Epilogue
Six months later…
As always, he stands at the edge of things.
In this case, he’s standing at the edge of the roof as he looks out into the night.
I take a few moments to study him, his profile, from a distance. I run my eyes over his tall frame. Tall and broad. So tall that if he were standing under my pink magnolia tree, he wouldn’t have to reach his arm all the way up to pluck the flowers; and so broad that he carries the weight of the world on them. His jaw is clean-shaven and his dark, gleaming hair is smoothed back as always. His white shirt is crisp and dark jeans mold to his athlete thighs with perfection.
He looks the same as he did over two years ago when I first saw him.
But there are differences.
Like for example, his shirt is white as opposed to dark like that night. The ends of his hair are damp because he’s just had a shower. And he isn’t standing in the dark like a thug. Or like he wants to melt into the shadows, no.
Tonight, every inch of him is illuminated by the moonlight.
In fact, he’s staring right at the full and bright moon right now.
As he waits for me.
So I call out, “Hey.”
He turns to face me and as always, my breath catches in my throat when our eyes clash. There’s something about him, you see. Something that simply speaks to me. That makes me go breathless and thoughtless and reckless.
I like to call it destiny.
And these days, he agrees.
I can see it in his eyes.
As they take me in as well.
Going from the maang tikka on my forehead to the sparkly paayal around my henna tattooed ankles. Of course he stops at places during his perusal. Like around my shoulders where my hot pink and golden sequined dupatta goes over, and at my chest where the matching blouse I’m wearing shows off my cleavage. He also takes a long time staring at my bare midriff, at my belly button, at my elaborate lehenga, which is also hot pink in color.
I’m not going to lie. I love when he stares at me like that.
Like I make him go all breathless and thoughtless and reckless too.
See? Destiny.
“Sorry I kept you waiting,” I breathe out.
He blinks.
As if he was in a trance and my words broke it.
I bite my lip to stop my smile.
And his eyes flare in response.
“You look…” he begins but trails off, his eyes going up and down my body again.
I bite my lip harder and this time he sucks in a breath. Then, letting my lip go and walking toward him, I suggest, “Beautiful?”
He watches me approach him. “Yeah but…”
“That’s not the right word?” I tease, slowly closing the distance between us.
He shakes his head slowly. “No.”
Smiling, I keep going, “Resplendent?”
“Yeah but no.”
“Glorious?”
He shakes his head slowly, his eyes flashing.
“Luminous then,” I say as I reach him and stop.
Although I don’t think he likes it all that much.
Me stopping where I did.
I knew it and that’s why I did it.
Because in a second he’s going to do the thing that I like. Which is: he reaches forward and yanks me to him, making me go crash against his hard body. As if he can’t bear even a couple of inches between us. As if he wants every part of him touching every part of me at all times.
I agree.
We should be touching all the time.
So I sigh at the first contact while he growls, “Mine. You look mine.”
He bends his head toward me, going for my lips.
But as much as it pains me, I stop him. “No, don’t.”
His brows draw close. “What?”
I push at his chest. “Not yet.”
I hate making him wait. I do. Because for the longest time, he had to watch me from afar. He had to long and pine and wait. I had to do those things too. So these days, I try not to make him—and myself—wait for things.
But this is important, so he needs to.
He frowns. “Why the fuck not?”
“You’ll ruin my makeup and?—"
“You don’t need makeup.”
My heart smiles but still I protest. “You just have to wait a little because?—"
His grip flexes around my bicep. “I did.”
“What?”
“All day.”
My heart smiles more at that. Because yes, he did. And again, as much as I hated it, it was mostly on my account because I spent the entire day rehearsing for the new play opening next week—for the Bardstown community theater no less; as always my supportive professor recommended me for the role—and so I came home only a couple of hours ago.
Although I will say that he was the one to push me to go on a Saturday.
With classes and homework and rehearsals, I usually try to keep weekends free so I can spend them with him. But since the play is opening in only a few days, they wanted us to come in. I wanted to refuse but Stellan told me that I should go. Because he’s always the one who’s pushing me to do things. He’s always the one reminding me that I have dreams and that I can’t forget them for any reason.
If I had my way, I would forget.
Because when it comes to him, I’m okay forgetting everything else.
Not him though. He wants me to fly and God, I love him for that.
But now that I’m back home, all bets are off.
And as he said, I’m his.
“On top of doing your bidding and spending time with my so-called friends,” he finishes.
“They’re not your so-called friends,” I correct him. “They’re your actual friends.”
They are.
Homer, his high school friend and arguably one of the very few closest people to him; Byron, mostly his high school acquaintance who’s becoming his friend. And Ark, again his high school acquaintance who’s on the path to becoming his friend as well.
Although I will say that it’s going slow.
Because as he said, he went to see them on my command.
While he’s the one pushing me for my dreams, I’m the one who’s pushing him to live his life. Which includes going out and seeing people such as his friends and having fun.
Because for the longest time, he didn’t do that either.
He kept himself away from everything and everyone. He kept himself in the dark.
So it’s my mission to fill his life with light. It’s my mission to make him live and live freely.
Which reminds me I need to hit him up for the latest gossip about these three. For the record, Stellan is an awful gossiper. Awful. Even though he hangs out with these guys—on my insistence—he never knows anything juicy about them.
And there are juicy things to know, believe me.
Like, take Homer, for instance.
He apparently has a fiancée that he got engaged to when he was only fourteen. A fiancée that he doesn’t want to get married to. In a way, I understand it. They both had their life decided when they were both kids. But now they’ve grown up and from what I can see, Maple—his fiancée—is into him. I have only met her a couple of times but I really like her. So I don’t get his reluctance and I’d love to know why he’s dragging his feet. But as I said, Stellan has no insight into it.
Oh and Byron. From the looks of it, his career might be in jeopardy because of all the rumors about his drug abuse. He denies it of course and there’s never been any evidence to support such claims but he’s always in the news for one scandal or another. And I’d love to know if it’s true or not. If they’re going to kick him out like they’ve been talking about?
And then there’s Ark. Everyone knows that he owns a security company called The Fortress—my own bodyguards were hired through his company—and is a very busy man along with being very rich. Which obviously means he doesn’t actually do any bodyguarding himself. But recently, in a very unprecedent turn of events, he’s personally handling the security of one of their clients. Actually, let me rephrase, he’s personally handling the security of their client’s daughter.
Very curious, right?
Who is this daughter? What’s happening there? Why would Ark break the norm for her?
But every time I ask Stellan about any of these things, he looks at me like I’m crazy.
I mean, he’s the crazy one. How is he not asking these questions? What do they talk about when they see each other?
“But they aren’t the ones I wanted to spend my Saturday night with,” he says, breaking into my thoughts.
“Did you have fun though?” I ask hopefully.
“No.”
“Not even a little bit?”
“No,” he repeats like a grumpy boy.
“Stellan,” I warn.
He clenches his jaw in response.
“Come on,”—I smack his chest lightly—“tell me you had some fun at least. You always like to hang out with Homer and play your boring chess.”
He leans down. “Again, not how I wanted to spend my Saturday night. I wanted to come back as soon as you got home. But you wouldn’t let me.”
First, I want to pause here because he said home.
This is the first time he’s said it but every time he does say it, I have to take a breath and absorb it. Because it still feels unreal. It still feels so surreal and dreamy.
That we live together.
Six months ago when he told me that he loved me and brought me to his house to show me a part of himself that he hadn’t shown to anyone, we decided to move in together.
Well, duh.
He wouldn’t let me live with my parents—not that I ever wanted to but still—and he of course wouldn’t let me live alone, so we compromised and decided to live with each other. And since I wouldn’t let him in his childhood home where everything was so real and toxic for him, we decided to get a place close to my college.
Which means I got what I always wanted.
Him.
All his secrets. All his fire.
All his love.
Although right now he looks pissed that I wouldn’t let him come back home.
But that’s only because I wanted time to get the surprise ready for him.
That’s what this is all about.
That’s why he can’t touch me yet and that’s why when I found out I was going to be spending my entire day at rehearsals and couldn’t prep for it while he went to the gym—he goes every single day; yikes—I had to send him away so I could get everything ready.
“Okay,” I try to appease him. “How about I give you your surprise and then you can do whatever you want with me? Because remember? All of this”—I point to my lehenga and the table laden with all the stuff I’ve put together for tonight—"is for the surprise I wanted to give you.”
He studies me a beat before letting out a growly breath and easing his grip on me.
Stepping out of his embrace, I say, “Thank you.” Then grabbing his hand, I pull him to the table I was pointing at. “Okay, so! Today’s a little thing called Karva Chauth. Actually, not a little thing. It’s a very famous festival in India. On this day, married women fast from sunrise to moonrise for the longevity of their husbands. Don’t ask me what the words—Karva Chauth—actually mean. Well, my biji told me but I completely forgot. But what she also told me that it started long back as a way for women to pray for their husbands’ safe return from the war.”
It’s actually a very sweet ceremony.
Where, as I just said, women fast for their husbands or sometimes for their husbands to be. They get up before sunrise—which I did—and eat something called sargi sent to them by their mother-in-law. Sargi generally includes sweet fruits, coconut, and other Indian sweets.
Since I don’t have a mother-in-law or a future mother-in-law unfortunately, I asked his baby sister Callie to make me something sweet. And since she’s a baker, she baked me cupcakes and cookies. Just for the record, she’s the sweetest. We’ve become really good friends over the past few months, and I love hanging out with her. Plus all the other St. Mary’s girls of course. Because they all kick ass and for the first time ever I feel like I’m part of an actual family.
Thanks to the love of my life.
Anyway, back to sargi.
It’s supposed to last the women through the day and until the moon comes up, which is when they break the fast. It usually takes place like this: going up to the roof where the moon is clearly visible. They carry a big plate called thali with them that contains a glass of water or something called kachi lassi, a drink made of milk and water; a diya which is a small lamp and a sieve.
They look at the moon through the sieve and offer it water by tipping the glass a bit and letting the liquid drip down, followed by looking at their husband’s face using that same sieve. And then the husband offers the same glass of water to his wife to drink from, and feeds her the first bite of the day, thereby breaking her fast.
As I said, it's all very sweet and romantic and ever since Biji told me about it a few years ago—because I saw it in a movie—it’s something I always wanted to do. Which is why I insisted that we get an apartment with a balcony and roof access. So I could do the ceremony when the time came.
“Don’t freak out, okay?” Picking up my own thali from the table, I turn to him. “But I did it.”
He flicks his eyes down to the thali before asking, “You did what?”
“The fasting. I know?—"
“You haven’t eaten,” he cuts me off.
“No. But that’s not?—"
“From sunrise to fucking moonrise.”
“Yes but?—”
“Are you insane?” he bites out, leaning over me. “Are you fucking… And you worked all day. All fucking day, Dora.” He shakes his head. “You take things too far and… And I made you. I was the one who?—”
I put a hand on his mouth to make him stop. “I knew you’d freak out which is why I didn’t tell you.” He goes to say something again, but I press my hand against his mouth and keep going, “But that’s not the point. The point is that it’s done. I already did the fasting and you can’t change that. No matter how mad you are about it. All you can do is help me break it. Are you going to do that or not?”
He stares at me for a few beats, his eyes filled with displeasure, before letting out a growly breath for the second time and throwing out a short nod.
I smile. “Thank you.”
When I remove my hand, he commands, “Hurry the fuck up.”
I roll my eyes—even though I want to chuckle at his overprotectiveness—before taking the sieve and looking at the moon through it. Then I offer it the water before turning to the love of my life. I look at his beautiful face through the same sieve and my cheeks heat up at the look he gives me.
All hot and blazing.
Possessive and authoritative.
A little bit threatening too.
Because well he is kinda right. I do take things too far where he’s concerned.
But it’s not my fault.
It’s his.
I am the way I am because he is the way he is. I’m wild because I know he’s there to rein me in. And he forgets to be free because he knows I’m there to remind him that he can be.
Destiny.
I hand him the glass. “Now feed it to me.”
Without taking his eyes off my face, he takes the glass and offers it to me. And without taking my eyes off him, I drink my first sip of water.
And clench my thighs.
Because I can see he likes that.
He likes feeding me.
Then I hand him the thali that contains Callie’s cupcakes. Because if there’s a choice between her cupcakes and anything else, I’m going for the cupcakes. I step up to him and open my mouth, silently asking him to feed that to me as well. He stares at my parted lips for a few seconds, and he does it in a way that reminds me of the way he stares at me when I’m on my knees.
And God, I have to clench my thighs again.
This time I’m about to tell him to hurry up so we can do other things when he plucks the cupcake from the thali and feeds it to me.
Thereby breaking my fast.
And I don’t know what it is but this whole thing, this whole traditional thing that I did for him, makes me feel so content. It makes me feel so happy, so in love with him.
So in love with the man that I hope to one day marry.
But I’m not thinking about that.
I mean, we only just started dating—granted, it was six months ago but still—and there’s so much we need to figure out. Although I will say that if we love each other and want to be together, can’t we figure things out later, after we’re married?
But again, I’m not going to think about that. We’re not even engaged yet. He’s never given me any indication that he wants to be or…
Okay, Isadora? Stop.
You’re not thinking about that. You’re going to be happy with what you have.
You’re not going to be greedy.
Instead, I’m going to focus on something else that Karva Chauth is making me feel.
Hungry and not for the cupcakes.
So I take the cupcake from his hand, set it aside along with the thali and lean forward. I give him my weight as my hands go down to his belt and I say, “Now I think you should feed me something else.”
He stops me though.
His puts his hand over mine as he steps back, breaking our contact. Before I can protest or even take my next breath, he does something crazy.
Something that I have a difficult time comprehending.
He goes down on his knees.
I look down at him in confusion and ask, “What are you?—”
“You skipped a step,” he tells me, looking up and into my eyes.
“What?”
“You didn’t eat. From sunrise to moonrise.”
“Yeah but that’s?—”
“But you’re not my wife.”
My heart thuds. “Oh. That… Girls can still do it for?—”
“Yet.”
I freeze. “I-I’m sorry?”
He stares at me for a few moments, his eyes glittering and molten, his jaw ticking.
God, it’s making my heart pound.
It’s making my body shiver.
And when he starts speaking, I have to hold on to something—him—to keep my balance. Because I wasn’t expecting him to say the things he’s saying.
“I… I’ll begin by saying that I’m not perfect.” He scoffs. “I mean, my name and the word perfect don’t even belong in the same sentence. I don’t even think I’m a work in progress. I think I’m just… work. A fuck ton of work. A lot of people at this age have already been made while I’m still learning to be unmade. From my previous life. I’m learning to forget things. I’m learning. And for a man who thrived on control, who lived and breathed by it, who knew exactly who he was and what he wanted, it’s a very strange thing to do. To learn.”
He is.
Learning I mean.
Every single day.
Learning to let go. Learning to be free.
Learning to live.
In both small ways and big ways. In ways like going out with his friends. He protests, sure. But when I push him, he does give in. He agreed to be one of Riot’s groomsmen at his wedding with Meadow; I was one of the bridesmaids and it was so beautiful, watching our friends get married. He even went tux shopping with Coach Thorne for his upcoming wedding with Wyn; they’re getting married next summer.
He tells me things about himself. Without asking, without prompting. Without making it feel like I’m banging my head against the wall. Like the fact he likes mustard but hates mayo. His favorite color is blue. He likes the beach but hates anything cold. Like sometimes when he wakes up in the middle of the night, it’s because he has nightmares about his mother.
On those nights he tells me about her. He tells me that when he was little and would hear his mom cry from her bedroom, he’d go to put his arms around her and comfort her. He’d give her flowers on days she’d walk around limping.
So, on those nights, I hug him tighter. On those mornings after, I hug the rose that he gives me tighter too. Because he still does it; he still gives me roses every day.
I mean is it any wonder that I love this man?
Is it any wonder that I forget the world when he’s around me?
That I’m so, so proud of him for putting himself out there, for wanting a new life, for taking steps to live in a new way.
He even goes to therapy. Initially he didn’t like it and didn’t want to do it. But since he’d made me a promise that he’d build his life around me, he went despite his reluctance. And while I’d never push him to do anything that he didn’t like, I’m glad he persisted. Because I know it helps him. It eases him—even if a little bit—in his moments of crisis. In moments when he can’t remember anything else except his old life.
And there are days like that too.
When he forgets he’s free.
When he forgets his past doesn’t have a hold on him.
That he isn’t like his past.
On those days—bad days—I try to be there for him as much as I can. I try to soothe him, comfort him. I even argue with him and fight with him. To show him that I can handle him. To show him that I’m not afraid of him or his demons.
So yeah, he’s learning.
And I’m more in love with him now than I was six months ago.
“So really,” he continues, his eyes flashing and liquid. “I have no right to do this. I shouldn’t be doing it. But the thing is, Dora, when it comes to you, I’ve always been selfish. And I wish I could say that I’ll work on that. I wish I could say that I’ll fix this flaw in me. But I promised to tell you the truth. I promised to not lie to you or keep secrets from you so the truth is I can’t. I can’t work on it. It’s impossible for me to work on it. In fact, I’m only going to get more selfish as the times passes. I’m only going to get even more possessive. So much so that maybe one day, I’ll really cross that line. That one line and kill every guy who looks at you. Maybe one day I’ll really strangle your father when I see him because of all the crimes he’s committed against you, and I’ll do the same to your mother as well because she still looks at you the wrong way.”
I believe him.
I absolutely and wholeheartedly believe that he may one day end up doing these things.
Because well he’s angry, isn’t he?
And while I know he has a better control on his urges than he’d like to believe, I know that it rears its ugly head when he sees someone hurting me.
Such as my parents.
After we moved in together, my father had invited us over for dinner. He wanted to make amends and reconcile things. And since I wanted the same, I insisted that we go. Honestly, I should’ve known it would be a disaster because it’s not as if I wasn’t aware Stellan hates my parents or that my mother hates Stellan. But while Stellan was polite albeit reserved, my mother kept staring daggers at him. She kept taunting him about his family, about differences in our status, the fact that he’d beaten up his brother for me. And that according to her, he had no job prospects because he’d just quit and enrolled in college.
In my college no less.
Since he’d decided to quit soccer and pursue a new path, he thought going back to college was a good idea. And since we’d decided to live together, he thought it was best that he enrolled at the same school as me. And let me tell you, my boyfriend is a freaking genius. We have a few classes together and oh my God, he knows everything.
Everything.
He always has all the answers, and he can explain things better than the professors. Ever since he started going, I don’t think I’ve ever paid this much attention in class. Usually, I doodle on the margins of my notebook but these days, I listen to everything he says. Not to mention, I’ve started to do my own homework too. With his help of course but still.
Wow, who knew college could be so fun?
Plus I will never look at study rooms at the library without blushing. Or a Sharpie and a desk, for that matter. I mean it’s hard not to if one of those things has been inside you—the Sharpie—and the other thing has been under you—the table—while you were writhing and humping the Sharpie that your boyfriend was pumping in and out of your pussy.
While he was inside your ass.
And all because I got a math question right and so he decided to reward me even though we were at the library, and he knows how loud I can be. But it’s okay, he clapped his hand over my mouth when my whining got too loud.
All in all, the best decision ever.
But of course, my mother hadn’t known that.
So yeah, disaster it was.
The only person who had any fun at that dinner was my biji. She’d break out chuckling at random moments or simply smirk and sip her margarita as she watched Stellan giving my mother the cold shoulder. At one point she blurted out, “Dil khush kar ditta iss khote de puttar ne.”
Which she went on to translate, without any prompting from me, “I don’t think I’ve ever had this much fun in my life. You’re not such an asshole after all.”
All this to say, I believe him. Even though I made him promise to go easy on my father at least and not engage with my mother at all because like I told him that day, she isn’t worth it. She isn’t worth destroying our happiness over.
“I may burn down the world with my fire,” he keeps going, “and I don’t think that can ever be fixed. I don’t know if I want to fix that. That is the one thing I don’t want to fix about myself, wanting to protect you, wanting to do extreme things to keep you safe. So I don’t think this is fair, me doing this, me asking you what I want to ask you but I…” He takes a deep breath. “As I said I’m selfish and on top of that, I’m in love. And that would still be okay, me being in love, but I’m in love with you and you make me… do crazy things. You make me want to fly. You make me hope. For a future. For a better life. But more than that you make me believe that I can have a life. That I can have a future. That I can live in the light. That I can live outside of that room I’d shut myself in. You make me believe that I can live with this fire inside of me. So instead of making you false promises, I’m going to say that I will. I will always live in the light with you, no matter how scary it seems. I will live outside that room, with you, no matter how hard it seems sometimes. But more than that I will believe. Always. I will always believe that one day I’ll get there. One day I will be the kind of man who deserves you. I will be the kind of man who deserves to cherish you and treasure you and protect you. I will be the kind of man who deserves to love you. But until then, until that day, until the day I’ve earned you, I’m asking you to take a chance. On me. I’m asking you to let me be with you. Forever.”
“F-forever?”
“I’m asking you to marry me.”
It takes a few seconds for me to find my breath. It also takes me a few seconds to find my heart. Because I don’t think it’s in my chest anymore. I think it fell down to my tummy. I think it jumped up to my throat.
I think my heart is everywhere.
Like stardust.
Like the snow.
Falling and beating and throbbing.
It throbs more when I notice something.
A ring.
He produces a ring from somewhere—probably his pocket—and holds it in his fingers between us.
“You have a…”—I fist my fingers in his shirt—"ring?”
His eyes flick back and forth between mine, his face all cut open and vulnerable. “Bought it the day we moved in together.”
“But we”—I catch my breath again—"moved in together, like months ago.”
“Been carrying it around,” he shares.
“In your pockets.”
He nods. “Stopping myself from asking the question.” He swallows thickly before continuing, “I wish I had taken more time. I wish I’d worked on?—”
“No.”
He grows cautious. “No?”
“No, I mean I love you. I?—”
“I love you too,” he says, still looking both cautious and vulnerable.
And oh God, how can he not know? How can he not already know what my answer would be? How can he not know how perfect he is? How wonderful and amazing and so deserving of my love already.
I mean, look at him saying I love you back all because he’d promised me that I’d never be alone in saying it. So, every time I say it, even as an afterthought, he returns the sentiment as if it’s forefront on his mind. As if that’s all he ever thinks about.
And knowing him, he probably does.
“You’re perfect,” I tell him vehemently.
He swallows again. “I don’t think so.”
“You are.” I fist his shirt again. “And you’re not that old.”
He frowns. “What?”
“You said, back there, that”—I shake my head—“people your age have things figured out and all that. You’re only twenty-seven.”
He is.
We celebrated his birthday last month and I don’t think I will ever look at vanilla cream cheese frosting the same again. Not after how he smeared the frosting on my nipples and my pussy before eating me out. And then how I smeared it on his dick and licked it off him.
“Kinda close to thirty,” he corrects me.
“Are you serious? You’re not close to thirty. And even if you were, it wouldn’t matter because as I said, you’re perfect and I love so much.”
“I love you too.”
God, he’s crazy.
“And I will marry you,” I finally tell him.
Still holding the ring in his fingers, he goes still.
His chest stops breathing and he stares at me unblinking.
I shake him. “Stellan?”
He blinks. “You will?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Because I… I looked at you and you were so… You didn’t eat all day for me and I… I just… I couldn’t stop myself but?—”
“Will you put the ring on me and kiss me already?”
And like the rule follower he is, he does.
He obeys me and puts the ring on my finger with his big, usually-graceful-but-clumsy-in-this-moment, hands.
I look down at the ring—a princess cut diamond with red rubies circling it—and smile. “We’re engaged.”
“Yeah,” he breathes out, his hands coming to rest on my bare waist.
As if he needs support to hold himself upright.
I look at him; he still looks a little dazed. “And it’s not fake.”
At my words, any dazedness on his features goes away and his eyes flash possessively. “Absolutely fucking not.”
I chuckle. “I’m never taking it off.”
“You’re not allowed to take it off,” he tells me, flexing his fingers on my flesh.
“Even when you’re being bossy and annoying,” I point out.
“And neither will I.”
“Neither will you what?”
“Take off my ring,” he promises, “when you give it to me at the wedding.”
“We’re going to have a wedding,” I say, my eyes wide, as if it’s only now sinking into me.
“We absolutely fucking are,” he agrees vehemently.
I grin. “I can’t wait.” Then, gasping, I add, “Can we do it tomorrow?”
His jaw tenses in response. “No.”
“But—"
“We will wait.”
“I don’t want?—"
“Because you deserve a perfect Indian wedding, and it takes planning.”
I stare at him for a beat but give in because he’s right. “You know I want an Indian style wedding?”
“You’ve made me watch enough of those movies to know that yeah I know.”
“Hey, they’re good movies.”
“They are,” he agrees solemnly.
“You’re going to have to wear traditional Indian clothes, you know?”
“A sherwani,” he goes. “Yeah, I know.”
“You know what they wear at the traditional Indian style wedding?”
“It’s a simple Google search,” he murmurs.
It is but…
Holy shit.
My boyfriend—fiancé—is so fucking hot for knowing that. For researching that. Although I shouldn’t be surprised, should I? He is a scholar. Oh and a sherwani is a long-sleeved coat that grooms wear over a pair of flared trousers. It is fitted and goes down to the knees.
And oh my God, I cannot wait to see Stellan rocking that, and he is going to rock it, believe me.
“I can’t believe you know that. You’re so fucking sexy for knowing that,” I breathe out.
Which makes him chuckle and add, “Well in that case, let me tell you all about how at the wedding, we’ll be taking seven rounds around a holy fire, agni in Sanskrit, so we’re tied to each other for seven lives.”
I clench my thighs, my core pulsing. “Oh my God, stop talking.”
“And since I won’t be satisfied with just seven lives, I’ll marry you in each life for the next seven. So we’ll be tied every time I’m born.”
Ugh.
How can he be both sexy and romantic at the same time?
I’m dying.
He’s killing me.
Then, something else occurs to me and I say, “If we’re going to be tied every time we’re born then you’re going to work on your gossiping skills.”
He frowns. “No.”
“Come on, Stellan. I want to know what’s happening with Jupiter and Shepard.”
Because something is happening there.
And despite all his friends leading a juicy life, this piece of gossip is something I’m the most interested in. I wish I could ask Jupiter but since I’ve been the source of such grief to her this past year, I’m trying to respect her privacy. So I keep my mouth shut when we hang out.
But Stellan doesn’t have to do the same when he hangs out with Shep.
Which, I’m happy to report, he does pretty frequently.
More frequently than hanging out with the other guys.
In fact, they see each other every single week. Well when Shep isn’t traveling for the games. But if he’s in New York, come what may including a grueling practice session, the twin brothers have a standing date to meet up at The Horny Bard.
I love it.
I absolutely freaking love how they’re trying to work on their relationship, and how much Stellan enjoys it. Because every time he comes back from his date with Shepard, he’s visibly happy and light.
“What’s happening is none of our business,” he states firmly.
“It is so,” I protest. “If they get married, she’ll be my sister-in-law.”
“They’re not getting married,” he states even more firmly.
“But—”
“He can’t stand her.”
I look at him like he’s crazy. “Is that what he told you?”
“Yes.”
I keep looking at him like that. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
I still look at him like that. “Oh my God, you have no clue, do you?”
“Clue about what?”
“He’s crazy about her.”
“That’s –”
“That’s why he said that,” I share excitedly.
“I think you’re delusional.”
I put both my hands on his cheeks. “Oh my sweet baby, you have so much to learn.”
His eyes flash again. “Do I now?”
“Yes, you do.” I nod sagely. “He’s doing the same thing that you did. You pretended that I annoyed you when you secretly liked it.”
His lips twitch slightly. “I did like it.”
“See? He likes it too. In fact, the other day when we did the get-together,” I keep sharing. “I think he was staring at her. I got the feeling. I mean, of course when I asked him he denied it but I could’ve sworn that?—”
“Can we stop talking about my brother?”
I look at his sheepishly. “I’m sorry.”
“Good.”
“I think you should get off your knees now,” I tell him. “I said yes. I’m yours.”
His grip tightens. “I think that’s the very reason I should stay on my knees. Because you’re mine.”
“What does that?—”
He explains it to me then.
Not via words but through actions.
When he lifts up my lehenga, spreads my legs and gets his mouth between them. And since he’s mine as well, when he’s done eating me out, I finally get my turn to get down on my knees where he properly breaks my fast and feeds me.
My wildfire Thorn.
THE END