[sakurasan]

Chapter 18 The Gloves — Part 1

As soon as Rohan stepped out, Isha locked the door behind him and called room service.

“Good evening. I want a birthday cake for this room.”

“Yes, madam. We have vanilla sponge, black forest, and chocolate fudge. Which would you like?”

“Chocolate fudge. Two small ones, if you can.”

“Of course. Shall I send them up now?”

“No. I will call you.”

She laid the wine silk dress across the bed, smoothing the fabric over the petals. Her arms were already waxed from the parlour, but with the high slit running up the thigh, her legs had to be hairless too.

She stripped down and left her clothes on the chair. Naked, she took the razor from her kit and stepped into the bathroom. She rested one foot on the wide rim of the tub, lathered up, and ran the blade along her calves and thighs until both legs were smooth.

Then she looked down between her thighs. She had kept herself shaved clean, but over the last six days, a short layer of dark hair had grown back across her mound. All the hearts in the room gave her an idea. She lathered around the center, taking the razor to shave the sides and the crease smooth to the skin. In even passes, she shaped the short growth into a small, neat heart on her mound, tapering the point down toward her lips. She rinsed the foam away.

She stepped in front of the full-length mirror and wiped the mist off the glass. The dark shape stood out clear against her pale skin. She imagined Rohan’s face if he saw it, his eyes going wide, his hands going clumsy. The thought sent a sudden heat between her thighs, and she grew wet under her own fingers.

Would he even see it tonight? In the car he had promised to be a good boy. She traced the trimmed point down toward her slit and looked at herself in the glass. She would let the night decide how good he stayed.

She walked back into the bedroom.

The dress waiting on the bed was daring. The neckline plunged low, the slit ran high up her thigh, and the wine silk clung to every curve of her hips. Tonight was Rohan’s birthday, and she wanted him breathless the moment she walked into the hall.

From a pouch in her bag, she took the stick-on cups and seamless nude thong Savita had given her when altering the dress. Anything else would leave lines under cloth this tight.

She pressed the cups against her breasts, lifting them into the swell she wanted. They held firm, leaving her shoulders bare and the deep cut of her back clean. Then she pulled on the thong. The cloth sat flush against her skin, cut high enough at the hips that even if the slit swung open, no line would show.

She stepped into the dress, pulled the side zipper shut, and smoothed the fabric down. Not a single ridge showed through. With every step she took, the slit parted along her bare leg.

She picked up the phone and told room service to bring the cake up.

Outside, the evening wind off the hills had turned cold. Rohan walked through the garden and made his way into the lobby, where guests were already drifting toward the banquet hall. At the entrance he gave his name, and a steward led him to their two-seater table by the edge of the dance floor.

He had come early, and the hall was filling slowly. A few pairs were already dancing as the band played, moving upright with small steps, the way he had seen in classic films. With each song, more couples stepped down to join them.

A waiter brought him a glass of wine. Rohan took a sip and watched the floor.




There were fewer women dancing than men. Along the wall, men without partners waited in a line, watching the couples turn.

Between songs, a man stepped out from the wall and touched another dancer’s shoulder. The first man bowed to his partner and left the floor. The lady stayed where she was. The new partner took her gloved hand, the music began again, and they moved into the turn.

Rohan watched a second tap, and then a third. Most ladies agreed, but the choice remained theirs. Once, when a man stepped forward to cut in, the woman gave a slight shake of her head. The man bowed and returned to the wall, leaving the couple to dance another song together.

Upstairs, the knock came. She took the box at the door and hid it in the cupboard behind the extra pillows. She picked up her gloves and went down to find him.




By then the hall was almost full. Couples filled the dance floor, and most of the tables around it were taken.

Rohan raised his glass to take another sip, then stopped.

Isha had just walked in.

Her dark hair fell loose across her bare shoulders. The wine dress clung to her waist and the swell of her hips, catching the chandelier light above. In front, the neckline plunged low, showing the rise of her breasts and the pale hollow between them. She held the white gloves loose in one hand.

She stepped down toward the tables. With each stride, the long slit parted, showing her smooth leg all the way to the upper thigh.




A waiter carrying a silver tray stopped in the aisle. Along the edge of the dance floor, men waiting by the wall turned their heads to follow her walk.

Rohan could not pull his eyes away. He had seen the shoot photos. He had zoomed into the frames on his phone late at night. But a picture had edges, and a screen was flat. Seeing her in the flesh was completely different. The sway of her hips, the soft shift of her breasts with each step, the easy tilt of her chin, it hit him with a force that made his breath catch.

This was not a locked studio. She was out in the open, in a hall full of strangers. Every man near the floor was watching the woman who was about to marry him.

Isha looked across the tables, scanning the ringside tier. Her eyes swept past the dancers, searching the room until she spotted him.

Her gaze locked on his face, and a slow smile curved her lips. She paid no attention to the heads turning around her and walked straight toward his table.

Rohan pushed his chair back and stood up. His mouth had gone dry.

Just as she pulled her chair in, a waiter set a glass of wine before her. He told them dinner was ready whenever they wished to begin, bowed, and stepped away.

Isha laid her gloves on the white cloth. Rohan sat back down, his eyes still fixed on her, hardly blinking.

A warm flutter rose low in her belly. That stunned look on his face was something she could live on forever. She raised a hand and waved her fingers before his eyes.

“Hello,” she teased. “Earth to Rohan.”

He blinked, letting out a breath. “Sorry. You are stunning.”

“I can see it on your face.”

Rohan took a sip of his wine to wet his throat. She looked at his glass, then at hers.

“Since when do we drink,” she asked.

“Come on. It is just wine. Take a sip.”

“Only because the birthday boy asked.”

She lifted the glass and took a sip. The tart fruit rolled over her tongue, leaving a dry warmth down her throat. Across the small table, they kept their eyes on each other, taking sips until both glasses were empty. The unfamiliar alcohol sent a pleasant, loose warmth through her veins. Every few moments her gaze drifted to the recessed floor, watching the gowns swirl to the strings.

Rohan set his empty glass down.

“Shall we dance,” he asked.

She looked at the floor, then back at him. “Have you ever danced like this?”

“Never. What about you?”

“I am good at phugdi,” she said with a small laugh. “This looks very different.”

“Then you know how to move. Let us just copy the others.”

A song ended with a slow sweep of the violins. On the floor, couples paused and bowed to each other.

Rohan picked up his gloves. Isha picked up hers. They drew the white cotton over their fingers, smoothed the cuffs at their wrists, and stepped down toward the floor.

Other couples took their places around them.

The band began a steady, low waltz. Rohan took her left hand in his right, their gloved fingers interlocking. He placed his other hand at the curve of her hip. The silk was smooth and tight under his gloved palm, his fingers wrapping around to the dip of bare skin where the back plunged low. Isha set her free hand on his shoulder.

For the first few steps they watched an older couple nearby, copying their feet. One step to the side, then a turn. Rohan kept his eyes on his shoes, his jaw tense.

“Look up,” she whispered.

He looked at her face. A teasing smile sat on her mouth.




As they moved, she realized the rhythm was easy to follow, not nearly as complicated as it had looked from the table. She stepped in closer until the tips of her shoes almost touched his.

She rested her cheek against his chest.

Through his shirt and the wool of his tuxedo jacket, she felt the steady thud of his heart. Her breath warmed the silk of his tie. Looking down, Rohan had an open view down the plunge of her neckline. Her breasts rose with every breath, pressed so close to his chest that he felt their warmth through his clothes. The fresh scent of her hair rose to his nose.

The violins finished on a held chord. Isha stayed tucked against his lapel, her fingers locked tight in his glove. Neither of them loosened their hold.

The band started the next piece. The tempo lifted, the strings moving with a quicker bounce.

Couples began to glide across the floor in wider turns. Rohan moved with them, his steps easier now that he knew where to place his feet. As they turned, the high slit of her dress parted. Her bare thigh brushed against his trouser leg with each pivot, bare skin pressing dark wool.

Isha shifted her hand from his shoulder to the center of his chest. Her palm pressed flat against his shirt, feeling his heart hammer against his ribs.

“You dance well,” she said.

“I am only following you.”

“Liar.”

She smiled up at him, her eyes bright under the chandelier lights. He looked at her face, then down at the curve of her lips. Surrounded by turning strangers, the room felt as if it had narrowed to the space between their bodies.

The musicians wasted no time before starting the third piece. The rhythm quickened sharply. Around them, couples began spinning in fast, sweeping circles.

They tried to match the faster turns. Her dress swirled around her ankles, the slit flying open with each swing.

On a sharp pivot, Rohan misjudged his footing. The toe of his shoe caught her heel. He lost his balance and stumbled forward.

Isha gasped, hooking both arms around his neck. Rohan’s hands clamped hard around her waist to keep them from falling.

Their bodies collided flush together in the middle of the floor. Her breasts flattened against his chest, and her hips pressed tight to his thighs. He felt the curve of her stomach through the silk, and the heat of her bare leg between his knees.

Isha buried her face in the crook of his neck and let out a breathless laugh.

“Sorry,” he whispered, his breath warm against her ear. “Lost my feet.”

“Hold me tighter,” she told him.

He pulled her closer, his gloves pressing the small of her back. She guided his first step, finding the beat again, and they slipped back into the turn. She kept her forehead under his chin until the song finished on a long, ringing note.

As the music stopped, they stepped back to catch their breath, creating space between them.

A silver-haired British man in his fifties stepped forward from the wall. He reached out and tapped Rohan’s shoulder.

Remembering what he had watched from the table, Rohan bowed to Isha and stepped aside to give way.

Isha froze. She had been upstairs getting ready while the dance started, and had no idea about the custom. Her eyes went wide, looking at Rohan, scared.

Rohan met her gaze. With a nod, his eyes told her it was all right. He backed away and took a place among the men waiting along the wall.

Isha looked around the floor. On every side, other men were cutting in, and women were taking their hands without fuss. Not wanting to be the odd one out, she stayed in her place.

The British gentleman bowed with old-fashioned courtesy. “May I, miss?” he asked in a mild voice.

Isha placed her gloved hand in his.

Her fear vanished as soon as they began to move. He kept an arm’s length of space between them, his posture upright. His hand rested light against her side, never pressing or pulling her closer. He stepped with steady precision, guiding her turns like an uncle leading a niece at a family function. Isha relaxed, matching his steps with an easy rhythm. The earlier stiffness left her ankles, and her body warmed to the floor.




From the wall, Rohan watched them across the room. The British gentleman’s steady turns had carried Isha toward the center of the hall, far from where Rohan stood. Only a few feet from her, a lean Indian man in a dark tailored suit was commanding the floor. He moved with effortless rhythm, hitting every beat with sharp footwork, other couples following his line.

The violins wound down, and the British gentleman brought Isha to a neat stop. He stepped back and offered a small bow. “Thank you, young lady.”

Isha dipped her head with a warm smile.

From the far end of the room, Rohan pushed off from the wall, stepping forward to reclaim her hand for the next song.

The distance was too great. The lean man was already right beside her. He released his partner, pivoted on his heel, and stepped directly in front of Isha with a bold grin. He extended a gloved hand. “May I?”

Isha saw Rohan starting across the hall, then looked at the lean man’s outstretched glove. The wine and the quick turns had shaken off her nerves, humming warm in her veins. She placed her fingers in his palm.

The band struck up a fast swing, the brass section blaring with energetic horns while the drums kicked into a driving beat.

Rohan stopped at the edge of the floor. A thick, swelling heat took his chest, holding him where he stood.