All Strings Attached

Chapter Thirteen

Double update this week cause reader's request. Don't get used to it guys 👀. But please do tell me what you think of this new chapter! Votes, comments are always very encouraging for uni students whose graduation is under question!

Dhushyanth

"Reddy," Sita calls for me from inside the closet.

Hasn't she gotten comfortable in less than a day. "Yes?" I respond, from the bed, wondering what she wants.

Sita peeks out of the closet, strands of her hair falling on her face as she huffs and tries to tuck them behind her hair. "Come help me," she says, no tone of request within hearing range.

But her way of asking only amuses me. "I can't be of much help in clothing you," I let her know, getting out of bed anyway. "Undressing is my speciality."

She turns away, going back into the closet. "You haven't done enough of it to consider yourself an expert, don't get cocky."

Not since her anyway, I think to myself, accepting the loss. "What do you need help with?" I ask her, entering the closet to see her fully clothed in a green coloured saree.

The saree hugs her full butt, and is transparent enough to offer a view of her curvaceous waist and the plain blouse that teases a peek of her ample bosom, held together by a string at the back.

Sita clears her throat, causing me to look up, my ears heating up with mild embarrassment. "I might need another moment," I tease, unclipping her hair that is held up in a messy bun.

My wife kisses her teeth in annoyance as her long hair flows down her back, and she slaps my hand before taking her clip back. "I still have to do my makeup!" She says, setting the clip down on the dressing table and gathering her hair to strangle it into a bun, once again.

"You should leave it open," I recommend, assessing the thickness of the threads that hold her blouse together.

"Nobody wears a backless blouse to cover it up," Sita replies, refusing my suggestion. My narrowed eyes meet her challenging ones in the mirror.

"Fine," I relent, slightly put off by my own possessiveness. "Do whatever you like."

Sita's eyes soften, and she sighs softly, turning around to look at me directly. "Is it too much for a dinner with your family?" She asks, hesitantly.

I'd rather you saved it for me.

My heart paces up with unsaid thoughts. "Didn't you say my mother asked you to dress up?"

"But, you know," she says, as a way of explanation. "Do you think she'd mind?"

I consider lying to her, simply to save this for myself, on a later date, when we are at a better place, but keeping in mind that Sita didn't necessarily appreciate my mother telling her how to dress up when she called with the invitation to dinner, I decide I'd rather not drive an unnecessary wedge between them.

"I think she'd appreciate it," I answer, truthfully, even though it scrapes my insides a little bit.

"You sound awfully enthusiastic about that," she comments, handing me something that looks like catering tongs, but is too heavy to actually use for catering.

"What's this?" I wonder, clicking it together to hear the satisfying sounds.

"Do you not know what it is?" Sita asks incredulously, taking it back from me. "Don't touch the insides—" she points to the golden plates inside the tongs— "you'll burn yourself."

"What do you mean?" I ask, accepting it when she hands it to me again.

"It's a straightener," she explains, "it's used to straighten your hair."