Close enough to lose control
DHRUV
Sitara standing near the mirror, adjusting one of my shirts she’s stolen—again—frowning at her reflection like it has personally offended her. The sleeves are folded twice, the hem brushes her thighs, and she looks entirely too pleased with herself for someone wearing my clothes like a victory flag. She’s been doing this for a week now. Stealing my shirts. Not that I mind, but the sight leaves me undone and I definitely have to take cold showers imagining things I probably shouldn’t but she is my wife.
“You do realize,” I say mildly from the armchair, “that shirt costs more than most people’s monthly rent?”
She glances at me through the mirror, one eyebrow lifting. Slow. Deliberate. “Oh?” she says. “Then you should probably stop leaving it where I can reach it.”
I scoff. “You can’t even reach the top shelf without standing on your toes. Don’t flatter yourself.”
She turns, and the smirk she gives me is unhurried. Sharp around the edges, like she’s already won something and is just deciding how much damage she wants to do next.
“Is that so?”
There it is. That tone. That carefulseductivetone. I don’t move. I should. Any sensible man would. But I stay right where I am, watching as she walks toward me—not rushed, not shy. Each step measured. Intentional. Like she knows exactly what she’s doing and is enjoying the fact that I know it, too. I like this side of her. Bold and beautiful. Like she finally understands the power she has over me.
She stops just short of me, close enough that I can feel her warmth, close enough that my breath changes before I want it to. “You know,” she says thoughtfully, tilting her head, “it’s funny how you’re always teasing me about height.”
My mouth opens, ready with something dry, something safe. She doesn’t give me the chance. She leans in. Not touching. Not yet. Just close enough that her breath brushes my jaw, my neck, and suddenly the room feels smaller. Warmer. Charged in a way that has nothing to do with the evening air.
“Because from here,” she murmurs, eyes flicking up to mine, “you don’t seem that unreachable.”
My pulse jumps. Traitorously loud. I swallow, forcing my voice to stay steady. “Sitara—”
She smiles. Not sweet. Not innocent. Knowing.
She steps between my knees, hands braced on the armrests on either side of me, boxing me in without actually touching me. I hate how much my body reacts to that alone. Hate how aware I become of every inch of space she’s claiming without apology.
“You make fun of my height,” she continues softly, “but you forget something.”
Her fingers skim my collarbone. Barely there. Enough to set every nerve on fire.
“I can still reach you.”
My breath hitches. There’s no hiding it. No pretending. She feels it too—I am sure she does because her cheeks turn pink. My dick twitches. I let out a slow breath, pressing my forehead briefly to hers like it might ground me.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, honest and strained, “I—”
She chuckles under her breath, warm and entirely too calm for what she’s doing to me. “It’s fine,” she says lightly. “You’re a man with needs, Dhruv. I’m not scandalized.”
I stand, closing the distance fully this time, my hands finding her waist like they’ve always belonged there. She gasps softly—not startled, not resisting—and the sound goes straight through me.
I press her back against the edge of the dresser, not rough, not rushed, just close. Intimate. Overwhelming in the quiet way that makes it impossible to think.
My mouth finds hers.
The kiss is slow at first, controlled, like I’m still pretending I have restraint left. She responds immediately, fingers curling into my shirt, pulling me closer like she’s been waiting for it.
When I pull back, it’s only to breathe, my forehead resting against hers, both of us a little unsteady now.
“You’re wrong,” I whisper, my voice low, unguarded. “I don’t have needs.”
She blinks, confused for half a second. I lean in again, brushing my lips along her cheek, her jaw, just enough to make her shiver. “I only have one need,” I murmur against her skin. “You.”
Her breath stutters. My hand slides up her spine, slow enough that I feel every inch of the distance it travels. I stop between her shoulders, not because I have to—but because I want to. Like if I pause there long enough, I’ll remember this exact shape forever. The warmth of her. The way she fits so easily against me. The way my body reacts before my mind can catch up.
God.
