01-03-2026, 02:57 PM
The condensation on the crystal glass was the only thing cooler than Anjana’s nerves as she felt the soft clink of Vicky’s glass against hers. She looked up, her gaze traveling past the sharp line of his jaw to the dark, liquid intensity of his eyes. Deep inside her mind, a frantic chorus of warning bells was screaming. They were telling her that spending a private evening drinking with a man who looked like a literal god carved from mahogany was a dangerous gamble with her composure.
But those warning bells were being drowned out by the sheer magnetism of the man standing inches away. They hadn't accounted for the way Vicky’s dimples flashed like a trap, or the rhythmic shift of his powerful muscles beneath the tailored fabric of his shirt. Earlier, when he’d turned to set the bottle down, she’d caught a glimpse of his silhouette—lean, powerful, and utterly perfect. He was, quite literally, the whole package.
When the elevator finally chimed at her floor, the tension in the small space felt thick enough to touch. Anjana stepped out, her legs feeling like jelly, moving toward the side to create some much-needed distance. She hoped the dim hallway lighting would hide her flushed cheeks, but the predatory, knowing glint in Vicky’s eyes told her he saw everything. He knew exactly what was happening behind her frantic pulse.
"Are you laughing at me, Sir?" she demanded. Her voice lacked its usual bite, softened by the buzz of the Old Monk. It was the first time she had ever touched alcohol, and the warmth was doing strange things to her—it wasn't just her head that felt dizzy; a heavy, honeyed heat was pooling in her lower belly.
Vicky chuckled, a low, vibration that seemed to hum in the very air. He didn't stay by the elevator. Instead, he moved forward, his presence looming over her until he pressed her gently but firmly against the doorframe of her apartment.
"Laughing? No," he murmured, his voice a velvet caress. He lifted a hand, his thick, warm finger tracing the line of her cheekbone with agonizing slowness. "Enjoying your... shyness? Yes. I’m enjoying every bit of your nervous energy, Anjana."
"Thanks for the drink, Sir. It’s... it's very refreshing," she stammered, desperate to steer the conversation away from the way her skin tingled where he touched her. She tried to repress the shiver that threatened to rack her body, but it was a losing battle.
"You are the one who is refreshing, Anjana," Vicky replied, his gaze dropping to her lips before he leaned in to refill her glass. "Thank you for inviting me."
Anjana’s lips curled into a slight grimace. Refreshing. She wasn't sure if she liked being compared to a cold beverage, but she didn't have the strength to argue. Between the alcohol and the proximity of her lifelong idol, she felt as though she were floating in a dream—or a very beautiful nightmare.
She wasn't just "nervous." That word was too small, too tame. She was terrified. Her heart was hammering so hard against her ribs she was certain he could see her bra vibrating under her blouse.
"Alright, so tell me, Anjana..." Vicky said, leaning one arm against the wall above her head, radiating that effortless arrogance that only a superstar could possess. "Other than my muscles, what made you such a worshiper of mine?"
The question broke the dam. Hesitant at first, Anjana began to speak. She told him about the posters that used to line her bedroom walls when she was a teenager, and how she used to save her pocket money just to see his action movies on the first day, first show. She spoke about the way her father used to scold her, telling her that chasing the shadow of a star was a waste of a young woman's time.
As the Old Monk took deeper hold, her brief explanations turned into a flood of "ancient" history. She expected him to get bored—to see his eyes glaze over as she babbled about her life as an unmarried woman trying to find her way in a world that expected her to be someone else. But he didn't. He watched her with rapt attention, his gaze never leaving her face.
Before she knew it, she had spilled everything—her dreams, her recent struggles, even her loneliness.
"I'm sorry!" she gasped suddenly, her face burning. "I'm babbling. I didn't mean to bore you with all this personal nonsense. I'm being a fool."
"I'm not bored," Vicky denied softly, a slow, rakish grin spreading across his face. "I could listen to you talk all night."
Liar, she thought, but the heat in his eyes made her quiver. No one had ever looked at her like she was the only thing in the universe.
"How long will you stay here in India?" Anjana asked, trying to find a safe topic, though the question only betrayed how much she dreaded him leaving.
"All my life," Vicky replied, his voice dropping an octave as he leaned closer, his scent—sandalwood and expensive cigars—enveloping her. "With a fan like you, Anjana, I think I could stay in India forever."
But those warning bells were being drowned out by the sheer magnetism of the man standing inches away. They hadn't accounted for the way Vicky’s dimples flashed like a trap, or the rhythmic shift of his powerful muscles beneath the tailored fabric of his shirt. Earlier, when he’d turned to set the bottle down, she’d caught a glimpse of his silhouette—lean, powerful, and utterly perfect. He was, quite literally, the whole package.
When the elevator finally chimed at her floor, the tension in the small space felt thick enough to touch. Anjana stepped out, her legs feeling like jelly, moving toward the side to create some much-needed distance. She hoped the dim hallway lighting would hide her flushed cheeks, but the predatory, knowing glint in Vicky’s eyes told her he saw everything. He knew exactly what was happening behind her frantic pulse.
"Are you laughing at me, Sir?" she demanded. Her voice lacked its usual bite, softened by the buzz of the Old Monk. It was the first time she had ever touched alcohol, and the warmth was doing strange things to her—it wasn't just her head that felt dizzy; a heavy, honeyed heat was pooling in her lower belly.
Vicky chuckled, a low, vibration that seemed to hum in the very air. He didn't stay by the elevator. Instead, he moved forward, his presence looming over her until he pressed her gently but firmly against the doorframe of her apartment.
"Laughing? No," he murmured, his voice a velvet caress. He lifted a hand, his thick, warm finger tracing the line of her cheekbone with agonizing slowness. "Enjoying your... shyness? Yes. I’m enjoying every bit of your nervous energy, Anjana."
"Thanks for the drink, Sir. It’s... it's very refreshing," she stammered, desperate to steer the conversation away from the way her skin tingled where he touched her. She tried to repress the shiver that threatened to rack her body, but it was a losing battle.
"You are the one who is refreshing, Anjana," Vicky replied, his gaze dropping to her lips before he leaned in to refill her glass. "Thank you for inviting me."
Anjana’s lips curled into a slight grimace. Refreshing. She wasn't sure if she liked being compared to a cold beverage, but she didn't have the strength to argue. Between the alcohol and the proximity of her lifelong idol, she felt as though she were floating in a dream—or a very beautiful nightmare.
She wasn't just "nervous." That word was too small, too tame. She was terrified. Her heart was hammering so hard against her ribs she was certain he could see her bra vibrating under her blouse.
"Alright, so tell me, Anjana..." Vicky said, leaning one arm against the wall above her head, radiating that effortless arrogance that only a superstar could possess. "Other than my muscles, what made you such a worshiper of mine?"
The question broke the dam. Hesitant at first, Anjana began to speak. She told him about the posters that used to line her bedroom walls when she was a teenager, and how she used to save her pocket money just to see his action movies on the first day, first show. She spoke about the way her father used to scold her, telling her that chasing the shadow of a star was a waste of a young woman's time.
As the Old Monk took deeper hold, her brief explanations turned into a flood of "ancient" history. She expected him to get bored—to see his eyes glaze over as she babbled about her life as an unmarried woman trying to find her way in a world that expected her to be someone else. But he didn't. He watched her with rapt attention, his gaze never leaving her face.
Before she knew it, she had spilled everything—her dreams, her recent struggles, even her loneliness.
"I'm sorry!" she gasped suddenly, her face burning. "I'm babbling. I didn't mean to bore you with all this personal nonsense. I'm being a fool."
"I'm not bored," Vicky denied softly, a slow, rakish grin spreading across his face. "I could listen to you talk all night."
Liar, she thought, but the heat in his eyes made her quiver. No one had ever looked at her like she was the only thing in the universe.
"How long will you stay here in India?" Anjana asked, trying to find a safe topic, though the question only betrayed how much she dreaded him leaving.
"All my life," Vicky replied, his voice dropping an octave as he leaned closer, his scent—sandalwood and expensive cigars—enveloping her. "With a fan like you, Anjana, I think I could stay in India forever."
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)