Chapter 3: The Jungle's Heat
The jeep bounced violently over a deep rut, throwing Priya against Rohan. His arm was already around her shoulders, a steadying bar that now became a cage. “Easy,” he murmured, his lips close to her ear. The rumble of the engine and the shrieks of unseen birds swallowed his word.
He’d told her it was an “experience.” Something to shake the dust off. She’d put on the clothes he’d left on her bed this morning—thin, white linen pants and a sleeveless blouse of a material so light it felt like wearing a gasp.“It’s hot out there,” he’d said, his eyes cataloging her. She’d changed in the bathroom, her own cotton dresses hanging ignored in the closet.
The reserve was a different world.The city’s gray haze was replaced by a green so deep it felt liquid. The air smelled of damp earth, wild blossoms, and something else—a musky, animal scent that pricked at something ancient in the back of her brain. The guide up front droned on about spotting tigers, but Rohan’s focus was a laser on her.
His hand, which had started on her shoulder, slid down to her thigh.A proprietorial weight. She stared straight ahead at the winding track, her body rigid.“Relax,” he said, not whispering. The guide could probably hear.“You’re missing it all. Look.” He pointed with his free hand at a trio of deer melting into the brush. But his other hand moved, the pad of his thumb making slow, deliberate circles on the inside of her thigh. The thin linen was no barrier.Her skin burned under the touch.She wanted to bat his hand away. She wanted to lean into it.The conflict locked her in place, a statue of fever and ice.
After an hour, they stopped at a clearing near a roaring sound that wasn’t the jeep. “Waterfall,” the guide announced.“Very peaceful. I wait here.”
Rohan was out of the jeep before she could process the seclusion.He came around to her side, offering a hand. His grip was firm, pulling her down. She stumbled on the soft ground, and he caught her fully against him.For a second, they were chest to chest. She felt the hard, lean planes of him, so different from Vikram’s stout solidity.He didn’t let go.
“This way.”
He led her down a narrow, slippery path, the sound of water growing from a rumble to a thunderous crash. The mist reached them first, a cool kiss on her heated skin. Then she saw it: a vast curtain of white water plunging into a turquoise pool, framed by black rock and tangled vines.It was violently beautiful.
He didn’t stop at the pool’s edge. He pulled her along the rocks, behind the spray, into the cavern space between the falling water and the cliff face.The world muted.The light turned jade and shattered. The roar was everything, a sound so immense it felt like silence. They were alone, hidden, the outside world erased by a wall of liquid force.He turned her to face him. Water droplets beaded on his lashes, on the sharp line of his jaw. His shirt was already plastered to his chest.Hers was sheer, clinging.She crossed her arms.
“Cold?” he asked, his voice cutting through the watery din.She shook her head, unable to speak.
“Good.” He stepped closer, backing her up until her shoulder blades met the cool, wet rock. He caged her in, one hand flat on the rock beside her head. The other came up to trace the line of her collarbone, exposed by the soaked blouse.His touch was not tentative. It was a study.“You’re so beautiful here.Like you belong to this place.Wild. Untouched.”
She flinched at the word ‘untouched.’ His mouth quirked.He knew.
His hand slid down, over the curve of her breast. Her breath hitched, loud in the space between them. He watched her face as his palm found the shape of her, the peak hardening instantly under the chilled, wet fabric.He didn’t just brush it. He took the weight of her in his hand, a firm, encompassing hold that stole the air from her lungs. His thumb rubbed back and forth over the nipple, a slow, relentless friction.
“Rohan,” she gasped.It was half protest, half plea.“Shhh,” he said, leaning in. His breath was warm against her temple.“This is our honeymoon.The one you never had. No reservations.No schedules. Just this.”
He bent his head, his lips finding the hollow of her throat.His mouth was hot, a shocking contrast to the cold water spraying around them. His other hand left the rock and mirrored the first, both hands now holding her, claiming her through the ruined blouse.Her head fell back against the stone with a soft thud.Her eyes closed. The roar of the waterfall filled her skull, a primal scream that mirrored the one building in her chest.
His mouth traveled up the line of her neck, his teeth grazing her jaw. “You feel it, don’t you?” he murmured against her skin.“This is what being alive is. Not that dead house.Not that silent bed. This.” He pressed his hips into hers, letting her feel the hard proof of his desire.It was aggressive.Unambiguous.
Terror and a sharp, unwelcome thrill shot through her.She pushed against his chest.“Stop. Someone—”
“No one,” he said, his voice low and certain.“We’re ghosts here. Just us.” He didn’t remove his hands. Instead, he lowered his head further, his lips closing over her nipple, biting gently through the soaked linen.A jolt went straight through her, white-hot and devastating. A sound escaped her, a ragged moan lost in the waterfall’s cry. Her hands, which had been pushing him, twisted into the fabric of his shirt, clutching.
He worked on her like that, with a focused intensity, until her knees were liquid and her thoughts were smoke. Then he pulled back, his own breathing ragged.He looked wrecked, victorious. He smoothed her hair back from her forehead, a tender gesture that felt more dangerous than anything else.
“See?” he whispered, his thumb stroking her cheek. “Freedom.”
He took her hand and led her back out into the blinding sun.The guide was smoking, looking the other way. The ride back to the reserve gate was a blur of green and gold. Rohan’s hand stayed on her leg, a brand.He talked casually to the guide about bird species, his voice normal, calm. As if he hadn’t just unraveled her in the heart of a waterfall.
Back at the borrowed bike, he handed her the helmet. His eyes swept over her, the transparent blouse, the shape of her clearly visible. “You might want this,” he said, shrugging out of his own damp shirt and handing it to her. He stood bare-chested in the dusk, unselfconscious, watching her put it on.It smelled of him, of sun and sweat and the wild air.
On the bike, the wind whipping at them as he took the curves too fast, she had no choice but to hold on to him.Her arms around his waist, her body pressed against his back. The world sped by in a smear of dying light.
He shouted back over the roar of the engine, the words snatched by the wind but reaching her clear enough.
“Tomorrow, I’m teaching you to swim.”