Page 2 of Mrs. Pandey
I gripped her shoulders, my gaze drilling into hers. "You've used me again, Ira. Always. Like a discarded tissue. When your precious boyfriend was out of the picture, you craved me to sate your dark fantasies, no strings attached. Now he's married to Avni. And now you want me back? You've always been selfish, Ira. You toyed with my heart, my damn feelings, my very body."
"Prashant, I was so confused..." Her voice, a choked whisper, caught in her throat, her eyes brimming with a theatrical display of tears. But I wouldn't be swayed by that performance. They were fake, just like every fleeting emotion she'd ever shown. She'd probably just slither into the arms of the next fool who offered comfort.
"Turn around," I commanded, my voice flat. A faint frown creased her perfect brow.
"Uh..."
"I said, turn around, now," I barked, and she instantly obeyed, a tremble running through her. "Are you comfortable having sex with me?" I asked, my fingers already gathering the delicate fabric of her saree, lifting it to expose the sliver of pink lace beneath. God, she was flawless, breathtaking in her unwilling surrender.
"Yes." A sharp gasp escaped her lips as I yanked her underwear down her legs, then squeezed the soft curve of her buttock. "But not like this."
_______
Chapter 1
IRA
"One more, please," I purred, sliding the shot glass toward Aryan with a teasing smile, a playful challenge in my voice. It was sweet but coated with that specific edge he always claimed made him weak. And just as I expected, his broad shoulders dropped almost imperceptibly, his soldier's guard softening around the edges.
His dark eyes, usually so disciplined, locked with mine, and for a precious second, everything else the pounding music, the raucous chatter, the dizzying club lights faded into a distant hum. It was just him and me. Always him and me.
Aryan was devilishly handsome. So sexily muscular, the kind of man who wore his scars like medals of honor and looked at you like you were the most sacred thing he’d ever laid eyes on. His crisp uniform had always made women’s hearts flutter, including mine, a fact I'd once cherished.
But tonight, he wasn't the decorated Captain Rathore. He was just Aryan Rathore. My fiancé. My soon-to-be husband. The man who was going to be my home forever. A shiver, both warm and unsettling, traced down my spine at the thought.
"You forget our discipline, Ira," he said, a brow raising in mock sternness, trying so hard to play the part of the unyielding soldier. "What were we taught in our army training?"
I rolled my eyes, a familiar, yet strangely complicated, warmth curling in my chest.
“Aryan, please. Don’t bring your army discipline here. Tonight, you’re not a captain and I’m not a lieutenant in the Indian Army. We’re not in uniform. We’re not standing in formation. We’re just two people who’ve waited a decade for this moment. Let’s live it a little, hmm?” My voice softened, a genuine plea.
I paused, watching the subtle twitch at the corner of his lips, a tiny battle between his ingrained discipline and the smile he wanted to let loose.
“I would be really happy if, for just these two days, we forget we’re officers,” I added, my voice barely a whisper, imbued with every ounce of desperate hope I felt, “and just remember that we’re a couple, deeply in love, celebrating the last few days before becoming one.”
I smiled. “Enjoy, baby. It’s our night.”
He caved, of course. Aryan always did when I asked like that. There was that quiet surrender in his eyes, a softening that both comforted and pricked at me. He threw the shot back, a quick, almost painful gulp, and winced.
“Shit! That’s strong.” He coughed, shaking his head.
I laughed, slightly too loud, and grabbed his hand, tugging him onto the pulsating dance floor. The music vibrated beneath our feet, a primal thump that felt like a second, wild heartbeat. People cheered as we melted into the gyrating crowd, and a part of me felt like we were floating in a dream.
Only, this was the kind of fairytale where the princess had two hearts beating wildly in her chest, and she didn’t know what to do with either.
This was our bachelorette party, my last two days of "separate" life before I became Mrs. Rathore, sharing the name of a man I had adored for ten long years.
But the question, cold and sharp, sliced through the momentary joy:
Am I ready to be his wife?
These shitty thoughts, these constant stabs of doubt, hurt more than any physical pain, so I brutally pushed them away, forcing myself to focus on the thrumming energy of the party, on him.
I moved with the beat, letting the rhythm possess me, crawl under my skin, urging me to just feel. Aryan’s hands found my waist, firm and possessive, grounding me, reminding me where I was and, more importantly, who I was with.
A true laugh escaped me as his eyes, dark and intense, followed my every move like I was the brightest star in his sky.
And yet… every time he looked at me like that, with such unyielding adoration, I felt a quiet ache bloom in my chest. A whisper of someone else.
