I told myself I wasn't going to give in. Not now. Not ever.
But Kabir Malhotra has a way of making the impossible feel inevitable.
It was late. The streets of Mumbai were quiet, only a few headlights cutting across the asphalt. I leaned against my apartment balcony, cigarette in hand, letting smoke curl lazily into the humid night air.
And then he appeared.
"Arjun," he whispered, soft, deliberate. Close enough that I could feel his warmth even through the balcony railing.
I turned slowly. My pulse had already betrayed me. "Kabir."
He didn't say anything else. Just stepped closer, and I could feel the faint brush of his shoulder against mine.
I wanted to push him away. I wanted to remind myself of the rules. The walls I'd built. But something in the way he looked at me—calm, unwavering, hungry for nothing but my attention—made my chest tighten in ways I hadn't felt in years.
"Why are you here?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Because you're avoiding me," he said softly. "Because I need you."
I laughed—bitter, low. "You can't need me."
"Can't I?" he whispered. And then, slowly, deliberately, he leaned forward and pressed his lips against mine.
I froze.
My first instinct was to resist, to push him away. I did. My hands went to his chest, my body stiff.
"Arjun… please," he murmured against my lips, his voice low, intimate.
Something inside me shifted. The tension I had kept bottled for weeks—the desire I had refused to acknowledge—started to crack. Slowly. Dangerously.
I didn't move away this time. Not completely. I let the smallest part of myself respond. A brush of my lips against his, hesitant, testing.
He deepened the kiss. Gentle, insistent, patient. Not greedy. Not rushed. But overwhelming in its honesty.
I felt a warmth spread through my chest. My hands trembled slightly as they rested against his shoulders. My control, the control I'd clung to for so long, began to falter.
"Arjun," he whispered again, soft and low. "Let yourself feel it. Let yourself want me."
I wanted to argue. To say no. To remind myself of Riya, of rules, of boundaries. But my body betrayed me. My pulse thrummed with heat. My chest rose and fell unevenly.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, I let go. I let the kiss linger. My lips pressed fully against his. My hands moved, tentative, tracing the lines of his shoulders, his back. He shivered beneath my touch, and it sent something dangerous through me—a thrill I hadn't realized I missed.
When we finally pulled back for air, our foreheads rested together. Breathless. Heated.
"I… you…" I started, voice low, unsure.
"I know," he murmured, smiling softly. "Shh. It's okay. You don't have to say anything."
For the first time in years, I let myself feel. Desire. Connection. Something I'd been denying myself. Something I didn't even know I needed.
And I hated that I wanted it. That I wanted him. That I wanted him to be the one breaking me, controlling me, making me surrender.
Kabir Malhotra was patient. Gentle. Persistent. And I—foolishly, wonderfully—was already letting him in.