Reyansh chose to wear a tight gym shirt made out of I don’t know what material, but it hugs his body better than I do. Plus it’s black.
His biceps bulge as he pulls his body up swiftly, and I am left there salivating and ovulating. Even though I should not be.
When I decided that I needed a divorce from my husband, I had mentally evaluated every single thing that could possiblyhappen after my demand. Fights, confrontations, heart-to-heart conversations, drunk calls or texts, and vomiting out my feelings were all on the cards.
What I hadn’t expected was us being pushed together. The more I try to avoid being in the same vicinity as him, the less I am able to do that.
The more I try not to feel for him the way I did before, the less I’m able to stop myself from feeling exactly the same.
“Keep looking at me like I am your favorite sweet dish, baby,” he says, breaking me out of my trance. “I like having your eyes on me.”
I roll my eyes. What I still don’t like about him is his cocky attitude. Man thinks he can seduce anyone with his voice that is thick as hell, walking in that suit that is tailored to fit him and his hair that is never out of line.
Except during sex and workouts, of course.
“Shut up,” I say. “I am just trying to figure out what to do here. I so hate my mom right now for putting me through this.”
I fiddle with the hem of my pink leggings. If I wasn’t looking cute, I couldn’t feel cute. This is why I chose to wear a pink gym set with a cropped spaghetti top.
“You are such a baby when it comes to exercise.” He shakes his head, walking towards me. Sweat drips from his messed-up hair, and I have to close my mouth to not straight-up drool in front of my husband. These hormones, I swear.
“Well, I don’t need to exercise when I look this good,” I flaunt and figure out how that is such a stupid thing to do because he makes a show of looking at me from top to bottom, his gaze stopping at every inch of my skin.
“We agree for once,” he says, clicking his tongue. “Tell you what, let’s get you to do some pull-ups.”
“Nuh uh.” I pull away from him, not only to show my distaste for that idiotic idea but also to maintain some space from him.The less close I get to him during my ovulation phase, the better. “I am walking out of this door with not a single drop of sweat on my body.”
“And that will convince your mom that you worked out?” He smirks, and I feel this urge to punch him in the face.
“You are a pain in the butt,” I tell him, walking ahead of him to do these dreaded pull-ups.
He chuckles and follows swiftly, and I wonder why I always find myself in situations like this. I stare at the ugly rod, and he stays behind me—too close for my liking—as I contemplate what to do.
“You know it won’t pull you towards itself,” he mumbles, and I grumble. “You will actually have to touch it like this.”
He takes hold of my arms, swiftly raising them to touch that rod. His hands are too warm for my liking and envelop mine like a glove. I try not to show it, but even the sliver of his skin touching me affects me. I think more than it used to in the past.
“Lift yourself up,” he adds, giving me support by the waist, and I gulp, doing as he says, and God damn it hurts. People find pleasure in doing this? Are they out of their not-so-sane mind?
“God damn it,” I whisper, a groan slipping out of me. “What the fuck, Rey? This is painful.”
He laughs, and that sound goes straight through my rib cage towards the nestled corners of my heart. He hasn’t laughed fully in a long while, and that sparks a realization in my mind that maybe even he has been as miserable as me for a long time.
“You can do it,” he pushes me, his hands slowly drifting down to my butt, and I have to stop myself from making this a huge thing. But suddenly I am that twenty-year-old Aisha who just got to know that the hot,videshiguy who looked like a direct replica of my favorite Bollywood hero—Sidharth Malhotra—has a crush on me.
His hands are warm on my ass, and how bad would it be if he actually touched it like he did in the past?
I visibly stop breathing for a second before choosing to ignore this and not make it as awkward as I possibly can and pull myself upwards, which, honestly, is just him doing.
“Are you sure this is how I am supposed to do pull-ups?” I ask, a teasing tone in my voice.
“I don’t know, but do you mind it?” He questions in retort, and I zip my lips tight.
I don’t want to validate his delusions. It has just been too long since he has touched me, since we have been close. I am not someone who puts physical needs above my morals or feelings. But I cannot resist my husband.
He just has that kind of effect on me. He has this otherworldly pull on me. I go towards him like he is a magnet and I am an iron block.
He takes my silence as a no, and for once I am grateful that he chooses to be nonchalant about our situation. The pull-ups seem less threatening and painful now, and I am sure I have sweated off all the calories from yesterday’s family night.
