Chapter 48: seducing the neighbor with clumsy acting
She turned, leading him into the living room and made a show of adjusting the pallu the part of the saree that falls on her shoulder.
As she did, she let the edge slip from her shoulder, allowing the silk to fall away just enough to reveal the smooth, creamy slope of her back, the delicate indentation of her spine leading down to where the saree was cinched at her waist.
She heard his sharp, quiet intake of breath behind her. "Sit, please," she said, gesturing to the sofa. "Can I get you some coffee?"
"Y-yes... Thank you." His voice was strained. She moved towards the kitchen, her walk a conscious, subtle sway. The silk clung to her buttocks with each step, outlining their full, round shape perfectly before shifting away.
She could feel his stare like a physical touch, hot and heavy on her back, on her hips. In the kitchen, she prepared two cups, her hands trembling slightly with the delicious tension.
This was a game she had imagined for weeks, ever since she'd first noticed his silhouetted figure watching her from his window across the yard. When she returned, he was perched on the edge of the sofa, looking entirely out of place.
She bent forward to place his cup on the low table in front of him. It was a calculated move. As she leaned, her saree, already loose, gaped open at the neckline. Wilson's coffee cup clattered in its saucer.
His gaze was locked, unblinking, on the exposed upper curves of her melons, so full and heavy they spilled forward with her movement. The deep valley between them was shadowed and inviting. She saw his knuckles whiten where he gripped his knees.
"Oh, I'm so clumsy," she murmured, straightening up slowly, making no move to pull the fabric back into place. The silk settled, but the damage was done. The image was seared into his mind. Her cherry, a dark, taut cherry behind the peach colored veil, was now all he could see.
"It's… its fine," he stammered, finally wrenching his eyes away to stare at his own hands. She sat beside him on the sofa, not on the separate chair, tucking her legs up beneath her. The movement hitched the saree up to her mid thigh, revealing a long, elegant stretch of bare leg.
She took a sip of her coffee, watching him over the rim of her cup. The silence stretched, thick and pulsating with unsaid things. "It must be difficult," he began, his voice rough. "It is being new to the neighborhood. So… alone..."
"My husband is a busy man," she said, letting a hint of sorrow tinge her voice. She let her hand fall to her own thigh, her fingers absently tracing circles on her skin. "He works so hard. He is often… very tired."
Wilson's eyes followed her hand. "A woman like you… shouldn't be tired, shouldn't be… neglected." The words were a low growl, no longer hesitant. She let her eyes meet his. They were dark, hungry.
The polite pretense was crumbling. "And what does a woman like me need, Mr. Wilson?"
"She needs to be seen," he said, his voice dropping. "She needs to be… appreciated." His hand, large and calloused, came to rest on the sofa cushion, mere inches from her bare leg.
"She needs to be reminded of what it feels like to have a man with… energy." Kamini felt a pooling heat between her legs. Her breath hitched. A soft, involuntary moan escaped her lips.
"Oh…" The sound, so wanton and sudden, seemed to shatter the last of his restraint. He moved his hand, not to her leg, but to the loose end of her pallu. His fingers closed around the silk.
"This," he whispered, his gaze burning into hers.
"This is a crime. To hide all this… beauty..." With a slow, deliberate pull, he began to draw the sari away from her body. She didn't stop him. She held her breath, her heart hammering against her ribs.
The silk whispered its way over her shoulder, down her arm, pooling in her lap. Her upper body was now completely bare. The afternoon light caught her skin. Her melons were magnificent, full and heavy, their weight a constant, aching presence she was finally free of.
Her cherries were dark, erect, pebbled tight with a mix of the cool air and her overwhelming arousal. Wilson's breath left him in a rush. He was mesmerized.
"My god," he breathed. His free hand came up, not quite touching, hovering just over the aching peak of one melon. "They're perfect." Tentatively, as if touching a holy relic, his rough fingertips finally made contact with the soft underside of her melon.
A jolt of pure lightning shot through her, making her arch her back and cry out. "Ah! Mister Wilson!"
"Just Wilson," he murmured with his voice thick with desire. He cupped her fully, his big hand easily supporting the heavy weight, his thumb brushing over her cherry. The sensation was so intense, so unlike the fumbling, indifferent touches of her husband, that she saw stars.
She moaned, long and loud, her head falling back. He wasn't just touching her. He was worshipping her. He lowered his head, and his mouth closed over her other cherry.
His tongue was hot and damp, licking over the sensitive nub before he sucked, gently at first, then with a growing hunger that had her clawing at his shoulders. The damp, pulling sensation sent waves of pleasure crashing through her, so potent they were almost painful.
Her hips began to move of their own accord, grinding against the silk bunched in her lap. "You taste like heaven," he growled against her skin, switching his attentions to her other melon, lavishing it with the same devouring hunger.
His hand kneaded the soft flesh, his fingers pinching and rolling the cherry he'd just abandoned. The dual assault was overwhelming. She was mindless with need, a series of pleading cries and moans falling from her lips.
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