Baby Latika
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Her silk sari whispered against the marble floor like a secret she was about to confess. The lamp-light traced the generous curve of her hip, a shadow-play that made my breath catch in my throat. She paused, one hand resting on the doorframe, and the air thickened with a longing older than the moonlight spilling through the window. The scent of jasmine and warm sandalwood clung to her skin, a perfume that promised a heat I had only dreamed of. Her dark eyes, framed by a fall of unruly hair, held a challenge that was both a dare and an invitation. I could feel the pulse of my own desire, a slow drumbeat answering the sway of her silhouette. She turned, and the fabric of her blouse shifted, revealing a sliver of brown shoulder that glowed like polished amber in the dim room. A quiet smile played on her lips, a knowing curve that spoke of pleasures withheld and pleasures yet to be discovered. The space between us seemed to shrink, charged with a connection so tangible I could almost taste its sweetness on the air. In that breathless pause, I surrendered to the pleasure of anticipation, my every nerve alive to the promise of her touch.
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