Adultery The Aarogya Wellness and Intimacy Clinic

[prasannas2001]

 

 
She nodded.
 
Just once.
 
Just enough.
 
He reached for the pallu first.
 
It had slipped from her hair long ago and now hung loose over her left shoulder, a length of crimson silk embroidered with gold zari that cascaded down her arm and pooled at her waist.
 
He took the edge of it between his fingers, carefully, slowly, and drew it away from her.
 
The fabric whispered as it slid across her skin, and she shivered, a small, involuntary movement that he felt more than saw.
 
He let it fall to the floor, a river of red and gold at their feet.
 
She stood before him in the blouse and the saree skirt.
 
The blouse was cut low on her back, and he could see the curve of her spine, the delicate architecture of her shoulder blades, the faint dimples at the base of her back that he had somehow never noticed before and now could not stop noticing.
 
The fabric was crimson silk, heavy with embroidery, and it clung to her in ways that made his mouth go dry.
 
The saree skirt wrapped around her hips, pleated and elegant, and above it, her bare midriff, the soft curve of her stomach, the gentle hollow of her navel, the faint line of dark hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of the skirt.
 
He stepped back, just a little, just enough, and looked at her.
 
Really looked.
 
She was standing in the soft lamplight, her hair loose and tumbling around her shoulders, her skin glowing like warm honey, the bangles on her wrists catching the light with every small movement she made.
 
The mehndi on her hands was dark and intricate, and he could see now that it climbed up her forearms, disappearing beneath the short sleeves of her blouse.
 
Her lips were slightly parted, still pink from his kiss, and her eyes, those impossibly large, impossibly dark eyes, were fixed on him, watching, waiting, trusting.
 
She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
 
He had thought that earlier, standing by the window, watching her reflection.
 
He had thought it at the wedding, when she had walked toward him through a shower of rose petals, her father's hand trembling on her arm.
 
He had thought it the first time he saw her, three years ago, her fingers stained pink with gulal, laughing at something he hadn't heard.