Chapter 21: Thigh Worship
The pressure of Arjun’s body was a brand, hot and inescapable. Rohan’s wrists were still pinned above his head, the grip firm enough to make the fine bones ache. He could feel the frantic thrum of his own pulse against Arjun’s palm.
“Say it again,” Arjun whispered, his mouth hovering just above Rohan’s.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Rohan breathed, the words tasting like a surrender and a vow all at once.
A low, approving sound rumbled in Arjun’s chest. He released Rohan’s wrists, but the freedom was an illusion. His hands slid down, a slow, deliberate descent over Rohan’s shoulders, his chest, his stomach. The touch was proprietary, a cartographer finally mapping claimed territory.
His palms smoothed over Rohan’s hips, his fingers pressing into the sharp points before moving inward. They traced the sensitive crease where his legs met his torso, a featherlight touch that made Rohan jolt.
“So tense,” Arjun murmured, his voice a low vibration against Rohan’s skin. He applied more pressure, his thumbs circling the tight muscles.
Then his hands moved lower, sliding under Rohan’s thighs. His fingers curled, lifting them, spreading them apart with an effortless ease that stole the air from Rohan’s lungs. The exposure was absolute, the cool air a shock against his most vulnerable skin.
Arjun went still for a long moment, just looking. His gaze was heavy, intense.
He let one hand fall away, but the other remained, his fingers splaying across the pale, untouched skin of Rohan’s inner thigh. His thumb pressed into the flesh, experimentally.
It yielded.
It gave way under the pressure, soft and pliant in a way that was utterly foreign to Arjun’s own hard body. He pushed deeper, his fingers sinking into the surprising give, mesmerized by the contrast.
“God,” he breathed, the word full of quiet wonder. He looked up, meeting Rohan’s wide, uncertain eyes. “It’s like… warm dough.”
Rohan flushed, a hot wave of self-consciousness washing over him. He tried to close his legs, a feeble, instinctive movement, but Arjun’s hand was an immovable weight.
“Don’t,” Arjun said, his voice soft but leaving no room for argument. His thumb stroked the spot he’d pressed, a slow, soothing circle. “It’s perfect.”
He bent his head.
His lips were a soft, dry press against the same spot. Rohan gasped, his back arching off the bed. Then Arjun opened his mouth, his tongue a hot, wet stripe that laved the sensitive skin. The sensation was electric, shooting straight to Rohan’s core.
Before he could process it, Arjun’s teeth closed over the tender flesh. It wasn’t a bite, not really. It was a careful, precise pressure, a claiming that was just on the right side of pain. A sharp, bright spark that melted instantly into a throbbing, deep warmth.
Rohan cried out, a short, choked sound.
Arjun released him, immediately soothing the spot with his tongue, then with softer, open-mouthed kisses. He looked up, his eyes dark and blown wide, a faint, smug smile on his lips.
“You like that,” he stated, his voice rough.
Rohan could only nod, breathless, his head thrashing against the pillow. His whole world had narrowed to the phantom pressure of Arjun’s teeth on that impossibly soft part of him.
Arjun’s smile widened. He did it again, a little lower this time, a little harder. The sharp pinch made Rohan’s hips buck off the mattress, a helpless, involuntary reaction.
“Fuck, Arjun…”
“I know,” Arjun murmured against his skin, his breath hot. He trailed a line of kisses upward, along the same path, his stubble a delicious friction. “I’ve got you.”
His hand slid from Rohan’s thigh, cupping him through his sweats. The pressure was direct, unmistakable. Rohan groaned, pushing into the touch, his earlier shyness incinerated by the raw need coiling in his gut.
Arjun’s fingers worked the waistband, his movements quick and sure. “Look at me.”
Rohan forced his eyes open, his vision blurry without his glasses. Arjun was watching him, his expression a mix of fierce possession and something softer, something awed.
“You’re so fucking perfect,” Arjun said, and this time the words didn’t feel like a line. They felt like a discovery.
The sound of the elastic waistband snapping back against Rohan’s hips was stark in the quiet room. Arjun’s gaze dropped, his breath catching.
And then the sharp, intrusive buzz of a phone vibrated on the nightstand.
It wasn’t Rohan’s generic ringtone. It was the specific, pulsing beat Arjun had assigned to the rugby team group chat.
The spell shattered.
Arjun flinched, his head snapping toward the sound as if it were a physical blow. The intense focus in his eyes fractured, replaced by a flicker of something else—duty, obligation, the ghost of the gym and the world where he was someone else.
He didn’t move away, but his body went still. The connection between them, so electric a second ago, felt thin, stretched to its breaking point.
The phone buzzed again, more insistently.
“You should get that,” Rohan whispered, his voice hoarse. The words felt like ash in his mouth.
Arjun’s jaw tightened. He looked from the phone back to Rohan, at the vulnerable, exposed picture he made on the rumpled sheets. For a heartbeat, Rohan thought he might ignore it, might push the world away and come back to him.
But the moment passed.
Arjun let out a short, frustrated breath and rolled off the bed in one fluid motion. He snatched the phone from the nightstand, his back to Rohan as he read the screen.
“Shit,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “It’s Coach. There’s a… thing. At the field house. Now.”
The ‘thing’ was undoubtedly a party, a mandatory team bonding session that was really just an excuse to drink. Rohan knew the drill.
He pulled the comforter over himself, the sudden modesty feeling ridiculous after where they’d just been. The warmth Arjun had left behind was already cooling on his skin.
Arjun turned around, his expression conflicted. “Rohan, I—”
“It’s fine,” Rohan cut him off, forcing a smile that felt brittle on his face. “Go. It’s your team.”
He watched as Arjun pulled his shirt back on, the fabric swallowing the landscape of his back. The sanctuary of the room felt different now, the shadows from the bookshelves seeming deeper, the hum of the computer a lonely sound.
Arjun finished dressing and stood by the bed, looking down at him. He reached out, his fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair from Rohan’s forehead. The touch was tender, but it felt like an apology.
“I’ll be back,” he said, but it sounded like a question.
Rohan just nodded, pulling the comforter tighter. “Yeah.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
The silence that descended was heavier than before, filled with the ghost of Arjun’s weight and the fading sensation of his teeth on Rohan’s skin. Rohan lay there in the dim lamplight, the faint, throbbing memory on his thigh the only proof that any of it had been real.