The sound of water echoed in the ancient stone bath chamber—low, deep, and soothing, like the heartbeat of the haveli itself. Steam curled around carved pillars and rose into the latticed air, mingling with the faint scent of rose petals, sandalwood, and saffron.
Ruhanika lowered herself into the stone tub slowly, her legs sliding beneath the surface, stirring up clouds of powdered color that had clung to her skin. The water was warm—almost too warm—and kissed her sore thighs with gentleness.
She winced, then laughed softly to herself. “You ruined me.”
Behind her, Rudra was quiet. But when she glanced over her shoulder, he was leaning against the wall, still bare, streaked in violet and gold, watching her with the kind of hunger that refused to fade—even now.
“I warned you,” he said, stepping closer.
The bath was large enough for two. Ancient. Private. Likely forgotten by most. But he remembered—he always remembered the places no one else did.
He stepped in behind her, water sloshing as he settled, legs bracketing hers. His chest pressed to her back, arms sliding around her waist, his chin finding the hollow of her shoulder. She exhaled, melting back into him.
Outside, the festival still roared.
But in here, everything was soft. Still. Suspended.
He reached for the sponge resting on a copper tray beside them, dipped it in the rose-scented water, and began to run it over her shoulders. Slowly. Tenderly. As if her skin were parchment and he was writing a love letter in water and foam.
“I don’t think we got all the color off,” she murmured.
“Good,” he said. “I want pieces of you stained into me.”
She turned slightly, enough to see his face, his eyes—still hooded, still molten. He looked at her like she was the festival itself. A thing to worship. To taste.
His hand trailed down, between her breasts, dipping the sponge lower until it swirled circles over her belly. She sighed, arching into the lazy pressure.
“What are you doing?” she asked, already breathless.
“Cleaning you,” he said. But his voice was too low. Too amused.
“Liar.”
He grinned.
The sponge slipped beneath the water, over her hips. Then lower. Her legs fell open with a soft splash, her head tilting back to his shoulder. The first brush of the sponge over her folds made her inhale sharply—but it was the next stroke, slower, firmer, more deliberate, that made her moan.
“Still sensitive?” he asked, his voice a dark whisper against her ear.
She nodded. But she didn’t stop him.
His other hand slid up to cup her breast, thumb brushing lazily across her nipple, still pebble-hard beneath the water. She turned her head, catching his mouth in a kiss that was slow and aching.
He moved inside her again, just with fingers—this time only to feel. No hurry. No rush. Just the slow, circular rhythm of someone who knew her, who’d already taken her apart and now was simply... worshipping the wreckage.
“I could stay like this forever,” she murmured.
“Then don’t move,” he said, lips brushing her temple. “Let me bathe every part of you.”
And he did.
He washed her thighs with both hands, lifting one onto his lap to kiss her calf. He traced the inside of her knee with his tongue, smiling when she gasped again. Then, like a ritual, he turned her in the bath, letting her straddle him—water lapping over their bodies—her hands resting on his shoulders, breasts rising above the surface.
The powder still clung in places—pink in the hollow of her throat, orange between her fingers, a flash of green behind her ear.
He kissed every stain.
Every one.
“You’re so beautiful it hurts,” he said, sliding his hands down her slick back. “And now I’m hard again.”
She looked down, smirking. “You want to take me again... in water?”
“I want to take you anywhere,” he growled, “but this...”
He lifted her hips and guided her onto him again.
The warm water around them swelled and surged with their rhythm. It was different now—buoyant, intimate, a rolling tide of pressure and pleasure. She rode him slowly, her fingers gripping his wet shoulders, his mouth fastened to the peak of one breast.
Every time she rose and fell, he let her—hands relaxed on her hips, letting her set the rhythm. Slow. Luxurious.
She was drenched inside and out, her moans echoing off the old stone walls.
And when she came again, her head thrown back, curls wet and wild, water sloshing over the edge like a storm, Rudra grunted and followed her—filling her, holding her, anchoring them both in the heat.
They stayed locked like that, wet skin against wet skin, surrounded by floating petals, foam, and a haze of pink and blue clinging to the stone.
When her forehead rested against his, she smiled and whispered, “Next Holi, remind me to show up late again.”
He chuckled, voice ragged. “Next Holi, I’m hiding you before it even begins.”
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