Page 125 of Mrs. Rathore

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Chapter 50

Avni

The monsoon sky was a menacing gray, thick cloud swirling like a storm inside my heart. I stood barefoot in the backyard, the cool, damp earth and comfort beneath my feet. The delicate chime of my anklets echoed with every fierce movement. This was my sanctuary, hidden by tall hedges and thick trees, safe from prying eyes. Away from everyone. Here, I could finally be myself, releasing everything I had held inside for days.

I yearned to dance until my legs gave out, until I couldn't breathe, until I could scrub his maddeningly handsome face from my mind. For the past month, my thoughts had been consumed by my husband, Aryan. The feel of his mouth on mine, the trail of his fingers across my skin, the way his breath would graze my ear and steal my own. Not a single second passed without imagining him beside me, touching me, consuming me.

My ghungroos felt like armor around my ankles, a shield of defiance. It had been a week since my birthday. A week of silence. A week of sleeping in separate beds, of untouched food growing cold on the table, of unspoken questions choked by glances too sharp to ignore. A week of knowing something had fractured between us, and neither of us dared to address it.

He never told me why he was with Ira that night, and I never asked.

So, I let my body scream what my voice refused to say. My feet struck the ground harder, faster, each thud vibrating withrage and raw pain. My hands sliced through the air like flames, painting heartbreak in motion. Each spin became a desperate cry, each stomping a silent plea. And through it all, my white anarkali suit fluttered around me like a ghost, haunting me with the dreams I once dared to believe in.

Suddenly, thunder cracked like a whip above me, and the sky unleashed a torrent of cold, merciless rain, soaking me in seconds. But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. I danced through it like a woman possessed, my hair plastered to my face, water streaming down my spine, my chest, my thighs.

And then…

I felt it.

That hot, burning gaze I had craved all week. It hit me like a spark, igniting a tremor that started at my spine and spread through my entire body.

I froze mid-spin, breathless, my eyes darting toward the patio cloaked in shadows.

Aryan stood there, a storm himself: tall, tense, and enveloped in the gloom. His expression was unreadable at first, but his gaze… God, his gaze devoured me, stripping me bare.

"When did you get back?" I managed, my voice barely a whisper, chest heaving, lips trembling with raindrops, breathless from dancing and yearning.

He didn’t answer immediately. His eyes moved over my soaked body with agonizing slowness, as though I were both hispunishment and his salvation. My dress clung to every curve, the soaked white fabric transparent, sinfully revealing.

“Just a few minutes ago,” he finally rasped, his voice rough with something dark.

Then his eyes met mine, and the fire in them could have scorched the rain itself. My toes curled, my body tightening under the weight of his searing stare.

"How long will you torture me like this?" he growled, low and guttural, a plea wrapped in an accusation.

Before I could respond, he moved.

Fast.

He stormed forward, his arms wrapping around me, lifting me effortlessly. His lips slammed against mine, hungry, desperate, claiming. I gasped, my arms flying around his neck, my legs instinctively locking around his waist, our wet bodies grinding together. We kissed like we were drowning in each other, like this was our last breath, a desperate struggle for air and connection.

The rain applauded our madness, drumming around us as our mouths clashed again and again. Every taste of him sent shivers through me – rain, rage, and an overwhelming, consuming lust.

Without a word, he carried me inside. We were both drenched, panting, and trembling. His shirt clung to his muscular frame, every line and muscle defined by water and desire. My fingers fumbled with the wet fabric, tugging with urgent need until it was gone. My hands slid down his chest, lower to his abdomen,pausing at the faint trail of hair leading beneath his pants, a promise of more.

My breath hitched.

He groaned, grabbing a handful of my hair, pulling me into another brutal kiss, deeper, more possessive. My lips parted under his, willingly lost, surrendering everything.

We stumbled into the bedroom, dragging the storm behind us, the air thick with unspoken passion.

He kissed me harder, his teeth gently tugging on my lower lip, sending a jolt through me. I moaned. His eyes were wild, dark, and raw, holding back nothing, revealing the depths of his craving.

“I’m going to do everything I’ve imagined doing to you for a fucking month, Ballerina,” he hissed, his voice wicked, a promise and a threat. “You ready?”

I nodded, too breathless, too aroused to speak. His stare held mine for a long second, as if committing this moment to memory, etching it into his very being. Then, without hesitation, his trembling hands ripped the drenched dress from my body. Piece by piece, I stood exposed under the soft light, my skin glistening, lips parted, and body humming with anticipation.