"ABHI! ABHI! ABHI!"
She can hardly think for the commotion around her. Teenaged girls have started chanting his name like a prayer. She shouldn't be able to hear him amidst all the noise but inexplicably his voice is ringing in her ears.
For a second, she tries to hold herself back. She's one of those traditional wives who never refers to her husband by his name. Well, almost never. He can sometimes tear it from her lips but that's always in private.
But it's futile to hold herself away from the push-pull of the crowd. She lets herself be carried by the crowd's screams until she too is chanting. For one glorious second, she too is caught up in the amorphous mass of bodies swaying in front of the stage. She is nobody and everybody.
She tries to resist it. She reminds herself that she is Pragya the wife, and not Pragya the fan. But when the man in front of her is single-handedly filling up a thousand-seat venue with the sheer force of his passion for music, it's easy to forget.It's easy to forget that the larger-than-life idol on stage is the same man she makes breakfast for every morning, the same man she kisses every night. She doesn't even try to reconcile those two images in her mind. She just sways to the beat. For how long she doesn't know - maybe seconds, maybe hours.
He launches into a lengthy solo and she realizes that the even though he's vibrating off every atom in this room with his music, he's not really there. He's no longer on this planet. Maybe he's somewhere in his chequered past, or maybe he's somewhere in his unknown future. Or maybe he's just right here, in the moment, just him and his guitar.
She feels an irrational twinge in her stomach. She wants to be there with him. She wants him to dip her and sweep her off her feet like he's doing to the mike stand. She wants him to strum his fingers on her instead of his guitar strings. She wants that single-minded focus on her.
He's banging his head like a madman now, his hair spraying sweat on stage. She remembers the last time sweat ran down his face like that. It wasn't even a week ago. It was after a fight and he was moving over her frantically, each thrust both a punishment and an apology. He's thrusting his hips on stage now. She can feel them slamming into/against? her as surely as she can hear the waves of music washing over her body. She can no longer tell whether the throbbing in her insides is from the bass or something entirely different.
She needs it to stop. It's a brilliant concert but she doesn't care. She needs to touch the demigod on stage, just to make sure he's real. Touch, ravish and possess. Until she's sure he's only hers.
Thankfully his solo is the finale. Before she knows it, the music has died down and the audience is roaring its applause. Returning to him the energy he imbued them with. She can see the euphoria radiating off him and she'll give anything to join him in that moment.
"Bhabhi! There you are!" Aakash is approaching her. Somehow the crowds have thinned until she's left alone in the VIP area. "The car is ready."
She can't go back to real life tonight. Not before seeing him. "Akash, actually I wanted to see his Green Room. I've never been in one before. Can you show me where it is?"
"Sure bhabhi. Mahesh here will take you." Good thing Aakash is so distracted now. There will be questions to answer later but she'll worry about that tomorrow. She makes her way backstage. She likes moving away from the mass of bodies. In the distance she sees them scream and converge - probably around Abhi.
Finally she reaches the unobtrusive door and hesitates. He performs so regularly here he has his own room rented out. She has seen so many new sides of Abhishekh today, she's not sure she's ready to see more. But she's being pushed by something more powerful than herself so she enters.
It's different from what she expected. Soundproof of course. The blood rushing through her head deafens her in the sudden silence. Spotless - no piles of clothing, no forgotten dumbbells, no sheets of music strewn on the floor. His drum set and second-favourite guitar take pride of place. There are the usual hundreds of bottles of product that she won't even try to understand. Surprisingly, there's a Ganesha idol among them to which she makes her requisite bow. Courage. This place is so him she needs to sit down for a second. She hopes she isn't intruding.
Then she spots what she needs - a little pull out sofa bed against the far wall - and all doubts fly from her mind. Not ideal, but now she doesn't need much more than him. It takes some effort to open it out. So he hasn't used it in a while - good. Luckily it's clean, like everything else in the room. No lube though. No matter, it doesn't seem like she'll need it.
She debates how to place herself. Her romance heroines would probably drape themselves naked on the furniture, modesty precariously preserved with strategically placed sheet music. But she's still Pragya so she settles for sitting on the bed, her dupatta sliding off her shoulder in what is hopefully an alluring manner. And then she waits.
She's about to take matters into her own hands when she hears the click of the lock. He's here. She feels him before she sees him in the darkened room. That delicious energy is still radiating off him. His shadow looms massive in the doorway. Suddenly the spacious green room feels tiny.
"Fuggy? Sorry I'm so late. I was with my fans - Mmph!"
She's smashes her lips against his. No need for talking. He freezes for a second and then his arms close around her automatically. Her hands are everywhere - on his face, his broad chest, and his tense back. She needs to touch him, feel him, confirm he's real and not just the mirage she experienced in the arena.
He staggers back under her eagerness and she pushes him into the wall. She needs her entire body flush with his. He gasps and she takes the opportunity to slide her tongue into his mouth. She dimly registers that she's never come on to him like this before. She can't imagine why.
She rains kisses on his face, his neck and his chest.
A zip scrapes her lips. "Too many clothes."
The leather jacket and mesh shirt come flying off. His leather pants are tight - tighter now than when they started, and they take some more time.
"Fu-gy," he gasps. "To what do I owe this...pleasure?"
He moans as her hand grazes him and his pants fall. She doesn't bother answering - she has better things to do with her mouth. He starts to make music again and she likes it better than his concert music. Because this time, it's only for her. His hands slowly tangle in her hair as she teases him.
"Hands off."
He's learnt not to argue with her. She manoeuvres him to the sofa bed. Thank God he's still a little dazed, otherwise she would be no match for his bulk. She pauses to rake her eyes down his body. Hard, panting, wanting. The last time she stared at him he had thousands of eyes on him. Here he's bared to her gaze alone.
"Like what you see?"
She can never resist that cocky grin. She straddles his wide torso, their bodies meeting at just the right place. Somehow her clothes have also disappeared in the last few minutes. He grazes his hands along her curves and she gives in for one delicious moment.
"Tonight I'm doing the touching."
He looks contemplative instead of surprised but there's no time to dwell on his expression. She wraps the fingers of his left hand around his right wrist. Not ideal, but her dupatta's hanging off the drum set and she doesn't want to break contact with his body. She slides up his body to place his interlinked arms above his head.
And then Pragya freezes. Because he's just taken the opportunity to give her one long lick, right in the place where she needs it most. She can't stop the moan that escapes and she can feel him smile against her. She kneels above his face for a few more sublime moments, until she can't bear it any more.
She needs to be around him. Now.
She positions herself above his readiness and inches her way down. It's the first slow move she's made all night. But she's been waiting hours for this union, and she wants to make it count. After what seems like an infinity he's fully buried in her and she watches at him. His hands are tightly fisted above his head, his teeth are almost perforating his lower lip and his eyes are looking straight back into hers. Mine. Only mine. She savours the delicious feeling. She takes it and moves with it, making slow circles against his torso.
"Please...Fuggy...faster..."
"Shh...this is just the alaap."
But the alaap doesn't last very long. Before she knows it he's moving below her too and she needs to move faster and faster. They're creating a symphony with their bodies and their voices and it's the most beautiful thing she's ever heard. They're moving faster and faster into a crescendo she can't control. Then, a second of exquisite silence. A moment later they're tumbling off a cliff together and she's in no state to hear anything.
It's many minutes later when she hears the soothing sounds of their breathing. She's collapsed on his chest and his fingers are delicately threading through her damp hair.
"So," she can practically hear his grin, "I take it Madam Professor liked the concert?"
She nods wordlessly against his chest.
"Hey, what's wrong Fuggy?" He cups her flaming cheeks to tilt her head towards his face.
"It was just...too beautiful," she whispers. "You were magnificent, untouchable. And I wanted so much to join you in the world you were in."
"Fuggy, Fuggy, Fuggy. " He ruffles her hair. "Finally you know how I feel when you get buried in one of your silly novels. Only policemen care so much about crime and punishment."
"Dostoyevsky is not silly! But neither is your music...I'm sorry I said it sounded like dying cats."
He chuckles against her forehead. "I'm glad we could come to this understanding Fuggy." He tucks his leather jacket around her shoulders. "Goodnight biggest fan."
"Goodnight Rockstar."
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