Qubool Hai (MeeraSim FF)

46 - Kaagaz

Despite the piling troubles, Murtasim floated through tranquil dreams that night. The weight of his wife on his chest was a welcome anchor that grounded him. Her balmy flesh was silken, more pleasant than the cool petals which swam beneath them, more pleasing than the sheets of silk that rippled over them.

The morning ticked on and they lazed as if time slowed for them outside the gossamer curtains that draped like a delicate cage around their bed. Eyes remained closed, and the room only carried weightless breaths of relief. They saw only peachy, terracotta hues as the light bounced over their resting eyelids.

Beneath her, his arm was numb. Needles tingling on the arm around her back, fastening her bodice of him. The lengths of her untied hair tickled him, causing him to scrunch his nose. It felt like a feather grazing the tip of his nose and he sniffled. It smelt like sweet strawberries, like his wife.

He didn't even need to rub his nose when some dainty fingertips swiped over the tip of his nose, soothing the itch- the graze was balm-like. To allow her to continue, he stayed frozen still, enjoying the gentle touch which filled him with a heavenly elation. On her path, the fingertips caressed the edge of his textured stubble, his natural soft eyebrows, his thick long eyelashes which she envied. Lowering, she barely got to follow the trail of his lips when he grabbed her wrist, and a miniscule gasp tore from her mouth- she had been caught red handed.

Murtasim vowed that he would always be a morning person if he opened his eyes so such a heavenly sight. Her lips were tinged rosy like the petals and swollen. Her doe eyes were wide and sparkling, utterly replenished and her hair cascaded around them like a refreshing waterfall.

'Murtasim,' she stretched in low coy giggle. 'Main sirf dekh rahi thi,' she defended, watching as he forced her hand onto his lips, kissing her open palm. (I was just looking.)

His caramel eyes locked onto hers whilst he planted distinct kisses onto each finger, on each finger tip as though she was his most precious safe keeping. 'Haathon ke saath dekhte hain?,' he asked smugly, enjoying the doting. His voice was hoarse, weighted in drowsiness. (Do we look with hands?)

She slowly shook her head, peering up at him like a persian kitten. 'Sirf haath laga rahi thi,' she corrected. 'Waise bhi, mere shohar ho, haath lagane ka haq sirf mera hai.' (I just touching, and, you are my husband, its only my right to touch you.)

'Laga lou haath jahaan lagana hai. Mere aankhon pe, barbhoote pe, hountou pe, Jahaan marzi.....' he teased huskily, eliciting a squeal at his double meaning. (You can touch me wherever you want, on my eyes, lips, wherever....)

She pushed on his chest, hauling herself to sit up, and his eyes followed, lingering on the unveiled treasures. His eyes darkened hungrily, he lifted to close the separation between them nuzzling his nose into her supple blushing cheeks.

A smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth, his hand swooped down the expanse of her bare back, squeezing at her hip and she tutted at his healthy appetite. 'Murtasim... nashte ke liye sab intezaar kar rahe hongey,' she reminded, but her tone was entirely unconvincing. If anything, she simmered hotter than him, a fire than speedily kindled in her core for him, that he always ignited with ease. (Murtasim.... everyone will be waiting for us at the dining table for breakfast.)

'No.' His sleepy murmur muffled into her plush skin, it was a plea.

'Sab soch rahe hongey humare baare mein.' (everyone would be wondering about us.)

'Biwi ho tum meri. Kisi ko poochne ka koyi haq nahi hai,' he said without care for appearance. His manly hands wove through her hair, gently caressing her scalp as he figured it must have been sore from their endeavours the previous night. (You are my wife, no one has the right to ask about us.)