Later that day, they sat at the dining table to figure out the mechanics of their household, bodies close enough for knees to brush, sending jolts of electricity. He had opened a new, shared note on his phone, the title 'Home Expenses' glowing like a contract for their intimate alliance. Meena had to stop herself from giggling, the seriousness a turn-on in its structured allure-it was just so… Vijay, methodical and commanding.
"Okay, financials," he began, all business, his voice a low command that stirred her submission. "I've run the numbers, crunched them hard. My salary's higher, so I'll handle the rent, EB, internet, and car payment-thrusting into those burdens. It's just simpler. We can pool… say, 15k each?... into a joint account for groceries, going out, stuff like that, merging our resources. Sound good?"
"Perfectly," Meena said, genuinely impressed, her body flushing as she imagined pooling more than money. "That's super fair and clear, balanced like perfect symmetry in bed. Thank you."
"Good." He made a mental checkmark, a tick that echoed her inner pulses. "Chores." He looked up, his gaze piercing. "I… am not a good cook. I'm serious. I can make coffee, toast, Maggi, and curd rice. That's it-basic thrusts, no flair."
"I noticed the curd rice," she teased, her voice husky, imagining him mastering other skills.
"And I appreciate the honesty! Well, I can cook. I actually really like it, the heat, the stirring-it calms me down after a long day of reading bad student essays, releasing tension like a slow build to climax."
He looked visibly relieved, his shoulders relaxing, exposing the line of his neck she yearned to bite. "Excellent. That's a huge problem solved, a void filled." He tapped his phone. "Okay. 'Meals: Meena.' In that case, I'll handle all the cleaning-bathrooms, floors, trash-and the dishes after dinner. Every night, scrubbing deep. And I'll manage the grocery lists and ordering. I like making lists, detailing every need. That's a fair trade, right? Deal?"
"Deal," she said, and they actually shook on it, his hand warm and strong, almost engulfing hers in a grip that sent shivers to her core. It wasn't a business-like shake; it lingered for just a second too long, palms pressing with electric friction, and Meena felt a small flutter in her belly-and lower, a clench of desire. His palm was calloused, rough against her softness, but his grip was gentle, promising tender dominance. It felt like a real promise, and weirdly, it made her feel incredibly safe, enveloped in his control. This was a man she could build a life with-no games, no guessing, just clear, fair teamwork that could extend to the bedroom.
That evening, as their parents had advised, they visited the nearby Vinayagar temple, a sacred space humming with ancient energies. It was quiet, the stone floors cool under their feet, a contrast to the heat building between them. The air smelled of camphor and incense, heady and intoxicating like pheromones. As they stood side-by-side, shoulders nearly brushing, Meena noticed the little, curious glances from others-newly married, ripe with potential. She felt the small, heavy weight of her thali under her kurta, pressing against her skin like a mark of ownership, a feeling not of pride exactly, but of belonging, a "we" that throbbed with erotic unity. She glanced at Vijay, who stood with his eyes closed, looking completely peaceful, the lamplight catching the sharp, handsome line of his jaw, a feature she imagined tracing with her tongue. He was, she admitted to herself, a very good-looking man, his form begging to be explored, making her blush and look away as her nipples tightened.
On the walk back, under the yellow streetlights that cast a golden hue like candlelight for lovers, the conversation flowed easily, words weaving like foreplay.
"I was so nervous for my first-ever lecture," she admitted, her voice breathy. "I'm sure the students could see my hands shaking, trembling like in the grip of passion. I dropped all my notes. Right in front of the front row. It was awful, exposed and vulnerable!"
"You?" he asked, stopping to look at her, fascinated, his eyes devouring her with appreciative hunger. "I don't believe it. You're so confident, commanding. The way you handled your aunties… you're not shy, you own the room."
"That," she said, winking, her eye fluttering like a seductive invitation, "is a performance, my friend. Years of practice, masking the fire within. Inside, I'm usually terrified, a storm of nerves begging for release. But you have to act like you're in charge, or the 19-year-olds will eat you alive, devour you whole."
He smiled, a slow, appreciative smile that curled his lips like a promise of kisses. 'Witty Meena is also a good actor and secretly nervous,' he thought, making her feel more real, a multifaceted temptress. He found himself walking a little slower, matching her pace, wanting to prolong the conversation in the cool night air, bodies brushing occasionally in electric teases.
"A very good performance, then," he said quietly, his voice a caress. "So what did you want to be, before you were a performer, a siren on stage?"
"A detective," she said instantly, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
"A detective? Seriously?" he echoed, imagining her probing secrets with relentless curiosity.
"Totally! I wanted to solve mysteries, find clues, uncover hidden depths. I guess that's why I like being a professor. Analyzing poetry is just detective work, right? You look for clues, hidden meanings… delving into the layers, exposing the core. What about you?"
He looked a little embarrassed, a flush rising that made him even more alluring. "A pilot."
She stared, her gaze hungry. "A pilot? You? Mr. 'Rules and Schedules'?"
"Hey," he said, a little defensive but also pleased, his body language opening up. "It's the most logical job! It's all physics, navigation, and rules-thrust and control! You're in a complex machine, you're in command, and you get to see the whole world from above, dominating the view. You see how everything connects, intertwines. It's the same thing as my job. Just… on the ground, grounded yet soaring."
Meena smiled, a slow, deep smile that lit her face like post-coital glow. A detective and a pilot-a woman who wanted to know why, probing with insatiable curiosity, and a man who wanted to know how, mastering with precise thrusts. They were two strangers, tied together by a wedding, bound in silken vows. But after just 72 hours of smart, kind, and practical "negotiations," they were slowly, and for real, building a friendship, a foundation laced with erotic tension. And maybe, Meena thought, as he held the apartment door open for her, his hand brushing her back in a fleeting touch that ignited sparks, something just a little bit more-a blaze waiting to consume them.