[tw: trauma]

this is a sequel to "love always" so please read that first! this is going to be an emotional roller coaster. and a short story like its predecessor.

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THIS KISS WAS different, Misha could feel it in her bones. This kiss was nothing they had shared before. They were innocent pecks sometimes, more of tongue and mouth than lips sometimes.

But this kiss was different. They were in his room, and she was dressed in her night gown, and he was bare chested. This kiss was different because it was prelude to sex.

She had often wondered in their three months of dating after their high school reunion how it felt to be kissed like this. When you knew the next step was his hands wrapping around hers, clothes shedding, more touching, skin to skin. And she felt relief because in the back of her mind, the scenes from the night when she was seventeen kept on playing when she thought about kissing Virat, and making love to him.

During her time in medical school, the reason why she had not committed herself to a serious relationship was because she had tried once. Involving in deeper intimacy, but to trust someone with your body and heart and soul was so difficult. Kisses were fine. Fondling was fine sometimes, but the endings were always disaster.

And at the end of the day, she would always curse Rishabh Singhania for breaking her. Hurting her. Damaging her.

But now she was relieved. Relieved because this was Virat. Her Virat. He would never hurt her. She trusted him. Loved him.

Always. Always. Always.

She did not feel any fear of the kissing at least. She, in fact, felt ravenous when she cinched her arms around his neck. Her hands roamed everywhere. She wanted his hair, his tousled, dark hair, and she dug her fingers.

Virat chuckled against her mouth, seeking out a breath, and then kissing her again after breathing out a Mish.

"Mish," he repeated. His voice hoarse, clogged with so many emotions. He had been gone for a month to New Zealand for a tour, and had missed her with every fiber of his being. So did she.

Virat had caught her around the waist, but now his hands inched slowly upward. He held her like she was a pillar, palms flat, fingers splayed, like he was carefully balancing her upright. When his hands were at her ribs, his fingertips grazed the sides of her breasts. When he moved up, the hollow of his palm slid perfectly over the curve of her breast. Here he paused, allowing the warmth of his hands to seep through the linen of her gown.

Misha fought for lucidity in his slow actions, in the swirling sensations of his kisses, forcing herself to think about his hands on her body. She waited for fear-something to happen, a slight recoil, or forcing immobility, a slightest alarm of tremor. But nothing happened. She only felt Virat's love, his gentleness and strength.

She wanted more, so she fell forward-seeking more of his body, warmth and hands. After what felt like years, when she was out of her mind with want and need, she felt his hand testing her breast.

Misha whimpered, and yet again, bowed her body forward. Her hands dropped from his neck, and now clasped his muscular shoulders. Her fingers dug in, feeling his strength. She sighed, squeezing them once again. He was very strong, yet so restrained. That was the one thing she loved about Virat. He was always so in control-never letting his lust wash over him like an animal. She reveled in his power, knowing he would never use it against her.

"Misha, you will be my undoing." Virat rasped, leaving her mouth to breathe, dragging his face across her cheek and ear and hair. He staggered, just a little, and pulled away to glance around. Together, they fell on the couch, and he stooped suddenly, lifting her, and pivoting the two of them.

Misha laughed, kissing his neck-devouring the warm skin, her arms grazing against his beard. Virat groaned, and his hands went to her hair, holding her against him as she nuzzled and breathed him in, as she said his name into his ear.

Virat's fingers began to work through her tied hair, massaging it free. "I love your hair open."

"So do I." Misha replied, sliding her hands up his arms, and then clasped either side of his face, holding him in place. Virat chuckled and widened his legs. She slid lower into his lap, dropping into the notch formed by his legs. The proximity felt urgently right, her hips pressed against him, and she squirmed to nestle in.

Virat groaned. She'd jostled from his mouth and she rose up to recapture it. He groaned a second time, and slid a large palm down her spine to cup her bottom. She gasped at the pleasure of the new closeness. His hand then delved sideways, feeling the roundness of her hip, then lower still to her thigh through the linen, hooked over his leg. She relished it all, kissing him with her mouth while her body burned beneath his touch. Her brain floated above them.

She was about to touch his chest once again, when she felt his hands skating down to graze her ankle. It was a light touch, but something about the touch made her brain to hitch, and she was plummeted from the misty seventh sky back to his dimly lit bedroom. Back to earth with a thud.

Misha went very still, sucking in a labored breath and holding it very dear to her heart. She waited. The overloaded senses of touch and taste receded like a wave, while sound and sight crashed over her. His breathing was so loud. His hands were too big and too . . . everywhere. Clasping her bottom, wrapping around her ankle.

Before he could lift the hem of her gown, panic bolted through Misha like a crashing meteroid.

"Wait . . ." she heard herself yelp, and then, "No." She abruptly pushed herself from his lap.

Virat's hands flew back as if she'd combusted in his arms. His face was frozen in horror and guilt.

Misha's panic flared, leaping inside her like a shooting flame, and then, almost as quickly, it dissipated. It sank slowly, deflated and powerless, like a limp snail. In its wake, the terrible feelings of regret and confusion and anger. Resentful, bitter anger. Rishabh had packed her with latent panic in the same way a meteor crashed through the atmosphere. She'd been designed to crash and explode all along, sabotaged against loving touch. Any loving touch.

"I'm sorry, Virat. I'm so sorry." she said breathlessly, hiding her face to conceal the damn tears.

"There's no reason for you to be sorry, Misha. I overstepped. I frightened you, this has been too soon. Too quick. I should have taken it slow. I am sorry."

"No," she said immediately. "It is not you. It was me. I-" she stopped, searching for the right words. How could she even tell him that his touch reminded her of Rishabh? Of her tormentor? Either he would hate her, or it would break him. "I am sorry, Vi."

"No," Virat shook his head. "I was aggressive. It is just that I missed you, and it had been too long. I should have realized you were not ready. There's no excuse."

"I was ready, Vi." Misha cried, flopping herself on the bed, and even though the distance between them were just few arms, it felt like oceans. "Until I wasn't. I knew what was coming, and I liked it. Loved it. Until I didn't. It was delightful all the time, and then one single moment-and I panicked."

"Misha," Virat breathed out, closing the distance between them. She felt like he was swimming a frozen ocean, because all she felt was panic and pain. She had hurt him.

He said nothing, just crouched on the floor, in front of her. He then took her hands in his, and dropped a kiss on her palm. "We will wait till your panic subdues, Mish."

But what if we it never ceases, Virat? What if you have to wait for an eternity? Misha thought to herself. She wanted to laugh.

Always. What a dastardly, ugly, bitter word. It slapped right on her face. His face. Their faces.

As if he had heard her perilous thoughts, Virat softly whispered, "We will wait even it takes forever, Mish. This I promise you."