Adultery The Aarogya Wellness and Intimacy Clinic

[prasannas2001]

Hi All,

Here is the 2nd story I am starting. This is an Erotic Crime Thriller. Hope you like this.  Again, I can tell you one thing, even after writing one story up to 40+ pages, I am still stumbling with writing. So, if I make any mistakes, please easy on me. 
 
 
 
 
 
 


Chapter 1 - The First Night

 
Scene 1

 
The last guests had gone.
 
Naveen stood at the window of the hotel suite, the city of Hyderabad glittering below him like a spilled jewel box, and listened to the silence settle.
 
It was a living thing, that silence, it had texture, weight, the slow exhale of a day that had been building toward this moment for months.
 
Years, even.
 
He loosened his tie, then stopped, his fingers still on the knot, because he could see her reflection in the glass.
 
Seema.
 
She sat on the edge of the bed, which was enormous, and absurd, and strewn with rose petals the color of old blood.
 
Someone from the hotel, some unseen, efficient hand, had arranged them in the shape of a heart.
 
It was the kind of gesture that would have made Naveen cringe if he'd seen it earlier, if he'd had the presence of mind to notice, but now it just seemed...
 
right.
 
Everything seemed right.
 
She was here.
 
She was his.
 
And she was, without question, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
 
The saree was a masterpiece of crimson silk and gold zari, heavy with embroidery that caught the lamplight and threw tiny sparks across the room.
 
It had been made for her, not bought, not borrowed, but made, by a tailor in Varanasi who had spent three months on the embroidery alone.
 
The blouse was cut low on her back, and the pallu, which had slipped from her hair sometime during the long evening, lay on her shoulder like a fallen cloud.
 
Her arms were bare, adorned only with the traditional chudiyan, a few  bangles in red and gold above her wrists and they caught the light every time she moved, which was rarely, because she was sitting very still.
 
Her skin was the color of warm honey, and it seemed to glow in the soft lamplight, luminous and impossibly smooth.
 
Naveen had noticed it the first time he met her, at a friend's Holi party, a several months back, her fingers stained pink with gulal, laughing at something he hadn't heard, and he had spent the intervening months learning its geography.
 
The delicate curve of her collarbone.
 
The soft hollow at the base of her throat where her pulse beat a quiet rhythm.
 
The inside of her wrist, where the skin was so fine he could see the faint blue tracery of veins beneath.
 
The small of her back, which he had touched only once, accidentally, when helping her into a car, and had thought about for weeks afterward.
 
Her hair was black and thick and fell in waves past her shoulders, and tonight it was loose, unbound from the elaborate style the stylist had spent two hours creating.
 
Dark curls framed her face, and some of them clung to her temples, damp with the heat of the evening.
 
Her eyes were large and dark and fringed with lashes that needed no enhancement, and they were fixed on her own hands, folded in her lap, as if she had never seen them before.
 
She wore mehndi on her hands, intricate patterns that covered her palms and climbed up her forearms, the henna dark and rich against her skin.
 
Someone had told him it was traditional for the bride to hide the groom's name somewhere in the design, and he had spent the entire reception trying to find it, without success.
 
He would find it later, he told himself.
 
They had time.