Chapter 26 #2
Aashiq does this way better than I did. For example, his kiss doesn’t last for only zero point five seconds.
He does more than lightly touch my pursed lips with his; he explores the new territory with surprising confidence.
He doesn’t keep his hands stuck in one position, either.
They slide from my wrists to my hands, spreading electricity over every inch of skin he skims. Aashiq briefly twines our fingers, tenting them until they’re folded together, then suddenly draws me forward, pulling my arms up until they’re resting on either side of his neck.
I gasp as I stumble, but Aashiq doesn’t break the kiss, and at this point, I’m sure not even a plane crashing into this apartment would interrupt him.
His own hands move to my torso. One grips my waist while the other glides up to the small of my back, lingering there.
I kiss him back with just as much fervor.
I place one hand at the nape of his neck, and my fingers gently run through his hair.
My other rests on his shoulder, helping me keep my balance as he leans forward, trying to get closer to me.
We keep kissing and kissing and kissing, like we’ll fade from existence if we stop for even a second.
After what feels like forever, Aashiq is the first to slowly pull away.
His shoulders rise and fall rapidly, and my breathing is just as ragged.
We’re still tangled up in each other; my arms are around his neck, and his hands are still on my back.
For the first time, even though fear races through my veins, I don’t feel the urge to break away from him.
Instead, I admire the slit in his eyebrow, the brilliant hues of his irises, the curve of his face.
I move one hand so it rests along the side of his neck.
I lift the other hand, and though it trembles, I place it against his face.
His pulse picks up under my palm, but he doesn’t pull away.
I stroke the sculpted line of his cheekbone with my thumb, but he still stays silent.
Finally, my hoarse voice whispers, “Please say something,” because I don’t know what to say.
Even though he usually has no problem telling me what he’s thinking, whenever it comes to his own private thoughts, he’s not so eager to open up. His breathing stutters as he inhales deeply. “That was even better than I thought it would be,” he confesses.
I splutter a laugh. “So, you’ve thought about kissing me before?”
“Oh, dozens of times,” he confirms. “But I never thought it’d actually be something I could do .
I meant it when I said I wasn’t sure what love or romance was supposed to feel like.
I can give you ideas and suggestions because it’s what I do, and on a subconscious level it’s something you know, too, but I never thought I could feel something like this.
” One of his hands suddenly goes to his chest. “My heart is beating fast. Is that normal? Is that supposed to happen? Am I going to die?”
A laugh bubbles out of me. “Don’t worry, you’re fine,” I assure him.
“And as for it being normal… I’d say yes, but it’s not based on experience.
I meant it when I said I’ve never loved someone before, so I don’t know what you’re supposed to feel, either.
But I’m pretty sure no one’s heart has ever fallen out of them, so you should be good. ”
“Even if it does, it’s fine.” He brushes my nose with his. “I’m willing to lose my heart for you, Ziya Khan.”
My pulse spikes right back up. “How are you so smooth?”
“I am your muse,” he reminds me. “And at your core…” Aashiq lightly touches the pads of his fingers to my cheek “…you’re a romantic.”
Even though my heart races so fast it’s like it’s trying to win a sprint, I grin. “You bring it out in me, Aashiq,” I tell him, and at his goofy grin, I kiss him again. His arms go back to my waist while mine reach up to rest around his neck.
Maybe this is impossible. Maybe this is a terrible idea.
But if Aashiq has taught me anything, it’s that maybe isn’t a bad word.
It’s not a word that induces anxiety, that draws out the fear of the unknown, like water slipping between fingers.
It’s a word filled with endless possibilities.
It shines with courage to face unfamiliar territory.
It shimmers with hope for a future worth taking a risk on.
It’s not a death sentence, but liberation.
That’s the beauty of language. The duality of it.
The ability for one word to create a million different meanings depending on how you use it.
Maybe this is impossible—but maybe it’s not.
Maybe this is a terrible idea—but maybe it’s a wonderful one.
Maybe all of this will blow up in my face—or blossom into something beautiful.
And maybe this will break my heart—or bring it back to life.
All I know is that the warmth and the joy and the optimism that radiates off the man wrapped around me is enough to make me realize this is a story I do not want to give up on.
This is one I want to see through all the way to the end, and I intend to, if it’s the last thing I ever write.