“Say my name,” he murmured into her skin.
She froze.
“Say my name, Meera.”
“Hukum…”
“No.” His hand tightened at her back, pulling her closer. “My name.”
Her composure slipped.
“I cannot…”
“Try.”
His mouth moved across her throat with unbearable patience. “Try, Meera.”
“Abhi…”
The rest caught. Her eyes shut.
“Abhinav.”
Tiny.
Almost swallowed by the warmth of his neck where her face had ended up hiding.
He stopped.
His hand pressed firm against her back as he lifted his head. His eyes darkened.
She kept her eyes closed.
“Meera.”
“I cannot do that again.”
“You just did.”
“I cannot.” Her cheeks burned. “Please do not ask me to.”
His thumb brushed her cheek. “Why?”
She drew in a shaking breath and opened her eyes.
“I have never heard Maa Sa call Babuji by his name.” Her voice was soft. “Not once. None of the women here use their husband’s names.”
He listened.
“They believe it shortens his life. Weakens his health. Damages his fortune.” Her eyes filled again. “It may sound old but I grew up with it. I cannot risk anything happening to you. I only spoke your name because you asked.”
Her lashes lowered.
“Tomorrow morning I am apologising to Maa for it.”
A quiet laugh escaped him. Warm, fond. “Meera.”
“Don't laugh.”