[36] CRAVINGS
Dinner was over, the house finally quiet.
The door closed behind them with a soft click, and the world outside disappeared.
Amisha walked straight to the low velvet couch near the open window, moonlight spilling across her grey saree like silver water.
She sat down, knees together, and started twisting the edge of her pallu between her fingers, over and over, cheeks already warm.
Abhiraj disappeared into the bathroom.
Water ran.
A minute later he stepped out, bare-chested, only soft black cotton lowers riding low on his hips, hair damp and pushed back, a few droplets still sliding down his neck.
He saw her on the couch, biting her lip, eyes fixed on the floor.
He crossed the room slowly, towel slung over his shoulder.
“Kya soch rahi ho?”
His voice was low, lazy, curious.
Amisha’s fingers twisted the pallu tighter.
“Cravings ho rahi hain…”
He sat beside her, close enough that his thigh brushed hers, started rubbing the towel lazily through his hair.
“Abhi toh khana khaya tumne. Kya cravings?”
She looked up at him, eyes shining, cheeks pink, and whispered,
“Aapki.”
The towel stopped moving.
Abhiraj froze, breath catching.
Before he could recover, Amisha leaned in and kissed him (soft, teasing, a tiny mischievous smile against his lips).
For one stunned second he didn’t move.
Then his world tilted.
The towel fell to the floor.
One big hand slid to the warm, bare skin of her lower back, pulling her closer.
The other settled on her waist, thumb rubbing slow circles just above the bump.
He kissed her back, hard, deep, claiming, matching every ounce of her teasing with raw hunger.
Amisha made a soft little sound, tried to keep up, but he took over completely (lips moving, tongue stroking, guiding her, teaching her, until her head spun and her hands clutched his shoulders for balance).
When they broke for air, her lips were swollen, eyes dazed.
She laughed breathlessly against his mouth.
“Abhi bhi… achhe se nahi aati mujhe yeh sab…”
He smiled, dark and fond, and kissed her again (slower this time, but deeper, making her melt).
“Practice karte rahenge,” he murmured between kisses, nipping her bottom lip.
“Har raat.”
Abhiraj didn’t let her speak the sentence.
He slammed his mouth back on hers, hungry, desperate, no more teasing.
One arm locked around her waist, the other slid under her thighs, and in one smooth move he lifted her, settling her fully on his lap.
Amisha’s legs automatically wrapped around his waist, saree bunching high, no space left between them.
Her soft, fuller breasts pressed hard against his bare chest, squishing deliciously with every breath.
His hardness, thick and unmistakable, nudged insistently against the inside of her thigh through the thin layers of cotton and silk.
She gasped into the kiss; he swallowed the sound.
The kiss turned wild: lips bruising, tongues stroking, teeth grazing.
Both of them breathing like they’d been starving for months.
When they finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, chests heaving, Amisha’s lips were red and swollen, eyes glazed.
She murmured, voice shaky and needy,
“Aap… ab badal gaye ho… mujhe chhute bhi nahi jab tak main na kahu…”
Abhiraj’s hand tightened on her waist, thumb brushing the bare skin just above her saree.
“Agar maine chhu liya…” he rasped, voice rough with restraint,
“toh bacche ko takleef padegi.
Isliye door rehta hoon. Tum pregnant ho.”
Amisha’s eyes flashed (half annoyed, half desperate).
“Mujhe pasand nahi aapka door rehna.”
And before he could answer, she crushed her mouth to his again, kissing him like she wanted to prove a point.
He groaned deep in his throat, hands sliding up her back, pressing her impossibly closer, letting her feel exactly how little “distance” he actually wanted.
The kiss went on and on, breathless and messy and perfect,
until the only sounds in the room were their ragged breathing and the soft rustle of silk against skin.
No one was letting go tonight.
Not until she said so.
And she clearly had no intention of saying it anytime soon.
(The kiss has turned slow, deep, and dangerously unrestrained)
Abhiraj’s lips never leave hers while one hand finds the edge of her pallu.
With a single tug the cream silk slides off her shoulder and pools on the floor like liquid moonlight.
His fingers move to the front of her blouse (three small metal clips).
Click… click… click.
The blouse falls open.
Amisha’s breath hitches, but she doesn’t stop kissing him.
He breaks the kiss just enough to look down.
Her breasts, barely contained by the soft cotton bra, rise and fall with every ragged breath.
He runs a thumb across the edge of the bra, voice low and rough.
“Maine mana kiya tha na… bra mat pehenna. Uncomfortable hoti hai.”
Amisha’s cheeks burn.
“Maine kaise ghoomu ghar mein… bina support ke?”
Abhiraj doesn’t answer with words.
He simply hooks his fingers under the bra and pulls it up (slowly, deliberately) until it bunches above her breasts, freeing them completely.
They spill into his waiting hands (fuller, heavier than before, the light brown areolas now flushed a tender pink from constant soreness).
He cups them gently, reverently.
“My two hands are enough support,”
he murmurs, eyes dark.
Amisha’s mouth falls open in shock.
She slaps his wrist (light, playful, embarrassed).
“Kya baat karte ho!”
He doesn’t even flinch, just smiles that slow, wicked smile.
“Tumhara blouse bhi toh hai… enough support.
Bahar toh jaati nahi ho ab.
Aur pallu bhi hota hai cover karne ke liye.”
His gaze drops.
Her breasts (already changed by pregnancy) are rounder, veins faintly visible under the thin skin, nipples tender and slightly swollen.
He gulps, voice dropping to a rough whisper.
“Yeh… laal ho rahe hain. Dard ho raha hai?”
She shakes her head, biting her lip, but her eyes are glassy.
He leans in, presses a soft kiss to her shoulder, then another, lower, trailing across her collarbone.
With one smooth motion he slips the open blouse off her arms, pulls the bra over her head, and tosses both across the room.
They land somewhere in the dark.
Now there’s nothing between his palms and her bare, sensitive skin.
He cups her again (warm, careful, possessive), thumb brushing gently over one sore nipple.
“Ab sirf main hoon,” he whispers against her neck.
“Aur main kabhi support nahi chhodunga.”
Amisha’s breath trembles.
She doesn’t argue anymore.
She just leans into him, hands sliding into his hair, letting him hold all of her (exactly the way he promised).
(Still on the velvet couch, moonlight and one dim lamp the only light)
Abhiraj’s lips leave hers slowly, reluctantly.
He trails soft, open-mouthed kisses along her jaw, then down the column of her neck.
Every kiss is deliberate, careful, almost reverent.
When he reaches the spot just below her ear, he pauses, grazes his teeth (not a bite, just a gentle scrape), then soothes it with his tongue.
Amisha shivers, fingers tightening in his damp hair.
He moves lower, lips brushing her collarbone, then the slope of one swollen breast.
There is no rush in him tonight.
No hunger that demands.
Only tenderness that worships.
He cups the heavy weight of her breast in one large palm, supporting it completely, thumb stroking the underside in slow circles.
His mouth hovers over her nipple (flushed pink, tender, slightly sore from the changes).
He doesn’t bite.
Doesn’t suck hard.
He simply circles the sensitive peak with the flat of his tongue, warm and wet, over and over, soothing instead of teasing.
A soft, comforting rhythm, like a promise.
Amisha’s breath stutters; her back arches just a little.
Only when she relaxes again does he let his teeth graze the soft side of her breast (a tiny, playful nip), then immediately kisses the spot, murmuring against her skin,
“Shh… bas araam se.”
He switches to the other breast, repeating the same gentle worship:
supporting, circling, soothing, the faintest nip on the outer curve followed by a kiss.
His free hand splays across her ribcage, thumb brushing the underside of her breast in slow, steady strokes.
Then he moves lower.
Lips tracing the line down the centre of her chest, over the gentle swell of her stomach.
He pauses at her tummy (still small, but unmistakably round now) and presses the softest kiss right over where their baby sleeps.
Another kiss.
And another.
A silent conversation only he and the baby can hear.
When he reaches her navel, he lingers.
He dips his tongue gently into the little hollow, then kisses around it in slow circles, palms spread wide on either side of her belly, cradling both mother and child.
His voice is barely a whisper, rough with emotion.
“Dono ko kitna pyar karta hoon main…”
Amisha’s fingers thread through his hair, trembling.
She doesn’t speak.
She doesn’t need to.
The only sounds are her soft, shaky breaths and the quiet rustle of moonlight on silk.
And in that moment, every kiss is a vow:
I’m here.
I’ll hold you.
I’ll take care of both of you.
Always.