Misc. Erotica The Art of Falling - the story of Sejal Sharma

[chickenpakoda]

Chapter 3: The Test

The line went dead, but the echo of Nandini’s voice lingered in Sejal’s ear like a dare.


Ten minutes. That’s all it took for the sleek black town car to materialize outside Velvet, its tinted windows swallowing the neon glare of the city. The driver didn’t speak, didn’t even glance at her as she slid into the leather backseat. The partition stayed up.

The silence was deliberate.

They want you nervous.

Sejal clenched her jaw, forcing her fingers to uncurl from the hem of her skirt. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

The car stopped at a high-rise in Tribeca, all steel and smoked glass. The elevator ride to the penthouse was smooth, silent. When the doors slid open, the Malhotras were waiting.

Nandini lounged on a white sofa, a martini in hand, her honey-blonde hair spilling over one shoulder. Rajan stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city sprawled at his feet like a glittering conquest.

“You came.” Nandini’s smile was a knife wrapped in silk.

Sejal lifted her chin. “You knew I would.”

Rajan turned, his gaze dragging over her—still in her work clothes, the satin shirt rumpled, the stockings slightly snagged from the shift. His nostrils flared. He likes that you didn’t change.

Nandini set her drink down with a soft clink. “Before we discuss terms, we need to see what you’re capable of.”

Sejal crossed her arms. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Nandini purred, “you’re going back to Velvet tomorrow night. And the first man who walks through that door? You’ll seduce him.”

A beat. Sejal’s pulse jumped, but she kept her voice steady. “And if I refuse?”

Nandini’s laugh was low, melodic. “Then you leave now, and we pretend this never happened.” A pause. “But you won’t.”

She was right. Sejal knew it.

They all did.

The Next Night – Velvet Lounge

Sejal adjusted her stockings under the bar, the silk whispering against her thighs like a secret only she knew.

She’d dressed carefully. Not overly done, but calculated—every detail selected like a weapon.

A black wrap dress, soft velvet that clung to her curves like a lover’s hand. The neckline dipped just enough to offer a glimpse of the lace bra beneath—the same one Rajan had nearly glimpsed two nights before. 

Her legs were sheathed in sheer black stockings, the tops hidden beneath the hem of the dress, her heels high enough to command attention but silent as sin on the hardwood floor.

Her hair was loose, waves cascading over her shoulders with careless precision, a glossy curtain that moved when she turned her head. Her lips were wine-red, bitten just slightly at the center.

She smelled like jasmine and sandalwood—warm, dusky, with a sharp edge of something citrus that lingered just behind it. It was the kind of scent that lingered on sheets and skin, the kind men couldn’t forget even when they tried.

She didn’t look like a waitress tonight.

She looked like temptation personified.

The Malhotras’ test was a game, and she’d play it—but on her terms.

The door swung open.

Him.

Tall, broad-shouldered, in a tailored suit that screamed expensive but understated. Dark hair, sharp jaw, eyes that scanned the room like he was assessing threats.

Mark.

She didn’t know his name yet, but she recognized the type—military posture, the kind of stillness that came from control. He didn’t sit at the bar; he took a corner booth, his back to the wall, his gaze never settling.

Sentinel. Bodyguard. Lover?

Sejal grabbed a bourbon—top shelf, neat—and sauntered over.

“You look like a man who drinks alone,” she said, sliding into the booth across from him.

Mark’s eyes flicked to hers. Cold. Assessing. “I prefer it.”

She pushed the glass toward him. “Try this. It’ll change your mind.”

He didn’t touch it. “I don’t drink on the job.”

“What’s the job?” She leaned forward, letting her dress slip just enough to tease.

His gaze didn’t drop. “None of your business.”

Sejal smirked. Challenge accepted.

She trailed a finger along the rim of his glass. “You’re not like the other men who come here.”

“And you’re not just a waitress.” His voice was flat.

Her stomach tightened. He knows.

But that was the game, wasn’t it?

The Malhotras were watching. Somewhere in the shadows, Nandini’s lips curled in approval.

Sejal let her foot brush his under the table. “What if I told you I could make tonight worth your while?”

Mark finally looked at her—really looked. His eyes darkened, but not with desire. With warning.

“You don’t want to play this game with me.”

Sejal’s smile turned razor-sharp. “Oh, but I do.”

She let the silence stretch between them, her fingers still tracing lazy circles around the rim of Mark’s untouched bourbon. His jaw was set, his posture rigid—but she caught the way his knuckles whitened ever so slightly around his glass.

Oh, he’s affected.

She tilted her head, letting her hair spill over one shoulder. “You don’t talk much, do you?” Her voice dropped to a husky murmur.

Mark’s gaze flickered—just for a second—to the exposed curve of her neck. “I talk when there’s something worth saying.”

Sejal smirked. Got you.

Slowly, deliberately, she reached for the top button of her dress. His breath hitched—just a fraction. The first button came undone, revealing a sliver of golden skin.

“Too bad,” she sighed, fingers moving lower. “I was hoping you’d tell me what else you’re good at.”

Mark’s eyes darkened, but he didn’t stop her.

Button by button, the neckline loosened, the fabric slipping off one shoulder. The dim lighting caught the lace edge of her bra, the swell of her breasts rising with every breath. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, knowing full well the view she was offering.

“You’re not even going to take a sip?” she asked, nudging the bourbon closer. “Or is your self-control really that good?”

Mark’s throat worked as he swallowed. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

Sejal laughed, low and throaty. “That’s the only kind worth playing.”

She let her foot trail up his calf under the table, the sheer fabric of her stocking whispering against his tailored pants. His muscles tensed, but he didn’t pull away.

Interesting.

Her hand slid across the table, fingertips grazing his wrist. “You know, I can think of better ways to spend tonight than sitting here… pretending you don’t want to touch me.”

Mark’s breath came faster now, his control fraying at the edges. But just as she thought she had him, his hand snapped out, catching her wrist in a grip that sent a jolt of heat straight to her core.

“Careful, sweetheart.” His voice was rough, edged with something dangerous. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

Sejal’s pulse raced, but she held his gaze, her lips parting in a challenge.

Oh, but I do.

Mark’s grip tightened—just enough to make her breath catch—before he abruptly released her and stood. His expression was granite, but his eyes burned with something feral, barely leashed.

“This little show is over,” he growled, tossing cash onto the table for the untouched drink.

Sejal leaned back in the booth, her dress still open, her skin flushed from the game. She watched him stride toward the exit, his broad shoulders rigid with tension.

Oh no, you don’t.

She waited until his hand was on the door before she made her move.

“Mark.”

His name dripped from her lips like honey laced with poison.

He froze.

Sejal stood slowly, letting her skirt ride up another inch as she stepped out of the booth. The lounge’s patrons watched—some openly, some through half-lidded glances—but she didn’t care. Her eyes were locked on him.

“You really think Nandini sent you here just to resist me?” she purred, sauntering closer. “Or did she want to see how far her loyal dog can be pushed?”

Mark turned, his jaw clenched. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” She stopped just inches from him. “You’ve never broken her rules, have you? Never even looked at another woman.” Her fingers trailed up his tie, twisting it playfully. “But here’s the thing…”

She rose onto her toes, her lips brushing the shell of his ear as she whispered:

“She didn’t tell you to leave.”

Mark went utterly still.

Sejal smirked against his skin. Checkmate.

Then—

His hand tangled in her hair, yanking her head back just enough to force her to meet his gaze. His breath was ragged, his control hanging by a thread.

“You’re playing with fire,” he warned.

Sejal’s pulse hammered, but she held her ground. “Then burn with me.”

For a heartbeat, neither moved. The air between them crackled.

Then the lounge’s back door swung open—and Nandini’s laugh cut through the tension like a blade.

“Well, well,” she mused, stepping into the light. “It seems we have a winner.”