Chapter Thirty-Four
Saffi hadn’t expected Dimple to touch her so gingerly.
Only the tips of her fingers grazed her jaw, as though afraid—of what, Saffi didn’t know.
The press of Dimple’s mouth, however, was something else entirely.
Saffi wasn’t sure if the bruising force of it was what sent tingles through her lips or if Dimple Kapoor was simply incendiary.
This was…What was this? Saffi’s mind floated somewhere high above her, disconnected from her body. She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Somewhere off in the distance, the voice of reason reminded her, These are dangerous games. But this felt a lot like winning.
There was a tipping point, the building electricity between them stretching thin, but Dimple began to pull away before lightning could strike.
No.
It couldn’t end there, not when Saffi still didn’t have the answers she so desperately needed. Fingers tangled in Dimple’s hair, pulling her back in.
Somehow, the waxy residue of lipstick and venomous lies had never tasted sweeter.
She could feel Dimple’s pulse in her neck, thumping like a drum, even faster than Saffi’s.
The tips of her fingers, one hand brushing the underside of Saffi’s jaw, the other her arm.
It raised a trail of goosebumps. Suddenly desperate to see Dimple’s face, Saffi pulled back, breathing heavily and coming apart at the seams.
“What the fuck,” Saffi breathed. It wasn’t a question, so there was no answer.
They stared at each other. Saffi wasn’t sure what her own expression held, but Dimple’s was wiped blank.
How did she do that? Seconds ago, she’d come alive under Saffi’s fingertips and now she was as cold and lifeless as stone.
She wanted that Dimple back. The fiery Dimple that consumed everything she touched.
If not for Dimple’s bloodied hands, her short breath, her smudged lipstick, Saffi would have assumed she was unaffected. Her racing pulse could not lie.
Saffi grasped both of Dimple’s wrists, putting an end to the featherlight touches that sent sick flutters through her stomach. She kept her grip loose, easily broken if need be, and while Dimple tensed, she did not pull away. Her knuckles, while they had stopped bleeding, still looked painful.
Regardless, as Saffi’s fingers pressed deeper, the way she’d wanted to for months now, the same too-quick pulse greeted her once again. Saffi was no closer to understanding this woman than she had been eight months ago. The thought sent an unexpected thrill through her.
Perhaps the answers lurked where Saffi spun them around and pressed Dimple to the door, trapping her wrists on either side.
Or maybe where she ducked down and brought their lips together again.
If they did, Saffi was too distracted to notice.
Dimple tugged, tempting Saffi’s grip, but this time she didn’t budge.
“Die,” Dimple gasped.
Saffi replaced the command with one of her own. “Then kill me.”
As though following through with her request, there was a thud and Dimple flew forward, knocking painfully against Saffi’s forehead.
“Shit,” Dimple said under her breath, throwing her weight back against the door.
It took half a second to realize what was happening, but Saffi caught on just in time. She slammed the door shut and locked it. Their gazes met briefly before darting away. The bathroom was a mess—the mirror still broken, drops of Dimple’s blood splattered across the floor.
Without a word, the two of them began cleaning up. The mirror would have to remain—there was nothing they could do about that. When Saffi unlocked the door, they left before the woman waiting outside could get in a single complaint.
Dimple walked ahead of Saffi. She’d cleaned her knuckles under water and the cuts weren’t as bad as they seemed, but it still looked an angry mess. Saffi caught her wrist, hoping it would be enough to convey the words she couldn’t say.
Somehow, it was.
—
When they finally made it back to the hotel, cold and tired, Saffi had been certain that whatever happened in the bathroom would be left there. If she thought about it for too long, reminders of she’s a killer and guilty by proxy would flash in her mind until her head spun.
But then Dimple paused in front of her door and Saffi dared to hope. When a warm hand wrapped around her wrist and tugged her inside, she knew she hadn’t been wrong.
“What—” she began, but Dimple shoved her back so hard that her head ricocheted against the door.
“Don’t say a word,” Dimple snapped.
Saffi obliged without question.
“This is so idiotic,” Dimple murmured as she leaned in.
Saffi couldn’t help but agree.
The dress Dimple wore had to be worth more than Saffi could imagine. With how pedantic she was, Saffi half expected Dimple to change the second they stepped inside. Instead, she barely touched the dress, giving the privilege of unwrapping her to Saffi alone.
Unwilling to let such an opportunity go, she took her time.
She let the dress hang off Dimple’s shoulders like a curtain, like a waterfall, and admired the view.
Then from her waist, her hips, her thighs.
Each time it slipped, each time Saffi’s hand uncovered a new expanse of smooth brown skin, it sent a new thrill through her veins.
Saffi’s fingertips pressed harshly into it, bruising and unrelenting.
Dimple burned like coal and she stoked the flames.
With no barriers between them, nothing stopped them from melding into one. Lips pressed into lips, teeth into skin, fingers into flesh as warm lamplight cast deep shadows across their bodies.
If Saffi had stopped to consider, she might’ve realized that it no longer felt like a game at all. And that was more dangerous than anything.