Chapter 33
Aria's POV
Aria had expected indulgence when she stepped into the spa suite. She had expected luxury—plush towels, scented oils, the kind of attention to detail that made Veda Islands what it was. What she hadn't expected was him.
Kabir stood near the massage table, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt with practiced ease, as if this was the most natural thing in the world. The room was a cocoon of warmth, low golden lighting flickering against the sheer curtains that framed a view of the reflecting pools outside. The scent of sandalwood and jasmine wrapped around her, and soft zen music hummed in the background, low and hypnotic.
She blinked, feeling momentarily off-balance. "You're in the wrong room."
He smirked, that infuriating, slow tilt of his lips that made her stomach tighten. "I don't think I am."
She glanced at the table, then back at him. "What do you mean you don't think you are?"
"I told them I'd handle this personally." He said it so casually, as if he weren't upending her entire expectation for the next ninety minutes.
Her arms crossed instinctively. "You're joking."
His gaze flickered with amusement as he picked up a glass bottle of oil, warming it between his hands. "Certified masseuse, Aria. College job."
Her mouth opened, then closed. "You?" She eyed him suspiciously. "You're actually trained in this?"
A low chuckle rumbled from him. "Would you like to see my credentials, or do you trust me?"
Trust. That word curled in the air between them, heavier than it should be. She knew the smart thing to do—the safe thing—would be to leave. There was something about this that felt entirely different from every other moment between them. A game they shouldn't be playing. But there was also the part of her that was curious, that liked pushing limits, liked testing him. And if he was offering…
She lifted her chin. "Fine. But if you suck at this, I'm walking out halfway through."
He smirked like a man who had never been doubted. "You won't."
The moment she lay down, she knew she had made a mistake.
It wasn't the setting—the luxurious warmth of the suite, the way the candlelight flickered against sheer curtains, the hypnotic hum of spa music in the background. It was the first touch.
Kabir's hands were warm, the oil slick against his palms as they pressed into her back, slow and deliberate. He moved with purpose, his fingers finding the knots in her shoulders and working them loose with unbearable precision.
Aria had expected him to be good at this. He was good at everything. But she hadn't expected him to be this good.
She exhaled as his thumbs dug into the base of her neck, rolling out the tension there, the pressure so perfect it sent a shiver down her spine.
"You carry too much stress here," he murmured, his voice low. "Always thinking. Always holding yourself stiff."
She forced herself to sound unaffected. "It's called responsibility."
His hands pressed deeper, his fingers kneading slow circles at the junction of her neck and shoulders.
"You know," he mused, his thumbs dragging down her spine, "there's a difference between responsibility and refusing to let yourself breathe."
She didn't answer. Mostly because she couldn't.
His touch was methodical, hypnotic, pulling every ounce of tension from her body, easing her into a state of bliss she hadn't prepared for.
Then his hands moved lower.
His palms slid down her back, tracing the length of her spine with maddening precision, thumbs working into the muscles just above her waist. His touch was strong, firm, but so slow it made heat curl in her stomach.
Her breath hitched when his fingers skimmed the curve of her waist.
She knew that wasn't necessary.
And yet, he didn't stop.
Her skin tingled as his hands glided lower, over the dip of her lower back, his thumbs pressing into the tension near her hips.
She clenched her fingers against the massage table, desperate to hold onto something.
"Kabir," she said—not as a warning, not as a protest.
Just his name.
His hands stilled. Just for a fraction of a second.
Then, instead of pulling away, he moved to her legs.
The shift made her inhale sharply.
"Relax," he murmured. "You're not used to this, are you?"
"Used to what?" she managed, her voice unsteady.
"Letting someone else take control."
He worked his way down her thighs, slow and deliberate, his hands kneading into the tension there.
Aria nearly cursed herself for choosing a deep tissue massage.
His fingers pressed into the muscle with perfect pressure, his thumbs sliding along the backs of her thighs. The friction sent warmth spreading through her entire body.
Her breath stuttered.
He moved lower, to her calves, working them with slow, steady strokes, dragging his palms over every inch of exposed skin.
Her eyes fluttered shut.
She wasn't just relaxed. She was completely lost in it.
His hands moved back up, starting at her ankles, gliding slowly along her calves, her thighs—stopping just short of anything that would have made her shatter.
She was too far gone to stop herself when a soft sigh slipped past her lips.
His hands paused.
Her body tensed.
The moment stretched too long, too quiet.
And then—his hands lifted.
"Turn over," he said.
Her eyes snapped open.
There was no teasing in his voice now. No amusement.
It was calm. Steady. Controlled.
She hesitated, but not for the reason she should have.
Slowly, she turned, adjusting the robe around herself, forcing her breathing to even out.
When she met his gaze, her pulse skipped.
His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were dark, shadowed with something she didn't want to name.
His hands found her arms first, working the tension from her forearms, her wrists. It was almost too intimate, the way his fingers pressed into the delicate skin there.
Then he moved to her stomach.
Aria nearly flinched.
Not because it felt bad. Because it felt too much.
He was careful, too careful, dragging his palms over her abdomen in long, slow strokes.
Her breathing turned shallow.
His hands splayed over her waist, pressing lightly, his fingers brushing her ribs.
She shouldn't be reacting to this.
But her body betrayed her.
She could feel her pulse thundering everywhere.
Kabir must have noticed, because his hands slowed.
Her throat was dry. "You—"
"Shh."
His voice was too low. Too smooth.
Her lashes fluttered shut as his hands dragged up once more, along her ribs, his thumbs barely grazing the undersides of her arms.
Her entire body was too warm, too hyperaware.
She should tell him to stop.
She didn't.
The weight of his hands lingered for a second too long.
And then—finally—he lifted them.
The loss of contact was like losing warmth in winter.
"That's ninety minutes," he murmured.
Aria opened her eyes slowly.
She felt heavy, loose-limbed, but her pulse was still racing.
Her throat worked, trying to find something—anything—to say.
She sat up, her robe shifting as she tried to collect herself.
Kabir was watching her.
She could feel it.
When she looked at him, something flickered across his face, there and gone too fast.
He didn't smirk. Didn't tease.
That was what made it worse.
Then, after a beat, his lips quirked.
"Told you I was good with my hands."
Aria blinked.
And then, despite everything, despite how utterly undone she felt—she huffed a quiet laugh.
"Cocky as ever."
"Confident," he corrected smoothly.
She should have rolled her eyes.
But she felt the shift.
The tension had snapped, but the aftermath still remained.
He stepped back, moving toward the door.
Just before he left, he turned to her, his gaze flicking over her once more.
"Enjoy your shower, Aria."
And then he was gone.
She exhaled, running a hand over her face.
Even though the room was empty, he was still everywhere.
Her skin still tingled, still burned from where his hands had been.
She pressed her palms to her stomach, to the place where his fingers had traced over her ribs.
This was a bad idea.
But God, did it feel good.