He swipes a digit between my folds, and I arch against him, the sensation so much better than anything I’ve ever felt. I keen into him, pressing against his bulge as he swirls a tentative finger over my clit.
His movements are shaky, and the moment that passes between us spans all of thirty seconds before he slides his palm up my body, exposing my abdomen as he shifts to push me onto my back. I go willingly, desperate for the answers I always find swimming in the still, green waters of his gaze.
“I’m sorry,” he husks, looking down between us, and I find myself doing the same. At some point last night, he’d tugged his shirt off, laying it over me as a blanket, leaving him bare-chested, save for the gold chain around his neck, and with the knot undone on my robe, most of my body is bare to him. My gaze roams further, my mouth pooling with saliva at the hard press of his dick against my thigh.
“Don’t be sorry,” I whisper, continuing to stare at it as ifitcould respond—and hell, with the size of that thing, it might as well have a mind of its own. I clear my throat, meeting his eyes and smirking at the way they crinkle around the edges with amusement, balancing out the flush blossoming across his cheeks. “It’s a physiological response, nothing to be embarrassed or sorry about.” I can't be sure if I’m saying it for my sake or his, even as the words slip past my lips.
“The way I feel for you eclipses far beyond a physiological need, Adhira,” he says, his voice firm as he slides the rough pads of his fingers over my hip, slipping my robe off to uncover my one and only tattoo. My pulse ratchets up, and that bundle of nerves at the apex of my thighs forms a pulse of its own. His fingers skim over the little rain cloud and lightning bolt, and his next words dampen my arousal. “Does the cloud have a meaning too?”
Instead of holding back like I had the first time I’d shared the details of my tattoo, I bare my soul to him as he so freely does for me.
“I got it in memory of my brother. His name translates to ‘cloud’ in Sanskrit.” I swallow thickly, the bite of the coolSeptember air mixing with the grey clouds building in the sky. “He passed away when I was seven.”
Elijah’s eyes flicker with pain, his lips pursing as he fights his curiosity, and I decide to put him out of his misery, offering the answer without hesitation. “Badal had an undiagnosed heart condition. By the time a problem presented itself, it was already too late.”
“That must have been impossibly hard on you and your parents,” he says, never one to pity me.
“It was, for a really long time,” I admit, a weight lifting off my chest as I spill my guts beneath the growing anger of the sky. “My parents couldn’t afford the funeral, so Papa accepted a new job that required him to travel a lot. We didn’t see him much after that, and I think”—tears well in the back of my eyes—“I think it was difficult for him to see me and not think of my brother.”
A long moment of silence passes between us as Elijah rights my robe, retying the belt but leaving my tattoo exposed. The way he always knows exactly what I need, when not to push too far, only makes me feel even more secure with him.
“My parents fought a lot after that. They’d get into arguments over the phone, my mum begging him to find a new job and come home, and I’d listen through the thin walls, overhearing Papa talk about the cost of my football gear and dues, my language lessons, and all the other things they couldn’t afford without his job.” My stomach churns with unease as I visualise a small, crumpled version of myself sobbing against the wall of my childhood bedroom. “It wasn’t until I’d moved out that my parents were able to afford to return to Gujarat to be with our extended family. Papa got a job that he actually enjoys and doesn’t require him to travel so much, and he and Mummy are happier than ever.”
Elijah’s light brows pinch, and he shifts his weight, cupping my jaw. “You can’t possibly think any of that is your fault, right?”
My throat feels tight, but I shake my head on instinct, emotionally curling in on myself. “I was just a child, Elijah. Of course it wasn’t my fault,” I tell him, but deep down, I know that neither of us truly believes my words. And even if they are the truth, it doesn’t change anything. My parents have lost so much already; I can’t break their hearts again, not without the hope they’ll need to get through it this time.
Silence stretches between us, broken only by the loud rumble of thunder as the wind picks up and rain begins to pelt the ground beneath us.
“Adhira, what happened last night?” he asks, and my chest aches.
“Like I said, I'm going bald.”
He shakes his head. “You and I both know it's more than that.” His words are barely a whisper, and I both love and loathe how thoroughly he can read me.
I don't answer him for a long time, sorting through the real reason for myself first. When I finally find the words, they surprise me. Because he's right. It had nothing to do with the hair at all.
“I've lost weight. My cheeks are more hollow. My skin doesn't glow. The dark circles under my eyes have become more prominent. And my port is this ugly bump that makes me violently ill to even look at. But those are all subtle things. So subtle that most people wouldn't notice them at all.” I pick at my cuticles, unable to meet his unerring gaze. “But for the first time, I had undeniable proof that I am sick. That I could really”—my voice breaks, and the next word is spoken like a puff of smoke on the tip of my tongue—“die.”
Elijah's warm palm cups my cheek as a wicked bolt of lightning pierces the sky.
“It's undeniable proof of my mortality. A physical manifestation of everything that's been stolen from me so far. And I'm…I'm just so tired.”
He doesn't placate me. Doesn't attempt to make me feel better with meaningless words.
Knowing exactly what I need, he provides it without question. He stands, scoops me up, and takes me inside, saving me from adding electrocution by lightning strike to my list of ailments. Once inside, he settles me on the sofa and spends the rest of the morning watching my comfort documentary on orca ecotypes with me.
CHAPTER
FORTY-THREE
The universe is laughingat me.
I wish I were being dramatic, truly, I do, but after waking up having jizzed in my briefs like a teenager from a particularly inappropriate dream about Adhira, I cleaned up and wandered into the kitchen to find her streaking bare-arsed naked across the living room, looking for a clean T-shirt to change into.MyT-shirt, no less.
And barely an hour later, we’re strolling the shops in search of gifts for Archie, and I’m supposed to just pretend neither of these things ever happened.
“This crossword looks right up your alley, princess,” Adhira snickers, tossing the book at my chest.
