I told myself I was done. That night, that kiss, that first surrender… it was a mistake. Something I'd never let happen again.
But Kabir Malhotra doesn't do mistakes. Not with me. Not when he knows exactly which part of me is weak, and exactly how to break through it.
It started innocently enough. A text:
Are you painting tonight?
I ignored it.
Then another:
I can come by, just for a minute.
I rolled my eyes, pretending I wasn't smiling like an idiot. I lit a cigarette and stared at the canvas, trying to lose myself in colors and charcoal lines. But the memory of his lips—the softness, the warmth, the way he had whispered my name—kept creeping back.
By the time he arrived at my studio, late afternoon sun slanting across the floor, my resolve was already weakening.
"I brought coffee," he said softly, holding a small paper cup toward me. But it wasn't the coffee I noticed first. It was him. The way his shirt clung to his shoulders, slightly damp from the heat outside. The faint scent of him that made my chest tighten. The calm, unwavering look in his eyes that dared me to resist.
I dropped my brush.
"You can't just show up," I muttered, trying to sound annoyed. But my voice faltered.
"I can," he said. "Because I want to. Because I'm not going anywhere."
His nearness was dangerous. The faint brush of his fingers when he handed me the cup, the heat of his body as he leaned just slightly closer—it made something inside me stir. Something I had worked hard to ignore.
I wanted to pull away. I should have pulled away. But I didn't.
Hours passed, though it felt like minutes. We worked silently, painting, sketching, talking about nothing important. But every brush of his hand, every accidental touch when reaching for the same paintbrush, every glance lingering just a second too long… it was electric.
I could feel it building. Heat pooling low in my stomach. Pulse racing. Thoughts twisting with desire I refused to admit.
"You're tense," he murmured finally, breaking the silence. His voice was low, deliberate, intimate.
"I'm not," I replied, but the lie came out shaky.
"Do you want to touch me?" he asked softly.
I froze. My fingers tightened on the brush. My lips parted. My body betrayed me.
"I…" I started, but I couldn't finish.
Kabir stepped closer, slow, careful. His hands brushed mine when he adjusted a sketchpad. Just a touch. And it was enough to make me shiver. Enough to make my knees feel weak.
"You can let go," he whispered. "You don't have to fight it."
I wanted to argue. To remind myself of rules, of Riya, of boundaries. But my body was already answering him. My pulse racing. My chest tightening. Every nerve alive, aching, aware of him.
I moved closer, almost imperceptibly, my hand brushing against his arm. He didn't pull away. He leaned in, just a whisper of his lips against mine, teasing, testing, setting fire to a heat I had long buried.
I let myself respond this time. Tentatively. Slowly. My lips met his fully, and I felt a shiver run down my spine. My hands roamed cautiously, memorizing the feel of his shoulders, his back, the curve of his neck.
He groaned softly against me, and that sound—low, intimate, desperate—made something snap inside me. I wanted him. I wanted him to touch me everywhere, to claim me, to make me surrender completely.
But I hesitated. A whisper of guilt, of restraint, held me back.
"I—" I started.
"Shh," he murmured, pressing his forehead to mine. "It's okay. You can want me."
And maybe for the first time, I admitted it—not out loud, not fully, but in the trembling heat of my body, the tight coil of desire I had kept buried for so long.
Kabir Malhotra smiled softly, patient, dangerous, knowing. And I realized—no matter how hard I fought, no matter how much I tried to push him away… I wanted him. I wanted him like fire.
And I hated myself for it.