𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 | 𝟏𝟖+

𝟐𝟗. Ajmer

･:*࿔.ೃ⋆❀˚༺☆༻°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Aakarsh's POV

After our little make‑out session, this troublesome girl was now sleeping on the bed like she owned the place.

Her hair was open, spilled across the pillow like some damn dark halo.
Her eyes were closed, mascara slightly smudged at the corners, her lips swollen-bruised-because of me.
A dark hickey was forming near her neck, blooming slowly on her skin like a signature I didn't remember giving but couldn't take my eyes off.

Everything about her was making me gravitate toward her like an idiot.
She's addictive. Too addictive.

Damn.

But the thing-
the real thing-
that was making everything inside me lose control...

...was the clothes.

Or rather, the lack of her own clothes.

Because she wasn't in what she was wearing earlier.

She was in my clothes.

My shirt.

My damn shirt.

And it hung on her like sin-loose, oversized, slipping off one shoulder, revealing more skin than it covered.

The hem was barely touching mid‑thigh.
Buttons undone at the top because she couldn't "sleep properly" otherwise-her words, not mine.

Fuck.

That's torture.
Real torture.

Seeing her breathe softly, wrapped in the smell of me, wearing the thing that lived on my skin every day...
and looking more dangerous, more tempting, more ruinous than I've ever seen her.

She wasn't doing anything.

Just sleeping.

Just existing.

The ringing of my phone snapped me out of the haze she'd put me in.
I picked it up, still staring at her, still feeling like a complete idiot for the way my chest tightened.

"Sir, he isn't speaking," one of the bodyguards reported.
His voice was stiff, nervous.

"Then go for third degree," I said flatly, eyes never leaving her.

Because while they were talking about attempted murder, I was busy watching the way a single strand of her hair danced in the air.

The cold breeze from the window traveled across the room, touching her before it touched anything else.
Her loose hair fluttered, her eyebrows twitched lightly, the hem of my shirt shifted on her thigh as she breathed in that chilled air.

And my brain-
my perfectly logical brain-
short‑circuited.

Fuck. The air is so lucky.

It touched her without earning it.
It brushed against her skin, lifted her hair, kissed the curve of her cheek.

Meanwhile here I was-
a whole Aakarsh Mehrotra-
standing like a dumb statue, just looking at her.

Am I...
Am I seriously being jealous of air?

No.
No, that's-
How could I-
No.

But also... yes.

Because the breeze got to do what I was stopping myself from doing.
Touching her.
Caressing her.
Claiming little pieces of her softness without consequences.