[24] MORNING
Abhiraj lay on his back,
one arm folded behind his head,
the other wrapped firmly around Amisha’s waist.
She was sleeping exactly like a little cat:
curled completely on top of him,
knees tucked on either side of his hips,
face buried in the warm crook of his neck,
arms folded between their chests,
her soft, heavy breasts squished against his bare skin,
slow, steady breaths tickling his throat.
Her loose cream kurta had ridden up to her ribs,
no bra,
bare skin on bare skin,
her entire body rising and falling with his.
He stirred, voice low, raspy with sleep.
“Biwi… jaag rahi ho?”
Amisha made a tiny, grumpy kitten-sound,
didn’t even open her eyes,
just lifted one small hand and slapped it over his eyes like a sleepy blindfold.
“Nahi… abhi so rahi hoon.”
He smiled against her hair,
tightened his arm,
pulling her impossibly closer so she was fully draped over him,
warm and soft and completely his.
“Theek hai… so jao.”
Silence.
Perfect, lazy silence.
Then,
her head jerked up in panic.
“SCHOOL!”
The sudden twist of her waist sent lightning pain through her hips and lower back.
She yelped,
immediately collapsed back down onto his chest with a defeated thud,
face buried in his neck again,
groaning like a wounded kitten.
“Aapne mujhe tod diya hai pura!”
Abhiraj laughed, deep, shameless,
both hands sliding down to gently knead her aching hips and thighs.
“Toda nahi, meri billi… bas thoda sa istemaal kiya.”
She whined,
nuzzled deeper,
arms tightening around his neck.
“Aap meri naukri chhudwa doge…”
He kept massaging slow, soothing circles,
voice soft and serious now.
“Duniya mein koi itni himmat nahi rakhta jo tumhe tumhari marzi se rok sake… mujh mein bhi nahi.”
Then, teasing again, lips brushing her ear:
“Waise principal achhe se jaanti hain ki biwi ka pati 9 saal baad aaya hai… unko pata hai thodi si chhutti toh banta hai.”
She made a mortified little sound,
slapped his chest weakly,
then simply melted back into him,
curling tighter,
legs tangling,
face nuzzling back into its favorite spot under his jaw.
“Sab log aaj shaam ko Lagn se lautenge na?”
she mumbled, already drifting.
“Haan, meri jaan.”
She sighed,
one last sleepy kitten-kiss to his throat,
and went completely limp again,
a warm, purring little cat on her favorite human pillow.
He pressed a lingering kiss to her hair,
closed his eyes,
and let the morning keep them exactly like that.
After some time,
Amisha stepped out of the bathroom,
hair dripping,
a soft peach saree clinging to her damp skin,
pleats tucked low,
pallu carelessly draped over one shoulder.
The tiny blouse was stretched tight,
neckline daringly low,
the inner curves of both breasts pressed together,
a deep, tempting shadow running down the centre where they met.
Abhiraj stood at the mirror,
comb halfway through his hair,
eyes already on her reflection.
She padded closer,
glanced at his neck,
dark purple bites, teeth marks, hickeys blooming like war medals,
and immediately looked away, cheeks burning.
He tilted his head slowly, smirk lethal.
“Dekho… kiski mohabbat ke nishaan hain yeh?”
“Toh?” she muttered, chin high, voice wobbling only a little.
“Mujhe bhi thoda haq banta hai.”
She swept past him,
sat at the dressing table,
lifted both arms to gather her wet hair.
The movement made the pallu slip completely off her shoulder,
blouse straining,
the soft, deep line where her full breasts met now fully exposed,
skin still glistening from the shower.
Abhiraj was behind her in a heartbeat.
Before she could protest,
his finger poked straight into the plush, bare tummy just above her saree,
tickling mercilessly.
“Kya—Abhiraj—!”
She squealed, twisting, pallu falling even lower.
He didn’t stop.
Bent down,
pressed one deliberate, lingering kiss right in the centre of that tempting valley between her breasts,
lips warm against cool, damp skin,
then another soft peck just above it,
then a third on the curve of the left swell.
She froze,
breath catching,
nipples tightening instantly under the thin blouse.
He straightened,
smirk wicked,
voice low.
“Ab dono taraf barabar nishaan hain.”
And with that he strolled out,
whistling,
leaving her flushed, breathless,
pallu forgotten on her lap,
staring at her own marked reflection with wide, mortified eyes,
and a smile she couldn’t quite hide.
The kitchen was warm with morning light and the smell of ghee.
Amisha stood at the tawa, rolling out aloo-parathas, her peach cotton saree tucked at the waist, pallu flung back over one shoulder.
Hair still slightly damp from the bath, a few loose strands clung to her neck.
Every time she bent to flip a paratha, a faint ache shot through her hips (last night’s souvenir), making her bite her lip and smile secretly.
Breakfast ready, she wiped her hands on the pallu and called up the stairs.
“Abhiraj! Nashta tayyar hai, aao jaldi!
His deep voice drifted down, calm and distracted
.
“Office mein la do, moti. Meeting chal rahi hai.”
She rolled her eyes, cheeks warming at the nickname, and balanced a steel plate (three parathas, curd, pickle, a glass of elaichi chai) in her hands.
Payals chiming softly, she climbed the marble stairs.
The door was half-open.
Amisha stepped in quietly and stopped dead.
Abhiraj sat at the huge teak desk, black shirt sleeves rolled high, glasses low on his nose, staring at a glowing screen.
On it were four small boxes, each showing a different foreign face, men in suits, talking rapidly in English and Italian.
Their voices came out of the computer like magic.
She had never seen anything like it.
People… inside the computer?
Talking face-to-face?
She hovered near the doorway, unsure, clutching the plate.
She knew if she stepped into view, the strangers would see her too.
So she waited, wide-eyed, like a child watching a jadoo-ka-box.
The meeting ended with polite “Grazie” and “Arrivederci.”
Abhiraj clicked a button; the faces vanished.
He looked up, saw her frozen expression, and smirked.
“Laaye nashta?”
She hurried forward, set the plate down carefully.
“Woh… yeh kya tha? Computer mein log the… baat kar rahe the… unko dikhai bhi de raha tha aapko?”
He picked up a paratha, tore a piece, dipped it in curd.
“Italy se video call thi. Computer se computer baat hoti hai, moti. Aajkal duniya aise chalti hai.”
Her mouth formed a small, awed ‘O’.
“Face-to-face? Jaise saamne baithe hon?”
He nodded, chewing, eyes dancing.
“Haan. Tum bhi try karna kabhi.”
She glared instantly.
“Moti mat bola karo!”
Before she could retreat, his free hand shot out,
fingers pinching the soft roll of her tummy just above the saree pleats,
lifting a little pinch of flesh between thumb and forefinger,
waving it teasingly in front of her face.
“Yeh moti nahi hai toh kya hai?”
“Abhiraj!”
She squeaked, slapped his hand,
jumped back like a startled kitten,
and in pure childish reflex,
hoisted herself up to sit on the edge of the wide teak desk, legs swinging exactly the way she used to when they were kids.
The movement made her pallu slip,
revealing the constellation of fresh love-bites on her neck and chest.
Abhiraj’s eyes darkened instantly.
Memory slammed into him like a wave.
Flashback – 14 years ago
Class X physics book open.
Pencil scratching furiously.
Amisha, age nine, perched on the exact same table’s edge, lavender skirt fanning out, legs swinging.
“Kya padh rahe ho,? Tenth hai na?”
“Utar jao table se.”
She swung higher. “Bataao na…”
Pencil snapped.
“AMISHA. UTAR. JAO.”
Silence.
Her grey eyes filled.
A single tear rolled down a flushed cheek.
She slid down and ran.
Later that night, Rajveer carried a sleeping, tear-stained Amisha back to the children’s room, chocolate bar clutched in her fist.
Abhiraj pretended to sleep,
but his chest had twisted strangely at the sight.
Present
The memory faded.
Amisha was still sitting on the desk, legs swinging, glaring at him with pink cheeks.
He reached out,
pinched her waist again,
softer this time.
“Phir se table pe baithi ho.
Bachpan se adat nahi gayi.”
She stuck her tongue out,
then suddenly realised what she’d done,
gasped,
jumped down,
and fled the room, pallu fluttering behind her like a flag of surrender.
Abhiraj watched her go,
took another bite of paratha,
and smiled to himself.
Some habits,
some girls,
never change.
And he wouldn’t have it any other way.