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.”
Oh god. “And the part where I—”
“Don’t!” I slap a hand over his mouth. His laughter rumbles against my palm.
My face is on fire. I deserve it. “This is why I didn’t want you to read that chapter!” I groan, dragging both hands down my face. “You’re going to tease me for the rest of my life.”
He steps closer again, and his voice drops, warm and serious this time. “Shivani,” he says, touching his forehead to mine. “You’re good. Really good.”
I blink. “You’re not... weirded out?”
His brow arches. “By you writing a scene that made me blush?” He leans in, murmurs near my ear. “I’m proud. A little turned on. A lot impressed.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “It’s just one chapter.”
“No,” he says, pulling back to meet my eyes. “It’s a whole damn book. And it’s amazing.”
I bury my face in his shirt, muffling the nervous words. “I’m planning to send the book to an editor,” I mumble. “I found a publishing house too… After editing, I’ll mail them the manuscript.”
He goes still for a second, and I feel his hand settle gently on my back.
Just holding. Just there. “You’ve been my number one supporter since the day I told you about this book,” I say softly.
“I mean, you rarely give advice because—apparently—my husband likes everything I write. But still. I’m so grateful.
” I don't think I would have ever found the courage to publish this book if Rudra hadn't pushed me.
He lets out a breath that sounds like a laugh and a sigh all at once. “Because it’s true. I do like everything you write.”
A beat of silence. Then I ask about it. The thing that’s been clawing at my ribs since the moment I typed The End. “Do you… do you think they’ll accept it?”
He pulls back just enough to look at me, still smiling. “You made a thirty-year-old man want to squeal and giggle like a teenager, darling. I’m pretty sure you’ll make it.”