Chapter 17 #2
And don’t even get me started on his hands—those big, soft, warm palms. I shivered when he grabbed my hand to steady me as I was about to fall face-first onto the floor.
That moment earlier—when I kissed him, it wasn’t planned. It just happened. And his eyes… the way they flickered with something raw, something unspoken. Could it be real? Or is my imagination running wild, painting things I want to see?
No. This isn’t the detergent talking, and it isn’t just his cooking. That’s everything. The way he holds me steady when I lose my balance, the way his laughter is a rare treasure that I’ve somehow managed to unlock, and the way his smile feels like it’s meant just for me.
And the way he looks at me sometimes… like he knows exactly what’s going on inside my head, yet he’s not saying a word about it.
Oh God, I should never have come here. I should never have met Manav Oberoi. Because now… I’m falling, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to stop.
Please, God, let me make this one cup of coffee without burning down the entire house. I need it.
I plugged my earphones. Arijit Singh’s voice filled my ears, his soulful notes transporting me to another world, one far from the chaos of reality.
My eyes scanned the email on my screen—a confirmation of the lease contract for my small cottage in France.
In just fifteen days, I’d be starting a new chapter in a different country.
No distractions.
No Manav.
And no random kisses for birthday boys.
I exhaled sharply, as if the very thought could erase the memory of his lips on mine. Fifteen days.
It was time to focus on the future. Right?
Eyes closed, I swayed along with the rhythm, unable to keep from smiling as a lingering thought crept in: What if the birthday boy had kissed me back? Could I have handled that?
A soft voice pulled me back to reality. I looked up to find Manav in the doorway—barefoot, midnight-hour casual, a glass of whiskey in hand. “What are you doing?”
Oh, please. Someone help me.
I can’t handle the cozy, relaxed version of him in the middle of the night.
“Hi… umm… making coffee,” I managed, awkwardly pushing aside the emotional tsunami raging in my mind.
“It’s midnight.” He frowned.
Yeah… I know… I want to stay awake and memorize these moments—because I’m leaving tomorrow.
My heart clenched at the reminder. I always knew my trip to Beaufort was temporary—just a quick visit to see Roy But now, with Dadi’s birthday approaching and all the preparations piling up before I leave for France, there’s so much waiting for me back in Delhi—the manuscript deadline, the screening I can’t afford to miss and an entire life that’s been on pause for too long.
And yet, the idea of leaving feels… heavy. Almost unbearable, if I’m honest.
Should I tell him… I’m leaving tomorrow.
No.
I can’t stand the thought of seeing relief in his eyes—relief that I’ll no longer be cluttering his perfectly ordered world.
“I’m not sleepy,” I finally said, ending the sentence with an involuntary yawn that betrayed just how tired I was.
Wow.
“Where is Myra?” he took a sip from his glass, watching me carefully.
“She is… busy.”
“Elena?” He was watching me very carefully.
“She just left…”
He set his whiskey glass down on the counter with a quiet clink and leaned into it, elbows resting on the marble like the world was too heavy to hold alone anymore.
His eyes found mine—steady, unblinking—like he was trying to memorize something he wasn’t ready to lose.
And then, after a long, quiet beat, his voice came—soft, almost reverent.
“Cheeseball… thank you.”
I blinked, caught off guard. “For what?”
“Everything…” he exhaled, his eyes fluttering shut for just a moment—like he was pulling the words from somewhere deep. Somewhere he didn’t go often. “The night you stayed by my side… the chef job you insisted I take… the laughter, the chaos, your obsession with tomatoes…”
He paused, a small smile tugging at his lips.
“… the hugs,” he added softly.
My heart skipped a beat—or maybe three. Anyone would, seeing him like this… so unguarded.
“You forgot one thing—the kiss,” I teased, struggling to keep a straight face.
He raised an eyebrow. “Oh no, absolutely not,” he said, shaking his head with exaggerated seriousness.
“Excuse me?” I shot back, grabbing a handful of coriander leaves and tossing them in his direction.
He flinched, catching most of them mid-air. Our fingers brushed, barely, but enough to spark something.
Then, in one smooth motion, he caught my wrist and pulled me gently closer—our hands still tangled, the air suddenly too still, too loud, too everything.
“That couldn’t possibly qualify as a kiss,” he murmured, his gaze dipping somewhere between my nose and my lips.
“Well, I didn’t exactly have a great teacher…” I replied, my voice faltering as goosebumps sparked along my skin. The warmth radiating from him wrapped around me like a slow burn.
My free hand slid up to rest against his chest, firm beneath the soft fabric of his black button-down. And despite my better judgment, my eyes drifted lower, taking in the way his trousers fit a little too perfectly.
Focus, Kiara.
I forced myself to look up—only to find his eyes darker now, stormy and unreadable.
That’s when I realized just how close we were.
My body was nearly pressed against his, trapping him against the counter.
His hands had settled lightly at my waist, and the subtle, clean scent of his skin curled into my senses, dizzying and intimate.
He wore a faint frown. Not annoyance—something else. Like confusion tangled with want.
“What do you want to learn?” he asked, swallowing hard, his voice rougher now.
My heartbeat stumbled, then soared. “A perfect… romantic kiss.”
He lifted his hand slowly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear with aching gentleness. “Stop fidgeting.”
“I’m not… fidgeting.” I tried to sound steady, but the tremble in my voice betrayed me.
“Relax,” he said softly, his brows drawing together. “Take a deep breath.”
I tried. I really did. But my heart was pounding so hard, it felt like it might crack a rib. It took a full minute just to find my breath, to anchor myself in something other than the feel of him.
When I finally opened my eyes, he was already watching me—completely focused, like I was the only thing that existed.
“Come closer,” he whispered.
I moved without hesitation. I would’ve followed him to Saturn if he’d asked.
“Closer,” he said again, even softer.
I stepped into the space between us, closing the last breath of distance. His exhale warmed my lips—hot, fresh, dizzying.
My palms stayed planted on his chest, fingers curled slightly into the fabric. His hands had slid around my waist, thumbs pressing just enough to ground me. My eyes fluttered shut.
And the world went still.
Except for the thunder in my chest.
“Feel the air,” he murmured, his voice like velvet barely brushing my skin. “And breathe.”
His fingers trembled—just slightly—against my waist. And I noticed. Oh, I noticed.
For a moment, I didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just inhaled, slowly, fully, letting the moment expand inside me like the first line of a story I hadn’t dared to write—until now.
“I…” The word slipped out, barely formed, before my voice abandoned me altogether. My brain screamed for control, but my heart had already taken the lead.
“Cheeseball,” he said softly, voice low and sure, like he was permitting me to be exactly where I was. “Listen to your heart.”
A small, nervous laugh escaped me, barely a breath. I nodded, hesitant. Warmth bloomed across my cheeks—I couldn’t pretend to be unaffected.
I probably looked like a tomato mid-combustion.
My fingers trailed from his neck to his chest, slow and trembling, like each inch was a question I wasn’t sure I was allowed to ask. His skin was warm beneath my fingertips, too real, too steady for the chaos inside me.
His eyes never left mine—focused, calm, impossibly patient. That little crease between his brows made him look adorably serious, like he was holding back the world for me.
My palms wandered across his chest in slow, uncertain circles, mapping out unfamiliar terrain with reverence and hesitation. Like I was afraid I’d wake up and this would all vanish.
When my hand settled over his heart, I felt it stutter.
His eyes fluttered closed.
His throat bobbed—tight, tense—as he swallowed hard.
He glanced down, then gently cupped his hands over mine, grounding me with a touch that was more home than restraint.
“You’re doing great,” he murmured, voice low, more vibration than sound—a quiet rumble I felt in his chest, under my hands.
My hands traced upward, following the curve of his collarbone until my arms found their way around his neck. His own hands rested gently on my waist, fingers pressing just enough to keep me close, but loose enough to let me go.
He was giving me space.
A choice.
But I didn’t want space. Or distance. Or decisions. Not anymore.
My heart raced so violently that I was sure he could feel it pulsing against his chest. And still, he waited. Steady. Silent. Mine.
I swallowed, tilting my head upward. A breath, a heartbeat, and suddenly our lips were almost touching. So close I could feel his inhale brush across my mouth. A tiny laugh slipped out—nervous, uncertain—and I felt his chest rise as he let out a soft, answering chuckle.
“We can stop anytime,” he said, voice gentler than air, breath grazing my cheek like a promise.
I shook my head, the smallest motion.
I didn’t want to stop.
Every inch of me was tuned to him—the warmth of his skin, the tremble in his fingers, the pause in his breath, the silent question in his eyes.
And I was ready to answer.
He leaned in, just a fraction, resting his forehead gently against mine. I closed my eyes for a single heartbeat, summoning courage. Rising onto my toes, I let my arms tighten around his neck and leaned in—just a millimeter closer—close enough to feel his breath ghost softly over my lips.
The world seemed to hold its breath with me.
Neither of us spoke. We didn’t need to. His hand slipped from my waist to the small of my back, guiding me gently into him.
One more second. One final sliver of space.
And then—I closed the gap.
My lips met his, and a shiver raced down my spine, igniting every nerve in a sudden, electric jolt. The contact was feather-light and yet achingly intense, sending my stomach tumbling and lifting all at once. His breath caught—I felt it in the slight, breathless hitch against my mouth.
For a moment—just half a heartbeat—there was stillness.
His hand slid higher on my back with the softest exhale, drawing me in.
The kiss deepened—a slow burn of warmth and longing, of fire wrapped in tenderness.
Like we’d been holding our breath for years, and this was the moment we finally remembered how to breathe.
Time blurred.
His other hand slipped into my hair, fingers grazing my scalp, and every rational thought scattered like confetti in a storm. There was only this—his body against mine, the taste of him, the hum of something unspoken blooming in my chest.
When we finally pulled back, it was only just—barely enough to steal a breath.
His forehead rested against mine, our chests rising and falling in sync, his eyes still closed.
Mine fluttered open, and I traced the shape of him with my gaze—the curve of his mouth, the flutter of his lashes, the flush high on his cheek.
His voice, when it came, was a hushed rasp, a whisper of my name laced with meaning. “Cheeseball…”
He didn’t finish. Maybe he couldn’t.
And then—he snapped.
With a sudden, fluid motion, he spun us around. My back hit the counter—a startled gasp caught in my throat—and just before his mouth crashed into mine, I caught the word he muttered: “Fuck.” Low, raw, and desperate.
This kiss wasn’t careful. It was a wildfire—that felt like it had been waiting for years.
His tongue swept through my mouth with hungry precision, like he needed to memorize every inch, to claim it. The taste of him—heat and whiskey and something uniquely his—sent my head spinning. It was overwhelming in the most glorious way: hot, breathless, unrestrained.
His hand threaded deeper into my hair, angling my face just right. I gasped when his thumb traced soft, teasing circles along my neck, and when a helpless moan escaped me, he froze for half a second.
Then he lost it.
His grip tightened, a tremor ran through him, and I felt it—his restraint unraveling, his control hanging by a thread. Every kiss, every touch radiated with tension barely contained, like he’d been holding back for far too long.
And in that moment, one singular thought pulsed through me, loud and sure:
Nothing had ever felt so perfectly, dangerously right.