[51] INSECURITY
(The winter sun filtered softly through the curtains, but inside the room, the temperature had nothing to do with the weather)
Amisha's whisper-"Abhiraj..."-was barely out before his mouth crashed onto hers.
No more waiting.
The kiss was raw, urgent, all the pent-up fire from ten days of separation exploding at once.
He held her tight (one arm locked around her back, the other under her thighs), lifting her slightly so her bump stayed safe, her weight perfectly balanced on his lap.
Amisha's hands fisted harder in his collar, pulling him closer, legs tightening around his waist like she never wanted to let go.
Lips parted, tongues met (hot, desperate, tasting jalebi syrup and each other).
He groaned low into her mouth, the sound vibrating through her chest.
She answered with a soft, needy whimper, nails scraping his neck.
His hand slid up her back, fingers tangling in her loose hair, tilting her head so he could deepen the kiss even more.
The maroon saree began to slip (pallu falling off her shoulder, pleats loosening with every shift of her hips).
He didn't stop.
He kissed her like he was making up for every night he had slept alone in cold hotel beds.
Like he was claiming back every minute he had spent away.
Like she was the only thing that could calm the storm inside him.
Amisha melted (anger gone, irritation forgotten, only heat and love left).
Her hands moved from his collar to his hair, tugging, pulling him impossibly closer.
Breaths mingled, hot and fast.
When they finally broke apart (only because lungs demanded it), foreheads pressed together, eyes locked, lips swollen and red.
Abhiraj's voice was rough, barely above a whisper.
"Ab bol... moti?"
Amisha's eyes narrowed, but there was no real anger left (only fire).
She leaned in, nipped his lower lip hard enough to make him hiss.
"Ek baar phir bola na... toh aaj raat aap bed pe nahi, zameen pe soyenge."
He laughed (low, dark, delighted).
"Challenge accepted."
Then he kissed her again (slower this time, but deeper, promising everything the afternoon still held).
Abhiraj's kiss was relentless (deep, possessive, pouring ten days of longing into every stroke of his tongue).
His hands moved with purpose.
First his own kurta (buttons yanked open one by one, the fabric shoved off his shoulders and tossed to the floor).
Then her saree.
He tugged the pallu free, let it slide down her body like water, then pulled the pleats loose from her waist.
The maroon silk pooled at her feet.
Next the blouse (clips at the front opened with impatient fingers, the fabric parted and shrugged off her shoulders, joining the saree on the floor).
Everything gone.
Just her (bare, glowing, seven-month bump proud and round, breasts fuller and heavier, nipples darker and already slightly wet).
Abhiraj's hand slid up her side, cupping one breast gently, thumb brushing the sensitive peak.
Amisha broke the kiss with a breathless gasp, eyes wide, insecure.
"Dhyan se... dudh aata hai... haath bigad jayenge..."
Her voice was small, worried (not about pain, but about him).
About his hand getting "dirty" from the milk that had started leaking a little these days.
Abhiraj froze, hand stilling.
He looked at her (really looked), shock flickering in his eyes.
Not because of the milk.
But because she thought it could ever make him dirty.
He saw it then (one tiny drop of milk beading on her nipple, pearlescent in the light).
His expression softened (something fierce and tender at once)
He pulled her into a tight hug, arms wrapping around her completely, face buried in her neck.
"Kuch bhi nahi hai tera jo mujhe ganda kar sake," he whispered against her skin, voice rough with emotion.
Then he pulled back just enough to cup her breast again (gentle, reverent).
Pressed lightly.
Another drop appeared.
He looked at it, then at her...
"this is my babys food...
I will take good care of it and..."
His thumb brushed the drop away.
"even taste it?"
Amisha's eyes went wide.
"No!" she squeaked, half scandalised, half laughing.
He chuckled (low, dark, delighted).
Then attacked her neck.
Lips, teeth, tongue (biting softly at the sensitive spot below her ear, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, then soothing with his tongue).
She gasped, hands flying to his hair, pulling him closer.
He moved lower (collarbone, shoulder, the curve where neck met chest), biting and sucking, marking her like she was his canvas.
Every nip made her arch, every suck made her moan.
His hand stayed on her breast (gentle pressure, coaxing more drops, but never hurting).
He kissed the wet trail, tasted her (salt and sweet and her), and growled against her skin.
Amisha could only cling to him, breathless, lost,
anger long forgotten,
only love and heat and him left.
And the winter afternoon stretched on,
warm, wild, and entirely theirs.
Amisha was on his lap (fully, completely, legs wrapped tight around his waist, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips).
Abhiraj sat back against the headboard, arms locked around her (one hand splayed across her lower back, supporting her weight and the bump, the other cradling her thigh).
He held her steady, strong and careful, making sure no pressure fell on her belly, no discomfort touched her.
She could move as she liked.
She did.
Slowly.
Her hips rolled in small, teasing circles, grinding down just enough to feel him (hard, thick, pressing deep inside her, filling her completely).
He was buried to the hilt, every inch of him enveloped in her warmth.
Abhiraj groaned low in his throat, head falling back against the headboard.
"Amisha..."
She didn't answer with words.
Just buried her face in his neck, lips brushing his skin, breathing him in.
Her movements were small, deliberate (little rocks forward, little grinds back), each one drawing a rough sound from him.
His cock throbbed inside her, the heat of her driving him insane.
His hands tightened (one on her bump, protective, the other sliding up to cup her breast).
He squeezed gently (too gently, reverent).
A soft moan escaped her.
Then it happened.
A drop of milk beaded on her nipple, pearlescent and warm.
Another squeeze (careful, loving), and the drop slid free, gliding down the curve of her breast, over his fingers, down his abs.
It left a glistening trail, warm and slick, dripping lower, lower, until it reached where they were joined, mixing with their heat.
Another drop followed.
And another.
Amisha's breath hitched against his neck.
She moved a little faster (still slow, still careful), grinding down harder, feeling him twitch inside her.
Abhiraj groaned again (deeper this time), hand squeezing her breast just enough to coax more milk.
The drops fell freely now (on his abs, sliding down the defined lines, pooling at the base of his cock, making everything slick and hot).
Some dripped onto her own thighs, mixing with her wetness.
The sensation was maddening.
He didn't care about the mess.
He only cared about her (the way she moved, the way she felt, the way she trusted him completely).
His hand on her bump never moved (steady, protective).
The other kept caressing her breast, milking her gently, reverently.
"aghh..." he rasped, voice wrecked.
She answered by biting his neck (soft, then harder), hips rolling in that perfect rhythm that made his vision blur.
Milk and heat and her.
He was lost.
And so was she.
The winter afternoon stretched on,
slow, intimate, perfect,
just the two of them (and the tiny life between them)
wrapped in love, milk, and the quiet promise of forever.
Her hands clutched his shoulders, nails digging in.
The milk kept dripping (warm trails down his stomach, over his cock, making everything slicker, hotter).
His thumb brushed her nipple again, pressing lightly.
Another drop.
She whimpered, hips stuttering.
He felt her tighten around him (those first fluttering clenches that told him she was close).
His hand on her back guided her rhythm (steady, unhurried, perfect).
"Come for me, meri jaan... let go..."
His voice was rough, reverent.
Amisha's head fell back, eyes fluttering shut.
Her movements turned desperate (still slow, but deeper, grinding down hard on every roll).
The pressure built (warm, sweet, overwhelming).
One more circle.
Two.
And then she broke.
A soft, shattered cry against his neck, body arching beautifully, walls clenching hard around him in long, pulsing waves.
Milk spilled freely now (warm drops sliding down both of them as her breasts pressed to his chest).
She trembled, clinging to him, riding the climax in slow, shuddering thrusts.
He held her through every second (arms tight, lips on her temple, whispering her name like a prayer).
When the last tremor faded, she went limp in his arms, breathing hard, face buried in his shoulder.
He didn't move inside her yet.
Just held her.
Let her come down.
Then, only when her breathing slowed, did he start to move again (gentle, shallow thrusts, chasing his own release without disturbing her peace).
His hand slid to her bump, palm spread wide.
Feeling their baby.
Feeling her.
One final, deep thrust.
He groaned low, buried his face in her hair, and came (long, pulsing waves, filling her, marking her, claiming her all over again).
They stayed like that (joined, trembling, wrapped in each other).
After a long minute, he eased out slowly, carefully.
Laid her down on her side (pillow under the bump, another between her knees for comfort).
He disappeared for a moment, returned with a warm, damp towel.
Cleaned her gently (between her thighs, her breasts, the sticky trails of milk and them).
Every touch soft, reverent.
Then he climbed in behind her, pulled the thick blanket over them both.
Spooned her close (one arm under her neck, the other draped over her bump, palm open and warm).
Kissed the back of her neck.
Her shoulder.
Her ear.
"Ab so ja... I'm not going anywhere."
Amisha, already half-asleep, smiled against the pillow.
Her hand found his, laced their fingers over the bump.
The baby kicked once (soft, content).
Abhiraj kissed her skin again.
"Hum teeno... yahin rahenge.
Hamesha."
And in the quiet winter afternoon,
wrapped in blankets and love and the faint scent of milk and them,
they drifted off together.
Safe.
Whole.
Home.