Chapter 4: The Cricketer's Midnight Ride
The shower came later—much later—when the sheets had become a tangled disaster and her hair had glued itself to her forehead with sweat. Varun lay sprawled beside her, one arm flung over his eyes, breathing like he'd just run a marathon. Which, in a sense, he had.
Smriti propped herself up on one elbow and watched him. The lamp caught the sheen of perspiration on his chest, the rapid rise and fall of his ribs. His lips were parted, slightly swollen, and there was a red mark on his shoulder where she'd bitten him—not hard, just enough to leave a reminder.
"You alive?" she asked.
A muffled sound came from beneath his arm. Something that might have been a laugh, might have been a groan. Possibly both.
"I'll take that as a yes."
She swung her legs off the bed, her feet hitting the cool wooden floor. The abrupt temperature change made her shiver, and she padded across to the bathroom, her hips still aching in that pleasant, used way that she hadn't felt in—god, how long had it been? Months? A year?
The bathroom light flickered on, harsh and white compared to the amber warmth of the bedroom. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and paused. Her hair was a wreck, her lips were swollen, and there was a faint flush still coloring her chest. She looked thoroughly fucked. She looked alive.
She turned on the shower, adjusting the temperature until steam began to curl toward the ceiling. Behind her, she heard the creak of the mattress, then footsteps.
Varun appeared in the doorway, naked and unselfconscious in a way that surprised her. He'd been so hesitant earlier—covering himself, blushing at her gaze. Now he just stood there, leaning against the frame, watching her with an expression she couldn't quite read.
"Coming?" she asked.
"I was told not to rest."
"That's right. I did say that."
She stepped into the shower, and the hot water hit her skin like a benediction. She tilted her head back, letting it stream over her face, washing away the sweat and the salt and the evidence of everything they'd done. Behind her, she heard the glass door slide open, felt the displacement of air as he stepped in.
His hands found her waist first. Then his lips, pressing against the back of her neck, warm and damp from the steam. She leaned back against him, her spine curving into the solid warmth of his chest, and let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.
"This is nice," he murmured against her skin.
"Don't get too comfortable."
"Why not?"
She turned in his arms, facing him. Water cascaded down between them, catching in the hollows of their collarbones, tracing paths down their stomachs. His hair was plastered to his forehead, and rivulets ran down his face like tears. He looked absurdly young like this. Vulnerable. Real.
"Because," she said, reaching for the bottle of body wash on the shelf, "I'm not done with you yet."
She poured a generous amount into her palm and began to lather his chest. Her hands moved in slow circles, spreading the soap across his skin, feeling the definition of muscles she hadn't noticed before. He wasn't built like an athlete—not like the men she trained with, all bulk and power. He was lean, almost wiry, with the kind of body that came from hours hunched over a keyboard rather than hours in a gym.
But there was strength there. She'd felt it, the way his arms had held her, the way his hips had moved against hers. Quiet strength. The kind you didn't notice until you needed it.
"You're staring," he said.
"You're interesting."
"I'm really not."
"Let me be the judge of that."
Her hands moved lower, across his stomach, tracing the line of hair that disappeared below his waist. He sucked in a breath, his abdominal muscles tensing beneath her touch.
"Sensitive?" she asked.
"Ticklish."
She filed that information away for later and continued her exploration. Her fingers found him, already half-hard again, and she wrapped her hand around him, stroking slowly. He groaned, his head falling back against the tile with a soft thud.
"You're going to kill me," he said.
"Probably not."
"Definitely."
She laughed and released him, reaching for the shampoo instead. "Turn around."
He obeyed, and she worked the shampoo into his hair, her fingers massaging his scalp in slow, deliberate circles. He made a sound that was almost a purr, his shoulders dropping, the tension bleeding out of him.
"That's not fair," he mumbled.
"What?"
"You know what."
She smiled and continued her ministrations, taking her time. There was something deeply satisfying about this—about touching him without urgency, without expectation. Just the warm water and the steam and the simple intimacy of being close to another person.
When she was done, she guided him under the spray to rinse, then turned him back around. His eyes were half-closed, dreamy, and she could see that he was fully hard now, the evidence pressing against her thigh.
"Ready for your next lesson?" she asked.
He blinked, trying to focus. "There's more?"
"There's always more."
She pressed her back against the cool tile, the contrast with the hot water making her gasp. The wall was slick with condensation, and she had to brace herself to keep from sliding.
"Come here," she said, pulling him closer. "Put your leg between mine."
He obeyed, his thigh pressing against her core, and the pressure made her breath catch. She guided his hand down, between their bodies, to where she was wet and aching.
"Fingers inside," she instructed. "And your thumb—yes, like that. On my clit."
His fingers found their rhythm quickly, stroking in and out while his thumb circled with a pressure that made her knees weak. She clung to his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin, and let herself feel it. The water streaming over them. The steam filling her lungs. The steady, patient movement of his hand.
"Now," she said, her voice ragged, "use your mouth."
His eyes flickered up to hers, questioning.
"On my neck," she clarified. "My shoulder. Anywhere. Just use it."
He lowered his head and kissed the curve where her neck met her shoulder, his lips warm and wet. He sucked lightly, and she felt the pull all the way down to her core, a direct line of sensation that made her hips buck against his hand.
"Good," she breathed. "Harder."
He bit down—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to send a jolt through her system. His fingers moved faster, his thumb pressing harder, and she could feel herself climbing, the pleasure building in her belly.
"Don't stop," she gasped. "Don't you dare stop."
He didn't. He kept going, his mouth working at her neck, his fingers pumping inside her, his thumb drawing tight circles that made her see white. She was close—so close—and she let herself go, let the wave crash over her.
She came with a cry that echoed off the bathroom tiles, her body arching against his, her nails raking down his back. The pleasure was sharp and bright, a lightning strike that left her trembling in its aftermath.
For a moment, she just breathed. Steam filled her lungs, and the water continued to fall, indifferent to what had just happened beneath it. She could feel his heart pounding against her chest, the evidence of his own arousal still pressing against her hip.
"Okay," she said, her voice hoarse. "Okay. That was—yeah. Good."
"Just good?"
"Don't push your luck."
He laughed, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through her. She kissed him, tasting the steam on his lips, and then reached behind him to turn off the water.
"Bedroom," she said. "Now."
He didn't argue.
---
She dried them both off with quick, efficient movements, the towel rough against her skin. He stood there, still slightly dazed, watching her with an expression that was part wonder, part exhaustion, part something else—something deeper.
"You're quiet," she observed.
"I'm processing."
"Process faster."
She led him back to the bedroom, and the contrast hit her again—the warm amber light, the messy sheets, the smell of sex and sweat and something sweeter underneath. The city hummed outside, millions of lives oblivious to this small universe they'd created.
She pushed him onto the bed, onto his back, and climbed on top of him. His hands found her waist automatically, steadying her, and she could feel him hard beneath her, ready despite everything they'd already done.
"What now?" he asked.
"Now," she said, positioning herself above him, "you learn to follow."
She sank down onto him, and the sensation was overwhelming—the fullness, the stretch, the way he filled her completely. His hands tightened on her waist, his hips lifting instinctively, and she pressed him back down.
"No," she said. "Stay still. Let me."
He nodded, his jaw tight, and she began to move.
Slow, at first. A gentle rocking that let her feel every inch of him. His eyes were fixed on her face, dark and intent, and she watched him watch her—the way his breath hitched when she rolled her hips just so, the way his lips parted when she clenched around him.
"Like this," she said. "See how it feels different?"
"Yes," he managed. "God, yes."
She increased her pace, finding a rhythm that made her thighs burn, her core tighten. The pleasure was building again—a different kind this time, deeper, more intense. She placed her hands on his chest for balance, and every time she pressed down, she could feel the full weight of him inside her.
His hands moved from her waist to her hips, guiding her, matching her pace. He was learning—always learning—his body responding to hers with an intuition that surprised her.
"Can I—" he started.
"What?"
"Can I move too?"
She considered it. "Fine. But match me. Don't go faster."
He nodded, and then he was moving beneath her, his hips rising to meet hers, and the dual rhythm was almost too much. She was close—again—and she could tell he was too. His breath was coming in short, sharp gasps, and his fingers were digging into her hips hard enough to leave bruises.
"I'm close," he warned.
"Not yet."
She slowed, just slightly, drawing it out. The pleasure was a live wire in her veins, and she wanted to ride it as long as possible. She wanted to stay here, in this moment, with the city humming outside and the trophies gathering dust on the shelf and his heart beating against her palms.
"Please," he said, and his voice was breaking.
She took mercy on him. She increased her pace, leaning forward so her clit rubbed against his pelvic bone with every stroke, and the pressure was exactly right. She was climbing again, so close, and she could tell he was right there with her.
"Now," she said. "Come with me."
He did.
The orgasm crashed over her like a wave, pulling her under, drowning her in sensation. She heard him cry out—her own name, a broken prayer—and felt the pulse of him inside her, and the combination pushed her over the edge again, a second climax rolling in the wake of the first.
She collapsed on top of him, her cheek pressed against his chest, her whole body trembling. His arms wrapped around her, holding her close, and he was murmuring something—she couldn't quite make out the words, but the tone was reverent.
The world slowly reassembled itself. The lamp flickered once. The city hummed. The trophies caught the light, indifferent.
She lifted her head and looked at him. His eyes were closed, his lips curved into a small, exhausted smile. His hand had found its way into her hair, his fingers tangled in the damp strands, and he didn't seem inclined to move.
"You okay?" she asked.
"I think I'm dead again."
"That's normal."
They lay there for a long time, tangled together in the aftermath. The sweat drying on their skin. The sheets a disaster. The night stretching on, endless and full of possibility.
She could feel sleep pulling at her, heavy and insistent. But she didn't want to sleep—didn't want to waste a single second of this strange, unexpected night. Because tomorrow would come, and with it, reality. Training. Meetings. The careful construction of her public self.
But that was tomorrow.
Tonight, she was just Smriti. Just a woman in a bed with a man who looked at her like she was something precious. Something real.
"Hey," she said, her voice soft.
He opened his eyes. "Yeah?"
"Thank you."
He blinked, confused. "For what?"
She didn't answer. She just kissed him, soft and slow, and felt his arms tighten around her.
The night stretched on.
And she wasn't ready for it to end.
She watched the city lights flicker through the gap in the curtains, a constellation of strangers all living their own stories. Somewhere out there, her teammates were probably asleep, resting up for tomorrow's training session. The media team was definitely drafting social media posts she'd have to approve in the morning. Her manager had left three voicemails she hadn't bothered to check.
But right now, none of that existed.
Right now, there was just this room. Just the amber light and the tangled sheets and the slow, even rhythm of Varun's breathing against her neck. His hand was still in her hair, his fingers curled loosely in the strands like he was afraid she might slip away. She could feel the heat of his body, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, and she found herself matching her breath to his without meaning to.
She should let him sleep. She should let herself sleep. The clock on her nightstand glowed 3:47, and her alarm was set for six, and somewhere in the back of her mind a small voice was reminding her that she had responsibilities, obligations, a life that existed outside this small, private universe.
But she didn't want to let go. Not yet.
His lips brushed against her temple, barely a kiss, more like a question. She tilted her head up and found him watching her through half-closed eyes, drowsy and soft.
"Still awake?" he murmured.
"Couldn't sleep."
"Thinking too loud?"
She smiled, a small, private thing. "Something like that."
His hand slid from her hair to her cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of her jaw. The gesture was so tender it made her chest ache.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked.
"Tomorrow."
"What about it?"
She was quiet for a moment, trying to figure out how to put it into words. "It's just... this is nice. This. And tomorrow it goes away. I go back to being Smriti Mandhana, cricketer. Brand. Role model. And you go back to being..." She trailed off.
"What?"
"I don't know. What do you go back to?"
He considered the question. "I go back to being Varun. Software engineer. Guy who writes code and eats cereal for dinner and watches your matches in his pajamas."
"That sounds nice."
"It's not. Not compared to this."
She turned in his arms, facing him properly. The sheet pooled around her waist, and the cool air traced patterns on her bare skin. "It's not a competition. And it's not like I'm asking you to disappear."
"Then what are you asking?"
The question hung between them, heavy and loaded. She didn't have an answer. She didn't know what she was asking—didn't know what she wanted, beyond the fact that she wanted something.
"I don't know," she admitted. "I just... I don't want this to be a one-time thing. Is that okay?"
His expression shifted, something flickering behind his eyes. Surprise. Hope. Fear. All of it, tangled together.
"You want to see me again?" He sounded genuinely shocked.
"Yes."
"Like... on purpose?"
She laughed, despite herself. "Yes, Varun. On purpose."
"I—" He paused, processing. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay." He nodded, a smile spreading across his face, wide and uncontrolled. "Yes. Definitely. I want to see you again. On purpose. Even on purpose beyond that."
"That sentence didn't make sense."
"I know. I don't care."
She kissed him, and he kissed her back, and for a moment the future didn't matter. The obligations, the logistics, the careful management of a life lived in public—none of it mattered. There was just this. Just now.
When they finally pulled apart, he was grinning like an idiot, and she felt something loosen in her chest.
"One more thing," she said.
"What?"
"You can't tell anyone. About this. About us. Not until I figure out how to handle it."
His grin faded, replaced by something more serious. "I know. I wouldn't."
"Not even your friends?"
"Especially not my friends. They'd probably have a heart attack." He paused. "Or start a betting pool."
She snorted. "Fair enough."
"Smriti?"
"Yeah?"
"I know this is complicated. And I know you have a lot going on. And I'm probably—no, definitely—way out of my depth here. But I just..." He searched for words. "I just want you to know that I get it. The stakes. What this could mean for you. I'm not going to mess that up."
She looked at him, really looked, and saw the sincerity there. The understanding. The quiet, unshakeable decency that she'd somehow known was there from the moment she sent that reckless message.
"I know," she said. "That's why I picked you."
He kissed her forehead, soft and sweet. "We should sleep. You have training tomorrow."
"Don't remind me."
"Too late."
She groaned but didn't move, still tangled in his arms. Sleep was pulling at her now, insistent, and she could feel her eyelids drooping.
"We'll figure it out," he said quietly. "Whatever comes next. We'll figure it out."
She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that this—this improbable, reckless, terrifying thing—could somehow survive the light of day. That she could have both: the career she'd built and the connection she craved.
But that was a problem for tomorrow.
Tonight, she had this. She had him. And that, for now, was enough.
She let her eyes close and surrendered to sleep, his hand still tangled in her hair, his heartbeat steady beneath her ear.
The lamp flickered one last time, then held.
Outside, the city hummed on.
And somewhere, in the vast sprawl of its endless lights, dawn was beginning to break.