I love that 4 lions has created another Bitwaa, only the more intense, self-punishing kind. 😊
So here's a random OS, a sort of insight into Sahir's mind and his (AHEM..) thoughts 😳. I've hit a writer's block lately, so this was good practice. Thanks in advance if you decide to read and comment.
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That girl had nerve, he had to give her that.
No matter how loud his voice, how hard he tried to push her away, she came back. With soup, with coffee, with her thankyous, resignation letters, and her defiance.
No one defied Sahir Azeem Chaudhary.
But she did, each time, and got away with it.
She refused his favors, she disputed his decisions in his office, she wouldn't let him sleep. Sahir ran his fingers through his hair, ruffling it, but his hair felt rough under his touch, compared to the softness of hers.
Her wet hair last night, all of her wet in blue, like a mermaid stranded on land. Those dreamy eyes, what did that look say? Why had she refused his umbrella, and where had she hidden herself, so that when he tried to find her, he saw only the walls and corridors, and not the woman who must have stood somewhere, trembling?
Because what he'd felt when he grabbed her arm, she'd felt it too. He knew that. The things he'd wanted to do to her, trap her between his legs, and make her feel how she roused him, and be afraid. He wanted to mark that neck, give her a few zakhm of her own to hide, why should he be the only one?
He shrugged out of his shirt, shut his door, eased out of his trousers. He looked at himself, his stomach flat. But his desire mocked him through his boxers. She did this to him, curse that woman. He wouldn't think of her. But she wouldn't let go, smiling at him, that open smile, those pillowy lips he longed to taste, had almost tasted, that evening in the jungle. She'd felt so right in his arms, the soft, clingy weight of her, her shaken breath on his lips. What if he'd leaned in that evening, silenced her with his lips instead of his palm?
He slid into the cold pool, but the shock of the chill on his heated skin didn't do the trick.
She'd fallen in the other day, thrashed about in waist deep water, her eyes closed. A child-woman, who didn't know how clothes became transparent when wet. That they clung to breasts and hips. They made her a morsel, a delicious bite of pure temptation.
You shouldn't tempt a starving man, and Sahir Chaudhary had starved himself, whipped himself into starvation, for seven long years.
Sahir floated in the water, facing its blue floor, holding his breath, releasing it in tiny bubbles, and then kicked at the wall, a shark cutting through water. Woman-flesh, that's what his body craved, but he wouldn't give in. He would show Zeenat, when she woke up. If she woke up.
Had Arzoo fallen in the water knowing how she would affect him?
He gave up another small breath, dizzy with lack of air, but unwilling to bring his face out of the water. He would punish himself, because pain, after a while, became pleasure. The welts on his skin, which hadn't let him lie on his back all of last week, after a while, they'd brought pleasure too. As did her fingers on his back, soothing his hurt with the balm, but also something else, an intangible thing. A woman's touch could say so much. He'd waited so long for one.
Had she come to his room to touch him, to challenge his vows? To mock at his abstinence? He clenched his fingers in the water, his hands cold and empty.
No, he'd had enough women try to get him to respond over the years, this one was different. No girl who used words like sorry mangti hoon and Allah knows could have guile in her heart. That made him smile, and his breath poured out of him in a whoosh. He jerked out of the water, coughing and spluttering. Damn that woman.
She had avoided him the entire bloody day, and much as he'd tried, he hadn't seen as much as a flutter of that black salwar-kameez, the frothy, sinful thing with its gold trimmings, which teased the eye, made his hand itch to reach out to that shoulder, snap off that dupatta. Each time he walked towards her, she shrank away, other than that one time, when she had plastered herself on the glass door to open it. At his bidding. What else could he make her do?
He could only make her do anything if he saw her. Scratch that, he wanted to apologize. Just that. Say sorry. Thank you.
She had eluded him the entire day, now in the store, at a suppliers the next, out to get medicines for her mother an hour later. Like a butterfly, she'd flitted out and about, just out of his reach. He couldn't ask for her openly, everything that a Junior Designer could do for the CEO she'd already done, and left it all in his airless glass cabin. His office didn't feel right without her bumbling about it, making a mess, claiming to be the best designbaaz, or mistakebaaz, but what she'd turned out to be was the best runnerbaaz.
Everytime he wanted to apologise to her, she made him want to strangle her.
He stepped out of his wet underwear, kicking it aside for Arif to find and hang dry. Wrapping a towel, he headed to his walk-in closet. The softest Egyptian cotton towel, and all it did was irritate his skin. The thought of clothes made him want to smash something. What he needed was satin sheets, a satin woman, silken hair curtaining him as he thrust and moved.
That's when he heard it, her knock. It couldn't be anyone else. She knuckled the door just that way, once, twice.
"May I come in, sir?"
He toyed with his kurta, but tossed it aside.
So she liked to tempt the fates, did she? He would show her. A woman must be made to bear the consequences of her actions. He stepped out.
"Come in," he turned to the pool, determined not to look.
Behind him, the door opened, and the perfume of jasmine and peaches, her scent, wafted in.
Sahir Azeem Chaudhary, clad only in his towel, and the foulest of tempers, closed his eyes and waited.
Updated on Page 8 and Page 14
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