I am hopelessly in love
with a memory. - Michael Faudet
The reception ceremony was at it's peak. The couples had all retired to the large resting area made up of several couches and floor cushions. Placed in a circular setting with a large floral focal point in the centre. The pleasant air and low sunlight was a contrast of the temperatures in the rest of the nation and a welcome change for the guests. Lunch had been served a while ago and the air now smelt of local cuisines. From the salty karahi to the meats that had been slow cooked for almost twelve hours. A station was set up to serve kehva. Another making sweet beetle leaves.
Laila stared at her hands full of henna. They were a deep maroon shade, balancing out the gold undertones of her skin. Their appearance on her soft hands did things to Azmaray. Dark things, one that could not be spoken off infront of the crowd. The desire that pulsed through him was visible, as a shadow cast over his usually bright eyes, his pupils dilated and the mischievous curve of his mouth as he took in the open challenge in her eyes as an invitation.
She pinched his wrist, her nails digging into his skin and forming crescents. A warning. A call to behave-ironic considering she was anything but a good girl. Her eyes drooped, eyelids heavy with a private desire. A feral want. A primal need. A serious combat, one that had no winners, yet. They were drenched in the waters of Neptune, icy cold. Beyond any depth and redemption. Its chill had beyond seeped into their bones scaring their skins and soul; the paleness had coloured them blue. And with the bubbling reds of love that had exploded in the chilled winters-the shade of purple that formed was that of a cool love. The reds and blues in battle as one rejected the entrance of warmth, welcoming only the ice.
Leaning back into his warm chest, his hands instantly wrapping around her waist, pulling her in place he dropped a chaste kiss on the nape of her neck. His fingers pulling the strands of her neat braid out of place. She whined softly, pulling her hair out of his grip glaring at him.
"What was that?"
"Just". He shrugged.
"That is no answer. Give me a proper one," she clicked her tounge.
"I like your hair a bit out of place. It gives you that touch of loveliness". He grinned, leaving her speechless.
How easy it was for him, she mused, to talk of what he liked and what he did not. Of love. Of want and his desires. Of his preference without making her feel out of place. She wondered if she would ever reach that level of comfort with anyone but her mother and sister. Her heart clenched as she thought of herself. She loved the power of seduction, she knew it. It gave her an adrenaline rush but sometimes all Laila wanted was a bit more. To have grown up in a normal home and learn the basics of being a person-someone more than just a sex worker. Though, she comforted herself, the independence she had tasted would not have come were she a normal woman, of a normal household. Then again there was nothing normal about her anyways.
---
The reception was cut short. A large cloud had rumbled over the valley of Mushkpur, calling for the ceremony to stop. The decor had been covered and the guests had ran to their respective rooms. The downpour that followed the little heaven on earth, was famous for its strength. It could cause flash floods and landslides within two hours. Not to mention at the altitude, it was more likely to be hail than simple rain and no one, least of all the bride and groom, were excited to be hit in the face by balls of ice.
The rain came with dark clouds and grey skies. The clear canvas painted a muted grey as precipitation began in full force. The sounds of the droplets smacking against the tree leaves and window panes made for an aesthetic backdrop. Laila's face plastered to the windows as she watched two rain drops on the pane fight. Giggling as the one on right combined with another and moved with double the speed. Her eyes focused on the rain, her mind whirling up with ideas of being in the water.
Laila had always loved rain. Her mother called her a water baby-which was ironic. She hated the beaches, and coincidentally had never been to one anyways. Humming under her breath, she opened the sliding door a few centimetres at a time. Her hand reaching out to feel the cold water on her fingers. Laughter falling from her mouth as she felt the chill, it was welcome after the unusually hot afternoon they had had.
"Don't. You will fall sick," Azmaray warned.
Laila turned to him. Her eyes wide like that of a kid's who was caught up past their bed time. Gulping she gave him a wide grin.
"We can just call the doctor then. Help the local economy you know?" Her eyes widening.
"How thoughtful of you," he pinched her chin.
"Of course. Mein sachi Pakistani hun," [I'm a true Pakistani,] she saluted.
Opening the door and running out into the rain. Still in her reception dress, she felt her hair drench up and water droplets slide under her shirt. It stuck to her body like a second skin, the pale viscose slip, gave a peak at her lace undergarments and soft skin. The mole on the side of her waist, seemed to be the favourite as the shirt clenched to it like were glued to it. The water messed with her makeup as she twirled in the water. Cheerful giggles and the sounds of her anklets were like the best of Mozart's works to his ears.
Azmaray ignored the red warning signs inside his head, stepping out into the balcony. Feeling chilled for a second before the sexual desire warmed him up in a second. Stepping closer to her, like predator to prey, he pushed her to the edge. Laila's back colliding with the sleek white iron fences. Her breath hitched in her throat. He placed his hands either side of her figure, his cold nose rubbing against hers. She fisted the front of his shirt, taking deep breaths, water droplets falling into her mouth from her parted skin.
Raising one hand, he placed it on her lower lip. Sliding the lipstick off, his eyes going from hazel to obsidian in seconds.
"You're lucky I love you," he kissed her earlobe.
"O- or. Urm-or what?" She feigned confidence.
"Or you would be tied to the bed right now. Begging for me to touch you," he held her face in a tight grip.
Laila's breath rushed. Her blood pumping through her veins at a fierce speed. He leaned in closer, inhaling her warms scent. Feeling the swell of her breast touch his own, with a haste.
"Would you like that? Tied and at my mercy?" He questioned.
His tounge lapping at the dip of her collar bone. His teeth biting into the soft skin, his hands sliding under the clingy shirt. Warming up her sides. Laila slid her hands into his hair, arching herself into his as she felt his sweet torture. The idea of submitting to him-in a way unlike any other was a bittersweet torture. Just a little nod of her head and Azmaray carried her into their vast bedroom. Laying her body onto their bed with great gentleness, he made good of his promise. Warming her up as he took her with a carnal rage.
The two slumped against each other, limp after the passionate session. Her head resting on his chest as she caught hold of her breath. The skin of her hands chuffed after having been rubbed against the coarse material of the nylon rope he had produced from the back of his wardrobe. She had made him swear that it had not been used on anyone before giving herself to him-a pleasure unlike any she had felt before. Now her limbs ached and her throat hurt, eyes hazy from the pleasure she had felt not too long ago.
"Come on, let's give you a bath," Azmaray broke the web of silence.
Carrying her slump form in his arms, he settled her into the porcelain claw foot tub, running warm water and placing lavender bath salts to relax her figure. He got in behind her, massaging her shoulders. Etching lower on her back, his lips leaving soft kisses on her warm neck. Laila sighed in comfort as he rubbed a lotion onto her red wrists. Kissing her palms, rubbing soft circles on her lower belly. She placed her body weight onto his. Going limp within seconds and falling into slumber-deeply sated.
Waking up an hour later, Laila found Azmaray placing a cup of warm honey water on her side table. He passed her a smile, kissing her forehead softly.
"Do you feel better?" He questioned.
Nodding her head in agreement, she raised herself. The cup warming her hands instantly. Her damp hair lay on her shoulders, the rest of her figure drowning in his sweat shirt. It smelt of him, and made her feel cozy. The rain outside had stopped and the open windows let the petrichor in. The scent gratifying. Trees were greener than ever, the valley brimming with life all if a sudden. Sheep bleating and birds chirping from their nests. A celebration of just being. A new vision and life was taking place.
"I do. Thank you for taking care of me," she sheepishly smiled.
"Don't. It's my responsibility," he spoke sternly.
Laila nodded, cuddling into the sheets, hugging her pillow as he took the cup out of her hands. Sliding in behind her, he kissed her cheek, brushing small circles on the skin of her hand.
"Azmaray?" She called him out, continuing as she felt him hum under her ear.
"What is love?"
"Love is - iska koi jawab nahi hai. Har aashiq apnay hisab sai mohabbat karta hai. For me, love is letting go. Setting you free. Because when you are free to soar in the skies that is when my heart feels at peace. Ishq woh ehsaas hai, jo kisi nai aaj tak sahi sai mehsoos nahi kia," [- there is no answer. Every lovers loves in their own capacity.] [Love is that feeling, that no one has ever felt,] he sighed.
"Really? Is it freeing?" Her eyes twinkled.
"It is. It frees you from the boring routine of life. Takes you out of the clutches of hate". Azmaray informed.
TALK OF LOVE EH?
I SKIPPED OUT THE SMUT CAUSE DIDN'T FEEL LIKE IT
OMG ITS HAPPENING HEHE
THOUGHTS & COMMENTS