“That wasn’t a question,” he says, picking me up in his arms swiftly, and all I can do is stare at him with my mouth open.
“Ahem,” Aarav gives us a teasing look, and I glare at him. This isn’t what it looks like. “I am still here.”
“So why don’t you go, fucker? Back to the woman who’s glaring at you.”
He turns to look back, and I tilt my head slightly.
Surely, his nemesis is glaring at him but looks away just when she sees him turn.
“Can we leave?” I ask.
“Of course.”
“See you tomorrow, Aarav.”
“See you later, fucker.”
I shake my head at him, done with his antics.
I don’t know what is funnier. Him getting jealous or him getting jealous of Aarav, who is literally like my brother.
I let my hair fall in front of my face, practically to shield it from the view of other people who are staring at us weirdly and from him.
I can handle the general public looking at us. But his eyes on me make me feel all the things I should’ve long forgotten.
All the feeling I shouldn’t be feeling at all.
He doesn’t say anything, just keeps walking towards where he parked his car, and for once, I am thankful for the silence.
The realization that we were going to kiss haunts me.
The fact that if I pushed him he would have kissed me makes me both embarrassed and sad.
Sad because I didn’t push him, and he didn’t kiss me.
Embarrassed because he would’ve only kissed me if I pushed him.
Despite what he says, I am not entirely convinced that he did want to kiss me but stopped himself for whatever reason he gave me back there.
Maybe I am trying to hold a grudge, but who cares at this point?
I am done suppressing my needs.
I have never been a shy woman when it comes to pleasure, but I have always been selective.
I do not believe in the societal norm that men get to talk and boast about their needs, but women get shamed for them.
I give a big middle finger to that.
But I also never took pleasure in random, meaningless encounters for a few seconds of pleasure. The only man I have ever been open with is my husband. And for the past six years, ever since we got married, that has slowly expired.
Our sexual life doesn’t exist at this point, and I am not shy about the fact that I miss it.
Because sex between us wasn’t just about pleasure. It was about how we made each other feel. Things we both couldn’t speak out loud, we could with a mere touch.
And good lord, I miss that.
I don’t look at him when he secures me in the car seat with a seat belt. Nor do I look at him when he rounds the car and sits inside.
