That room
541 Words
The room had been small.
Quiet.
A sanctuary away from the noise and her father’s reach.
The door had barely closed before the world outside ceased to exist entirely.
He hadn’t rushed
That was the first thing she noticed.
He stood looking at her the way he had across the crowd, like he had all the time in the world and intended to use every second of it.
“You’re thinking again,” he said.
“I’m always thinking.”
“I know.” A step closer. “I don’t mind.”
His hand came up slowly, no urgency, no assumption and brushed a strand of hair from her face.
Such a small thing.
It shouldn’t have unraveled her.
It did.
“You can still leave,” he murmured.
She looked up at him.
“I know.”
She didn’t move.
She closed the distance herself.
He pushed the door closed.
And turned her back against the wall.
His weight pressing into her, solid, real, and overwhelming in the best possible way.
There was no more talking.
Just the sound of fabric sliding against skin and the jagged rhythm of their breathing.
He tasted like the drink she’d had and the night air.
His mouth was demanding, devouring hers as if he were trying to memorize her taste before the sun came up.
And yet
beneath the urgency, something tender ran through it.
Like he was also trying to be careful with her.
Like she was something worth being careful with.
Ellora’s hands were everywhere.
The corded muscle of his shoulders. The hair at the nape of his neck.
She pulled him closer, needing to erase every millimeter of air between them.
He lifted her.
Her legs locked around his waist.
She remembered the friction.
The way the world tilted until there was no floor, no ceiling.
Only the heat of him.
Only the steadiness of his hands, like he had her completely, and had no intention of letting go.
He buried his face in the crook of her neck.
A low, guttural sound escaped him, half-moan, half-growl.
The sound of a man losing a fight with himself.
And choosing, gladly, to lose.
“Ellora,” he gasped against her skin.
Not a question.
An anchor.
Like her name in his mouth was the only thing keeping him tethered.
She had let go.
For the first time in twenty-one years she wasn’t a daughter, or a legacy, or a prisoner of careful living.
She was just skin and bone and a fire she didn’t want to put out.
No armor.
No performance.
Just her—fully, completely her, and the terrifying quiet ease of being known by someone who hadn’t even tried yet.
She hadn’t expected to feel safe.
That was the part she could never explain afterward.
Not swept away. Not reckless.
Safe.
His voice low against her skin.
Her fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt.
The world outside, her father’s rules, her careful life, every wall she’d spent years building , none of it existed in that room.
Just warmth.
Just him.
Just a moment that didn’t belong anywhere else.
And now
standing in that room again
not that room
this one
it collided.
Past and present.
- Writer
