The Next Morning

The pale hush of dawn had already passed; now, the sun was climbing higher, its light seeping lazily through the half-drawn curtains of the master bedroom. A warm streak of gold fell across the carved wooden bed, caressing the outline of the man sleeping there.

Aaradhya stirred, blinking herself awake. Her gaze shifted to the side—and stilled.

Vijayendra lay on his side, one arm resting heavily over the pillow, his breathing slow and deep. In the stillness of morning, the hard lines of his face seemed gentler. The furrow that usually marked his brow was smoothed away. The man who was always a fortress—unyielding, composed—looked, for once, human in a way that made something ache softly in her chest.

But it wasn’t his face that made her breath hitch.

Her hand went automatically to her shoulder—only to feel the cool air where her blouse’s dori should have been tied. Her breath caught. The memory of last night flickered—his deep voice, the weight of his touch, the way his fingers had lingered far too long before letting her go. Heat flushed her cheeks, and she quickly shifted away, clutching her dupatta close.

Her mind, unbidden, replayed fragments from last night. The quiet exchange, the way his eyes had found hers and held them, unflinching. The warmth in his touch—brief, but enough to unsettle her. A heaviness had left him when he’d finally lain down, and she had fallen asleep to the sound of his slow, even breaths.

She shook her head lightly, drawing herself back to the present. Carefully, she lifted the quilt from her and swung her feet to the cool marble floor, suppressing the urge to make any sound. The ghunghroo on her ankle chain chimed faintly as she crossed to the washroom.

When she returned, her dark hair was neatly braided and adorned with a thin string of tiny white flowers she’d found in her jewellery box. She was dressed in a deep maroon ghaghara choli, the heavy skirt swaying gently with her steps, and a matching odhani draped gracefully over her head. The gold embroidery at the borders caught the light with each movement.

Her hand moved instinctively toward the curtain, ready to let in the morning sun. But she stopped mid-step.

He was still asleep.

Aaradhya found herself watching him again. Last night, he had returned so late, his shoulders heavy with fatigue, his voice low—yet even then, he had glanced at her as if searching for something. The stern Thakur sa, the man everyone deferred to, lay now with one hand half-curled on the sheet, his chest rising and falling in steady rhythm.

She let her hand fall from the curtain. Let him rest.

Quietly, she moved to the wardrobe, retrieving her silver bangles and fastening them without a sound. Then, gathering her dupatta close, she stepped out of the room, the faint jingle of her payal the only trace she left behind.

The haveli was beginning to stir. From the inner courtyard came the sound of water being poured into brass pots, the low murmur of servants exchanging greetings, and the smell—rich and inviting—of fresh rotis puffing on the tawa.

In the kitchen, Aaradhya moved with silent precision. She kneaded dough, rolled out parathas, and kept an eye on the boiling chai, the steam curling upward into the air. The other women of the house occasionally cast glances her way, but she kept her focus on the food. The clink of steel plates, the scrape of ladles against kadhai—it was a rhythm she had learned quickly.

When everything was ready, she arranged a tray: steaming ginger tea, soft ajwain parathas, a small bowl of fresh butter. She carried a separate cup of chai to the dinning table where Rajeshwari was already sitting, lowering her eyes respectfully as she went near her.

“Maasa, chai,” she said softly, placing it before her mother-in-law. (Maasa..tea)

Rajeshwari Devi accepted it, inhaling the aroma. Her gaze flicked up. “Aur Vijayendra?”

Aaradhya’s fingers tightened lightly on the edge of her dupatta.

“Thakur sa raat ko kaafi der se aaye the, isliye abhi so rahe hain.”

(Thakur sa returned quite late last night, Maasa… so he’s still asleep.)

Rajeshwari hummed in understanding, sipping her tea. “Theek hai… usse aaram karne de. Tu uska nashta kamre mein hi de dena.”

(Alright… let him rest. Serve his breakfast in his room itself.)

Aaradhya nodded, bowing her head slightly before turning to leave.

On the way back to the kitchen to prepare his tray, her steps slowed without her meaning them to. She could already imagine it—entering the room with his breakfast, the heavy stillness of the space, and whether those dark, sharp eyes would still be closed in sleep… or open, fixed on her with that unreadable intensity that always seemed to see more than she wanted him to.

Entering the kitchen and preparing everything perfectly Aaradhya walked toward their room.

The silver tray was warm in Aaradhya’s hands, the soft aroma of parathas and masala chai trailing after her as she walked down the corridor. She paused at the half-open door, taking a quiet breath before stepping inside.

Vijayendra was already awake, sitting against the carved headboard. His hair was slightly mussed, his stubble shadowing his jaw, and the faint lines of sleep still softened the sharp edges of his face. But his eyes — steady and unreadable — were already fixed on her.

“Maasa ne kaha aap nashta yahin dene ko,” she murmured, setting the tray beside him. (Maasa said you should have breakfast here.)

His gaze didn’t shift. “Hmm..Baith.” (Sit.)

She hesitated, glancing toward the door. “Main—” (I—)

“Baith,” he repeated, quieter this time, but with a weight that left no room for refusal.

She sank onto the edge of the bed, smoothing her ghaghara over her knees, her eyes lowered.

“Khaya tune?” (Have you eaten?)

“Haan… main—” (Yes, I—)

“Sach?” (Really?) His tone held the faintest challenge.

She hesitated, the truth slipping out in a whisper. “…Nahin.” (No.)

Without another word, he tore a piece of paratha, dipped it into the fragrant sabzi, and held it out to her.

Her gaze flicked up to his, uncertain. “Main bana ke laayi hoon aap ke liye—” (I made it for you—)

“I know,” he murmured. “Aur tu bhi mere saath khana khayegi.” (And you’ll eat with me.)

She leaned forward reluctantly, her lips brushing his fingers as she took the bite. He didn’t pull away immediately — letting his fingertips linger against the curve of her mouth. Her cheeks warmed, and she quickly lowered her eyes.

He fed her again. And again. Until she had taken several bites without realizing it, the quiet between them heavy with something unspoken.

Then, as she reached for the glass of chai to pour for him, his hand shot out — not harshly, but firmly — catching her wrist.

She looked up, startled, only to feel him tug her gently closer. In one smooth motion, he drew her near to sit between his both legs, her hip brushing his thigh. His free hand slid up her arm, over her shoulder, and into the hollow of her neck where the skin was warm and bare.

Before she could speak, his head dipped.

The first press of his lips against her neck was unhurried, almost testing. Then the second — deeper, firmer — made her fingers clutch the bedsheet. His breath was warm against her skin, his stubble scraping lightly as he tilted his head and let his mouth linger.

Her breath hitched when his lips parted, drawing the skin between his teeth in a slow, deliberate pull. The quiet sound he made — low and satisfied — sent a shiver down her spine.

She caught his wrist instinctively, but her grip lacked conviction.

When he finally pulled back, his mouth brushing her ear, his voice was barely above a whisper.

“Ab toh sach mein nashta ho gaya.” (Now it truly feels like breakfast.)

She swallowed hard, her pulse racing, and stood quickl collecting the empty plate and serving him the cup of tea, muttering something about chores she started to leave. But the heat on her neck — and the weight of his gaze — followed her all the way to the door.

Aaradhya stepped out of the room with the tray, her heartbeat still unsettled from the way his lips had lingered against her skin. The faint warmth of that place on her neck pulsed with every step she took.

By the time she reached the kitchen, she had schooled her face into composure. She placed the tray down and began tidying the counters, but every time she reached for something, she felt the ghost of his touch travel over her arm.

Outside, the courtyard buzzed with the usual morning rhythm — maids drawing water, utensils clinking, the low hum of conversation between the women. She lost herself in her chores — sweeping, supervising the meal prep, attending to Rajeshwari Devi’s requests — but every so often, her mind betrayed her.

The memory of him holding her wrist at breakfast, pulling her close without a word, would flash vividly, making her fingers still on whatever task she was doing.

By mid-morning, she caught sight of him in the verandah, speaking to one of the workers. The sun was behind him, gilding the hard lines of his shoulders, the clean fall of his white kurta. He didn’t glance her way at first, but as she passed carrying a basket of vegetables, she felt his gaze — steady, unwavering, cutting through the space between them.

She looked down, pretending to adjust her dupatta, but the small curl at the corner of his mouth told her he’d noticed her avoidance.

Noon.

The heat of Rajasthan’s afternoon lay heavy over the haveli. Aaradhya was in the kitchen, grinding spices, when she sensed movement at the doorway. She looked up to see him there — leaning casually against the wooden frame, arms crossed.

He didn’t say a word. Just watched her, his eyes dark and unreadable.

Her hands stilled over the grinding stone. “Aapko kuch chahiye, Thakur sa?” she asked softly. (Do you need something, Thakur sa?)

He stepped forward slowly, not answering, until he stood just behind her. She could feel the heat of his body, the faint scent of sandalwood and dust.

One hand reached forward — not to touch her skin — but to steady the pestle she still held. His fingers brushed hers, lingering longer than necessary before he stepped back, turning away without a word.

She stood there, her breath uneven, staring at the door long after he had gone.

In the Evening, as the sun dipped, she helped set the courtyard for tea. He came to sit beside Rajeshwari Devi, listening to her speak of the day’s accounts, but every now and then, his eyes would flick to Aaradhya.

Once, when she bent to place a tray before him, his hand brushed against hers deliberately — just enough for her to feel the slow, deliberate press of his thumb against her palm.

Her heart leapt, but she managed to retreat without betraying it.

Later, as the sky turned darker, the household began to quiet, and she crossed the verandah carrying a pile of folded linens. She didn’t expect to find him there, leaning against one of the pillars in the moonlight.

They didn’t speak.

He simply stepped aside as she passed, his gaze following her all the way to the end of the verandah. But just as she turned the corner, she heard his voice, low and rough, carried by the still air.

“Raat ko der se sona.” (Sleep late tonight.)

She froze, her fingers tightening on the cloth. By the time she turned back, he had already walked away, leaving only the echo of his words — and the quiet promise behind them — hanging in the night air.

The echo of his words — "Raat ko der se sona" — clung to her all evening.

She had gone through the motions of the night — pouring water for Maasa, folding clothes, setting away the kitchen utensils — but the memory of his low, unhurried tone lingered in her ears like a forbidden melody.

By the time the haveli sank into its nightly hush, the silence felt heavier… expectant.

Aaradhya sat before the mirror, her hair loose around her shoulders, the ends brushing against her waist. The dim lamp painted her in soft gold, her red ghaghara choli deepening in color under the flicker. She adjusted her odhani, telling herself it was only for comfort, but she knew… she was stalling.

The latch turned.

Her heart jumped before the door even opened.

He stepped inside — slow, deliberate — as though the night itself had brought him to her. His kurta hung loose at the collar, sleeves rolled up, showing the dark veins running along his forearms. There was no greeting, no wasted words. His eyes locked on hers, and she felt her breath falter.

He shut the door. The quiet click sounded louder than it should have.

Without breaking eye contact, he crossed the space between them. One hand reached down, his fingers brushing hers as he took the comb from her grip and set it aside. Then, with the weight of a man who knew exactly what he was doing, he slid his fingers into her hair, guiding it back over her one shoulder baring her back which was cover by the strings of her blouse and his fingers started to trace it down to her lower back before circling around her  tummy, pulling her near him sticking her back to his front.  

The touch was unhurried, heavy with intention.

She opened her mouth to speak, but his hand had already curved around her jaw, tilting her face up. He turned her swiftly , that now his front totally sticked on her,  his knees brushing hers, the heat of his body closing in around her. The scent of him — clean, faintly spiced, masculine — was dizzying.

His lips touched hers, almost lazily, tasting her in small, deliberate pulls. She melted before she realized it, her hands finding his shoulders for balance.

Soon her lips was moulded in his just like the pair of zip closed together, his one hand holding her waist other clutching her jaw in a firm grip pulling her more closer while suc*King her both lips in his mouth , eating it all. Her one hand holding his shoulder which other clutching his already half unbuttoned kurta from another with her lips busy, trying to match his pace feeling her lips being eaten by him making her breathless.

"Umm..Ahh...." she moa*ned when he took out her lips from his mouth before sucking her lower one with his hand sliding up from her waist to her one mould, giving it a quite yet firm squeeze, making her freeze on her spot.

Next update soon

Itsyourblackrose