Chapter 19: The Fall
I didn’t realise I fell asleep. It seemed like barely five minutes since I closed my eyes. I heard a fall.
A thick, meaty thud—the sound of a body hitting the floorboards, followed by the sharp, shocked intake of breath that wasn’t mine. My eyes flew open. The warm amber glow of the room swam into focus, the posters on the wall mere blurs. “Pritha?”
I was off the bed before I was fully awake, my feet tangling in the kicked-off sheets, stumbling. She was on the floor, halfway to the bathroom, curled on her side for a second before she pushed herself shakily onto her hands and knees. The sight was a punch to my gut. A slick, pearlescent trail glistened on the inside of her thigh, dripping onto the wood where she’d slipped. Our mess. My mess.
“Oh, shit, baby.” I was beside her in two long strides, my hands hovering, not wanting to hurt her. “Are you okay? Did you hit your head?”
She shook her head, her curly hair swaying. When she looked up, her glasses were askew, her eyes wide and wet behind the lenses. “I’m fine. I’m okay. Just… my legs.” Her voice was a shaky whisper. “They just folded. Like jelly. I tried to go pee and they… they quit.”
A laugh bubbled up in my chest, half relief, half sheer adoration. I crouched down, slipping one arm under her knees and the other around her back. “C’mere. You’re not walking anywhere.”
She didn’t protest, just let out a little squeak as I lifted her. She was so light, her body pliant and warm against my chest. She nuzzled into my neck, her breath hot on my skin. “I feel so stupid,” she mumbled.
“You’re not stupid. You’re thoroughly fucked.” I nudged the bathroom door open with my foot.
“I was trying to be considerate,” she whined, but it was cut short by a sharp gasp. “Hardik, hurry. I really gotta go”
I gently set her down on the toilet, the cool porcelain a shock against her skin and rush out, closing the door behind me for her.
I leaned my forehead against the cool wood of the bathroom door, listening to the quiet, steady trickle from inside. My own body felt heavy, spent, but wired with a low hum of concern. The image of her on the floor, trembling and slick with me, played on a loop behind my eyes.
A soft flush, the creak of the toilet lid, then her voice, husky and clear. “Hardik? You can come back in.”
I pushed the door open. She was still sitting on the toilet, leaning back against the tank, her head lolled to the side watching me. Her gaze was a physical weight, a slow, hungry crawl over my shoulders, down my chest, across my stomach. It lingered. “Hey,” I said, my voice softer than I intended.
“Hey yourself.” Her lips curled into a tired, possessive smile. “You’re all… messy. I can see it, you know. Drying on your thighs.”
A hot flush crept up my neck. I turned toward the tub, twisting the faucet handles. Water roared out, hitting the porcelain with a hard, hollow sound. Steam began to rise, curling in the lamplight. “We’re fixing that. A bath. You need to soak.”
The steam thickened, smelling of the clean, sharp lemon from her bath salts. I crouched by the cabinet, rummaging past half-empty bottles of coconut oil and mango-scented conditioners. My fingers closed around a smooth, cylindrical bottle of body wash, the label peeling at the corners.
“Looking for the good stuff?” Her voice was a lazy drawl from the toilet. I could feel her watching me, the weight of her gaze on the curve of my back, the dip of my spine.
“Just something to lather up with.” I shook the bottle, hearing the viscous liquid slosh inside.
“Mmm. I like watching you crouch like that.” The casual vulgarity in her sweet tone made my ears burn. “Your ass looks so fucking biteable in this light. I just want to… chomp.”
I stood up too quickly, my head swimming for a second. “Stop it,” I muttered, unable to look at her, knowing my cheeks were flaming.
“But you’re blushing.” She giggled, a weak, breathy sound. “It’s adorable. You get all flustered when I objectify your perfect ass.”
I turned, the body wash in my hand, and walked to the tub. The water was just right—hot, but not scalding. I poured a generous dollop under the stream, and the air filled with the scent of sandalwood and vanilla as thick, creamy suds began to bloom. “Your alone time starts now,” I said, my voice pretending at sternness.
Before she could protest, I was at her side, slipping my arms under her again. She was so pliant, her limbs looped around my neck as I lifted her from the cold seat. Her skin was warm where our bodies met. I carried her the three steps to the tub and lowered her slowly into the cloud of bubbles. A long, shuddering sigh escaped her lips as the heat enveloped her.
“You’re not getting in?” she asked, her eyes widening behind her fogging glasses.
“Not yet.” I knelt on the bath mat, the worn fabric rough under my knees. “You need to just… be. For a minute.”
She sank deeper until the water lapped at her chin, bubbles clinging to her curls. Her eyes never left me. They traveled over my shoulders, down the plane of my chest, tracing the lines of my stomach. “Your hands,” she said softly, as if stating a fact. “I love your hands. The way the veins stand out when you grip me.”
I swallowed, letting her look. Her gaze was a physical touch.
“And your chest.” Her voice dropped to a husky murmur. “The way it heaves when you’re about to come. And your face… fuck, Hardik. Your face when you’re going down on me, all desperate and wanting. It’s my favorite thing.”
I just knelt there, letting her worship me with her words, each one a brand on my skin. The love in her voice was so tangled with the lust that it squeezed my heart. A thought sparked, clear and sudden. I stood up.
“Where are you going?” A flicker of need, sharp and sudden, edged her tone.
“One second. Stay there.”
I padded back into the bedroom, my feet silent on the wood. The room still held our scent—sex, sweat, and her coconut shampoo. On her desk, next the half-built Mustang, was the vase of roses I’d brought her three days ago. They were starting to wilt, the deep red petals beginning to curl at the edges. I plucked a handful, their stems cool and thornless in my grasp.
Back in the bathroom, I kept my hands behind my back. The steam had misted the mirror entirely.
She was watching the door, her chin resting on her knees. “What’re you hiding?” she asked, her eyes narrowing playfully.
I brought my hands forward, opening my palms to show her the crumpled, fragrant blooms. “These.
For the princess.” I opened my palms, letting the deep red roses spill forward into the steam-heavy air between us.
Pritha’s eyes softened, then sharpened with a familiar, hungry gleam. She reached out a hand, bubbles sliding down her arm, and brushed a fingertip over the velvety petals. “You’re such a sap,” she whispered, but her voice cracked on the last word.
“Still beautiful,” I said. “Like you.”
She rolled her eyes, but a smile played on her lips. “Now what? You gonna feed them to me?”
I didn’t answer. Instead, I brought a rose to my nose, inhaling the faint, sweet-and-sour scent of decay and memory. Then, I began to pluck the petals.
One by one, they came away with a soft, tearing sound—a faint rip that was swallowed by the drip of the faucet and the gentle slosh of her moving in the water. I let them fall from my fingers, watching as they spiraled down onto the surface of the bath. They landed on the bubbles, some sticking, others drifting like tiny, bloody boats toward her body.
“I pluck the petals,” I murmured, more to myself than to her, as if performing a ritual. “For luck. For love. For every time you’ve looked at me like that.”
She was utterly still, watching the petals accumulate around her. One caught in the curls of hair at her temple. Another rested on the swell of her breast, just above the waterline, a stark red against her pale skin. Her breath hitched, a tiny, audible gasp that made the petals tremble.
“Hardik,” she said, and her voice was different now—low, stripped of its teasing edge. “What are you doing?”
“Adoring you,” I said, simply. I plucked another rose, my fingers working methodically, the petals falling faster now, a gentle rain of crimson. They dotted the water, clung to her shoulders, decorated the curve of her knee where it broke the surface. The bathroom air thickened with their perfume, mixing with the sandalwood of the bubbles and the salt-sweet smell of our bodies from earlier.
I finished the last rose, the denuded stem cool and smooth in my palm. The water around her was a galaxy of red petals, a chaotic, beautiful blanket. I reached out and traced the line of her jaw with a wet finger, leaving a trail of droplets. “Feel better?”
She nodded, her eyes locked on mine. “Yeah. But now I want you in here. With your mess and your petals and your... everything.”
"I'm not done." I let the bare stem drop with a soft tap on the tiles.
I stood up, my knees protesting the movement. The bath mat was damp under my feet. Pritha watched, her head tilting as I moved past her, my hand brushing the wet crown of her head. I opened the cabinet above the sink, my fingers finding the small box of tea lights she kept for power outages. The cardboard was soft at the edges.
I struck a match. The sharp, sulfurous scratch made her jump slightly in the water. A tiny hiss, then a steady flame bloomed at the tip, wavering in the steamy air. I lit the first wick, a small, defiant sun cupped in white wax. I placed it on the wide lip of the sink.
The next one went on the back of the toilet tank. Another on the corner of the vanity, its light reflecting in the fogged mirror. I moved around the small room, a quiet orbit, punctuating the darkness with these little points of fire. Each match-scratch was a punctuation in our silence. Each new flame carved a deeper pool of shadow behind it, making the steam glow amber and the petals on the water seem to float in a private, flickering galaxy.
The last candle I placed on the closed lid of the hamper, just beside the tub. I crouched there, lighting it. The warm light leaped across her face, catching the droplets on her glasses, illuminating the red petal stuck to her collarbone. She was perfectly still, her breath shallow, watching me work.
I blew out the final match. A wisp of smoke curled toward the ceiling. I turned off the overhead light.
Darkness collapsed, then receded as the candlelight took hold. The room was transformed. The walls breathed with moving shadows. The water in the tub became a shifting, dark mirror, broken by the islands of her body and the petals. The music from the bedroom was a muffled, rhythmic whisper now, a distant heartbeat.
I stood there, looking down at her. The candle by the hamper lit her from below, casting strange, beautiful shadows under her chin and along the slopes of her breasts. Her eyes were huge and dark.
“Okay,” I said, my voice rough. “Now I’m done.”
I didn’t move. The water lapped against her skin, a soft, repetitive sound in the candle-thick silence. Her eyes, magnified and dark behind her lenses, held me there on the damp mat. “You’re just going to stand there?” she finally said, her voice a scrape. “Looking?”
“I’m looking,” I admitted. The petals were stuck to her, a mosaic on her shoulders, one drifting over a nipple. My breath felt tight.
She lifted a hand from the water, breaking the surface with a quiet splash. Bubbles clung to her wrist. “Then get in and look closer.” Her fingers curled, beckoning.
A droplet fell from her fingertip, hitting the water with a plink that echoed.
That sound broke the spell. I stepped over the edge, one foot then the other, the heat a shocking, welcome embrace as I lowered myself into the water facing her.
She shifted, drawing her knees up to make space, and the water sloshed heavily against the porcelain sides. Petals swirled in the sudden current, sticking to my legs. “Finally,” she breathed, her voice swallowed by the steam and the intimate acoustics of the tiled room.
The water enveloped me, a second skin almost as hot as she was. Petals swirled between us, caught in the tiny currents our bodies made. She let her legs slide down, her feet finding my hips, her toes brushing against my softening flesh.
“Cold,” she lied with a tiny smile, her foot deliberately tracing my lower stomach.
“Liar.” I captured her ankle beneath the water, my fingers circling the delicate bone. “You’re boiling.”
She sighed, a contented sound that melted into the steam. Her head leaned back against the rim, exposing her throat. The candlelight danced in the droplets there. “My legs really did quit. They still feel like noodles.”
“So let me fix them.” I guided her foot up, breaking the surface with a soft, aqueous sigh. Water streamed down her pale skin, over the arch, beading on her toes. I cupped her heel in my palm, my thumb finding the tight knot at the center.
She let out a sharp, blissful hiss. “Oh. Right there.”
I began to work, my thumbs pressing deep, methodical circles into the tense pad of her foot. The room was silent except for the drip of the faucet and her breath. Schlick-schlick went my wet hands on her skin, a rhythmic, intimate sound. I started at the ball, working the tension out with firm, deliberate pressure.
“You have no idea,” she mumbled, her eyes closed, her glasses slightly fogged. “How good that feels.”
“I think I do.” I kneaded the arch, feeling the tight tendon surrender. Her toes curled reflexively, brushing my wrist. I moved to her heel, then slowly back up, tracing each metatarsal with my thumb. Her breath became a slow, deep rhythm, syncing with my movements.
I brought her foot to my lips and kissed the instep, a quick, warm press. The taste of soap and her skin, clean and salty. She moaned, a low, resonant vibration in her chest.
“You worship me,” she whispered, not opening her eyes.
“I take care of what’s mine.” I repeated the process with her other foot, lifting it from the water. This one was even tighter. I could feel the residual tremor in her calf as I pressed my thumbs in. She jerked, a giggle bursting from her.
“Ticklish!”
“That’s not ticklish, that’s torture,” I corrected, not easing up. “You’re storing all your stress right here. In your feet. Why?”
“Because I clench my toes when I come.” She said it so simply, so matter-of-fact, that my hands stilled for a second. “Every time. I guess today I… came a lot.”
The memory flashed: her back arching, her cries, the desperate grip of her body. My thumbs resumed their work, gentler now. “Yeah. You did.”
I kissed her other foot, a soft press against the warm, damp arch. Her eyes were closed in bliss, her lips parted on a silent sigh. I wanted to have some fun with her.
I did a long, slow lick along the bottom of her foot, from heel to toe, the taste of clean skin and vanilla soap flooding my tongue. Then I took her big toe into my mouth, sucking gently, the pad soft against the roof of my mouth.
Her eyes flew open, baffled, her body jerking in the water. "Wh— Hardik!" Her toes curled reflexively against my tongue, a desperate, clutching grip. "That's... you're so fucking weird!"
I released her toe with a soft pop. "You taste good."
"I taste like bath water!" she laughed, a shocked, breathless sound. But her eyes were dark, interested. Her foot remained in my hand, not pulling away.
"You taste like you." I ran my thumb over the wet toe I'd just had in my mouth. "And you're still clenched. See?" I pressed the spot where her arch was taut as a bowstring.
"You're avoiding the real work," she said, but her voice was airy. She was watching my mouth.
"I'm expanding my skill set." I lifted her foot again, pretending to study it. "Podiatry meets perversion."
She snorted, then her expression shifted, the amusement dissolving into something raw and open. "Do it again."
My stomach tightened. "What?"
"The... the thing. With your mouth. Just... do it."
I brought her foot to my lips. This time, I didn't lick. I opened my mouth and took her first two toes inside, sucking them deep, my tongue working between them. A low, guttural moan ripped from her throat, nothing cute about it. It was pure, startled pleasure.
Her head thumped back against the tub. Her free hand came down, slapping the water's surface. Splash. "Fuck. Fuck."
I released her toes, saliva connecting my lips to her skin for a second before it broke. "Okay?"
Her chest was heaving. The petals on her breasts trembled. "Why does that feel so good? That shouldn't feel that good."
She sounded genuinely mystified, almost annoyed.
I didn’t answer with words. I lowered my head again, taking her delicate arch into my mouth. My tongue pressed flat against the sensitive skin, then I began to move it in slow, deliberate circles. I swirl my tongue around. The soap was gone, leaving just the taste of her—clean salt and heat.
Her other foot plants itself on my chest out of reflex, her toes splaying against my sternum. For some reason, the soft pressure of it, the blunt insistence of her sole against my skin, turns me on. A sharp, electric current shot straight down my spine to my groin. I groan, half-muffled by her toes. The sound vibrated against her skin.