229. OS 12. A Delicious Theft (Part 1 & 2)

Link to my new short story: Taking Care of You


“I thought I was dreaming when I first saw you," he said.

 “How did you know it was me?” she asked. “I could have been anybody. A thief even.”

He smiled wearily. “I don’t know many thieves who would look at me with anxious eyes and then cry because I was sick,” he mumbled.

Is it possible for love to bloom, sight unseen? Juhi and Abhay are strangers who know each other better than they know themselves. One night changes the equation and the even tenor of their lives and puts all their doubts and fears to rest.

http://pothi.com/pothi/book/ebook-smita-ramachandran-taking-care-you

Link to my first e-novel; A Home for Meenakshi

http://pothi.com/pothi/book/ebook-smita-ramachandran-home-meenakshi

"I love the way you love, Meenu," he whispered, his eyes on hers. "Such loyalty, such passion..."

Meenakshi Sharma, an orphan, lives in Varanasi with her uncle, a chronic bachelor who wants her to become a professional musician. She unwillingly relocates to Delhi to study under a renowned musician for eight months. Staying for rent in the outhouse of the Agrawals, she meets Aditya Agrawal, an attractive young man brooding over the memories of his horrendous past. Pulled between her uncle's expectations of her and Aditya's love for her, Meenakshi struggles with her feelings. How can she disappoint her uncle who had devoted his entire life to her upbringing? How can she pretend to be blind to Aditya's feelings for her? A romance that moves between the alleys of the holy city of Varanasi and the modern city of Delhi.

A blog for my VMs:

http://smitarsvms.blogspot.in/

Part 1

“Chotey, you got home!” Anjali exclaimed as she saw her brother walk in at nine at night from the office, lugging his laptop bag.

‘Can’t she see I am home?’ Arnav Singh Raizada wondered. “Yes,” he replied.

“The pooja got over two hours back,” Nani informed him. “It would have been nice if you could have joined us,” she added wistfully.

He drew in a deep sigh of relief. ‘I escaped Di’s weekly torture,’ he thought.

“Hamre Akaas bitwaa aai gawa for pooja. Bhy didn’t you comes?” Mami asked.

“I had meetings,” he muttered as he moved towards the steps leading to his bedroom.

“Chotey, freshen up and come down for dinner,” Anjali invited him.

“I have some work to finish. Send it up with whichever Prakash is working for us right now,” Arnav said as he went up to his room.

Anjali pursed her lips. “Yeh Chotey bhi na!” she complained.

                                             ***

A few minutes later, Anjali knocked on Arnav’s door.

“Come in,” he called as he pulled the white t-shirt over his head.

Anjali walked in with a covered silver thali of food.

“Chotey, shall I feed you?” she asked coyly.

“No,” he said. ‘What is wrong with her? Does she think I am 3 years old? I am 30, damn it! Unbelievable!’ he thought.

“Then I will wait till you finish,” Anjali said and sat down on his bed.

Arnav sighed.

The sooner he gobbled up the food the sooner Di would leave him alone to get some work done. It had been a hell of a day. He was exhausted, he was hungry, he still had work waiting for him. The last thing he needed was Di’s emotional blackmail.

He grabbed the handle of the cover and lifted it from the plate of food.

He stood still, immobile as though he had received a jolt.

The fragrance rising from the food was mesmerising.

Naan, sultani dal, veg pulao, raita, Mathura aloo and a couple of dishes he couldn’t recognise. An orange jalebi smiled at him from the plate, all oily and syrupy, filled with everything good he shouldn’t eat.

“I can’t eat that jalebi,” he growled.

“It is sugar-free,” Anjali smiled at him.

He took the plate and quickly sat on the recliner. He spooned a bit of dal and a few grains of pulao into his mouth and almost fainted of pleasure.

‘Is it possible to die of too much goodness?’ he wondered.

He quickly sampled the other dishes too. He was lost for words.

The food was out of this world, the Mathura aloo brought back memories of his mother.

He ate in silence, savouring every bite.

Done, he placed the spoon on the plate and sat back, replete.

“Did you like it, Chotey?” Anjali asked.

He nodded. He didn’t have words to tell her how good it was.

“HP made these?” he asked.

“No,” Anjali said with a smile. “Khushiji did.”

“Who?’ he asked with a frown. Had they employed a new cook?

“Khushiji. She is a chef,” Anjali explained. “She came here with her team and cooked for the pooja.”

He nodded.

“Chotey, I was thinking, shall we give her the order for my weekly poojas? The ladies loved the food,” Anjali said happily.

“Yes,” he said. He would get to eat her cooking next week too.

“Who is she?” the businessman in him asked. “What do you know about her? You know I don’t like strangers in our house. They may steal something,” he blustered.

“Chotey, Khushiji is not like that,” Anjali protested. “Do you know who she is? Don’t you remember Nani’s friend’s Sunitaji?"

"I think so," Arnav muttered.

 "She has a sister named Vinita."

"So?" Arnav asked.

 "Vinitaji has a husband, Lal Bahadur Singhji. He lives in Lucknow.”

“This Khushi is related to Sunitaji’s sister Vimalaji’s husband Lal Bahadur Singhji?” Arnav rolled his eyes.

“Well, not exactly related, but she is very close to them. She is their neighbour,” Anjali said with a smile that said Chotey would fall in with all her plans.

The said Chotey almost buried his head in his hands. “What kind of an introduction is that?” he asked, fed up.

“I will invite her to do the cooking here for the pooja next Tuesday, Chotey. Why don’t you return home early from the office and meet her? I am sure that even you can’t find fault with her,” Anjali challenged him.

He nodded and after a last look at his clean plate, turned his head towards the laptop.

                                          ***

“Chotey, Khushiji has come,” Anjali said in excitement, clutching her phone.

“Yejj, the cooker ijj here,” Mami added into the phone.

Arnav held the phone away from his ear. “I will get home in thirty minutes,” he said before cutting the call.

He quickly gave last minute instructions to Aman, grabbed his coat and laptop bag and left his office.

He almost walked out when he walked into his house. Every surface of his house seemed to be crawling with guests.

“Damn!” he muttered.

“Arnav bhaiyya,” HP called, surprise in his voice. He had imagined that Arnav bhaiyya had enough common sense to get lost and stay lost till the mayhem in the house ended.

Arnav refrained from replying. He quickly handed over his coat and laptop to HP and began to move towards the kitchen.

“Arnav bhaiyya,” HP called urgently.

“Kya he?” Arnav frowned.

“Don’t go into the kitchen,” HP warned, sweat beading on his forehead.

Arnav frowned. “What the!” he exclaimed.

“The kitchen has been taken over by a devi in a white cap. We are not permitted to enter the kitchen till she leaves,” HP said.

"Really?" Arnav pursed his lips and strode to the kitchen.

Part 2

He placed his hand on the kitchen door to push it open and announce his presence.

“Jiji,” a voice called.

He stopped as if shot.

The honey-like voice and the laughter in it was a fatal combination to a man who shouted instructions at employees and had forgotten how to laugh.

He peeked into the kitchen. His eyes widened.

A beautiful girl in a chef’s hat or toque was standing on a stool, a ladle in her hand. Around her neck was a necklace of red chillies.

“Jiji, look at me, Khushi Kumari Gupta the chef!” she trilled.

Arnav looked at her from the top of her hat to her feet in jooti, fascinated, overwhelmed, lost. He wanted to lift her in his arms and carry her off, maybe to the bedroom of a villa on a secluded island where they wouldn’t be disturbed for a month.

“Khushi, neeche utro,” her sister called. “Enough of your dancing around. The laddoos are ready to shaped into balls.”

“My laddoos will wait for me, Jiji,” Khushi said as she jumped down from the stool. “They love me, just as I love them.”

“Payal didi, Khushi didi, the nimona is done,” a boy called as he carried in a heavy vessel with steam escaping through its lid.

“Keep it here, Munna,” Payal said.

Khushi walked towards the door.

Arnav stepped back slightly.

She took off her hat carefully and hung it on a peg on the wall.  She removed her necklace with caution.

Khushi sat down on a low stool before a huge vessel with the mixture for laddoo.

“Now watch the magic of this Lakhnavi chef,” she boasted before tugging her imaginary sleeves up and shaping laddoos with both hands at breakneck speed.

Arnav looked at her hands. These were the magical hands that had cooked dinner last week? He wanted to go down on his knees before her and kiss every inch of her hands—and if possible her whole body—at least twice.

“Your name should be in the Guinness Book, Khushi didi,” Munna said in admiration.

“Of course it should be. Who won the laddoo-making contest in our gali?” she asked.

“You,” said a taller boy who joined them. He was carrying a tray of hot samosas.

“Who won the Jaldi laddoo banao, Devi Maiyya ki kripa pao contest in our temple, Krishna?” Khushi asked the newcomer.

“You, Khushi didi, only you,” he replied.

“The priest permitted the contest only after you nagged him day and night for two weeks, Khushi,” Payal reminded her with a smile.

Munna bit back a smile and asked, “Payal didi, what can she do? How can she show her talents to the world if the fools don’t hold contests in things she is good at?”

“True. They should have had a jalebi-eating competition too, Khushi didi,” Krishna said, his eyes dancing. “You would have won it hands down.”

“We will suggest it next year,” Khushi said, smiling widely, imagining herself devouring basket after basket of jalebis.

Munna and Krishna shook their heads and left the kitchen.

Arnav could only feast on her beauty as he stood hidden behind the door.

“Chotey, you are here,” Anjali exclaimed.

Khushi stopped making laddoos. Payal and Khushi looked towards the kitchen door that was ajar.

They saw a formally dressed young man staring at them.

 Anjali came rushing to join him and do the introductions.

“Khushiji, Payalji, this is my brother, Arnav Singh Raizada,” Anjali said. “Chotey, this is Payalji. This is Khushiji.”

Payal smiled and folded her hands in greeting. “Namaste,” she said.

Arnav nodded, his eyes on Khushi.

She was standing and staring at him with a suspicious look in her eyes.

“Anjali bitiya,” Nani called from afar.

Anjali excused herself. Payal moved away to check on the kheer on the stove.

“You are Anjaliji’s brother?” Khushi asked, her eyes trained accusingly on Arnav.

“Yes,” he replied, his voice huskier than normal.

“Why were you skulking behind the door?” she asked directly.

ASR opened his mouth to reply, but found he didn’t have to.

“If you think you can find the secret ingredient I add to my laddoos and other dishes by hiding behind the door and peeking at us, then you are dreaming,” Khushi declared, her hands at her waist.

“What the!” Arnav exclaimed.

“It is our trade secret,” Khushi claimed. “Don’t think you can steal it from us.”

“This is unbelievable!” Arnav exclaimed.

“Do you know who I am?” she asked.

“Khushi Kumari Gupta,” he replied, baffled at the turn of events.

Khushi grimaced at him impatiently. “I am a Lakhnavi chef. A chef, samjhe aap? Hamare bijjnejj he, bahut bada. We do catering for poojas, parties, funerals, birth of babies, puppies etc. Haven't you heard of us?” she asked.

“No,” he admitted, feeling he had fallen down the rabbit hole, a strange feeling for a man who had grown old too young.

Khushi shook her head in pity. “You don’t know anything,” she passed judgement. “What do you do?”

“I am a businessman,” he admitted.

Khushi clutched her heart with both hands. “You are a businessman?” she asked, her voice thin with shock.

“Yes,” he replied. Why was she staring at him as if he were the axe murderer? He wanted her to look at him as though he had hung the moon and the stars.

Khushi jumped to stand between him and her laddoos, her arms wide to block him from looking at her sweets.

Her dupatta had lifted to coil around her neck, leaving her chest uncovered. His eyes ran over her lissome body with pleasure.

“Don’t think you can steal our recipes,” Khushi thundered.

“What the!” he muttered. He was being accused of corporate espionage? Laughter bubbled in his chest.

“Take your what the, what the and go out,” Khushi pointed dramatically at the door. “If I see you hanging around here, devi maiyya ki kasam, it won’t be good for you,” she threatened.

“Really?” he asked, quirking one brow. “Kya kar logi tum?”

“I will throw chilly powder in your eyes,” she declared.

He stared at her. He was already burning in his attraction for her, but chilly powder? “This is my house,” he reminded her, aghast at her intentions.

“So?” she asked.

“This is my house, my kitchen. How dare you try to throw me out of my own kitchen?” he thundered.

“How dare you look at my sweets?” she thundered right back. “The kitchen may be yours, but I am not, my sweets are not, my nimona is not, my parathas are not, my dum bhindi is not, my paneer pasanda is not, my kheer is not. They are not yours and never will be.”

“Dekhte hein,” he challenged her.

“Jab kuch bhi aapka hoga hi nahi, to aap kya dekhenge?” she asked him, her nose in air.

“Chotey,” Anjali came into the kitchen. “Are you still here?” she asked, astonished.

Arnav firmed his lips.

“Khushiji, the pooja will begin now,” she said, smiling at Khushi.

“We are ready, Anjaliji. Please take your brother away from here so that we can complete our work,” Khushi requested.

“Yes, yes,” Anjali agreed, trying to shoo Arnav away from Khushi.

“I hope the milk for kheer hasn’t curdled,” Khushi muttered so that Arnav could hear and understand that he was the curdling agent.

He wanted to stick out his tongue at her, something he hadn’t done even in his childhood. Or throttle her. Or kiss her long and deep till they forgot their own names.

He let Anjali drag him out of the kitchen.

On his way out, he filched her chef’s hat hanging from the peg on the wall and stuffed it into his pocket.

Part 3

228. OS 11. An Uncomplicated Wife (Parts 17-18)

Link to my new short story: Taking Care of You


“I thought I was dreaming when I first saw you," he said.

 “How did you know it was me?” she asked. “I could have been anybody. A thief even.”

He smiled wearily. “I don’t know many thieves who would look at me with anxious eyes and then cry because I was sick,” he mumbled.

Is it possible for love to bloom, sight unseen? Juhi and Abhay are strangers who know each other better than they know themselves. One night changes the equation and the even tenor of their lives and puts all their doubts and fears to rest.

http://pothi.com/pothi/book/ebook-smita-ramachandran-taking-care-you

Link to my first e-novel; A Home for Meenakshi

http://pothi.com/pothi/book/ebook-smita-ramachandran-home-meenakshi

"I love the way you love, Meenu," he whispered, his eyes on hers. "Such loyalty, such passion..."

Meenakshi Sharma, an orphan, lives in Varanasi with her uncle, a chronic bachelor who wants her to become a professional musician. She unwillingly relocates to Delhi to study under a renowned musician for eight months. Staying for rent in the outhouse of the Agrawals, she meets Aditya Agrawal, an attractive young man brooding over the memories of his horrendous past. Pulled between her uncle's expectations of her and Aditya's love for her, Meenakshi struggles with her feelings. How can she disappoint her uncle who had devoted his entire life to her upbringing? How can she pretend to be blind to Aditya's feelings for her? A romance that moves between the alleys of the holy city of Varanasi and the modern city of Delhi.

A blog for my VMs:

http://smitarsvms.blogspot.in/

Part 17

He looked at her image in the mirror, her eyes trained on the towel around his waist. Glad laughter bubbled up inside him, but he took pains to maintain a straight face.

There was much he wanted to do, but there was a wedding next door in an hour or so.

“Khushi,” he called.

Her eyes jumped and reluctantly left his towel to move up to meet his.

“Do you want my towel?” he asked softly.

Her mouth went dry. “No,” she mumbled.

“I can remove it and give it to you if you need it,” he teased with an expressionless face. His hands moved to the knot of the flimsy piece of cloth around his waist.

Khushi got up in a hurry, knocking down the low stool on which she had been sitting. Desiring to spy on him shedding the towel was one thing and having him do a striptease looking into her dazed eyes were two different propositions.

“Hum chalte hein,” she mumbled as she rushed out of the room.

Arnav chuckled soundlessly, his shoulders shaking. Life was fun.

                                                 ***

Arnav looked at Khushi as she served him halwa poori. She deftly avoided meeting his eyes, his open challenge standing between them.

“Sit down by your pati parmeswar, Parmeswari!” Buaji exhorted. “Eat fast and go to Preetho’s house. If you move at your normal pace, Hai Re Nandkisore, you will reach there only in time for Preetho’s first child’s naamkaran!”

All chuckled while Khushi pouted. “I am not so late normally, buaji,” she tried to protest even as she sat down by Arnav.

“Suno, bitwaa,” buaji told Arnav. “Count yourself lucky she reached the mandap on time to marry you. Uski bas chalti na, to you would have remained a bachelor all your life, Nandkisore.”

All laughed.

Khushi stole one cross glance at her husband’s twinkling eyes and smiling lips intending to convey her displeasure through her eyes. But the sight of his sinful lips so distracted her that she lost track of the conversation and her discomfiture. His lips—those delicious lips had touched hers...Her own lips tingled and she parted them.

His eyes lost their laughter and heated up.

“O sanka devi, show mercy on us and eat the halwa poori on your plate,” buaji exclaimed. “Why are you glaring at your husband?”

Khushi and Arnav looked at the family members sitting around the table and flushed slightly.

They quickly finished their repast and joined the rest of the family as they walked to Preetho’s house.

                                                  ***

Khushi looked at Preetho who looked beautiful in her red and green lehenga, sitting by Vikas in his rose-coloured sherwani. Fond memories of their childhood rushed through her head. Khushi smiled as Preetho’s father did her kanyadaan, blinking to clear her eyes of the heart-felt tears that had crept into them.

Arnav held out his stiff, white hanky.

Khushi lifted her head to look at him, her eyes conveying her gratitude. She took it and dabbed at the corners of her eyes.

“Why are you crying?” Arnav asked softly, his lips touching the strands of hair at her ear.

Khushi drew in a tear-laden breath and whispered back, “I was thinking of how happy we were.”

“Acha?” he breathed.

Khushi gulped down her tears to explain, “Mishraji scolded me for talking in class and said that a monkey had done my homework because the writing was so illegible.” She drew in a deep breath. “He made me stand up in class for 3 hours. My legs hurt soooo, lekin hum kya kar sakte the? Preetho was so angry with him. She...she...” Her voice dissolved in tears.

Arnav waited.

“She climbed the gauva tree on the way from school to Mishraji’s house and sat waiting till he passed the tree. Then she threw a stone at his bald head. He bled all over his white kurta,” Khushi said simply.

Arnav’s wide eyes rushed to gaze at the warrior princess who was simpering at Vikas.

“Then when Bunty stole Pinky’s pencil box and said it was me, she cornered Bunty during lunch break and punched his nose till it started to bleed,” Khushi whispered earnestly. “She is that good a friend. I will miss her sooo,” Khushi sobbed delicately.

“Looks like I need to offer my condolences to Vikas than my congratulations,” Arnav muttered. “Khushi, Vikas does not live in Delhi, does he?” he asked, worried.

“No,” she replied, frowning. “Why?”

“I don’t want a bloodthirsty Preetho throwing stones at my head each time you sneez when HP does his dusting ritual,” he confessed.

Khushi burst out laughing. “Aap bhi na,” she shook her head ruefully.

“Mein bhi kya?’ he asked, his voice low, his eyes on her lips.

“N..n..n..nothing,” she mumbled.

“Sure?” he asked, his nose touching her dangling earring.

She nodded rapidly.

                                                 ***

Khushi sat by Arnav to have her lunch. She looked at her plate filled with delicacies and yawned, last night’s strenuous exercise and loss of sleep taking its toll.

Arnav looked at Khushi who was trying to hide her yawn behind her hand and his heart leaped, his eyes flashed fire.

Khushi felt his eyes burning the skin on her face and turned to look at him. What she saw in his eyes made her tremble, her mouth go dry. Her eyes slipped down to his lips and her brain went up in smoke.

As she watched, his lips moved. She saw the curves move, she really did, but she couldn’t hear him. Her entire attention, her whole being was focused on the slight movement of those delicious lips.

Buaji leaned forward and spoke to Arnav, “Do you have to go today, bitwaa?” Her voice and expression were wistful as she said, “It would be nice if you both could stay for one more day.”

“Only one more day, buaji?’ he asked, his eyes still on Khushi’s dazed eyes. “I was thinking we could stay a week. Khushi can show me how beautiful...” his eyes flashed meaningfully at his wife, “...Lucknow is.”

Buaji’s face flushed with joy. “Damadji, you are so good. I can’t tell you how happy you have made us, Nandkisore,” buaji gushed.

“I am happy too, buaji,” he said, his eyes teasing Khushi. “Khushi has been... taking good care of me.”

Khushi blushed at the meaning only she could understand.

Buaji beamed. “Titliya is a good, sanskaari girl...when she remembers to be one, Nandkisore. Khussi, take good care of our damadji, suna tumne? He should return to Delhi with good memories of Lucknow and his samdhi.”

Khushi choked on the morsel she had placed in her mouth.

“Kya hua, Khushi?” Arnav asked, all concern. He rubbed her back, his fingers playing with her dori and the bare skin revealed by the almost non-existent back of her choli.

“I am fine, Arnavji,” Khushi croaked, squirming to get his hand off her back. There was no saying what she would do if the temptation got out of hand. She trembled, trying to hold herself back from leaping on him.

“But I am not,” Arnav sighed.

Khushi and buaji looked at him, their eyes wide. If he were any better, then she would have to take permanent residence inside the fridge to cool her fried senses, Khushi thought.

“Kya hua, bitwaa?” buaji was all concern.

“A headache, buaji,” he sighed.

“You travelled all the way from Delhi to Lucknow yesterday and we made you attend the wedding today, Nandkisore!” buaji was aghast. “Khussi, take damadji to your room. Give him medicine for his headache. Lower all the blinds and sit by him till he recovers,” she ordered.

Khushi could only nod. The devious businessman she had married had a solution to every problem, she thought in admiration.

With buaji’s blessings, the couple slipped out of Preetho’s house into Khushi’s house.

Part 18

“Arnavji, don’t lock the front door,” Khushi hissed urgently. “Or we will have to come down to let the others in.”

Arnav obediently shut the door without locking it and holding Khushi’s hand, marched up the steps to their bedroom on urgent feet.

Khushi locked the door of their bedroom and turned to find herself trapped in her husband’s arms. He pulled her as close as he could, crushing her softness against his hardness and took charge of her lips.

A few moments later, he lifted his head, his eyes eating her up.

“You have no idea how badly I wanted to do this,” he muttered.

She had a fair idea, her own head being filled with similar ideas.

Her eyes slipped to his lips, hoping he would stop talking and kiss her some more.

“Don’t look at me like that, Khushi,” he gave fair warning, his eyes burning with desire.

“Kya kar lenge aap?” she challenged him, her voice husky, hopeful.

He drew her succulent lower lip between his and sent every thought flying from her head. His fingers rubbed her scalp through her silky hair and moved down her graceful neck to hold her in place for his heady kiss.

Khushi wanted more.

She tried to undo his kurta with shaking fingers as soon as his lips left hers.

“You want me to remove my kurta, Khushi?” he asked, his husky voice shaking and all the more seductive for it.

She nodded.

“All you have to do is ask,” he informed her, quickly undoing his buttons and throwing the tunic over his head to fall somewhere.

Khushi stared raptly at the clean lines of his bare chest, the muscles of his arms, his washboard stomach...

“What do you want to do now, Khushi?” the devil asked, flexing his arms.

Khushi swallowed dryly at the ripple of his muscles. With dazed eyes, she looked longingly at his chest.

“Do you want to touch my chest, Khushi?” he asked, offering her what her heart longed for and her body burned for.

She nodded.

He waited.

“Yes,” she murmured.

He trapped one hand in his and slowly lifted it to rest on his heart.

Her fingers felt scalded at the heat emanating from his body. Her hand trembled.

He waited for her to get used to the feel of his bare body, his heart galloping, his pulse throbbing.

Soon her hand began to move on his chest, caressing the rise and dip of his muscles, running over his strong shoulders and down his arms. Then she moved down to test the sculpted muscles of his stomach.

He shuddered.

She drew in a deep breath of delight. So her touch had an effect on him. She could fell him with her touch just as he could floor her with his?

She put her new knowledge to good effect, touching him as she willed, pressing herself against his still form as she ran her hands up and down his back.

“Khushi,” he whispered.

She looked at him, her eyes dark like a siren’s, beckoning him to abandon all restraints and follow her into the world that only she could create with her magic.

“I so wanted you to drop the towel today morning,” she sighed her confession.

“I know,” he groaned.

She frowned. “How did you know?” she asked. “It was a thought that ran through my head.”

“I could read it in your eyes, Khushi,” he told her simply. “Your eyes darken when you want me, your lips tremble, you start breathing harder, the pulse at your throat throbs...as they are doing now.”

He rained kisses on her face, neck, shoulders and below, throwing away the pink Paithani silk saree and untying the doris that held the choli together.

He lifted her in his strong arms and carried her to bed, his eyes hot on hers.

He laid her on the bed, taking care to rest her head on her pillow. He captured her head with trembling hands and savoured the soft satin of her neck.

Khushi giggled slightly, the sound beginning as a giggle and ending as a moan.

“Feeling amused?” he asked softly.

Khushi gasped at the touch of his wandering fingers.

“Let me see if I can amuse you more,” he whispered against her heart.

                                            ***

They lay comfortably together, Khushi lying on him, their fingers linked companionably. Their bodies had cooled and Arnav had pulled a light sheet to cover their nakedness.

“You will really stay here for a week, Arnavji?” Khushi asked softly.

“Yes,” he replied, feeling sated, contented with life.

“Your work...,” she began.

“Even ASR is entitled to a honeymoon,” he smiled, “every year.”

She lifted her head to look into his smiling eyes.

“One honeymoon per year?” she asked in astonishment. “I thought people went on one honeymoon in their lives.”

“We are not, by any standards, ordinary people,” he claimed with a lofty look. “If we want to have a honeymoon every month, we can.”

Khushi opened her mouth to reply and then shut it. A long moment later, she said slowly, “Your office?”

“My office won’t collapse if I am away from it for a few days,” the ASR claimed, who till his marriage had been summoning employees to work even on Sundays.

“Yeh aap keh rahe ho?” she teased. “You who married an uncomplicated wife so that you could work?”

“After marrying you, my life became complicated, Khushi. It is not every bride who can boast of coming into her husband’s life like a typhoon. A murder attempt, hiding in the forest, the bike ride, getting rid of Shyam...I am afraid I have grown to like a complicated life, Khushi. Now I want my life and wife to be complicated,” he rubbed her nose with his, making her giggle.

“Amanji?” Khushi asked.

“He will be delighted,” Arnav declared. “We can go wherever you want, Khushi. Anywhere under the sun.”

She looked at him.

“In fact, we can set out now if you want to spend this week elsewhere. Is there any place you want to see, Khushi?” he asked.

She looked down into his eyes for a long moment.

Then she tightened her arms around him, burrowed her head into the crook of his neck and said, “Nowhere. I am happy here. There is nothing more I want from life than what I am holding in my arms now.”

He swallowed hard.

“As long as we are together, Arnavji,” she whispered, “nothing matters.”

“Hamesha, Khushi,” he promised. “Arnav and Khushi forever.”

Khushi wound her body tightly around his.

Slowly he ran his fingers down the long line of her bare back. She shivered, lifted her head and looked at him.

His eyes shimmered with love and need.

Her eyes moved down to his lips.

“Don’t,” he warned.

She quirked a brow.

“You won’t like it when I ravish you,” he growled.

“Can’t you tell?” she asked. “I am afraid I like it too much to do without,” she whispered against his eager lips.

The End

Next story in August (if I can hold out so long!)