[30]I WANT YOU
Amisha lay sprawled on top of him like a lazy, possessive cat, cheek on his chest, one leg hooked over his, her soft breasts pressed tight against him with every slow breath.
He had closed his eyes, certain the champi-oil drowsiness would finally pull her under.
It didn’t.
Every few minutes she moved again:
a tiny roll of her hips, a soft nuzzle into his neck, warm breath fanning the spot that always made him weak.
Her breasts dragged slowly across his chest, nipples hard even through the thin cotton, and every time she exhaled, her lips brushed his skin.
Abhiraj’s hand tightened on her waist.
“Amisha… kya hua? So jao.”
Her answer was a sleepy, sulky murmur against his throat.
“Neend nahi aa rahi…”
He exhaled, trying to stay calm.
“Toh kya karna hai? So jao.”
She didn’t reply with words.
She simply parted her lips and let them glide over his neck, slow, deliberate, the wet heat of her mouth making his pulse hammer.
He swallowed hard, jaw clenched, forcing himself to stay still.
She’s pregnant.
She’s pregnant.
She’s pregnant…
Then, for the first time in their married life, she said it out loud, voice small but crystal-clear against his skin:
“I want you.”
He froze.
His heart slammed once, hard, against his ribs.
Did he imagine it?
No.
She said it again, softer, braver, lips brushing the shell of his ear.
“Abhiraj… I want you. Abhi.”
That was it.
The last thread of his restraint snapped like dry twig.
In one smooth, controlled motion he rolled them, settling over her without letting his full weight crush her belly, forearms braced on either side of her head, thighs forcing hers apart just enough.
His eyes were black, dangerous, burning.
“Bol diya na ab,” he growled, voice rough as gravel.
“Ab mana mat karna.”
He crushed his mouth to hers, deep, filthy, claiming, tongue stroking in with no patience left.
One hand slid to the back of her neck, angling her exactly how he wanted, while the other slipped under the hem of her gagra, pushing the fabric up her thighs in one impatient tug.
He found the dori of her choli, yanked it loose with his teeth, the fabric parting instantly.
She gasped into his kiss.
He didn’t stop.
Mouth still devouring hers, he dragged the choli up and off, tossing it somewhere in the dark, palms sliding greedily over newly exposed skin, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts, teasing, then cupping, then pinching just hard enough to make her arch and cry out into his mouth.
His lips left hers only to burn a path down her throat, teeth scraping, biting, marking every inch he could reach.
“Mine” he rasped against her collarbone.
“Poori raat meri.”
He finally tore his mouth from hers, breathing hard, eyes black with hunger.
Amisha stared up at him, lips swollen, chest heaving, eyes glazed with raw, shameless lust.
For the first time in their marriage, he saw it clearly: pure, unfiltered desire burning in his shy wife’s gaze.
A slow, wicked grin curved his lips.
“Agar pregnant hoke aise behave karegi,” he rasped, voice dark and velvet,
“toh har saal ek baccha daal dunga tujhme. Samjhi?”
She could only whimper, nodding helplessly.
In seconds the rest of her clothes were gone: gagra, choli, petticoat, scattered on the floor like battle casualties.
She lay beneath him in nothing but pale-pink lace bra and matching panty, trembling, skin flushed and glowing.
He was still fully dressed, white vest and pyjama, but the thick, unmistakable ridge straining against his pants left no doubt how badly he wanted her.
His palm slid down her belly, slow, possessive, stopping at the soaked lace between her thighs.
He pressed once, lightly.
She jerked, a broken moan spilling out.
He looked down at the wet patch, then back at her, grin turning filthy.
“i think you really wanted me,” he teased, voice low.
Before she could answer, he hooked his fingers under the edge of her panty and dragged it aside.
One long, thick finger slid inside her, not the usual rough thrust, but slow, deliberate, careful, watching her face for any sign of discomfort.
There was none.
Only pure bliss.
Her head fell back against the pillow, mouth open on a silent cry, back arching as he curled that single finger and found her spot instantly.
He didn’t move fast.
He moved perfectly.
Slow strokes, perfect pressure, thumb circling her clit in lazy, devastating circles.
Within minutes she shattered, thighs shaking, walls clenching around his finger, crying out his name.
He didn’t stop.
Added a second finger, stretching her gently, scissoring, curling, driving her up again and again.
She lost count after the third orgasm, body limp, tears of pleasure streaking her temples, voice hoarse from moaning.
Only then did he lower his head.
Mouth hot and worshipful on her, tongue replacing fingers, licking, sucking, devouring every drop, drawing out one more trembling climax until she was sobbing his name, fingers tangled in his hair, completely undone.
When she finally went slack, breath hitching, eyes fluttering shut, he pulled back slowly.
He wanted her, God, he was aching, but today she had just discovered she was pregnant.
He wouldn’t risk it.
Not tonight.
Later, when the doctor said it was safe, he’d take her until neither of them could walk.
For now, he gently cleaned her with the edge of the sheet, pulled the blanket over her trembling body, and gathered her close.
She was already half-asleep, boneless, lips curved in a dreamy smile.
He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, then her belly, whispering against her skin,
“Ab so ja, meri jaan…
baaki baad mein lunga. Poora hisaab.”
She made a tiny, satisfied sound and burrowed into his chest.
Within seconds she was gone, deep in exhausted, sated sleep.
Abhiraj lay awake a little longer, arm locked around her, palm resting over the life they’d made, heart thundering with love and restraint and the promise of many, many nights to come.
Tonight, he had worshipped her.
Tomorrow, and every day after,
he would ruin her in the sweetest way possible.
And she would let him.
Gladly.
The room was dead quiet except for the low hum of the fan and Amisha’s soft, even breathing.
She was finally, truly asleep: curled on her side, blanket kicked low, one leg bent, the thin cotton sheet clinging to every curve.
Moonlight poured over her like liquid silver, tracing the slope of her waist, the swell of her hips, the soft rise of her breast where the sheet had slipped.
Her lips were swollen from his kisses, throat marked with faint red blooms, hair a wild dark spill across the pillow.
Pregnancy had already softened her in places, made her fuller, heavier, impossibly more beautiful, and right now she looked like sin wrapped in innocence.
Abhiraj sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, vest still on, pyjama stretched painfully tight over the thick, aching bulge that refused to go down.
He stared at her.
Blank face.
Jaw locked.
Tongue pushing slow, deliberate circles against the inside of his cheek, the way he did when he was trying not to lose control.
His eyes dragged over every inch:
the way her nipple pressed against the sheet,
the dip of her waist he wanted to bite,
the smooth skin of her thigh where the blanket had ridden up,
the tiny damp spot still visible on the discarded panty on the floor.
A low, rough sound left his throat, half-growl, half-groan.
He shifted, adjusted himself with a hiss through his teeth, but it did nothing.
The ache only sharpened.
He looked back at her sleeping face, peaceful, trusting, completely unaware of the storm she’d started.
“Tum so rahi ho aur main yahan jal raha hoon,” he muttered under his breath, voice dark, almost accusing.
His tongue pressed harder against his cheek, eyes narrowing.
One hand flexed, then curled into a fist on his thigh.
He could wake her.
He could slide that sheet off, spread her legs, and take what was still throbbing for her.
But he didn’t.
He just sat there, breathing slow and deep, staring at the most beautiful, most maddening thing he’d ever owned,
and let the hunger burn.
Because tonight she was carrying his child,
and tomorrow,
and every day after that,
he would have her exactly how he wanted,
until neither of them remembered what control even felt like.
For now, he let the ache stay.
It was his favourite kind of torture.
Abhiraj stayed on the edge of the bed a moment longer, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the slow rise and fall of her chest.
Then he stood, silent, and walked to the attached bathroom, closing the door with a soft click that sounded too loud in the stillness.
The moment the lock turned, he leaned back against the cool wood, eyes shutting, breath ragged.
His hand dropped to the front of his pyjama, fingers curling around the thick, aching length straining against the fabric.
A low hiss escaped him as he freed himself, already slick at the tip.
He didn’t waste time.
One rough stroke, then another, grip tight, rhythm fast and punishing.
“Amisha…”
Her name tore out of him, low and broken, echoing off the tiles.
He pictured her beneath him:
legs spread,
back arched,
mouth open on that perfect little cry she made when he hit just the right spot.
His head fell back against the door, eyes squeezed shut, hips jerking into his fist.
“Fuck… Amisha…”
Faster.
Harder.
Every muscle locked.
A choked groan, her name again, raw and desperate,
and he came hard, spilling hot over his hand, thighs trembling, breath punching out of him in harsh bursts.
For a long minute he just stood there, forehead pressed to the cool wood, chest heaving.
When the last shudder left him, he cleaned up quickly, washed his hands, splashed cold water on his face.
Then he walked back into the room.
Amisha hadn’t moved, still curled on her side, lips parted, utterly peaceful.
He slid in behind her, pulled the blanket over them both, and wrapped his arm around her waist, palm settling low on her belly, exactly where it belonged.
His lips brushed the mark he’d left on her shoulder.
“So ja, meri jaan,” he whispered into her skin, voice rough but soft now.
“Kal tera hisaab poora karunga.”
Within minutes his breathing evened out, matching hers.
The ache was gone.
For now.
And the haveli slept on, none the wiser that its eldest son had just taken care of himself in the dark,
moaning his pregnant wife’s name like a prayer.