𝑨𝑵𝑰𝑫𝑰𝑻𝑨: 𝐓𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐇𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐞 - Yours With All My Heart

{68}•ᴡɪғᴇ, ᴄᴀʀᴇ•

BONDITA

I watched as she slowly drifted off, her chest rising and falling with each steady breath. Her lips were slightly parted, her exhaustion evident. A faint smile tugged at my lips as my eyes lingered on her mouth—her lips were still red, slightly swollen from my kisses.

My gaze moved lower, tracing the bare skin of her body, and I exhaled deeply. She looked breathtaking. Even in sleep, she had a way of making my heart race.

Carefully, I reached for her sari—the soft pink fabric pooled beside her. Without making a sound, I slowly got up from the bed, making sure not to wake her. With gentle hands, I wrapped the sari around her, draping it over her bare chest and covering the curve of her hips. The silk clung to her skin, highlighting every delicate contour of her body.

I let out a quiet sigh, running a hand through my hair. Even after making love to her, here I was—shamelessly ogling my wife while she slept. I shook my head at myself, a smirk playing on my lips. "Mujhe sudharne ki zaroorat hai," I muttered under my breath.

(I really need to get myself in check.)

But how could I, when she looked this tempting even in sleep?

My eyes flickered back to her, and my breath hitched slightly. The way her sari draped over her body—barely covering her breasts—sent a rush of possessiveness through me. A thought struck me then, so sudden and so intense that I almost groaned out loud.

She shouldn’t wear a blouse under her sari. Ever.

The idea of her always wrapped in nothing but this sheer fabric, knowing I was the only one who could see her like this, made my blood heat up. Damn it. I slapped my forehead, frustrated at myself as I felt a familiar tightness building in me again. Not now, Anirudh. Control.

Exhaling sharply, I forced myself to move away before I did something reckless. I grabbed my pants and boxers, slipping them on quickly, trying to ignore the lingering sensation of her warm skin against mine. My eyes darted toward the clothes hanging nearby, and I reached for my shirt.

The fabric was still slightly damp from last night’s rain, and I faintly recalled using it to dry her long, wet hair. I pulled it on, not caring that it was messy. But just as I adjusted the collar, something caught my eye—a small, deep red mark on the fabric.

I stilled.

It was her sindoor.

A slow, almost wicked smirk spread across my lips. Fuck. This looked so damn good. That tiny mark on my shirt was proof—proof that she was mine. That I was hers.

A sudden thought formed in my mind, firm and unwavering. I wouldn’t let her wash this. Ever.

This shirt, with her sindoor imprinted on it, was staying with me forever.

With one last glance at her peaceful face, I exhaled softly. She was still deep in sleep, her body completely relaxed. Good. She needed the rest. A small smile tugged at my lips.

I pulled on my remaining clothes, ran a hand through my hair, and quietly stepped out, closing the door behind me. She was my wife, my butterfly, and she deserved nothing less than being treated like a princess. I wanted her to wake up to everything being ready—no worries, no stress. Just comfort.

As I stepped outside, I realized it was still raining lightly. The air was damp, and the distant rumble of thunder echoed in the sky. I pulled my shirt tighter around myself and walked toward where my car had broken down.

After a few minutes of searching, I spotted a car passing by. Waving it down, I explained the situation and offered them money. They hesitated at first, but when I pulled out a thick wad of cash, their reluctance vanished. Money always worked.