Pride (20/4) | OS Series: Peccatum | UPDATED- Page 19 | COMPLETE - Page 11

He brushed his dark hair out of his eyes as he sped along the volatile sands of the Rajasthani desert, his glinting aviators reflecting the sunlight onto the mirrors of his motorcycle. He impatiently encouraged the vehicle to move faster, irritated and eager to get back home, where warm rotis and his favorite aloo subji would be awaiting him.

His thoughts drifted to his wife of six months, the woman who had turned everything upside down. From the moment they had first met, he had taken on the role of her protector.

He still had the image of her screaming for help from the back of the truck, her eyes panicked and filled with tears as the men tried to rip the delicate, lace choli she wore. He wasn't planning on saving the girl, but there was something in her face- a restrained, demure innocence- that drove him back.

He could still hear her screams of terror as the fire erupted in front of of her, her hands over her ears and her bangles jingling as she shook her head in fear, drawn into the licking flames. He could feel her body around him as he pulled her out of the way, landing with a soft "oof" on the sand, her hair dusted with sand and her hands clutching at his shirt.

He could see the grateful thank you in her eyes, the nervous licking of her lips as she looked up at a man above her for probably the first time in her life, his nose almost touching hers as he leaned forward, pulled towards her with force. Her hesitance in looking up at him, the way she leaned away from him, all resonated with the unmistakable innocence of a woman unsure of herself.

Her naivety was one of the reasons he was so careful about what he did around her. He desired her, more so than he had for any other woman. She didn't even need to do anything. She didn't need provocative clothing or seductive eyes. The smell of her delicate, floral fragrance was enough to send his mind spiralling and his blood rushing from his head down to other parts of his body.

He was used to being in power in bed. With Laila, it had always been him dominating and her submitting. He would never stop and ask what she wanted, never wait for her to finish before him. He would come in, take her, and then leave as soon as it was over. He didn't care if she had rash marks from his stubble the next day, or if his teeth left dark bruises all over her. He needed the release, the feeling of all of his troubles flying away, even if it was for that one, brief moment.

But with Parvati, he couldn't do that. He had seceded power in bed, giving her the reins and allowing her to do as she pleased. He was worried that if he took power... he would overwhelm her, crush her fragile body under his heavy one. He wouldn't be able to restrain himself from taking her on every possible surface he could find, not caring whether or not anyone saw them.

The night after they had first attempted to make love, Rudra had lain awake in bed for a long time. He had taken the time to caress her, touch her, make sure she was ready for him. But it had still hurt.

The tears that had spilled upon his entry were enough to make him stop for an entire lifetime, sending searing knives through his body as he watched pain enter those beautiful, hazel eyes.

He had stopped immediately, withdrawing and apologizing profusely for causing her damage. He had taken her naked body in his arms, cradling it to himself and berating himself over and over again for letting her get hurt. Her hair had tumbled down his shoulders as he held her to him, her hot tears sliding down his chest as she sobbed her own apologies.

Her shoulders shook as she cried, completely devastated by the experience. He couldn't stop his own throat from tightening as he watched his precious wife break down, murmuring desperate apologies through her tears for not being able to finish.

He had reassured her, of course, but that night had troubled him. He knew she wasn't like the other women he had been with, all hardened by the struggles of life. They had known what it would feel like to have a man touch them, they hadn't blushed when he tore off their clothes.

But Paro was untouched, innocent. She had experienced more than any woman should have at her age, with her husband being brutally murdered and her parents being killed in front of her eyes. But that had failed to slander her innocence, leaving it pristine. The vibrancy and the optimism remained, leaving almost a child in a woman's body.

He made a decision that night as she finally slipped into a fitful sleep. He would be different with her, and allow her to dictate the terms of their physical relationship. He knew it would test the levels of his self control to the extremes, but he would do anything to keep those tears from entering her eyes again.

From that day onwards, he was patient and gentle, playing the part of the tender lover perfectly. It was difficult for him to do that night after night, vanilla sex when he wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and make her sob for more. He did it because he got to see the radiant smile on her face afterwards, feel her nose tenderly nuzzle into his bare chest, and her body curl up next to his.

He wanted it, he wanted it badly. The nights when he'd come back home from long missions, deprived of her gentle touches and her soft skin, he would want to throw her up against that damned pillar she was always standing next to. He would want to toss that plate of food on the ground and sweep her up into his arms, tearing the small choli in retribution for teasing him with that long strip of alabaster skin. He would take her in his mouth, feel her hands running and tugging harshly at his silky hair, her eyes rolled back and her long neck thrown against their pillow.

He could see her hair splayed out against the bed, flying everywhere as he threw her up against the headboard with the force of him. He could practically smell her musky scent as he continued to drive along, feeling the taste of her on his tongue. He longed to suckle at the delicate skin on that neck, leaving marks in the morning that she would not be able to cover with her cholis.

He wanted to mark her as his, so that when she came to the office carrying his lunch, innocently unaware of the appreciative gazes trailing up and down her body, they would stop upon seeing his mark on her neck. He was hopelessly addicted to her, lusting after her like a teenage boy in the throes of hormonal passion.

But he wouldn't give in. He couldn't. He refused to treat her like he had treated Laila. She meant more to him than that. While there was lust, there was also love and affection towards the innocent beauty he held in his arms. The mark of him would bring her pain mitigated by desire, but no pain was good for his precious Paro. He could thrust her up against the headboard, but the force of it would leave her sore for days. He wouldn't do that to her. He would exercise his self control, making sure that she came before himself.

He finally arrived at the market, searching out the slim, familiar figure of Parvati Rudra Pratap Ranawat. He could hear her voice floating above the others, her tingling giggles sending shooting desire up his veins as he heard her haggle with the vendors. He finally caught a glimpse of her, her vibrant, red ghagra shining under the unforgiving sun, her long hair covered by a carefully placed dupatta. The mirrors reflected the light into his own eyes, momentarily removing her from his sight. When it returned, he was frozen by the sight he saw.

Standing in front of him was none other than Parvati, talking to the woman of his past. He hadn't known they were acquainted, other than the moment Laila attempted to kill her. He had taken great pains to separate them, not wanting the naive ears of Paro to be tainted by her harsh slurs. It appeared that his protective efforts were futile, as he watched Paro give her a friendly namaste. He had half a mind to go and drag her away, yelling at her for inviting trouble. But there was a familiarity he needed to understand first, so he remained in his position, hidden by the shadows of the tent.

He heard Laila's husky, taunting voice, the deep timbers so unappealing in comparison to the softer tones of his wife. He froze at her words, his eyes trained on Paro as Laila began her tirade.

"He is not... passionate, is he?"

His eyes searched the face of his wife, looking for signs of shock and horror at the knowledge of his prior relationship. To his surprise, he saw none, only calm acceptance. But there was something in her eyes, a pain that he hadn't noticed before. It wasn't at Laila's statement, she clearly knew of the nature of his relationship with the prostitute. No, it wasn't that. It was as if... Laila's words were true.

He watched as Laila described their sex in detail, right down to his tongue thrusting within her and causing her to writhe in passion. He felt himself stiffen in anger at her words, not wanting Paro to hear such things. But he was frozen, held captive by what was unfolding in front of him.

He watched Paro avert her eyes, tears clumping her generous eyelashes together as they gathered at the corners. He heard Laila interrogate her, ask her if she wanted her husband to take her in the dominating fashion he had used on Laila. When Paro finally lifted her gaze, he was shocked to see the hurt in them, the truth of Laila's words ringing clearly from her hazel depths.

She... wanted him to take her like that? She wanted that?

Confusion replaced the guilt tugging at his heart. Why would Paro want him to treat her as he had treated Laila? He didn't understand, couldn't comprehend this mystery.

Did she believe that he didn't... desire her as he had Laila? But that was ridiculous! She was far more beautiful, and her innocence enticed him more than Laila's seduction could even dream of doing... What was bothering her?

He bit his lip, preventing himself from running up to her and shaking her silly, begging to know the truth.

He refocused on the scene in front of him, only to find a complete shift in dynamics. Laila was broken, tears streaming down her face and streaking her thick eyeliner down her cheeks. He felt guilt gather in the pit of his stomach, knowing he had not treated her as she had deserved. He swallowed tightly, willing the pain to go away.

"Because he can't bear to see you in pain, even if it is clouded over with desire. He makes sure you feel loved, that your pleasure comes before his. He-"

She broke off. He could see the conflict in her eyes, knowing that saying the words at the tip of her tongue would only make the truth finally settle in for the torn woman in front of him. He saw her take a deep breath and steady herself, closing her eyes and willing up the strength to push those difficult words out.

"H- He loves you, Parvati."

He shifted his gaze from the prostitute he had shared a bed with for eight years, to the wife he shared a heart with. Her eyes no longer held pain, but they held understanding. He had been correct in his initial assumption, realizing she felt that he did not feel the same for her as he did for Laila.

She was correct, of course. He didn't feel the same way he did for Laila. He wasn't distant or impassive, because she refused to let him be. She would badger him until he spilled his frustrations in irritation, and then care for him with infinite tenderness. He had unwittingly given up his heart to the woman, revealed the broken child within him and allowed her to experience the soft, tender side of Rudra that no one else had seen.

He finally realized that she desired it as much as him. He could see in her eyes that she wanted all of him, not just the tenderness and care. She wanted to dominate him, she wanted him to dominate her. She wanted it to be an equal battlefield, where they would both have a say.

He felt more of his heart leave him, resting in the dainty hands of the dignified, caring woman that was his wife. As he watched her reach out and hold Laila in her arms, hold the woman that he had shared an intimate relationship without any sign of resentment, he realized he had misunderstood her all along.

She wasn't weak or naive, as he had initially assumed.

She was stronger, far stronger than he would ever be.