[11] FELLING HOT
Abhiraj’s Office
The room was a vault of shadows, monitors bleeding cold blue light across his face.
Abhiraj sat like a predator in wait, white shirt unbuttoned to the sternum, collar gaping, glasses low on his nose, fingers moving over the keyboard with lethal precision.
The door opened without a sound.
Jasmine hit first—thick, cloying, hers—followed by the soft chhan-chhan of payals, a siren’s call.
He didn’t look.
Amisha.
She stepped in, chai cup trembling in her small hands.
The brown saree was gone.
Now: emerald gagra, feather-light, slung so low it barely clung to her hips, dark-green backless blouse tied with two fragile strings, white dupatta draped like a lie across her chest.
Hair in a loose bun, damp, curling at her nape.
Innocent. Ripe. His.
She placed the cup beside his hand.
“Raat ko kaun chai peeta hai?”
Voice soft, innocent, unaware of the storm she walked into.
He didn’t look up.
“Mujhe kaam hai. Jag nahin paaunga.”
Voice low, black, velvet over steel.
She turned to set the saucer—
and the world narrowed to her back.
Backless blouse.
Strings trembling.
Gagra riding low,
two perfect dimples winking above the waistband,
skin glowing like forbidden fruit.
His breath stopped.
She spoke again, pulling him back.
“Kya kaam karte ho itna?”
He pushed his glasses up, eyes locking on hers, hunger.
“Ruko. Dikhaata hoon.”
She looked around—no chair.
With a tiny, innocent shrug, she hopped onto the desk, legs folded, gagra pooling, dupatta slipping, revealing the soft swell beneath.
His lips curved, slow, demonic.
One hand left the mouse, slid under the desk,
and pulled.
She slid—
straight into his lap.
A shocked gasp tore from her, hands flying to his shoulders, fingers digging into hard muscle.
“Yeh kya—?!”
He settled her, one arm banding her waist, palm splaying over bare midriff, thumb brushing the edge of her gagra.
First time.
Her skin under his fingers—first time.
She was little—
hands small,
face small,
neck delicate—
but her thighs…
thick,
soft,
spreading over his lap,
taking more space than he’d ever imagined for his moti.
Thick thighs.
His.
“Dekhna hai na kya kaam karta hoon?
Yahan se sab dikhega.”
She squirmed, heat flooding her cheeks, his thighs like iron beneath her, cedar and ink drowning her.
“Tum… yeh kya kar rahe ho?”
Voice trembling, innocent.
He leaned in, lips grazing her ear, voice a dark purr.
“Kaam dikha raha hoon, moti.
CEO ka secret kaam.”
She tried to rise.
“Mujhe kamar dard hai. Main jaati hoon sone.”
His arm locked tighter, fingers curling over her hip.
“Baitho. Main dard door kar deta hoon.”
“N-nahi—”
His fingers pressed—
slow, deliberate,
between her shoulder blades,
then lower,
finding the knot above her dimples.
She shivered—
first time.
Breath fractured.
“You… don’t have to—”
His smirk turned black.
“Sharma rahi ho?”
He pressed harder, thumbs dragging down her spine.
She arched—
back bowing,
chest brushing his,
eyes wide,
lips parted on a silent gasp.
“Abhiraj!”
He tugged the gagra lower,
exposing more skin,
fingers kneading,
teasing the edge of her waistband.
“Yahan aur dabaoon?
Ya… yahan?”
Thumb circled her navel, slow, sinful.
She buried her face in his shirt,
hiding,
cheeks burning,
voice muffled.
“Bas… karo…”
He typed one-handed, voice dripping venomous honey.
“London board. Acquisitions. Aur ab…
His thumb traced her navel, slow, deliberate.
“…tumhara control test kar raha hoon.”
She whimpered—
tiny, mortified,
but melted closer,
dupatta slipping,
baring the curve of her shoulder.
He kissed the shell of her ear, teasing.
“Kal subah school jana hai na? Itna garam mat ho. Thanda kar doon?”
Her fingers curled into his shirt, voice a shy whisper.
“Tum… hamesha aise hi help karte ho?”
He grinned, dark,
pressed a kiss to her temple.
“Sirf tumhare liye.
Ab bolo, chai thandi ho gayi ya tum jal rahi ho?”
She gasped, swatted his chest,
face flaming.
“Abhiraj!”
He laughed, low,
pulled her tighter,
monitors blinking,
London waiting,
but his world—
emerald gagra, jasmine, trembling breath—
right here,
in his lap,
his.
The monitors had dimmed to sleep, leaving only the brass lamp’s low flame licking gold across her skin.
Amisha was trapped,
pinned to his lap by the iron band of his arm, thick thighs spread wide over his, emerald gagra rucked high, dark-green blouse strings trembling with every breath.
Dupatta lay discarded on the floor like a surrender.
His fingers—
slow,
lethal,
burning—
traced her spine,
pressing,
kneading,
dragging the gagra lower,
exposing the soft swell of her lower back,
the twin dimples that begged to be tasted.
She shivered,
whimpered,
tried to twist away.
“Abhiraj… bas…”
Voice cracked, breathless, pleading,
lips brushing his throat.
He didn’t stop.
Thumb circled the dimple above her waistband,
then lower,
sliding beneath the fabric,
skin on skin,
first time.
“Bas… ab rehne do…”
A broken moan,
tears of overwhelm glistening in her lashes.
His smirk vanished.
Dark hunger flared—
mercy,
possession,
need.
He stopped.
Fingers stilled.
She exhaled, shaky,
tried to rise.
His arm tightened,
pulling her flush to his chest,
her softness crushed against hard muscle,
breasts pressed to his shirt,
nipples hardening through thin cotton.
“Bethi raho yahan par.”
Voice low, commanding,
raw.
She had nothing left.
No fight.
No words.
Silently,
she sank.
Face buried in the hollow of his throat,
hot breath fanning his skin,
lips grazing his pulse.
His hand—
now gentle,
possessive—
rubbed slow, sensual circles on her bare back,
thumb tracing the strings of her blouse,
dipping beneath,
teasing the edge of her spine.
She melted.
Shoulders loosened.
Breaths deepened,
hot,
needy.
He was huge—
6'4" of solid heat—
and she was tiny,
curled in his lap like a kitten,
thick thighs draped over his,
soft,
plush,
grinding unconsciously with every shift.
Her head lolled.
Lips parted.
She slept.
But she moved.
A slow roll of her hips—
warmth pressing against his hardness,
lethal.
His breath hitched,
jaw clenched.
Another shift—
thighs clenching,
gagra riding higher,
exposing the creamy underside of her thigh,
his.
He froze,
fingers digging into her waist,
nails biting skin.
Breathless.
She sighed in her sleep,
nuzzled closer,
one small hand sliding up his chest,
fingers curling into his shirt,
pulling him closer.
Her hips rocked again—
slow,
rhythmic,
unconscious,
devastating.
His cock throbbed,
strained against his trousers,
trapped beneath her weight,
aching.
He stared at the ceiling,
monitors forgotten,
London forgotten,
her—
asleep,
helpless,
his—
moving in his lap,
driving him to the edge of sanity.
And he let her.
Held her.
Burned for her.
The lamp flickered.
The night stretched.
And he stayed—
hard,
aching,
devoted.
The monitors had dimmed to a faint pulse, the brass lamp’s flame now a low ember.
Amisha slept deep, curled in his lap like a kitten, thick thighs draped over his, emerald gagra rucked high, bare back glowing under his palm.
Her small hands clutched his shirt, face buried in the hollow of his throat, hot breath fanning his pulse.
She moved.
Slow,
unconscious rolls of her hips—
warmth grinding against his hardness,
lethal.
Each shift sent a jolt through him,
cock throbbing,
trapped beneath her weight,
aching.
His hand roamed her back,
slow,
possessive,
fingers tracing the delicate strings of her blouse.
Then—
he noticed.
The strings were tight,
biting into her skin,
leaving faint red lines across her shoulder blades.
His jaw clenched.
Unacceptable.
Gently,
he shifted her—
one arm locking her thighs,
the other sliding up her spine.
She stirred,
whimpered,
clutched tighter,
koala-like.
He loosened the strings,
slow,
careful,
fabric parting,
revealing more creamy skin,
red marks fading.
She sighed,
melted deeper,
sleeping comfortably now.
He kept working,
one-handed,
eyes flicking between spreadsheets and her face—
lips parted,
lashes fanned,
his.
2:00 a.m.
Clock chimed.
He stood.
Amisha clung—
arms around his neck,
legs wrapped,
face nuzzling his chest,
koala.
He held her,
one arm under her thighs,
the other cradling her back.
Her dupatta lay on the floor.
He bent,
scooped it without letting her slip,
draped it over his shoulder.
Their Room
Moonlight spilled through the jali,
silver on ivory sheets.
He laid her on the bed,
gentle,
gagra fanning,
blouse loose,
strings dangling.
She stirred,
whimpered,
reached for him in sleep.
He slid in beside her,
pulled her close—
her back to his chest,
arm banding her waist,
spooning.
Then—
her face scrunched.
His shirt—
rough linen—
irritating her cheek.
He froze.
Unacceptable.
In one motion,
he yanked the shirt off,
buttons scattering,
bare chest gleaming in moonlight.
She sighed,
nuzzled into his skin,
warm,
soft,
his.
Her hips shifted again—
slow,
unconscious,
grinding against him.
His breath hitched,
arm tightening,
aching.
He buried his face in her hair,
jasmine,
home.
And slept—
hard,
devoted,
owned.