The Promised Queen

𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓇𝓉𝓎 𝑜𝓃𝑒

RIDHIMA

As I lay there on top of him, every beat of my heart seemed to echo between us, each thump loud and frantic in my chest. It betrayed me, pounding against my ribcage with a force I was sure he could hear. 

For a fleeting second, panic flared. What if he could feel it? What if he could sense just how fast it was racing—for him, because of him?

"Hruday," I said again, my voice steadier this time but still soft, almost hesitant. It came out more like a question than a statement, as if I was seeking something—validation, acknowledgment, anything.

His eyes, usually cold and distant, softened. For a brief, tantalizing moment, I thought he might say something. Something important. Something that would change everything between us.

But he didn't.

Instead, his fingers moved in slow, deliberate circles on my waist, the touch feather-light yet electric. His hand lingered there, as if testing a boundary neither of us had fully acknowledged. 

The small, innocent gesture sent a jolt of warmth through me, and I felt my breath hitch in response.

The world outside faded, dissolving into a cocoon of silence where only the two of us existed. Tangled on the bed, the space around us vanished, leaving only the heat of his body beneath mine—solid, warm, and too close. 

The thin fabric of my dress did nothing to dull the sensation of him, the heat radiating from his skin seeping into me.

I needed space. Air. Something to break the tension. I shifted, trying to rise and create distance between us. 

But as I moved, my hair caught on the button of his shirt, pulling me back down with a sudden, awkward jolt.

I froze.

Hruday shifted beneath me, his body tense with the realization of our predicament. Slowly, carefully, his fingers moved to untangle the strands, each movement precise and deliberate. 

The brush of his hand against my scalp sent a shiver through me, and with every careful tug, our bodies brushed against each other in a maddening dance.

"Stay still," he instructed, his voice low, controlled. But beneath the calm exterior, I caught the faintest tremor—a crack in his composure.

"I am still," I whispered, the words shaky and uneven, betraying the storm inside me. 

His hand grazed the bare skin of my neck as he worked to free my hair, and I felt my breath catch again, a soft hitch that I couldn't control.

We shifted once more, fumbling, our bodies aligning in a way that left no space between us. And then, suddenly, the balance tipped—I slipped.

This time, he landed above me.

The mattress dipped beneath our combined weight, and I was enveloped by him—his warmth, his strength, the sheer presence of him surrounding me entirely. 

The heat of his body pressed against mine, his weight pinning me down in a way that sent every nerve in my body into overdrive.

I couldn't breathe. My chest tightened, every breath shallow and labored.

His hand braced against the bed beside my head, his other still tangled in my hair, keeping us locked in place. Our faces were mere inches apart, so close that I could see every detail of his features—the sharp lines of his jaw, the intensity in his eyes. 

His scent filled the air around us, clean and masculine with a hint of something darker, something intoxicating.

My heart thundered, each beat reverberating through my entire body. His eyes, usually cold and distant, were darker now, their usual composure replaced by something else.