“Goodnight,” Rajat said softly before ending the call.
Karan stared at his phone for a long moment. Regret? No. He wasn’t the kind of man who regretted.
Just then, he heard a soft shuffle of bare feet on marble. He stilled, his fingers curling tighter around the glass as he felt her. She was here.
For a fleeting second, he thought she’d take one look at his brooding, half-drunk self, and lost in his own demons, and turn right back to her room. But she didn’t.
Instead, she came closer.
He didn’t turn, not until she stood beside him at the bar counter. And when he finally looked at her, he wished he hadn’t.
Mishti stood there in a satin night set. Soft blush pants and a matching shirt, the top two buttons undone. The faint gold of her mangalsutra glimmered just above the shadow between her collarbones, catching the dim bar light. Her hair spilt loose, falling over her shoulders. And just below her pulse point on her neck, he saw a small, tender bruise. Yet, she looked devastatingly beautiful…liketemptation wrapped in innocence.
“You’re drinking at this hour of the night?” she managed to ask.
Karan poured another drink, coming out of his trance. “It’s my nightly routine… stay awake till late, drink till you pass out.”
It was the kind of reply meant to end a conversation. But Mishti didn’t back down.
“How would I know this is your nightly routine? This is the first night you’re actually home.”
He froze for half a second, then smirked faintly. Without any fear or hesitation, she was calling him out, and he almost admired her nerve.Almost.
She didn’t understand that staying away was his way of keeping the distance he needed. Separate rooms were one thing; disappearing at night was another. But she had no right to question him.
His eyes lingered on her face again before he raised his glass slightly towards her.
Mishti shook her head instantly, taking a small step back. “I don’t drink.”
He muttered under his breath, barely realising he’d spoken aloud,“Shabaab ko sharaab ki zaroorat hi kya hai?” (When beauty itself is intoxicating, why would it need alcohol)
Her brows furrowed. “Huh?”
Reality hit him a second too late. Damn it. He shouldn’t have said that. But instead of backtracking, he swallowed hard, lifted the glass, and downed the drink in one go, without drifting his gaze away from her face.
When he set the glass down, the bruise on her neck again caught his attention. The sight of it twisted something inside him. Before he could stop himself, his hand lifted, and his thumb brushed against her skin.
The touch was feather-light, yet it stole her breath. Mishti’s body went rigid, her lips parting in a sharp exhale as he tracedthe tender bruise with his thumb, gently. His own lips parted slightly as if he wanted to kiss away the hurt.
The heat of his skin, the roughness of his touch, it was all new, all forbidden for Mishti. He had never looked at her like this before, never touched her with such quiet hunger. She almost trembled when Karan’s knuckles skimmed down, grazing the edge of her collarbone, his gaze following the path of his touch. The third button of her night shirt almost popped open with his touch, revealing the faint line of her cleavage. Karan froze. Every inch of hers was welcoming him, every breath she took urged him to explore her further. Every heave of her chest broke a thread of his patience.
What was she doing to him?His breath came heavier, harsher. Karan looked up, eyes dark as he held hers. “Has anyone ever touched you like this?” His voice was hoarse and filled with desperation to know her reply.
Mishti couldn’t find words, couldn’t breathe. Her throat worked as she swallowed, her lashes fluttering. But she still shook her head in denial.No one had touched her like that before. Only him.
His chest rose and fell sharply at her response, his self-control slipping with every second. Karan exhaled, rough and deep, wanting to pull away, stop whatever he was doing to her and him, right at this instant.
But then, she asked him something he had never expected.
“Haveyoutouched any other woman like this before?”
The question almost shattered his haze. His hand dropped gently, and reality kicked back in.
He wasn’t supposed to do this. Not with her. The woman whose very name was a reminder of everything he loathed.
“A few,” he said coldly. “And they were all much better than you. So don’t think you’re my first.”
The words literally stabbed her, but she didn’t flinch. Her heart ached, yes, yet even through the pain, she admired his brutal honesty. She wasn’t living in any illusion either. Even before their marriage, when it had merely been arranged, she knew that a man like Karan Wadhwa would have had his share of women, of fleeting relationships and temporary affections.
