth system

Ruhika laughed, a light, musical sound. When she stepped into the penthouse, the air felt different—charged with a quiet, electric anticipation.

She caught Sunita's silhouette in the dining room, her mother-in-law's posture slightly stiffer than usual as she oversaw the evening's table settings.

Her gaze flicked to Ruhika, noting the flush in her cheeks and the lightness in her step, but Ruhika only offered a polite, radiant smile before disappearing up the stairs.

The moment she entered their bedroom, her heart performed a slow, dizzying somersault. Lying in the center of the bed was the navy silk box. She opened the lid, and her breath simply stopped.

It was, without a doubt, the most captivating garment she had ever seen.

Resting inside was a dramatic, molten crimson saree.

The fabric was a delicate, nearly sheer chiffon, but it was its intricate embellishment that commanded attention.

It was entirely covered in tonal crimson hand-embroidery, woven with hundreds of tiny, shimmering red sequins and beads that made it look less like fabric and more like a river of jewels.

The texture was exquisite—modern, bold, and undeniably sensuous. It was paired with a bustier-style blouse featuring a deep sweetheart neckline and thin straps

Ruhika touched the rich fabric, her fingers tracing the intricate beadwork, Molten crimson. It was the color of defiance, of new beginnings, of a fire they were finally ready to acknowledge.

A flush, deep and warm, bloomed across her neck and chest, completely unrelated to the weather. Her hand went to her phone, as she typed to him

Ruhika: The saree is beautiful . But I have to ask... what's going on? ??

The screen lit up instantly.

Shivansh: I'm planning to remind you why you're the only person who matters. See you in an hour ??

The next hour was a blur of scented oils and the soft, heavy rustle of the bead-encrusted silk as she draped it.

Ruhika stood before the mirror, the crimson clinging to her curves, the millions of tiny sequins catching the low twilight.

Her hands trembled as she finished her makeup. She left her hair loose, just as he liked yet, blow dried - and little curled at the ends letting the dramatic neckline and her own shoulders take center stage, finishing the look with a pair of emerald stud earrings—the deep green a stunning contrast

She was leaning into the mirror, finally lining her eyes with kohl for the last time and retouched her shimmer gloss when she heard the heavy click of the door.

Shivansh stood there, he wore a black shirt and trousers, making him look minimal yet enhancing his personality.

The air in the room didn't just still; it vanished.

Shivansh stood frozen in the doorway, his hand still resting on the handle as if he'd forgotten how to move.

He had seen Ruhika a thousand times—in the sterile light of a hospital, in the soft morning glow of her home, in the sharp shadows of their mansion—but he had never seen this woman.

His gaze didn't just wander; it anchored. It started at the sleek, dark crown of her hair and traced the elegant line of her neck, trailing down to where the sweetheart neckline of the crimson silk dipped.

The way the sequins caught the dimming light made her look like she was draped in a living, breathing flame.

He walked toward her, his footsteps heavy and deliberate on the rug, the silence between them charged with a sudden, frantic electricity

He looked directly into her eyes, his own dark and swirling with an intensity that made her breath hitch.

"I thought I knew what 'beautiful' meant," he murmured, his voice dropping into a rough, velvet texture . "I was wrong. I didn't have a clue."

His hand came up, hovering for a heartbeat before his knuckles grazed the bare skin of her shoulder.

He felt her shiver, a delicate tremor that mirrored the one in his own pulse. He reached into his pocket, pulling out the velvet case, but he didn't open it immediately.

He just stared at her, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw, his touch possessive yet infinitely tender.

"Turn around," he whispered.

As he fastened the diamond necklace around her neck , his fingers lingered against the nape of her neck. He didn't pull away once the clasp clicked. Instead, he leaned down, his lips ghosting against the sensitive skin just below her ear.

He paused, his eyes closing for a brief second

"But I wasn't even close," he murmured, his gaze dropping to her lips before dragging back up to her eyes. "Seeing you in it... it's like seeing the sun for the first time after a lifetime in the dark.

"Don't," he groaned softly, his hands sliding down from the clasp of the necklace to her waist, his fingers digging into the intricate beadwork of the saree.

He drew her flush against him, the friction of the sequins against his palms a sparking fuse. "If you say my name like that again, we aren't going to make it out of this room ."

He didn't wait for a reply. He claimed her hand, his fingers locking with hers so tightly it felt like a silent vow.The descent down the grand staircase was a blur. They passed through the foyer like a whirlwind of black and crimson.

Sunita stood near the arched doorway of the lounge, her silhouette framed by the cold evening light.

She looked up, her expression flickering with a sudden, sharp realization. She saw the way Shivansh wasn't just leading Ruhika, but shielding her—the way his body leaned instinctively toward hers, as if they were governed by a gravity no one else could feel.

The drive was a quiet storm. Inside the SUV, the scent of the white lilies he'd bought earlier mingled with the intoxicating heat of the small space.

Shivansh drove himself, his hand never leaving hers, his thumb tracing circles over her knuckles in a way that made her pulse skip beats.

When they arrived at the rooftop, the city was a distant, shimmering carpet of gold. The restaurant was nearly empty, just as he'd ordered.

He led her to the corner table, where the deep pink bougainvillea spilled over the stone ledge, dancing in the cool night wind.

Shivansh stepped behind her, his hands firm and warm on the back of her chair as he guided her into her seat. As he leaned down, he lingered for a second too long, his breath ghosting over her ear before he took his own seat.

The table was stripped of the usual fine-dining pretension. There were no heavy silver cloches or hovering waiters. Instead, a scattering of lanterns and candlelight all around them cast a dancing, amber glow over the crimson sequins of her saree, making the beads look like embers.

"I didn't want the city's noise tonight," Shivansh said, his voice dropping into a low, private frequency. "I wanted to be able to hear you breathe."

The dinner was a series of silent, intimate gestures. He served her himself, remembering exactly how she liked her proportions, his fingers occasionally brushing hers as he passed a plate.

He watched her eat, his gaze never once straying to the horizon or his phone. For the first time, the man who lived by the clock seemed to have stopped time entirely.

As the night deepened, the wind picked up, swirling the pink petals of the bougainvillea onto the white tablecloth. When the last course was cleared, he didn't call for the bill. Instead, he stood up and offered his hand. "Come with me."

He led her to a shadowed corner of the terrace, shielded by a thick canopy and a swing in the centre.

There, resting against a rustic wooden chair, was an acoustic guitar.

Ruhika froze, her breath hitching. "Shivansh? I didn't know you played."

"But this is for the person who sat by my bed and made the silence feel like music."

He sat down, settling the guitar against his knee. His fingers, now strong and steady, brushed against the strings in a tentative, melodic strum. The sound was raw and soulful, vibrating through the cool night air.

When he started to sing, his voice wasn't the polished tone of a performer; it was the rough, velvet baritone of a man speaking directly to her soul. Every chord felt like a touch; every lyric felt like a confession he had been hoarding for months.

He didn't speak at first. He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of her lower lip, his gaze so intense it felt like he was looking right through her skin.

"Weeks ago, you told me I was your world," he began, his voice a low, jagged vibration.

"I've spent my life building a world out of stone and glass, Ruhika. I thought I was fine in the cold. But then you walked in with your lavender shampoos and your stubborn heart, you started melting the edges."

He stepped closer, his hands sliding down to her waist, drawing her flush against him. The friction of the sequins against his palms was electric, a sparking fuse in the dark.

"I didn't just recover from the accident , Ruhika. I recovered from a lifetime of being half-alive.

He paused, his gaze dropping to her lips before dragging back up to her eyes with a desperate, devastating intensity

All she could feel, all she could hear, was the raw, jagged honesty in his voice. This wasn't the man the world feared or respected.

This was her Shivansh—the one who had been hiding behind marble walls, waiting for someone to find the door.

The word 'consumed' didn't just hit her ears; it traveled through his touch, seeping into my blood like a slow-moving fire.

My heart felt too large for my chest, a wild, fluttering thing that had finally found its cage, she thought

She tried to speak, but the air was trapped in her throat. How do you respond to a man who has just handed you his soul?

She felt a single tear escape, trailing a hot path down her cheek. It wasn't sadness; it was the sheer, terrifying relief of finally being known.

She reached out, her fingers trembling as she cupped his face, thumb grazing the stubble on his jaw

It wasn't a tentative embrace. It was a rhythmic, grounding hug—the kind that felt like a long-awaited homecoming. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the intoxicating scent of cinnamon, crisp linen, and the raw, honest heat of his skin

For a long, suspended minute, neither of them moved.

Shivansh's arms wrapped around her with a sudden, desperate strength, his hands splayed across her back, pulling her so flush against him that she could feel the heavy, thundering staccato of his heart against her own ribs.

It was the first time their pulses had truly

synchronized—a frantic, living proof that they were no longer two strangers navigating silence.

"Shivansh," she whispered into his skin, her voice muffled and thick with a sudden, overwhelming relief. "I didn't think... I didn't know you feel this much...for me?"

He tightened his grip, his chin resting atop her head, his eyes closed as if he were finally anchoring himself after a lifetime at sea. "I didn't know I could either,"

he murmured, his breath stirring the stray wisps of her hair. "Until you. I'm glad it's you"

Ruhika pulled back just enough to look at him, her hands still framing his face. The amber light of the lanterns caught the unshed moisture in her eyes, making the dark brown depths look like liquid gold.

She saw him crumble completely in that gaze—replaced by a man who was looking at her as if she were the only source of light in a darkening world.

The shift was instantaneous. The tenderness of the hug sharpened into a sudden, agonizing need.

Shivansh's gaze dropped to her lips, and the air seemed to catch fire. The hunger in his eyes was raw, a desperate, aching need that she felt mirrored in the frantic pulse at her own throat.

He was so close that she could feel the heat radiating from his skin, the scent of him and the cool night air enveloping her.

His hand slid from her cheek to the nape of her neck, his fingers tangling in the silk of her hair as he tilted her head back. Every instinct in her body screamed for him to close that final, agonizing inch of distance.

But then, he paused.

The Man who usually took what he wanted without a second thought, the man who commanded boardrooms with a single look, suddenly faltered.

His thumb traced the curve of her lower lip with a reverence that made her soul ache. He looked deep into her eyes, searching for a green light, a silent vow, a choice that was hers alone to make.

"Ruhika," he whispered, his voice a jagged, low vibration that seemed to tremble against her skin. "I don't want to just take this.

The sheer, overwhelming vulnerability of that question shattered the last of her defenses. He wasn't demanding his rights as a husband; he was asking for her heart as a man who finally realized its worth.

A wave of eternal gratitude washed over her, a warmth that started in the center of her chest and radiated to her very fingertips.

She looked at him—really looked at him—and saw the man who had traded his armor for a guitar and his pride for a confession.

She didn't answer with words. She couldn't.

Instead, Ruhika reached up, her fingers locking behind his neck, and pulled him down.

It wasn't a tentative movement; it was a fierce, certain claim.

She closed the gap herself, her lips meeting his in a collision that tasted of jasmine, salt, and a love that had finally, inevitably, reached its flashpoint.

The kiss was deep, possessive, and thick with the weight of weeks of silence. It was the sound of a thousand unspoken 'I loves yous' finally finding their voice.

Shivansh let out a low, broken sound against her mouth—a surrender to the fire he had ignited. His arms wrapped around her with a sudden, desperate strength, his hands splayed across the small of her back, crushing the shimmering crimson silk of her saree against the solid heat of his chest.

In that silent rooftop corner, surrounded by the dancing shadows of the bougainvillea, the world outside the terrace ceased to exist.

There were no more roles to play, no more expectations to meet but the undeniable truth that they weren't just two people in an arranged marriage anymore.

When he finally broke the kiss, just enough to press his forehead against hers, his breath was coming in ragged, uneven hitches that mirrored her own.

"Let's go home, Ruhika," he whispered, his voice a rough, velvet promise against her lips. "I'm done being anywhere but where you are."

_________

The city of Delhi hummed around them, a blur of neon and transit, but inside the SUV, the world had shrunk to the space between their heartbeats.

Shivansh didn't turn toward the mansion. Instead, he steered the car toward the quiet, shadowed curves of the Ridge, where the ancient trees created a dark, silent canopy away from the glare of the streetlights.

He pulled over at a secluded lookout, the engine cutting out to leave only the sound of the wind whistling through the leaves. For a moment, neither spoke

Shivansh reached across the console, his hand sliding behind her neck to draw her closer.

He didn't kiss her this time; he simply pressed his cheek against hers, his eyes closing as he inhaled the scent of her skin.

"I used to drive alone at these roads whenever I was stressed, building the firm, thinking, yet not able to share it with anyone.

Aarav was too young to be pressured, Dad was guilty of pushing me into business and that I left my job, Maa was somewhat supportive, but there was always expectations weighing.

Ruhika felt a lump form in her throat, her fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. "You weren't alone, Shivansh.

I was always right there, waiting for you, looking forward to the evenings, to just sit beside you even if it was in complete silence.

The drive back home was a slow, agonizing countdown. When the car finally glided into the parking, the silence was absolute.

Shivansh stepped out and rounded the car before she could even move. He opened her door.

They didn't walk back in from the front door, instead he walked with her towards the elevator. As it chimed at their floor,

Ruhika started to walk toward the foyer, she felt his hand on her waist.

Before she could breathe, Shivansh swept her off her feet.

A small gasp escaped her lips as she instinctively wound her arms around his neck, the beaded silk of her saree rustling against his chest.

He didn't say a word. He didn't need to. He carried her through the darkened foyer, past the silent shadows of the lounge and straight towards their room.The heavy thud of the bedroom door closing behind them, the only sound in the room

Shivansh didn't set her down immediately; he held her against the dark wood, his arms a solid, protective weight beneath her.

In the silver glow filtering through the sheer curtains, the crimson silk of her saree looked like dark wine, and her eyes—wide and luminous—were fixed entirely on him.

When he finally let her feet touch the plush rug, he didn't pull away. He stayed in her personal space, his hands resting lightly on the door on either side of her shoulders, effectively layering his warmth over her.

"Ruhika," he whispered, his voice a low, rough vibration. He didn't move to kiss her. Instead, he simply looked at her—searching.

He traced the line of her brow, the curve of her cheek, and finally settled on her eyes, looking for even the slightest flicker of doubt or a shadow of hesitation.

He was incredibly still, his self-control a taut wire. "I want you to know... there is no rush. Not tonight, not ever. If you just let me hold you while you sleep, that is enough for me.

Ruhika felt a swell of emotion so pure it made her throat ache. This was the man who had been called reserved, emotionless by the world—powerful, demanding, and relentless.

Yet here, in the stillness of their room, he was offering her the ultimate power: the power to say no.

His hands moved to her waist, his thumbs tracing the bare skin above the tuck of her saree with a reverence that felt like a prayer.

The air in the room was thick, almost tactile, vibrating with the silent frequency of two hearts finally beating in the same room, for the same reason.

Shivansh didn't just pull back; he moved with a slow, agonizing caution. He was a man fighting a war with his own instincts, his chest heaving under the black linen of his shirt.

He leaned his forehead against hers, his eyes closed, the scent of her skin—jasmine and warm honey—filling his senses until his head spun.

"Ruhika," he whispered, the sound jagged and raw. "If I don't stop now... I won't be able to. And I need to know—I need to be certain—that this isn't just the adrenaline of the night or anything that I said. I need this to be because you want me as much as I want you"

He opened his eyes, and the sheer, devastating vulnerability in them made Ruhika's breath hitch.

This was just a man, stripped of his armor, offering her the ultimate respect of a choice.

Ruhika reached up, her fingers tracing the hard line of his jaw, her touch as light as a feather but as grounding as an anchor. "Shivansh," she murmured, her voice a soft, steady vow in the moonlight

A low, broken sound escaped his throat—a mixture of a groan and a long-awaited surrender. He didn't jump into the moment.

Instead, he reached out and took her hand, his fingers interlacing with hers as he led her toward the bed.

The movement was slow, deliberate, and deeply intimate, as if they were walking through a dream they were both afraid to wake from.

The mattress dipped as he settled her against the pillows, the molten crimson of her saree spreading out like a dark, shimmering sea against the white sheets.

He hovered over her, his weight supported by his elbows, his gaze searching hers one last time in the silver shadows.

Even now, with his pulse thundering in his neck, he paused.

He didn't speak, but his eyes asked the question. Are you sure?

Ruhika didn't answer with words. She didn't need to.

She reached out, her fingers trembling slightly but her gaze unwavering. She caught the first button of his black shirt, her knuckles grazing the warm, solid heat of his chest.

With a slow, rhythmic precision, she unlooped it. Then the second. She felt his heart leap beneath her fingertips—a frantic, living staccato that mirrored her own.

As she pulled him down by the collar, bringing his lips inches from hers, she saw the shift in him.

The noble retreat vanished, replaced by a dark, shimmering heat that promised to consume everything in its path.

His hands came up to frame her face, his thumbs grazing her lips with a possessive, breathtaking intensity.

"Ruhika," he breathed against her mouth, his voice a rough promise of the fire to come.

He tasted of the night air and a hunger that mirrored her own. His hands, usually so poised and disciplined, were now fervent as they slid into her hair, his fingers tangling in the dark silk to tilt her head back.

Every touch was an exploration, a question, and a claim. He mapped the curve of her jaw and the hollow of her throat with a reverence that made Ruhika's heart feel like it was overflowing.

Shivansh paused for a heartbeat, his chest heaving as he looked down at her. In the dim light, the diamond mangalsutra he'd fastened around her neck caught a stray beam of moonlight, flashing brilliantly against her skin.

He leaned down, his lips ghosting over the gem before pressing a lingering, heated kiss to the sensitive dip of her collarbone.

"Ruhika," he groaned, his voice a rough, velvet shadow of itself. "I spent so long trying to keep myself at a distance, until you were truly ready. I didn't realize that I was just starving myself of the only thing that mattered, my peace which is you, your love

Ruhika reached up, her palms flat against his chest, feeling the wild, thundering beats of his heart.

She didn't want the distance anymore. She wanted this man—the one who sang for her, the one who looked at her as if she were his entire world.

She arched toward him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his half opened shirt, pulling him back down into her space.

It was then, both of them realised that the night was just beginning—and it was going to be a very, very long night and the morning felt like a lifetime away. And they didn't want it any other way