It changed everything.
His hand slid to the back of her neck, fingers settling there, firm, possessive. He leaned closer, closing the last inch between them. “Say that again.”
Her pulse stumbled. “Hukum.”
That was all it took.
His mouth found hers.
Her fingers caught his kurta, tightening as everything inside her unraveled. He did not rush. He was deliberate, patient in a way that felt far more dangerous.
Her breath changed, caught between control and surrender. He paused just enough to let her breathe, then deepened it, slow, consuming.
When he pulled back, his mouth moved from the corner of her jaw to the hollow of her throat, unhurried, teasing, tasting.
Her head tipped back against the stone, eyes closing.
“Stop…” his voice hitched against her throat, “calling me…”
A breath.
“That.”
His teeth grazed her throat.
“It does things I do not have patience for.”
Her grip tightened on his kurta.
“And I am already walking on a thin ice here.”
That was not a warning. That was a fact.
Her thoughts slipped away. There was only him. Too close. Too real. Pulling everything out of order.
A bird called overhead. The first sign of morning.
They paused.
His forehead came to rest against hers, thumb tracing a slow line at her waist. Her fingers stayed curled in his kurta.
She opened her eyes.
His eyes were dark. Still slightly annoyed. Which, for some reason, made her want to laugh again.
Reluctantly, he let her go.
She stepped back. Breathed. Straightened her dupatta. Smoothed her hair, gathering herself piece by piece.
He watched her. “Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Three.”
“Three?”
“Meera.”