[22] NERVOUS
The moment the front door shut, Amisha’s stomach flipped.
A slow, delicious heat had been pooling between her legs the whole day, every time she remembered last night, every time she shifted and felt the faint ache he’d left inside her.
Now he was home three hours early, and the air itself felt heavier.
She tried to act normal:
folding clothes,
arranging dupattas,
dusting the dresser,
but her hands shook,
her breath kept catching,
and between her thighs she was already slick again.
Abhiraj never took his eyes off her.
He sat on the edge of the bed,
then on the armchair,
then leaned against the almirah,
watching,
waiting,
smirking every time she bent or stretched and the fabric pulled tight across her hips.
Dinner was torture.
He ate slowly, deliberately,
gaze locked on her the entire time,
dark,
hungry,
unblinking.
Every spoonful felt like foreplay.
She could barely swallow.
The second the last dish was cleared,
Amisha bolted,
heart racing,
straight to the bathroom.
“I—I’m going to take a quick bath!”
“Ruko,” he called, voice low and amused.
She didn’t listen.
Door slammed.
Lock clicked.
Thirty seconds under the shower,
warm water running down her skin,
and she felt it,
that prickling on the back of her neck.
Someone watching.
She turned.
The bathroom door was wide open.
Abhiraj leaned against the frame,
arms folded,
eyes burning.
Amisha squeaked,
arms flying to cover breasts and the between her legs,
but water made everything cling and slip.
“Aap yahan kaise—?!”
He dangled a small brass key between two fingers,
smirk lethal.
“Head of the family, meri jaan. Every lock in this haveli opens for me… including this one.”
She tried to sound brave.
“Bahar jaiye na… mujhe nahane dijiye!”
He didn’t move.
“Nahi. Keep bathing. Yeh saza hai… meri baat nahi mani thi na?”
Water streamed over her shoulders,
down her heavy breasts,
over the curve of her stomach.
His gaze followed every droplet like it belonged to him (because it did).
She turned her back,
tried to wash quickly,
but her hands were shaking,
nipples hard,
thighs pressing together on their own.
She could feel his stare on her ass,
on the dimples at the base of her spine,
on the way water traced the marks he’d left.
Defeated,
she shut the shower,
grabbed the towel,
but he was still watching.
So she dropped it.
Let him see.
Slowly,
deliberately,
she hooked her thumbs into pale-blue lace panties,
slid them up her wet legs,
adjusted the band over her hips.
Then the matching bra,
lifting each heavy breast,
settling them in the way he liked,
nipples still visible through wet lace.
She stepped into a soft gagra,
tied it low,
then pulled on a deep-blue short kurti that ended just below her hips.
He tilted his head,
smirk widening.
“Itna kapda kyun pehna hai… jab do minute mein sab utaar dunga?”
She swallowed,
cheeks flaming,
quickly braided her wet hair with trembling fingers,
trying to escape past him.
He caught her wrist as she passed,
pulled her back against his chest,
lips brushing her damp ear.
“Agli baar hum saath nahayenge,”
he murmured, voice rough with promise.
“Aaj sirf trailer tha.”
She shivered,
half terrified,
half desperate,
and felt his hardness press against her back.
He let her go,
but only for now.
The real show,
he had decided,
was about to begin.
The last twist of her wet braid fell over her shoulder.
Before she could take another step,
Abhiraj moved.
One arm hooked under her knees,
the other around her back,
he lifted her clean off the floor like she weighed nothing.
A startled squeak escaped her lips.
He carried her three strides to the bed,
sat on the edge,
and settled her firmly on his lap,
her thighs spread wide over his,
back to his chest.
Then he kissed her.
Not gentle.
Not sweet.
A kiss that stole her breath,
her thoughts,
her soul.
Mouth devouring,
tongue claiming every corner,
teeth nipping her lower lip until she whimpered into him.
One big hand slid up her front,
cupped her breast through the thin blue kurti and lace bra,
rubbing slow, possessive circles,
thumb flicking over the hard nipple.
She squirmed,
hips rolling instinctively on his thighs,
seeking friction.
He broke the kiss just enough to growl against her swollen lips,
voice rough,
dangerous.
“Move again and I’ll tie you down. Samjhi?”
She froze,
but the heat between her legs only throbbed harder.
He didn’t wait for an answer.
Mouth on her jaw,
teeth scraping,
sucking,
then lower,
behind her ear,
that sensitive spot that made her gasp his name.
Down the column of her neck,
open-mouthed kisses,
bites,
wet trails of tongue soothing the sting.
Collarbone,
nipping the delicate bone,
then lower,
to the deep valley of her cleavage.
He dragged his tongue along the edge of her kurti neckline,
dipped into the shadow between her breasts,
inhaling her damp skin and the faint scent of soap and her.
His hand never stopped,
kneading one breast,
pinching,
rolling the nipple until she was trembling.
Soft, broken moans spilled from her throat,
high, needy,
uncontrolled.
“Abhi…raj—”
He hummed against her skin,
the vibration making her arch harder into him.
Every kiss,
every bite,
every rough rub of his palm,
was a brand.
A promise.
She was his,
and he was only just getting started.
His mouth was busy,
teeth grazing the soft slope where neck met shoulder,
tongue following to soothe the sting,
then biting again, harder,
drawing another helpless moan from her.
His free hand wandered lower,
sliding over the thin cotton of her blue kurti,
down to her tummy,
that soft, chubby little belly he was obsessed with.
Fingers splayed wide,
he squeezed,
just enough to feel the plush give of her skin,
the way it spilled between his fingers.
Amisha squeaked,
half-shocked, half-ticklish,
and slapped his hand away.
“Abhiraj—!”
He didn’t even flinch.
In one smooth motion his palm shot lower,
grabbed the edge of her gagra,
yanked it up to her thighs,
exposing soft, thick flesh to the cool air.
His hand clamped down on her bare thigh,
fingers digging in possessively,
while the other returned instantly to her tummy,
squeezing again,
playing with the softness like it belonged to him (because it did).
She tried to squirm,
but he held her tighter against his chest,
mouth back at her collarbone,
nibbling,
sucking,
leaving fresh red blooms.
“cute!,” he growled against her skin,
voice rough with hunger
“Kitni perfect hai… bilkul meri banayi hui.”
His fingers kneaded her belly,
then slid to pinch the soft roll just above her gagra string,
tugging gently,
teasing.
She whimpered,
half protest,
half surrender,
legs trembling over his thighs,
completely trapped in his grip and his mouth.
And he only smiled against her neck,
dark,
satisfied,
knowing exactly what he was doing to her.
His hands never stopped moving.
One kept kneading her soft tummy,
pinching the chubby roll above her gagra string,
the other slid the fabric higher,
higher,
until the gagra bunched around her waist.
He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her pale-blue lace panty.
One slow tug.
Down her thick thighs,
past her knees,
off completely.
Tossed aside.
The blue kurti was next.
He gathered the hem,
pulled it up and over her head in one smooth motion,
leaving her in nothing but the matching bra and the marks he’d painted on her skin.
Amisha tried to cover herself,
arms crossing over her chest.
He caught her wrists,
pinned them gently to her sides,
mouth returning to her neck,
nibbling,
sucking.
She laughed breathlessly between moans.
“Jab humari shaadi hui thi… tum ek grumpy, serious ladke the. Hamesha akad ke baat karte the.”
Another soft bite on her collarbone made her gasp.
“Aaj yeh sab… shameless wala version kab se aa gaya?”
He lifted his head,
dark eyes glinting with amusement.
“Shameless wala version?”
He chuckled, low and filthy.
“That time we were both children, biwi. Ab adults hain… aur needy bhi.”
She turned crimson.
“I’m not needy!”
He rested his chin lazily between her bare breasts,
looked up at her with that wicked smirk,
and slid one hand down.
Two fingers slipped between her thighs,
pushed the soaked folds aside,
found her dripping.
“Oh?”
He lifted his glistening fingers,
held them in front of her face.
“Then yeh kya hai, meri masoom biwi?”
Before she could answer,
he dragged those same fingers across his thigh,
coating his skin with her wetness,
then pressed her forward so she was straddling his thigh properly.
“Rub yourself on me,”
he ordered, voice velvet-rough.
“Let me feel how ‘not needy’ you are.”
She whimpered,
shook her head,
but her hips betrayed her,
rolling forward on instinct,
slick folds gliding over the hard muscle of his thigh.
He caught every moan against his neck,
arms locked around her waist,
smirk never leaving his face.
“Jhoothi,”
he murmured against her ear,
feeling her tremble and soak his skin even more.
“Abhi toh shuruaat hai… dekhna, kitni needy ban jaogi tum raat tak.”