[37] OBSESSED
(The air is thick, heavy, silent except for their breathing)
Abhiraj lifts his head from her navel and finds her mouth again (this time the kiss is different).
Deep, possessive, a little wild.
Like he’s been starving for months and has finally been allowed to feast.
His free hand slides into her loosened braid, fingers threading through the thick strands, tugging gently until the braid unravels completely.
Long, dark hair spills over her shoulders and down her back like silk.
He pulls back just enough to look at her (eyes black with want, lips swollen, cheeks flushed) and then dives back in.
Kisses everywhere.
Her jaw.
Her cheek.
The corner of her mouth.
Behind her ear.
Down the side of her neck (open-mouthed, hot, a little desperate).
He can’t stop.
Won’t stop.
Each kiss is a brand, a claim, a prayer, a thank-you.
His other hand moves to the tucked end of her saree at her waist.
One firm tug.
The pleats loosen, silk sliding free like water.
Another tug, and the entire saree slips off her body, pooling on the floor in a soft heap.
Now she’s only in her petticoat and the bunched-up bra still around her neck.
Abhiraj’s palm glides down her stomach, over the gentle swell, and cups her through the thin cotton of her panty.
He groans against her lips the second he feels the damp heat.
“Already so wet…”
His voice is rough, reverent.
He rubs once (slow, deliberate circles) over the fabric.
Amisha arches off the couch with a sharp gasp, back bowing, fingers digging into his shoulders.
Pregnancy has made her impossibly sensitive; even the lightest touch sends sparks through her entire body.
He doesn’t tease.
He simply hooks his fingers in the waistband of her panty and drags it down her legs, tossing it aside.
Then he lowers her gently (slowly) until her back meets the velvet couch.
He hovers above her, arms braced on either side of her head, eyes locked on hers.
Hair wild around her face.
Breasts bare and heavy.
Belly softly rounded.
Legs parted just enough.
She has never looked more beautiful (or more his).
He leans down, forehead touching hers, voice a ragged whisper.
“Tum meri ho… poori tarah se.”
And then he kisses her again (slow, deep, endless), while his hand slides back between her thighs, ready to worship every inch of the woman carrying his entire world.
(Everything is quiet except their breathing and the soft creak of velvet)
Abhiraj keeps one hand cradling the back of her head, the other sliding between her thighs.
He massages her slowly (gentle, steady circles, spreading her wetness, watching every tiny reaction on her face).
Amisha’s hips rock instinctively, soft whimpers escaping her lips, eyes fluttering shut.
When his fingers glide easily and her thighs start trembling, he knows she’s ready.
He pulls back just long enough to shove his lowers and underwear down in one impatient motion, kicking them off.
Then he settles between her legs, knees nudging them wider, one arm sliding under her lower back to lift her hips slightly (protecting the bump, keeping pressure off her belly).
He braces himself above her, the tip of him nudging her entrance.
“Look at me,” he whispers, voice rough but gentle.
Amisha’s eyes open, glazed and trusting.
He holds her gaze.
“Bol dena immediately agar dard ho… ek bhi second rukunga main.”
She nods, biting her lip.
Slowly (so slowly it’s almost torture for him) he pushes in.
The moment her warmness envelops him, a deep, involuntary groan rumbles out of his chest.
“Amisha…”
He pauses halfway, searching her face.
Her brows are pinched, but she’s breathing through it, nails digging into his shoulders (not pain, just overwhelming sensation).
He waits until she exhales shakily and gives the tiniest nod.
Only then does he sink the rest of the way in, inch by inch, until he’s buried fully inside her.
They both still for a heartbeat, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air.
Then he starts to move (slow, careful rolls of his hips, shallow, controlled strokes that give her only pleasure, never pressure).
Every thrust is measured, deliberate, protective.
His hand stays under her back, supporting her, the other stroking her hair, her cheek, her lips.
“Baby theek hai… tum theek ho?” he asks against her mouth.
She nods frantically, eyes glassy with tears of relief and pleasure.
He keeps the rhythm gentle, steady, loving (every movement a silent promise that he will never hurt either of them).
And in the quiet of their room, under the moonlight, they move together (slow, perfect, reverent),
two becoming one, and one becoming three.
(The pace is still slow, but the intensity is rising)
Abhiraj keeps every thrust deep and measured, hips rolling in a steady, hypnotic rhythm.
His hand under her lower back lifts her just enough that he slides against that perfect spot inside her with every stroke.
Amisha’s breathing turns ragged.
Her fingers dig into his shoulders, then slide up to clutch his hair.
“Abhiraj…”
His name leaves her lips like a prayer, broken and needy.
He feels the change instantly (the way her walls flutter around him, the tiny tremors in her thighs).
He shifts slightly, angling deeper, pressing just a little firmer against her front wall with every slow drag out and slow push in.
His mouth finds her ear.
“cum…cum on me, meri jaan… main hoon na…”
He keeps the rhythm unhurried but relentless (exactly where she needs it, exactly how she needs it).
Amisha’s back arches off the couch.
Her breath catches, then stutters.
A soft, high whimper escapes her (one that turns into his name over and over).
Her legs tighten around his waist, heels digging into his back.
He feels her clench hard around him, once, twice.
Then she breaks.
Her whole body shudders, a long, trembling wave that starts deep inside and rolls through her like warm water.
She buries her face in his neck to muffle the cry, nails scraping his scalp, thighs shaking uncontrollably.
He doesn’t speed up, doesn’t chase his own release yet; he simply holds her through it, hips still moving in that same slow, perfect rhythm, drawing every last pulse out of her until she’s limp and gasping beneath him.
Only when the final tremor fades and she melts into the couch does he press his forehead to hers, voice rough with restraint and wonder.
“Bas… ho gaya?”
Amisha can only nod, eyes glassy, lips parted, a soft, dazed smile curving her mouth.
He kisses her (slow, deep, grateful) and stays buried inside her, letting her come down gently in his arms, wrapped in moonlight and the safest love she’s ever known.
(Still joined, still moving)
Abhiraj keeps rocking (slow, deep, endless circles of his hips).
Every thrust is deliberate, dragging against her sensitive walls, filling her again and again.
Amisha’s nails dig into his back; her legs are locked tight around his waist, heels pressing into the base of his spine.
He’s close (she can feel it in the way he swells thicker inside her, the way his breathing turns ragged against her neck).
His forehead drops to hers
.
“Amisha… meri jaan…”
One hand slides under her hip, tilting her just a fraction higher.
That tiny change is everything.
He drives in once, twice (deep, perfect), and stays there.
A low, guttural groan rumbles from his chest as he comes (hard, long pulses that flood her, warm and endless).
She feels every single spurt, every throb, the way he swells and releases inside her, filling her completely.
His whole body shudders; his arms tighten around her like he never wants to let go.
He stays buried, rocking gently through the aftershocks, letting her feel him (all of him) until the last tremor fades.
Only then does he still, breathing hard against her temple.
Amisha’s eyes are already half-closed, body limp and glowing with exhaustion and satisfaction.
One round (slow, intense, perfect) was more than enough for her pregnant body tonight.
Her fingers loosen in his hair; her legs slide down to rest on the couch.
Within seconds her breathing evens out, soft and sleepy, head lolling against his shoulder.
Abhiraj smiles (tired, fond, utterly in love).
He doesn’t pull out yet.
Just shifts carefully to his side, keeping her tucked against his chest, still inside her, one arm cradling her bump protectively.
He presses a lingering kiss to her damp forehead.
“So ja, meri sona biwi.”
Amisha makes a tiny, contented sound and falls asleep just like that (warm, full of him, safe in his arms).
He stays awake a little longer, feeling their baby’s faint flutter between them, listening to her soft breaths,
and decides one round was perfect.
Tonight, she needed rest more than anything else.
And he’s happy to give her exactly that.
(The room is quiet, only the faint ticking of the old wall-clock and the soft rustle of moonlight)
Abhiraj stays still for a long minute, just watching her sleep (face flushed, lips parted, hair wild across the velvet couch).
Then, gently, he pulls out of her, shushing the tiny whimper she makes even in sleep.
He stands, pulls his black lowers back on, ties the nada loosely.
First, himself: he wipes the sweat from his own neck and chest with the discarded towel.
Then, her.
He picks up a fresh, warm wet towel from the bathroom (he had kept it ready earlier) and kneels beside the couch.
Tenderly, reverently, he cleans her.
Between her thighs first: slow, careful strokes, wiping away their mixed release, soothing the tender skin that’s slightly swollen from love.
Then her breasts: gentle circles over the faint pink marks his teeth had left, cooling the heat, kissing each tiny bite with his lips after the cloth passes.
Her neck, collarbone, the curve of her stomach (he lingers there, pressing one soft kiss just above her navel for the baby).
Finally her face: he wipes away the sweat on her temples, her upper lip, the stray strands stuck to her cheek.
She stirs only once, murmurs something that sounds like his name, and settles again.
He lifts her effortlessly (she’s light in his arms, even with the growing bump) and carries her to the bed.
From the almirah he takes:
One of his own soft, oversized cotton shirts (pale grey, worn and buttery from hundreds of washes).
A loose, baby-pink cotton gagra (the one she loves because it has no elastic, just a gentle nada).
No bra.
He hates anything that digs into her skin now (the underwire, the tight straps).
He has read enough, asked the doctor enough, to know her body needs to breathe, especially at night.
No panty either.
He read that too: air circulation is better, swelling reduces, comfort increases.
He slips the gagra up her legs, ties it low and loose below the bump.
Then sits her up gently, leans her sleepy weight against his chest, and slides the shirt over her head.
The shirt falls to mid-thigh, sleeves too long, collar slipping off one shoulder (perfect).
He lays her back on the cool sheets, tucks a pillow under her knees (doctor’s advice for back pain), another small one under her bump.
Takes the heavy blanket (winter is coming, nights are getting colder) and tucks it carefully around her shoulders, her feet, making sure no cold air sneaks in.
Finally, he brushes her hair back from her face, tucks the stray strands behind her ears, and presses one last kiss to her forehead.
She sighs in her sleep, turns instinctively toward him.
He slides in beside her, pulls her gently into his arms (her back to his chest, his palm spread wide over the bump, legs tangled).
The blanket settles over both of them.
He whispers into her hair, so soft only the night can hear:
“So ja, meri moti.
Main hoon… hamesha.”
And with the room wrapped in winter-quiet and moonlight,
Abhiraj holds his entire world close (his wife, his child, his everything) and finally lets sleep take him too.
And it is real that female should not wear panty at night.let your skin breath.