Jeevika revelled in the sensation of Viren's arms around her.
Normally reticent and shy by nature, she would never admit to such a thing. And yet, she loved it nonetheless. There was such a powerful sense of security in having her husband's strong arms clasped around her, her ear resting against his heartbeat, entranced by its very rhythm.
She loved his kisses. Gentle, tender kisses on her forehead. Sweet pecks on her blushing cheeks. Passion-filled recollections of his lips on hers. Burning trails down the side of her neck, leaving her knees unsteady and weak.
When he was busy with work, or she concerned with her sister's wellbeing - she missed it. All of it. Hugs, kisses, all and everything. But, she would never admit to such a thing.
Her fingers now toyed idly with the collar of his shirt, shyly reconnoitring the expanse of his collarbones, where his shirt was unbuttoned. His response was to only pull her closer, till she had shifted upon his lap.
"Virenji," she half-heartedly protested, without pulling away.
"Hmm?" he played with her hair, smilingly.
She hesitated. Normally, at this point, her bashfulness would have been give free reign. But, not tonight, it seemed. She missed her husband, she missed these moments alone together. And he knew it.
"Isn't my Fikar Minister going to take care of me now?" he asked lazily, running his fingers through her long hair.
"Yes, I'm sending you to sleep now, you've been so very tired from work," she teased lightly.
"I'm not sleepy," his fingers ran up her ribcage in a playful manner. She stopped their progress, "Well, then. I have just the remedy for that."
"You do?" his eyebrows rose questioningly.
"I do," she rose up, still holding his hands, drawing him towards the door, out of their room.
He followed her into the kitchen and watched, leaning against the counter, as she poured him milk in a mug with a slight drizzle of honey and heated it in the microwave. He loved the little domestic picture she made. While he certainly wasn't feeling very thirsty, he enjoyed watching her bustle about in a housewifely manner. It was exceedingly attractive, though she didn't know it.
She gave him the mug, blowing on the milk lightly, to relieve the steam, "Whenever you don't feel tired in the night, a nice cup of warm milk and honey will do the trick," she declared cheerfully. He drank it obediently, never taking his eyes off her. As he set it down, she frowned, "You haven't finished it, yet-" her words were abruptly cut off as her hooked an arm around her waist, pulling her against him.
"I haven't even started," he murmured against her ear, watching the delicate rise of colour in her cheeks with satisfaction.
She pressed her hands against his chest, as though to push him away, "As your Fikar Minister, I must inform you that you need to take some rest and go to bed."
"I agree," he nodded gravely, "But, I quite like the kitchen, now that I come to think about it."
"You do?" she looked bemused.
"Mmhm. I like watching you take care of me. And...you could say there are certain advantages to high countertops."
"Advantages? What?-" she gasped, as she was hauled up by her waist and spun around to be seated on the cold granite.
He grinned mischievously at her, "See? At this angle, I can kiss you perfectly without having to bend down."
"Virenji, what if someone walks in?" she protested.
"It's late at night and everyone's asleep," Viren shook his head, still with that crooked smile on his face that bespoke of wicked, lovely things.
"Yes, and we should be too!"
"Are you afraid?" he placed his hands on either side of her, leaning in predatorily.
"Afraid?" she looked at him with surprise.
"I think you're afraid to admit that you love it when I kiss you," he stated in a low tone, "I think you're afraid to admit that you want me too. But I know it. I know it when your toes curl and your back arches. When I kiss your neck and you make the sweetest of sounds without even realizing it. When your fingers tighten on my shirt and your pulse picks up and your breaths come faster, faster..."
Her eyes steadily widened, her face was flushed and she couldn't break from the intensity of his dark eyes. His own voice took an unmistakably husky nuance as he struggled for control, "You love it when I touch you, kiss you, although you won't admit it. You shy away, try to keep your passions in check. But they're there. Just for me. Only me."
Deep, convulsive shivers shot through her entire body. The stark possession in his words and eyes captivated her. She opened her mouth to try and say something, though all that escaped was an incomprehensible murmur that made his eyes cloud over with something velvety and dark and ardent. His mouth took hers finally, tasting her, consuming her.
Her words earlier to him had made him bold, made him passionate. Acute desire flared in his eyes and sent all rational thoughts clouding in a slow, hazed spiral. He wanted to cherish every moment he spent with her. And so he loved her slowly, gently. There was no rush, no hurry. Only her.
He stepped in closer, into the space between her knees, one hand gripping her hips, the other meandering along the line of her leg. Suddenly, remembering where they were, he carefully disengaged himself. Letting his mouth press into the delicate hollow of her throat before lifting his head, he smiled, "Afraid to admit it?"
"There's nothing to admit," she said breathlessly.
"Really, now?" his voice became a seductive whisper; he picked her up off the countertop, letting her hips slide against his, "Nothing?"
She shook her head, wordlessly. He took a step away, his body heat deserting her, only to clasp her hand in his and lead her out of the kitchen back to their bedroom. He murmured sweet nothings in her ear, softly laughing at her blushes.
Shutting the door behind her, he locked it over the head, slowly drawing his hand down, dragging his thumb across her lips. Looking at her for a very long time, until she felt hot and needy with the lack of him.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked.
"I'm capturing the moment. Engrained in memory. I may have taken a photograph of you on my phone earlier, but this is a captured memory inside. You looking like this, because of me, looking at me, like I'm the only man in the world," his tone held a wondering note in it, of enchantment.
He was enchanted by her. She was so often focused on her own susceptibility towards him that she forgot that he was just as spellbound by her. She was the one who could drive him to this state; this blurred space between delight and desire.
And so she stood on her tiptoes to bring her face level with his, "I do love it. I do want you."
And that sweet admittance was all he ever wanted to hear and cherish.
Anupamaa
