Chapter 5: The Edge of Desire

The preparations were complete.
It wasn’t that John had many belongings; rather, he had spent too much time and energy pulling himself together mentally after everything that had happened. Besides, the city seemed determined to wrap him in its embrace before his departure. He sat in his office at the publishing house, surrounded by boxes that smelled of dust and the past. On the desk lay his grandfather’s notes, the photograph of Shri Devi, and the ticket to Delhi that Kate had booked for him. Tomorrow, he would set off for Varanasi, but now, in the half-darkness of the office, his thoughts were far from India. Lucy. Her warm hands, her breath, her painful words about the distance between them — they buzzed in his head, offering no peace. John felt torn between the urge to rush to her and the fear that her tears were merely a game.

He leaned back on the old couch in the corner of the office and closed his eyes. Exhaustion settled over him like a heavy blanket, and he didn’t notice as he drifted into sleep, plunging into chaotic dreams where images of Lucy, Shri Devi, and the unknown temples of Varanasi intertwined.

Outside, the rain tapped a magical melody, using thousands of windowsills across London as its instruments.
In his dream, John was a five-year-old boy again, fishing with his grandfather at the old lake near their country house.

Nothing was working out for him, but that didn’t bother him at all. The joy came from the process itself. So much was new and fascinating. More than that, it was rare for him to spend time with his grandfather, whom he loved dearly.

“Hold it tighter!” his grandfather coached, supporting John’s fishing rod.
“It’s biting!”

Success! A fish was on the hook.

“Pull harder, little one! Focus.”

The catch was no small prize!

“Hold on!”

Before he could blink, John was yanked forward with the rod into the water. He had become the prey himself.

“John!” But John no longer heeded his grandfather’s voice. The dark depths were pulling him under. From the outside, that lake certainly didn’t seem so vast or terrifying.

Suddenly, he saw a delicate silhouette near the bottom. And a whisper, calling him closer.

The silence was broken by a gentle touch. At first, John thought it was part of the dream, but the sensation grew clearer — soft fingers glided along his neck, slowly, as if exploring his skin. He snapped his eyes open but didn’t move, trying to understand what was happening. In the dim light of the desk lamp, he saw Kate. Her blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders, her eyes gleaming in the half-darkness, filled with a mix of shame and desire. She sat beside him on the couch, her hand lingering on his collarbone, her breath quick and uneven.

“Kate?” John whispered, his voice hoarse from sleep and surprise. But she didn’t answer; her fingers continued their path, sliding down his chest, unbuttoning the top of his shirt. Her touch was bold, almost daring, and John felt his body respond despite the chaos in his mind. She thought he was asleep — or perhaps wanted him to think so.

Kate leaned closer, her hair tickling his cheek, the fresh lavender scent of her shampoo filling the air. Her lips hovered inches from his, and John felt the warmth of her breath mingling with his own. She’s hesitating, he thought, but her hand, slipping under his shirt, told a different story. Her fingers traced the contours of his muscles, each touch like an electric spark awakening something primal in him.

“John,” she whispered, her voice low, almost husky, brimming with passion she had likely suppressed for a long time. She leaned in, her lips brushing his — tentative at first, as if testing, then deeper, with a hunger that made John forget everything. He returned the kiss, his hands instinctively wrapping around her waist, pulling her closer. Her body was hot, soft, and he felt her breasts press against him through the thin fabric of her blouse.

Kate let out a soft moan as his hands slid down her back, unbuttoning her blouse in one swift motion. The fabric fell to the couch, revealing her skin, glistening in the dim lamplight. Her fingers trembled as she reached for his belt, unbuckling it with quiet determination. John felt his shirt slip from his shoulders, leaving his skin open to her touch. Her hands explored his chest, his stomach, venturing lower, each movement like a wave washing away his doubts. Her lips found his again, bolder this time, and she pressed herself against him, her hips meeting his, igniting a heat that pulsed through his entire body.

Their breaths mingled, hot and uneven, and the office seemed to shrink to the couch, to their bodies burning with closeness. Kate pulled back for a moment, her eyes shining in the dim light, filled with desire and a hint of fear. John couldn’t tear his gaze from her bare shoulders, the curve of her waist, the way her skin gleamed in the faint light. He reached for her, his hands sliding along her hips, pulling her closer, and she responded, her fingers tangling in his hair, her lips finding his in a kiss that was no longer just passionate but openly sexual, promising something more.

Kate hadn’t expected this outcome. She didn’t even understand what had come over her.
Catching John asleep in his office, she couldn’t have anticipated this result.
Amid the whirlwind of her thoughts, she hadn’t come close to predicting this outcome.
Now, in the moonlight, she stood before him in all her beauty.

Kate shed the rest of her clothes, her skin glowing in the dim lamplight as if lit by an inner fire. Her heart pounded so loudly it seemed to fill the entire office, drowning out even the distant hum of London’s streets. Every nerve in her body burned, heat spreading from her chest to the tips of her trembling fingers, consumed by unrestrained desire. John stood before her, his shirt unbuttoned, his chest rising with heavy breaths, and Kate couldn’t look away from his skin, from the lines of his muscles illuminated in the faint light. Her body burned as if gripped by fever, every movement — as she pressed against him, as her hips touched his, as her fingers glided over his chest — steeped in a longing she had long suppressed. She wanted him — not just his body, but his essence, his warmth, his attention that so often slipped away from her. Her lips, still wet from their kiss, trembled as she imagined how he would respond, how his hands would grip her tighter, how their bodies would merge in a single rhythm. Kate felt her skin blaze under his gaze, her breasts, freed from fabric, heavy with the desire pulsing through every cell. She wanted to dissolve into him, to forget the publishing house, the archives, everything that tethered her to this gray reality. Her fingers, gliding along his hips, weren’t just touches — they were a plea, a call, a cry from her body that craved John as if he were the only one who could quench this fire. Her breath quickened, almost ragged, and she pressed closer, feeling her skin tremble against his warmth, her heart beating in sync with his. This was more than passion — it was a deep, primal need that made her forget shame, boundaries, everything but him.

John, meanwhile, felt something wild and uncontrollable awakening within him, like a beast he had long kept chained. His body was torn apart by her touch, by the warmth of her skin, by the way her hips pressed against his, igniting a heat that surged through his veins like molten metal. It was overwhelming, almost painful — this animalistic pull that made his hands tremble as he gripped her waist, as his fingers traced the curve of her back. He wanted her, wanted her so fiercely that his reason retreated, giving way to instinct that demanded he forget Lucy, Varanasi, everything.

But suddenly, an image of Lucy flashed in his mind. Her auburn hair, her painful words, her tears. “Why are you so cold to me…” The memory hit like cold water, and John froze. His arms, wrapped around Kate, stilled, and he pulled away, his breath heavy, his heart pounding with a mix of passion, guilt, and confusion.

“Kate,” he said hoarsely, looking away. “We can’t… I can’t.”

She froze, her eyes widening with shock and shame. Her hands quickly covered her chest, as if she’d only just realized how far they’d gone. Her cheeks flushed, and she turned away, grabbing her blouse from the couch.

“I… I thought…” she began, but her voice trembled, and she didn’t finish. “Sorry, John. I shouldn’t have…”

“It’s not your fault,” he said quickly, standing and adjusting his shirt. His body still trembled with heat, but Lucy’s image stood before his eyes like a reproach. “It’s just… not the right moment.”

Kate nodded, avoiding his gaze. She dressed quickly, her movements sharp, as if trying to hide her shame. John felt a pang of guilt but didn’t know what to say. He watched as she gathered her things, her blonde hair falling over her face, hiding her expression.

“I’ll leave the folder on the desk,” she said quietly, pointing to the papers she’d brought. “It’s information about Ajay Rathod. And… good luck in Varanasi.”

She left without looking back, the door closing softly behind her. John stood in the middle of the office, feeling his heart slowly calm. The scent of lavender lingered in the air, mingling with the smell of old papers and his own confusion. He sank onto the couch, covering his face with his hands and sighing. Lucy. Kate. Shri Devi.

“Idiot… Hurting the one person who…” he muttered, cursing himself.

He picked up the folder Kate had left. Inside was a letter from Ajay Rathod, dated 1964, and a few excerpts from his lectures on tantric rituals. “Tantra is not merely physical,” Ajay wrote. “It is a path to the divine through the union of souls. But Shri Devi warned: not everyone is ready for this knowledge.” John felt a chill run down his spine. Ajay’s words echoed his grandfather’s notes, but there was something more — a hint of a mystery he had to unravel in Varanasi.

The next day passed in a feverish blur of preparation. John packed his suitcase, folding his grandfather’s notes, the photograph of Shri Devi, and the letters. He tried not to think about Kate, her warm hands, or the shame in her eyes. Nor about Lucy, whose image haunted him. What was she hiding? Why was she so insistent on his journey? But there was no time for reflection. Varanasi was waiting.

Heathrow Airport buzzed as always, but John felt detached from the world. He stood at the gate, holding his ticket and the folder of notes. His grandfather’s words echoed in his mind: “Be careful.” But behind them, he heard the whisper of Shri Devi, whose eyes gazed at him from the photograph. The plane took off, and London faded into the gray fog below. Ahead lay India — a city where the Ganges carries centuries of secrets, and temples whisper of rituals uniting body and soul. John closed his eyes, sensing that something greater than a book awaited him.