Author's Note: Oh look, it is me again with a super long 33-page chapter (16,885 words) where I indulge myself and write fluff and almost saxsux -- because when am I ever going to get the chance to write these almost saxsux scenes, hehehe. Hope y'all enjoy it as much as I did. See you on the other side!

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Murtasim was leaning against the driver's side door when she stepped out into the soft night air, the warm summer breeze curling strands of her wavy hair across her cheek. The black Range Rover gleamed under the moonlight, its windows tinted like secrets, its engine a quiet hum, waiting.

And there he was – careless, unbothered in that way only he could manage, sleeves rolled to his elbows, kurta slightly wrinkled, hair messy like he'd run his hands through it a thousand times. His beard was thicker these days, rough and soft in turns, and she hated how much she loved it. Hated how easily her heart skipped just seeing him standing there.

He looked up just as she approached, his eyes brightening the way they always did when they found hers. He reached for the door and opened it, a quiet little gesture that, on another man, might have felt performative. On him, it just felt like him. Thoughtful. His hand on the door, the other in his pocket, the corner of his mouth tugging upward.

But Meerab didn't smile.

She glared. A full-bodied, theatrical glare. Narrowed eyes, pinched lips. Arms crossed. Everything.

Murtasim blinked. "What did I do?"

She didn't respond, just swept past him and climbed in with a huff, pulling her dupatta tighter around herself as she settled into the passenger seat. The scent of the car surrounded her, the soft leather, the faint trace of his cologne, that warm, crisp scent that was just him.

"You know what you did," she muttered, chin tilted defiantly as she looked out the window.

He didn't close the door. Instead, he stepped between it and the frame, leaning in just enough to cast a shadow over her, to make her look at him. Close. Warm. Too close.

His fingers found her chin, tilting her face up gently until she had no choice but to meet his gaze. His touch was always careful, always sure, as if he could read the beat of her heart with just a brush of his skin.

"Meerab," he said softly, her name a word he had never managed to say without reverence.

She narrowed her eyes even further. "So now you remember Meerab?"

His lips curved into that boyish grin that had always been her undoing. She hated that smile. Hated how much she loved it. It crinkled the corners of his eyes and softened the stubborn line of his mouth, and even now, even as she glared, her heart fluttered like it always did.

"You can't remember something you never forget," he said.

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched. That was smooth. Infuriatingly smooth.

He tapped the tip of her nose playfully and grinned wider before closing the door with a soft click and jogging around to the driver's side. She watched him through the windshield, arms still folded, pout still firmly in place, pretending she didn't notice how her stomach flipped when he slipped into the seat beside her.

He glanced over. "Why are you pouting now?"

She turned her head, angling her body slightly away from him like a petulant child, her arms crossing tighter over her chest. "You didn't even miss me today, guess you enjoyed being a bachelor," she whined, and the sound of her own voice made her cringe because she sounded exactly like what she was – a girl in love, irrationally upset about a boy who had already done everything right except one thing: he hadn't said he missed her enough.

He blinked. "I did."

She scoffed, not bothering to hide it. "My watch didn't buzz much."

He laughed, the sound low and warm. "Meri Meerab –"

"No. Don't Meri Meerab me." She twisted toward him now, chin up, full pout engaged, a spark in her eyes that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with wanting him to work for it. "You don't even miss me these days. It wasn't just today."

"That's not true," he said immediately, the smile fading just enough to let the sincerity bleed through.

"How do I know?" she challenged, and it came out small. Not angry. Just honest. Needy, even.

He turned fully toward her, arm resting lazily on the gearshift, and for a moment, she thought he would do something ridiculous, like lean across the console to kiss her, because that was exactly what he looked like he wanted to do. His eyes held that familiar flicker, the one that always made her pulse skip, and she could feel the weight of his gaze like a brush of fingers across her skin.

But instead, he sighed, long and low, and twisted his upper body toward the backseat.

Meerab blinked.

She watched him cautiously from the corner of her eye, her brows furrowing, her lips parting just slightly. His hand disappeared into the shadows of the backseat, rummaging through something she couldn't see.

For one ridiculous, fleeting moment she thought...maybe flowers?

But then he re-emerged with something far less romantic and somehow infinitely more endearing.

His camera.

The very same one she had given him as a muh dikhai present all those months ago.

He held it loosely, fingers curled around the grip, the leather strap coiled around his wrist with the ease of familiarity. She hadn't even realised he'd brought it along tonight. She hadn't even realised how often he carried it now, and yet, now that she thought about it, she'd seen it slung over his shoulder more often these past few weeks.

He didn't say anything at first. Just leaned toward her slowly, not close enough to touch, but close enough to make her inhale, and held the camera out to her.

"What?" she asked, looking between him and the device.

He didn't respond. Just reached forward, thumb clicking a few buttons with the practiced ease of someone who had memorized its mechanics. The viewfinder lit up, and a preview screen glowed softly in the dark confines of the car.

"Look," he murmured.

She took it gently, cradling the camera in both hands as though it were something fragile, precious. Her finger hovered over the scroll wheel and then clicked.

The first image made her breath catch.

It was her. Caught mid-step, her back half-turned, a flurry of pink fabric swirling around her as she gestured toward one of the decorators near the inner courtyard of Shah Haveli. She was barefoot, her dupatta slipping from her shoulder, and there was a frown on her face, but her eyes sparkled, her hands moved animatedly, and the setting sun lit her from behind like a halo.

She hadn't known he was even watching her then, let alone photographing her.

She scrolled again.

Another photo, this time, she was laughing at something Ajiya had said, head tilted back, her hair tied up in a lazy knot.

Click.

She was bent over a table of flower baskets, inspecting strands of marigold with intense scrutiny, a pencil behind one ear, and a slightly grumpy pout on her face as she spoke to their wedding planner.

Click.

A moment from a planning session. She was seated cross-legged on a sofa, arms flailing as she explained something to the wedding planners, while an exasperated Rumi stood in the background. Meerab's mouth was open mid-sentence, and her eyes shone with laughter.

Click.

She was hugging Maryam, a sudden, candid moment. Both of them were laughing at something like children.

Click.

She was standing alone in the garden under the fairy lights, later that same evening, lost in thought, her face half-turned to the stars.

Each picture was hers. Not a version of herself she curated, not a pose or a smile she had arranged, but something rawer. More real. More honest.

And in every one, she looked...beautiful.

Unfiltered. Soft. Glowing.

She hadn't known he'd been watching.

She let out a small giggle, half in surprise and half in disbelief. "You've just...been taking pictures of me?"

Murtasim shrugged, the corner of his mouth lifting. "I like the subject."

She rolled her eyes, but they were soft now, not teasing. Fond. She looked down at the camera again, fingers brushing over the screen like she could preserve the warmth of those moments inside it. "Just because I got you the camera doesn't mean all the pictures have to be of me, you know."

He was already smiling, that slow, secret smile that crept up from the corner of his mouth and lit up the whole of his face.

She shouldn't have felt it anymore, not this flutter in her chest, not this giddy little roll of warmth in her belly. She had loved him for so long, had been loved by him so thoroughly, that it should have dulled into comfort. But instead, there was this: the stupid, breathless skip of her heart every time he looked at her like that. Like she was his whole sky.

It wasn't just butterflies. It was calm too. A strange, steadying sort of serenity, as if her heart remembered the rhythm of him even when her mind was too caught up in the noise of everything else. That was what he did, calmed her even when he made her crazy.

"Both my camera and I love you," he said.

She hummed, pleased and soft, leaning back in her seat as the corners of her mouth curved up. "You can take pictures from closer too," she teased. "You don't have to stay so far away."

He nodded, gaze still on her. "I can stick to your side like glue," he said, low and easy, "but I don't think you'd like that either."

She sighed, turning her head to the window, though she didn't stop smiling. "I know," she murmured. "Everything's insane right now, so many decisions, so many people."

He hummed.

"Good thing," she added a second later, "we're only getting married once."

He chuckled, the sound warm and fond as he turned the key in the ignition. "Technically, we're getting married twice. This is the second time."

She whacked his arm lightly, and he laughed louder as the car came to life. "You know what I mean," she grumbled.

"I do," he said, amused. "I just like annoying you."

She made a face at him, reaching for the camera again, adjusting the strap around her wrist. "Where are we going?"

"Out."

"Murtasimmmm," she whined.

He only grinned, putting the car in drive.

The roads glided past them in soft blurs, the city lights blushing against her window, people milling in and out of roadside shops, a motorbike zipping past with a family of four balanced precariously. And somewhere along the way, she stopped looking at the world and started looking at him.

The camera clicked. Once. Twice.

His hands on the wheel. His profile against the golden wash of a streetlight. His grin when he caught her aiming it at him.

She took a picture of his hand resting on the gearshift, of the tiny upward quirk of his mouth, of the veins along his forearm that always made her want to trace the length of them with her tongue. Then muttered something about documentation and artistic merit when he raised an eyebrow, all the while biting back a grin of her own.

He didn't stop her.

They pulled into a narrow street lined with small trees wrapped in fairy lights, and stopped outside a quaint restaurant tucked between two older buildings. It had whitewashed walls and long arched windows, and vines growing lazily up one side.

But she wasn't looking at the restaurant.

Not really.

Her eyes slid to him again, lingering on the slope of his nose, the flex of his jaw, the way one of his hands had gone back to rest lazily on the gearshift. His other still held the wheel, fingers drumming lightly, distractedly, unaware of just how ruinous the sight of him like this could be.

And honestly, it wasn't fair. It shouldn't be this easy for him to do this to her. Just exist like that, lit by gold and framed in shadows, making her stomach flutter and her thighs press together beneath her clothes.

"Murtasim?" she asked, voice light. Teasing.

"Hm?" He turned slightly toward her, eyes still on the road ahead as he rolled slowly into a parking spot.

"Isn't this the part where you take me somewhere dark and quiet and hidden..." she lowered her voice, "...and have your way with me in the back seat?"

The car jolted slightly as he braked harder than necessary.

"Meerab, yaar," He groaned, "warn a man."

She tried to feign innocence, but her smile was pure trouble. "I just thought you should know I was willing."

He turned to look at her fully now, and for a moment she could see it in him, that brief lapse of control, the tether stretched taut, the effort it took for him not to reach across the console and simply take.

She leaned slightly closer, voice still playful but lower now. "Very willing...for anything."

He closed his eyes and breathed out slowly, pressing his forehead to the steering wheel for a moment as if physically willing patience back into his body.

"Meerab..." he warned, and her name in that voice – rough, reverent, resigned – sent a shiver spiraling through her spine. "We're here to eat."

She squinted at the name of the restaurant and blinked. "I had noodles."

"I know," he said, unbothered, as he turned off the engine. "But I also know your stomach needs more than noodles."

She groaned. "I need to fit into my wedding clothes."

"You will."

"I won't if you keep feeding me."

He leaned his elbow against the steering wheel, turning toward her fully, his smile edging toward devilish. "We can work out together."

She hummed, muttering under her breath, "We both know where that'll end up."

He grinned wider, teasing her back. "Oh? Where?"

She whacked his shoulder again, harder this time.

"They apparently have the best prawns," he said, almost offhandedly, eyes still on the soft glow of the restaurant lights ahead, but there was a subtle upward tilt to his voice, the tiniest lilt that she recognized immediately as bait. He was watching her out of the corner of his eye, and waiting.

And like some ridiculous Pavlovian response, her entire body betrayed her before her brain could intervene, her back straightened, her shoulders perked, her hands gripped the camera just a little tighter.

He laughed. A quiet, breathy thing, half disbelieving and wholly fond. "Knew it," he muttered, smiling fully now.

She tried to school her expression into something unimpressed, but her face was already warm with amusement. "That's not fair," she grumbled, lifting her chin defiantly.

"You love prawns," he said.

"I do," she admitted, then sighed dramatically. "But good ones are hard to find."

"These ones are good."

"You're making that up."

"I'm not. Armaan told me."

She bit the inside of her cheek. "What if I don't like them?"

"Then we'll walk right back out."

"That's low calorie anyway," she reasoned.

"High protein too," He grinned and tilted his head slightly in acknowledgment.

He leaned in across the console, slow and deliberate, his presence warm and solid beside her. The camera was still between them, resting on her lap, the strap wrapped around her wrist like a tether.

He didn't speak. Didn't tease. Just leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Light, reverent, achingly tender.

She closed her eyes for a second, let the feel of it sink into her skin, his lips lingering just a moment longer than necessary. And then he was gone, the door creaking open, letting in a burst of warm night air and the distant hum of Lahore at night.

He stepped out and walked around the front of the car, and she tracked his figure through the windshield, the fluid grace of him in his white kurta, the breeze tousling his already messy hair.

When he reached her side, he opened the door for her.

She looked up, her heart embarrassingly full, eyes bright in the low light. "Thank you," she said, voice soft.

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The streets of Lahore glimmered beneath the gauzy hush of night, silver light pooling over cars and glinting off mirrored windows, the air thick with the scent of grilled meats and spiced corn, laughter rising in waves from the sidewalks. Murtasim guided the Range Rover down a slightly narrower road, his left hand loose on the steering wheel, his right arm resting against the console, his gaze flicking sideways more than once. Meerab sat with one leg tucked beneath her, still glowing from dinner, the half-open window tugging strands of her hair loose around her face.

The city pulsed with life. Brake-lights. Neon. Rickshaws weaving through sleek sedans. It was chaos, yes, but beautiful in its own way.

"There are so many fancy cars in this area," she murmured, peering out with that same half-curious, half-judgy tone that made him grin every single time. "That's another Range Rover... and that one's a Bentley. That's literally a Ferrari."

"Do you want one?" he teased, nudging her arm with his elbow.

"No," she said airily. "I want chaat."

He glanced at her, eyebrows raised. "Chaat?"

"Yes," she said with the kind of conviction that made men lose wars and surrender empires. "I saw a stall back there."

He turned the wheel without a word, already flicking the indicator, knowing exactly which one she meant.

"You just had prawns," he pointed out after a beat, amusement curling his voice. "Like... an embarrassing amount of prawns."

"That was hours ago," she shot back, eyes bright now as she scanned the roadside for the stall.

"It was forty minutes ago."

"Time is relative," she muttered, already rolling down the window as he slowed beside the brightly lit cart, where a young guy was heaping crunchy papdi and chickpeas into bowls.

He handed her his wallet without hesitation, even as he mocked, "Thought you were full."

She rolled her eyes but took it, flipping it open with practiced ease, and he watched her, face illuminated by the streetlight overhead, eyes narrowing in concentration as she scanned the laminated menu tacked to the cart, her head tilting, lips pursing, like this was the most important decision she would ever make.

"Papdi chaat," she said decisively. "Everything except raw onions. Extra imli. Not too spicy."

That last bit made him smile.

Not too spicy always meant she planned to share. It was her way of pretending she wasn't thinking about him, while very much thinking about him.

As the man began preparing her order, Meerab shifted on her seat, vibrating with something that wasn't quite excitement, wasn't quite glee, it was softer. A kind of barely-contained thrill that lived in her bones. She hummed lightly under her breath, one bare foot tapping against the floorboard, her dupatta slipping from one shoulder. Her eyes sparkled. Her shoulders wiggled, just a little, the way they did when she was holding in a smile that wanted so badly to be set free.

That was what joy looked like on her. That was what he had wanted to photograph the first time he held a camera.

And then she moved to open the main fold of his wallet, perhaps looking for change, and stilled.

Murtasim saw it happen in real time, the pause, the blink, the soft hitch in her breath as her thumb brushed against the corner of the photograph he'd slipped in just days ago.

A candid. Blurry at the edges. Wind in her hair. Sunlight caught on the curve of her jaw. She was laughing, or just about to, head tilted toward someone off-frame, her hands mid-gesture. He'd taken it on the terrace, when she wasn't looking.

She looked up from the picture, eyes wide, and then smiled at him.

His chest squeezed so hard he forgot how to breathe.

"Come here," she said, tilting her chin toward him.

He blinked. "What?"

She waved him over, impatient. "Just, come closer."

Thinking she wanted him to relay something to the vendor, he leaned over the console obligingly, only for her to press a featherlight kiss to the center of his forehead.

It was so quick he barely registered it. Warm, soft, affectionate, and over before he could process it. But something deep in his chest twisted with a sort of helpless love, and he let out a stunned little chuckle just as the vendor passed the plate into Meerab's waiting hands.

She handed over the cash, still grinning as he rolled back into motion. His heart didn't settle.

He drove off again, away from the stall to find a place to park. "What was that?" he asked, glancing at her sideways.

Meerab didn't even turn. "What was what?"

"The kiss," he clarified.

She sniffed the plate, eyes fluttering closed in ecstasy. "What kiss?"

"Such a tease," he muttered, shaking his head, even as she tucked his wallet into the cupholder between them.

By the time he pulled to the side and parked, just a quiet stretch of street near a park, under the halo of a flickering streetlamp, she was already taking her first bite.

He hadn't even taken his hand off the gearshift when he heard her make the sound.

That soft, low, mmm of satisfaction.

"Can I have some?" He asked.

"No," she said around her next mouthful, holding her spoon protectively.

He ignored her.

"I will stab you with this spoon," she warned, but she was already giggling

He leaned in and then he did the unthinkable, stole a bite.

"Murtasim!" she gasped.

"You got it mild because you wanted to share with me," he said, chewing happily.

"I did not!" she huffed. "It's mild because I wanted it that way."

"Liar!" He reached again.

"Bhookad!"

"Are you sure you're talking about me? Sounds like you!"

She tried to glare. It lasted all of two seconds. Then she sighed and scooted just a little closer, curling one leg up beneath her, elbow brushing his. "Your bites are too big."

"They're normal-sized bites."

"No." She demonstrated, daintily scooping the tiniest possible amount onto her spoon and holding it up like she was about to present it at a science fair. "This is a normal-sized bite."

He looked at it. Blinked. "That's a teaspoon for ants."

"It's a human bite."

"Maybe I'm just hungrier than you."

"Maybe you're rude."

He snorted and stole another bite.

He knew she wasn't actually mad. Not really. Not about the chaat or the stolen bites or even the water bottle he drank half of earlier. Meerab's annoyance was a performance, a delightful little show she liked to put on now and then, not out of spite, but out of pure, playful mischief. A tilt of her head, a dramatic pout, that glint in her eye that gave her away every time. She liked the nakhre, the exaggerated huffs and folded arms. It wasn't anger; it was affection in disguise, a language only he seemed to understand fluently. And he loved that she felt safe enough to be silly, to be soft, to act spoiled not because she needed to, but because she knew he'd indulge her every time.

She finished the chaat with the kind of gusto that made him want to feed her for the rest of his life. Her cheeks puffed as she chewed through the last crispy bit of papdi, and then, without warning, she picked up the half-empty bottle of water between them and downed it in one long, unbroken gulp.

He blinked, genuinely taken aback.

"So," she said, voice only slightly breathless, screwing the cap back on, "what's for dessert?"

He laughed, loud and helpless and so full of adoration that he had to tilt his head back against the headrest to ride it out, wondering if he should remind her that she'd been complaining about him feeding her too much not even an hour ago.

"We can walk while we eat," she added matter-of-factly, wiping her hands with the wet wipes she always kept in her purse. "That way the calories don't count."

If it had been anyone else, he would have rolled his eyes. Would've launched into a boring but accurate monologue about metabolism and nutritional science. But this was Meerab. And when she said it, it sounded less like wishful thinking and more like some sacred rule of the cosmos that he'd be foolish to question.

And so, he just nodded.

She wiggled in her seat like a child high on sugar, singing under her breath, "Dessert, dessert, desserttttt" in a tuneless little melody that made him want to throw his arms around her and never let go.

Instead, he stepped out of the car, drawing in a deep breath of the Lahore night. The air was warm and slightly sticky, spiced with the scent of frying ghee and cardamom and the faint trace of flowers that someone, somewhere, must have freshly watered.

He circled around to her side, and though she had already reached for the handle, she paused the moment she caught sight of him through the glass.

She waited.

So, he opened the door for her.

She didn't move for a second, just blinked up at him with those eyes that always seemed too wide, too deep, like they held entire stories he'd never be able to read. Her lips curved slowly. Lazily. And then she lifted her hand, placed it in his without a word.

He couldn't help himself.

As she stepped out, he tugged her, not harshly, but deliberately, guiding her back until her spine met the frame of the door and the warm metal hummed through the fabric of her clothes. He stepped in, filling the space between them, close enough that the air thickened and her lashes fluttered once, just once, before mischief gleamed in her gaze.

He cupped her cheeks in both hands.

Squished gently.

Her lips puckered in protest, mouth forming a perfect little pout, and she squeaked, "Murtasim – "

He kissed her. Not a real kiss. Not the kind either of them wanted. Just tiny, ridiculous pecks, one after another, rapid fire, landing like warm rain over her mouth.

"Stop it," she whispered, looking nervously over his shoulder. "Someone will see."

He didn't look away. "Let them."

Her nose scrunched. "You're such a menace."

Before she could swat him, he released her cheeks and laced his fingers through hers, tugging her gently toward a little row of stalls he'd clocked earlier.

He wasn't sure when it happened, when her fingers slipped from his and began to trail up his arm, skimming the inside of his forearm, grazing the hem of his sleeve. But suddenly her palm was cupping the curve of his bicep instead, and she was holding it like it was hers to claim.

He flexed.

Immediately.

She gasped, half-laughed, half-scolded, "Stop it!"

He stilled. Let her squeeze. Said nothing as they walked.

They stopped at a brightly lit cart with a menu scrawled in too many fonts. She scanned it for a second before beaming.

"Rose kulfi," she announced, triumphant.

He wrinkled his nose.

"You're always so boring," she said, turning to him as the vendor handed her selection.

"I know what I like."

"I know," she sighed, mock-dramatic, but clearly fond.

He tilted his head, voice dropping a little as he took the kesar pista kulfi, and handed the man a few crisp bills.

"I knew I liked you years ago. That hasn't changed." He said as they walked away from the stall.

She froze, visibly. Blinked once. Then whined.

"You need to stop doing that."

He blinked, "Doing what?"

"Saying all the right things," she muttered, lips twitching. "I can't even tease you."

"You constantly tease me."

It was out before he could stop it.

And then, he regretted it.

Because she let go of his arm.

Not dramatically, not in anger, but with the deliberate swiftness of someone with an idea. She sped up a little, not quite running, her dupatta fluttering behind her like a banner of mischief. Then she turned, still walking, backwards now, and looked at him with a smile that was all challenge, all play. Her eyes gleamed in the moonlight, wide and guileless.

"Constantly, huh? How?" she asked, tilting her head, pretending to be confused.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, already dreading (no, anticipating) what she was about to do.

And there it was.

She lifted the rose kulfi to her mouth slowly, lips parted just so, and dragged her tongue along its edge with infuriating leisure. Then she closed her lips around the tip and sucked, eyes never leaving his.

Murtasim stopped breathing.

The image slammed into his chest like a memory laced with hunger: the terrace, her mouth, the way she had looked at him just before – no. He cleared his throat, resisted the urge to shift on his feet, resisted the heat pooling low in his belly.

"Like this?" she teased, voice feather-light, before giggling.

Her laugh. He didn't think anyone had the right to sound so pretty.

"Meerab," he warned, a laugh in his own voice, but taut, strained, helplessly fond. "Behave."

"Maybe I don't want to," she said sweetly, sing-song, licking the kulfi again, slower this time.

He stepped forward without thinking, caught her by the wrist, not hard, just enough to still her movements, and tugged until she fell back in step beside him, still laughing.

"Even if you can't see me, you know what I'm doing," she said in that same maddeningly soft, melodic voice that made his groan escape before he could help it.

"You're evil," he muttered, but there was a smile tugging at his lips, even as his body thrummed with the effort of keeping everything else in check.

She started slowing down within minutes, and he noticed the problem. Her sandals. Beautiful, yes, strappy and delicate and entirely impractical for long walks around moonlit parks.

He frowned, wordlessly slipped his hand into hers again, and pulled her gently toward the nearest set of steps by the water. The park was still alive at this hour. The artificial lake, if he could call it that, shimmered beneath the glow of yellow lamps and white moonlight, a soft breeze rustling the leaves of the trees above. There was a fountain in the middle, its rhythmic spray casting soft ripples across the surface. Couples wandered by, families with children, old friends deep in conversation. A few people jogged laps, others sat around on steps like theirs, quietly watching the water.

"Can I try yours?" she asked suddenly.

His mind immediately, predictably, went places.

She saw it happen, of course she did, and giggled like she'd won a prize.

"Stop," he said again. Not frustrated. Just overwhelmed. Overcome.

He held the kulfi out for her, and she leaned over, licked it once, then twice, humming thoughtfully. "Not bad," she declared, like she was a food critic reviewing the evening's delicacies.

They bickered like children pretending to be grown.

"I just don't understand why anyone would want to eat a kulfi that tastes like a flower," Murtasim said, shaking his head with mock disapproval, eyeing the slowly melting pink shade of her rose kulfi like it had personally offended him.

Meerab rolled her eyes and licked it again with exaggerated delight. "Because it's delicate. Refined. Complex. Not everyone's palate can handle it."

"It tastes like a garden sprayed with perfume," he muttered.

She gasped dramatically. "It does not!"

He shrugged, lazily licking his own kesar pista. "It does."

"Well, your kulfi tastes like something a sixty-year-old uncle with a paan addiction would eat," she shot back, grinning.

He arched a brow, utterly unbothered. "Exactly. Classic. Time-tested. Unlike yours, which is trying too hard to be different."

"I'm adventurous," she said, pointing her kulfi at him like a sword. "You're boring."

"I'm consistent," he corrected, eyes twinkling.

"You're predictable," she sang back.

"I have range."

"Do you?" She squinted at him, biting off the edge of her kulfi like she was proving a point. "Name one dessert you like that isn't brown or beige."

He pretended to think. "Gulab jamun. Jalebi. Rasmalai. Kheer. Shahi tukray. Gajak – "

She made a sound of disbelief. "Brown. Orange-brown. White-beige. Beige with nuts. Beige, soaked in milk. Brown brittle. Boringggggg."

"You're judging me while licking a bouquet," he said flatly, staring pointedly at the sticky pink kulfi in her hand.

She huffed, defiantly licking it again. "It's refreshing."

"It's weird."

"It's delicious," she retorted, narrowing her eyes. "You're just jealous because you don't taste like this."

He choked on his breath. "Meerab."

She giggled, all dimples and mischief, her foot nudging his lightly as she leaned back, smug.

And he, predictably, gave up arguing.

Eventually, they fell into a quiet rhythm, her shoulder brushing his, her leg tucked beneath her, her eyes trained on the moon that hung low and full over the still, dark lake, shimmering like a secret only the night knew how to keep.

He let himself breathe it all in.

This woman beside him. This peace. This pull in his chest that never lessened, never dulled, never let go.

She nudged his arm gently, breaking the silence. "Why'd you bring me out tonight?"

He didn't look away from the moon right away. Just sat there a beat longer before turning to her and answering, "I missed you."

That got her to glance at him, chin tilted, expression softer than it had been all evening.

"We spend more time with decorators and photographers and caterers than with each other these days," he added, voice low, thoughtful. "And I don't like it...especially the part where I have to put up with Arsalan whining and complaining all day."

She hummed, a low, amused sound curling at the back of her throat. "Not because you're getting cold feet?"

He scoffed, turning to her at last. "My feet are very warm, thank you very much."

She laughed, light and melodic.

But then he asked, curious now, "Are you getting cold feet?"

She made a face. "Murtasim, my feet are always cold."

He chuckled.

"But no," she added, stretching her legs slightly, her anklets chiming faintly with the motion, the ones he had bought for her and she never took off. "Obviously not. Why would I get cold feet about a wedding I've been planning in my head since I was five?"

He turned, brows raised. "You were very creative for a five-year-old."

She rolled her eyes and swatted at his arm. "Obviously the wedding evolved over the years."

"But the groom stayed the same?" he asked, and something warm and uncontainable moved across his face as he asked it.

She looked at him, eyes dancing. "The groom didn't change," she confirmed, quiet, certain, unwavering.

He smiled then, nudging her shoulder with his. "I love you, meri Meerab."

She smiled back, nose scrunching just a little, a gesture she didn't even realize she did but that he hoarded like a secret. It softened him every time.

"I love you too... even if you're a boring old man already."

"I am not boring," he huffed, affronted.

"Oh really?" she leaned in, eyes bright with mischief. "What non-boring man turns down that offer?"

His breath caught. He turned his face slowly, deliberately, toward hers.

"Do you really want your first time," he murmured, "to be in the backseat of a car?"

She didn't blink. Just shrugged, all false nonchalance and the corner of her mouth lifting. "I didn't say we had to do that."

He stilled. Because he knew this version of her, the girl who could toss a grenade of boldness into the silence and watch him explode with it. She liked dancing up to the line, tiptoeing over it with just enough brazenness to make his head spin. But if he stepped over that line, if he picked up the thread she'd left hanging, she'd fluster. Her cheeks would flush, her breath would catch, she'd make a sound somewhere between a gasp and a giggle and pretend she hadn't started it.

And still, he leaned in. The distance between them melted away as he angled toward her, voice lowering into something rough, velveted, intimate.

"Then what did you want to do in the backseat?" he asked, slow, delicious, deadly.

He watched the question land, watched the flicker of surprise dart across her features before she caught herself, drawing up her defenses. But he knew her better than anyone; he saw the way her pupils dilated, the way she unconsciously pressed her thighs together, the way her breath went shallow, tight. His question was not merely a tease, it was an invitation, a challenge, a promise of everything he'd do to her if she only asked.

He didn't stop.

He wouldn't stop. Not when she'd gone this far, not when she'd thrown down the gauntlet. He let his gaze drop to her mouth, watched the way her lower lip quivered, just a little. He let the images come, hot and clear, knowing she could sense them in the tension winding tighter between them.

"Do you want me to lay you down, legs over my lap, and kiss you until your lipstick's all gone?"

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed.

He pictured it, the bright stain of her lipstick smudged across her lips, the sweet taste of it on his tongue, the softness of her skin yielding under his hands. He imagined the way she'd melt against him, arching into his touch, helpless to do anything but sigh his name. He would take his time, would savor every inch of her, every sound, every shiver, until there was nothing left of her careful facade.

"I could pull you into my lap and make you ride it out slow," he whispered against the shell of her ear, "let the windows fog up while I undo you with just my hands."

She choked on her breath.

"I could have your soft little sounds echo in this car, Meerab, while my fingers are curling inside you..."

He could almost feel it: the tight heat of her around his fingers, the way her breath would catch and break, the desperate clutch of her hands in his shirt as she tried to stay quiet. He would coax every whimper, every sigh, every shattered gasp from her lips, would draw out her pleasure until it bordered on unbearable. He would whisper to her, low and filthy, every word a promise of what he would do when he finally, finally had her.

He saw her eyes flutter shut, saw the way her lips parted, as if in anticipation of his touch. He let the silence stretch until he could nearly taste her need, raw and aching, blooming between them.

"I could slip down between your thighs, taste you until you're shaking," he whispered, his breath hot against her cheek, "make you come on my tongue until you can't think straight, until you're begging me to let you catch your breath."

His voice was almost unrecognizable, rough and thick, heavy with longing. He let himself imagine it, her hands tangling in his hair as they always did, her hips lifting to meet his mouth, her moans loud in the enclosed space. He wanted her lost, undone, needing him, every defense stripped away.

"I could make you wrap those pretty lips around me," he murmured, the words tumbling from him, dark and helpless, "watch you look up at me with those big eyes, your mouth so full of me you can barely breathe."

He let the words hang, his thumb stroking over her jaw, memorizing the heat in her cheeks, the tremor in her breath, before he let his thumb trace her bottom lip, pulling on it a bit.

"Murtasim." She cut him off, voice pinched, cheeks flushed, eyes darting around as if someone was listening to them.

She tried to sound stern, to push back the tide, but she was shaking, trembling with need, and he saw the way her hands gripped the edge of her dupatta, saw the blush that spilled down her throat, saw the way her gaze darted and fluttered, unable to settle.

He chuckled, biting back a grin, enjoying himself now that she was the one flustered.

Low in his chest, the sound vibrated, heavier and rougher than he intended, the kind of laugh that only escaped him when he was near her, so perfectly undone, so pleased with himself, so wholly enthralled. It was an animal thing, almost; a curl of pleasure so intense that even as he tried to keep it in, it rippled out.

He muttered under his breath, just loud enough for her to catch, "Such a reaction, Meerab, for a boring old man," and the words, smoky and self-mocking, seemed to curl and linger in the small, charged air between them.

She turned toward him at once, her eyes narrow, a pointed glare cutting through the shadows. He saw the flash of annoyance, the sharp flicker of defiance, and only then did he realize that the light had shifted. Just moments ago, the moon had been painting her skin with that silvery brilliance, etching every line and every curve, but now her face was cast in a softer, gloomier shade. The night had grown thicker around them, the gentle pool of moonlight that had illuminated her cheekbone, the glimmer caught on the arch of her brow, was gone.

He blinked, adjusting, and looked up, his eyes searching the sky above him. He caught sight of the clouds, great banks of them, rolling and bruised, that same ever-shifting ceiling he'd noticed all day while golfing. Earlier, the clouds had been a minor nuisance, passing in and out of the sun's path, dragging their gray shadows across the earth. Now they seemed to thicken with intent, gathering into a deeper, darker threat above.

He opened his mouth, about to remark on it, about to say it looked like rain, as if she hadn't noticed the omen herself, when the heavens broke open without warning. There was no gradual increase, no polite patter, just the sudden, thunderous release: fat, heavy drops beating down against them, the sound wild and immediate, a hard percussion that turned the world to a blur.

She shrieked, indignant, arms flying up in vain protection. "I just washed my hair!" The outrage in her voice was both genuine and deeply, comically tragic. She hunched her shoulders, tucking her head as if that could shield her from the onslaught, and whined, "Why does this always happen to me?" Her misery, so pure and so melodramatic, made him laugh, he couldn't help it, laughter breaking out of him in helpless bursts that nearly doubled him over.

She shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. "You'd know how painful this is if your hair wasn't so short," she snapped, still huddled in the pouring rain, strands of her hair plastering themselves to her cheeks. He grinned shamelessly at her, delighting in her fury, before rising from the steps and extending his hand, palm up and open, a peace offering and a promise all at once.

She glared again but took his hand without hesitation, her fingers cold and small, their grip surprisingly strong. Together, they staggered to their feet, water already sluicing off their clothes. Around them, laughter rang out from other stragglers caught in the deluge: couples dashing for cover, friends shrieking in delighted surprise, the sounds blending with the patter of rain on stone and grass. The city park, moments ago tranquil, was transformed into a rush of life and color and motion.

Meerab let out a long-suffering sigh, as if her trials were insurmountable, but her complaints faded as she clutched his hand, pulling him insistently toward the car. Her lips formed half-hearted protests about her hair, but there was laughter in her eyes. He followed, glancing down at her, at the way her soaked white kurta clung scandalously to her skin, molding itself to every curve. In the shifting darkness, the effect was illicit; her silhouette rendered delicate and bold at once. He could see the delicate outline of her bra, skin-toned and lacy, a detail he could not help noticing, a detail that sent heat coursing through his veins.

She glanced up at him, rain running in streams down her face, her eyes widened. He wondered, heart thudding, if she saw the hunger in his gaze, if it was reflected back in the quick parting of her lips. Or was it surprise, some sharp flash of awareness as she realized what he saw?

They paused, just by the car door, her face tilted up to him, water beading on her lashes, running down her cheeks, tracing the line of her jaw. It struck him, this is how she looked in the shower, every inch of her slick and gleaming, bare skin revealed and vulnerable. Yet this was different, the world made witness to what was usually hidden, the sky drenching her with no mercy or privacy.

He couldn't help himself: longing undid him, tore away every last reserve. He leaned in, his hands catching at her waist, and kissed her hard, reckless, desperate against the car door in the rain.

It was foolish, wildly, scandalously foolish. They were in public, in the heart of Lahore, and anyone could see, anyone could judge, but in that instant none of it mattered. All that existed was the taste of her and the heat of her body pressed against his. Her hands came up, settling on his chest above his soaked kurta, soft and trembling, and he felt her moan into his mouth, low and silken, a sound that vibrated through his very bones.

She tasted like roses, like the scent that always lingered in the air after she left, subtle but persistent, the ghost of her. He thought suddenly of rose kulfis and found himself smiling against her mouth. Maybe they weren't so bad after all, not if they tasted like her, not if they carried this sweetness, this heat.

It was she who pulled away first, breathless and flushed, her lips parted, her hair plastered to her face. "Murtasim, someone will see," she whispered, half-laughing, half-panicked, the words so achingly reasonable he wanted to curse. He groaned, the sound torn from him, as sense returned like a bucket of cold water. She was right, painfully right, if they were caught here, if someone called the police...he didn't have enough influence in this city to erase that sort of scandal. It would be a nightmare if the Shahs had to be involved.

He opened her door for her, an automatic gesture, but as she slid inside, he chased her lips once more, catching her in a brief, hungry kiss as she settled into the passenger seat. She was a vision, eyes wide, lips red and swollen, hair wild and gleaming. He stared a moment longer, every cell in his body humming with need.

He let out a groan as he closed her door, the sound ripped from the center of his chest, not merely from frustration but from the near-unbearable sweetness of wanting and holding back. The ache was bone-deep, a pulse he could not ignore, and for a moment he pressed his palm flat to the rain-cool metal, breath coming quick and ragged. "You have to wait," he muttered to himself, the words nearly drowned by the patter of rain on steel. "The wedding is just a week away." As if repetition would make the ache easier, as if the promise would tame the wild thing inside him that wanted her without restraint, here and now, decency and decorum be damned.

He forced himself away, jogging around the bonnet as rain hammered his shoulders and trickled cold beneath his collar, the park now nearly empty, the world shrunk to the circle of yellow-white under the lamplights and the black, gleaming silhouette of the car. He flung open the driver's door, ducked inside, and shut out the storm, the hush inside sudden, almost intimate, the only noise the sharp, tinny sound of rain above.

They settled into the deep leather seats, the car a cocoon of shadow and breath and memory. The downpour became a steady roar overhead, relentless, thick as velvet, obscuring the outside world. Through the windshield, everything was rendered indistinct: the lamp-posts dissolved into wan halos, the trees into blotches of moving darkness, the puddles on the pavement flashing with every headlight like shards of quicksilver. Murtasim's hands trembled, just a little, as he keyed the ignition, the soft purr of the engine swallowed by the thunder outside.

She was saying something, a gentle, pointed rib, her tone light, almost careless, but he caught only the rhythm of her voice, the shape of her laughter. He pulled the car out of the lot, rain-slicked tarmac shining under the beams, and let the city swallow them. He drove on instinct, half-blind, the world reduced to abstract glows, shadows, sudden jags of brightness as headlights flickered across puddles. He felt as if he were moving through a dream, untethered, every turn less certain. Only when he glanced up and found himself on a quiet street, a row of shuttered houses on one side, unfinished skeletons of future homes looming further down, did he realize he'd lost all sense of direction.

He looked toward her, and his mind emptied, utterly, deliciously blank.

Meerab sat half-turned in the passenger seat, knees curled up on the broad expanse of leather, body angled toward him as if drawn by the magnetic field that always buzzed between them. Her clothes, still wet, clung in places where it shouldn't, outlining the exquisite dip of her waist, the lush softness of her thighs, the arch of her hip where the fabric pulled taut and then fell away. Her dupatta had been tossed carelessly aside, forgotten in the rush, and her hair, glossy and black and shining with rain, trailed damp tendrils down her neck, a single lock plastered to the delicate line of her throat. That neck. The sight of it, bare and vulnerable, always did something to him: made him wild.

He could not have looked away if he tried.

She caught him watching, and a wicked, dimpled smile curved her lips. "Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked, voice half-teasing, half-mocking, the challenge soft but unmistakable.

He didn't bother with denial. His voice dropped, rough with want, "You know."

She tilted her chin, affecting a naivete he knew was feigned, her eyes alight. "I don't," she said, the word feather-light, daring him to spell it out.

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "You know...I've always liked cars," he said, trying for nonchalance, but his voice was too ragged, too intent.

She giggled, a real, silvery sound, and raised her brows, "And...?"

He turned, fixing her with a look that said everything his words could not. "You know I've always liked you more than anything," he admitted, the words heavier than the rain, truer than any confession he'd ever made.

She hummed, drawing the syllable out, her gaze never leaving his. "And?"

A dangerous smile curved his mouth, the edges softening as he looked at her, rain-washed and radiant in the half-light. "Those two worlds collide," he said, each word measured, deliberate, "mostly with you naked in the car."

She hummed again, this time lower, darker. "And why am I naked in the car, Murtasim?" Her tone was mocking, but he saw the shiver run down her spine, the way her breath caught at the back of her throat. I

He let out a laugh, low and rough, shaking his head. "What do you think?" His voice dropped. "Do you want me to spell it out again?"

She bit her lip, her teeth worrying the soft flesh, her eyes meeting his. "Always just words," she challenged, her tone lilting, yet threaded with need.

He looked around, at the empty street, the construction, the privacy, and made his decision without thinking. He turned into what would someday be the driveway of a mansion, the gravel new and loose beneath the tires, the Range Rover idling in the shelter of half-built dreams. He flicked off the engine, the dash going dark, lights vanishing so the only illumination came from the rain-blurred glow of distant lamps.

He reached for her, greedy, unable to hold back another moment. He pulled her into his lap, the action fluid and hungry and impatient, every inch of him burning with the memory of her lips and the sight of her rain-soaked body.

His hands were greedy, hungry, reverent, urgent. His palm slid along the outside of her thigh, the cool, damp cotton parting under his touch, fingertips curling into her just enough to make her breath catch. He breathed her in, roses, rain, the scent of her already undoing him, making restraint a distant memory. Her warmth seeped into his skin, her softness melting against him.

One hand slipped behind her neck, his thumb gliding over the damp baby hairs at her nape, the sensation almost reverent in its tenderness. He pulled her to him as if his body were ruled by instinct, not will, as if a dam had broken inside him the instant she sighed his name. His hand splayed wide, pressing her forward, needing her closer, closer, always closer.

Their mouths collided, hot, messy, ravenous. His lips crashed against hers, greedy and unrepentant, seeking, tasting, taking. His teeth caught at her bottom lip, tugged hard enough to make her gasp, then softened, coaxing her open with low, pleading murmurs, as if begging her to let him in.

Her moan hit him like a blow, a helpless, muffled sound, thick with need, trembling between them as her fingers clutched at his soaked kurta. That thin cotton, already heavy with rain and tension, bunched in her fists as if she might draw him into herself through sheer force. He kissed her deeper, his tongue sweeping past her lips, tasting the cool trace of rainwater, the faint, sweet acidity of rose kulfi that lingered, and, beneath it all, the singular, unnameable taste that was hers alone.

Her thighs shifted, sliding wider on either side of his hips, and the faint, damp rustle of her shalwar against the leather made his stomach dip, a low, heated ache gathering at the base of his spine. The entirety of her weight pressed into his lap, grounding him in her heat. Through the barrier of her wet, clinging clothes and his, the friction was exquisite and excruciating, every movement, every press and roll of her hips sending electric shocks through him. He tilted his head, his mouth leaving hers, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the delicate bone of her jaw, down the pale column of her neck. He nipped at her, gentle at first, then rougher, teeth scraping just where her pulse beat hardest beneath skin flushed and rain-wet, his tongue laving over the mark as she shivered in his arms.

"Mmmph, Murtasim..." Her voice was unsteady, trembling at the edges, broken open with want and fear and something bright and shattering. The sound made him throb, made something dark and hungry curl low in his belly, so intense he could scarcely breathe.

His hands moved without restraint. One wrapped around her waist, dragging her flush to him, her chest flattened to his; the other slipped down over the swell of her hip and gripped hard, anchoring her as he thrust up instinctively. The friction jolted through them both. Her breath hitched, and then she rolled her hips once, slowly, purposefully, as if testing the resistance and the soft whimper she gave at the feel of his cock, hard under his pajama, was almost enough to undo him.

"Meerab..." It came out low, strained, thick with desperation. "You're driving me insane..."

She kissed him again, biting this time, playful but fierce, her nails scraping the back of his neck, his scalp, like she wanted to mark him, tear into him. She rocked against him again, this time faster. Her soaked, hot crotch pressed right against the swollen ridge straining his pajama. Nothing in between but heat and wet cotton.

He groaned. Deep. Guttural. A sound torn from his chest.

Her breath was coming faster now, broken gasps against his mouth, eyes glassy, half-lidded. She moved rhythmically, grinding down on him, her hips doing a slow, devastating roll, over and over, and he met her thrust for thrust, his own hips pumping up into her with a restraint that was thinning by the second.

She dipped her mouth to his ear, her voice a whisper made of secrets and smoke, "Did you think of this after that first time?" The words made his blood roar in his ears, made him want to confess everything he'd ever dreamed, every sin and hunger.

He answered, lips grazing her jaw, "I thought of a lot more." His confession was a groan, half-prayer, half-curse.

She hummed, a low, satisfied sound that vibrated against his skin.

Murtasim buried his face in her neck, the scent of her, roses, skin, damp heat, so intoxicating he felt dizzy, lost. He kissed her there, licked the salt of her sweat and the sweetness of rain, bit down just enough to feel her jolt in his arms, her thighs clenching around him. "You feel that?" he whispered, his hips jerking up, grinding his cock against her with exquisite desperation. "You feel how badly I want you?"

"Y-yes," she breathed, the word dissolving into a gasp, her head tipped back, neck arched, the long line of her spine drawn so tight it was a wonder she did not snap. Her body trembled with it, restraint and surrender, wanting and waiting, every contradiction Murtasim had ever adored made incarnate atop his lap. For a moment he could only stare at her, wide-eyed and wild, lost in the marvel that was her surrender: how she gave herself, how she held herself back, how every shiver and hitch of breath was a language he had spent his whole life learning.

His hands slipped beneath her kameez, sliding up her waist, hungry for her heat, the slide of her skin against his palms both heaven and agony. He cupped her back, pressing her closer, needing her so near he could feel the quick, fluttering thunder of her heart beneath his hand, the faint tremor of her ribs with every exhalation. The shape of her, the living warmth, the impossible softness, he clung to it, grinding up with shameless insistence, letting her feel him, dragging her along the ridge of his arousal with every hungry tilt of his hips.

She moaned, a sound pitched low and sweet, then again, louder, rougher, as the swollen head of his cock caught her just right through the soaked, thin cotton, his own groan tumbling out ragged and desperate, "Fuck –"

He caught her mouth in his, hard, teeth finding her bottom lip, biting until she whimpered, then softening, licking away the sting. He kissed her like a starving man, licking into her, drinking in every sound, every shiver, every small helpless rut of her hips as she ground against him, desperate, unable or unwilling to stop. Her breath came in hot, wet bursts against his mouth, her lips parted and clinging, her whole body melting against his as the rhythm between them built to something frantic, wild, just short of breaking.

"Just a few more days," she whispered against his cheek, the words ragged and raw, and he groaned, the meaning of it, the promise, the torment, piercing him to the core. He could feel the future poised at the edge of every moment, close enough to touch and yet excruciatingly out of reach.

Her hands, frantic and greedy, slipped beneath the collar of his kurta, tugging it wide, pressing her palms against his bare chest. Her nails dragged down over muscle, scraping, catching, leaving a trail of fire that made him jerk and twitch beneath her. She pressed her mouth to his neck, kisses hot and open-mouthed, messy with hunger, her moans muffled against his skin.

Her hips didn't slow, each roll dragged her soaked core up and down his length, every stroke sending him closer to the edge. His breath was coming faster now, sharp little grunts punctuating every roll, every wet drag, every whispered curse that fell from his lips like broken prayers.

But the front seat was not enough. Not wide enough, not deep enough, not right enough for the scale of his hunger, the heat that threatened to burn through every layer of their restraint. The space felt cramped, stifling, the wheel and the console and the angle all wrong, a frustration as sharp as the ache between his legs.

She moaned his name then, a raspy, desperate sound, "Murtasimmmmm," her breath breaking, her whole body shaking. And something wild broke loose in him at the sound.

He grabbed her by the waist, breath harsh against her mouth, and whispered, "Get in the back." His voice was thick, guttural, a command and a plea all at once. There was nothing of gentleness left in it; he needed her now, needed space, needed more.

Meerab scrambled between the seats, hasty and breathless, knees slipping on the slick leather, the hem of her kameez already riding high, skin flashing pale in the low light. He could see her hands trembling, could hear the catch of her breathing as she fumbled for purchase, but she didn't hesitate, crawling backward into the shadowed, wider sanctuary of the back seat.

He didn't wait. He wrenched open the door, stepping out into the wild downpour, the rain slamming into his skin like icy needles, shocking him into raw awareness, every nerve on fire. He flung open the rear door and climbed in after her, nearly tearing his kurta over his head as he did, breath coming fast, mouth parted, eyes wild, crawling after her like a man possessed, heedless of the rain still streaming down his face, his hair, the fabric of his pajama sticking to his thighs.

The backseat was another world. Larger, yes, but more intimate too: the windows fogging with the heat of their breaths, the air thick and stifling with the scent of her, roses, sweat, rain, and something heady and feminine. It pressed in on him, made the space feel sacred and forbidden at once, the only sound the frantic beating of their hearts and the soft, steady rush of rain outside.

She lay back against the seat, thighs parted, chest heaving beneath the soaked cotton, her hair a tangled crown around her face, her lips swollen and glistening from his kisses. Her kameez had ridden up, exposing the generous swell of her hips, her shalwar clinging, almost translucent now with rain, outlining the lines of her legs and the shadow between her thighs. She reached for him, fingers beckoning, eyes half-lidded and molten, the red flush spreading down her throat and chest, lips wet and parted.

His hands shook, not from hesitation, never that, but from the effort of holding himself back, from the strain of loving her with so much tenderness and so much hunger he thought it might tear him apart.

He gripped the hem of her kameez, yanking it upward, dragging it over her waist, her chest, then higher still, until at last he peeled it off entirely, tossing it aside with a violence that was all want and no apology.

His mouth descended on her instantly, greedy, worshipful, his lips closing over her nipple through the soaked, half-sheer fabric of her bra. He suckled hard, the taste of rain and silk and her skin flooding his senses, moaning against her, his tongue flicking, lapping, drawing the hard bud into his mouth until she cried out, hips jerking up against his stomach, her hands flying to his hair, fisting there, clutching him to her as if she never wanted to let him go.

He kissed lower, trailing his lips and tongue down the smooth plane of her stomach, his teeth scraping at the delicate skin just above her navel. Each nip left a pink mark, each drag of his mouth pulled gasps from her lips, soft, shivering, uncontrollable. He bit down, not gentle, and her fingers tangled in his hair, her whole body arching beneath the weight of his attention. Her breath came faster, whimpering at every sting, every lick, every glide of his mouth over skin wet with rain and sweat and want.

With trembling hands, he pushed her shalwar down, shoving the sodden fabric over the flare of her hips, baring her further, leaving only the fragile barrier of her panties between them. Her legs parted, knees falling open, her skin flushed and gleaming in the steamy, fogged light.

He surged back up, greedy, hungry, and hooked his fingers into the cups of her bra. The wet fabric peeled away from her skin with a slow, sticky resistance, and as it came down her breasts spilled free, heavy and flushed, the nipples already peaked and begging for his mouth. He groaned, low and broken, and buried his face between them, kissing, licking, sucking, his tongue flicking over each swollen tip until she was gasping and writhing, clutching at his shoulders. He lapped at her hungrily, leaving her nipples slick and glistening with his spit, swollen and painfully sensitive, his jaw working at her until she trembled.

"Fuck," he breathed, voice hoarse, pressing hot kisses between her breasts, tasting the rain and salt and wildness of her skin.

She hummed his name, breathless and dizzy, the sound a trembling thread winding through the thick, charged air. Then, with sudden, reckless resolve, she reached down, her hands skimming over his chest, following the hard lines of muscle she loved to trace. Her fingers hooked into the waist of his pajama and boxers, tugging insistently, dragging them down his hips until they caught and then slipped below, freeing him at last. His cock sprang free, flushed dark, veined and swollen, the head slick with precum, twitching and eager in the humid air that clung between their bodies.

She was trying to get up, shifting her weight, and he let her, surrendering as she pressed him back until he sank, boneless, into the deep, soft leather of the Range Rover's middle seat. His legs sprawled wide, strong thighs parted in invitation, the cool air of the car brushing his bare skin.

Meerab moved over him with a kind of fierce, hungry elegance, climbing onto his lap, knees bracketing his hips, her shins sinking into the leather, her weight settling down against him. She wore nothing but her ruined panties and her bra, the straps pulled down so that her breasts were bared, full and heavy, swaying with every shift of her body, nipples dark and stiff in the humid air. Her thighs gripped his hips, the heat of her bare skin burning against his, their bellies brushing, sweat and breath and longing tangling together.

Now it was skin to skin, the heat of her thighs burning into his, her bare flesh sliding against him, her hand wrapping around his cock. Her grip was greedy, tight, the contrast of her small fingers and his rigid length nearly undoing him on the spot. She kissed him then, wild and unrestrained, devouring his mouth with bruising, biting lips, fighting for dominance, for control, for something that felt like revenge and worship at once.

Her mouth left his, trailing down his jaw, nipping at his throat, then lower, biting at the column of his neck, finding every place she knew he was weak, every muscle she loved to map with her tongue and teeth. She kissed and bit her way down his chest, tongue swirling, mouth leaving hot, slick patches that cooled in the air. He was burning, every inch of him throbbing, every breath catching on a groan or a curse.

He knew what she was going to do, felt it in the shifting of her hips, the way her hand slid between them, her breath coming sharp and quick. "Don't," he muttered, the word almost lost in the haze, not wanting, not able to resist, but desperate all the same.

All he wanted, more than breath, more than dignity, was for her to line him up with her entrance, to take him deep into her tight, wet heat, to ride him until she milked every drop from his aching body, until he spilled himself inside her, filled her so completely there would be no question who she belonged to. The urge to let her do it, to abandon every promise and claim her clawed at his mind like a fever. He ached to watch her shudder apart on top of him, her slick walls pulsing around his cock, to give in to the pleasure they'd been denying themselves for what felt like eternity.

But somewhere in the haze of need was the knife-edge of his love, a stubborn, aching knowledge that she deserved more than this frantic, fevered coupling in the back of a car. She had waited, and so had he, not for something stolen and desperate, but for the fullness of what was promised, a first time that would be theirs alone, not shadowed by hunger and haste.

She whined, high and needy, her voice a thin ribbon of sound: "Please."

He could never deny her, not when she pleaded, not when her eyes were wide and wild, her lips swollen and trembling. She moved her panties to the side, thighs spreading wide around him again, and rubbed her soaked slit along the length of his cock. Bare, raw, nothing in between now but skin and desperate longing.

It was skin to skin again, the shock of it shattering his composure. Her heat – liquid, molten, impossibly soft – slicked every inch of him, her folds parting to cradle and stroke his length. The only thing that had stopped him the last time she did this was the bruised ache of injury and the ironclad control he could barely muster then. Now there was nothing but the trembling edge of his restraint, the dizzying friction of her body enveloping him.

He nearly came then, body tightening, breath catching so hard it felt like pain, but he stopped himself, grabbing her hips, holding her motionless for a moment, forehead pressed to her bare shoulder, biting down hard enough to make her moan aloud, a sharp, unguarded sound that made his cock throb against her.

"Fuck," he gasped, voice rough, trying not to lose himself, not yet. His hands squeezed her hips, thumbs digging into the soft flesh, desperate for control, for sanity.

"Just...let me," she whispered, voice tight, high, already ruined. "Not in. I promise. Just... like this."

Her pussy slid over him again, lips wet and swollen, gliding along every ridge and vein of his cock. The heat was blinding, every part of her slick and pulsing. She rolled her hips, moaning low in her throat, her hands clutching at his shoulders for leverage as she rode him. The sound was obscene: soft, wet, the sticky slide of her flesh against his, the squelch and slap of her body grinding over his shaft, filling the small, steamy space of the car.

Her eyes locked on his, dark and wild, mouth open, cheeks flushed, hair a dark halo around her face. She wasn't lying, not once did she try to take him in, but her folds swallowed him, stroked him, bathed him in molten heat, every slick roll wringing more precum from the tip. The thick, sensitive head of his cock kept catching on her entrance, pressure building, threatening to push inside with every rocking thrust, only to slip away at the last moment, her body teasing him with a promise they both ached for and could not yet claim.

He watched her, mesmerized, every movement, every sound, every burning second seared into his memory, the way her breasts bounced, gleaming and marked by his mouth, the way her lips trembled as she whimpered his name, the way her hips circled and undulated, fucking him with nothing but the desperate slickness of her desire.

Once, her hips rolled just right, her spine curving, weight tipping forward, and the swollen, slick tip of him pushed inside, just barely. Not even an inch. Just the gasp and stretch of her, tight heat catching at the head, making them both go still for a heartbeat that felt like falling off a cliff.

He groaned, loud, deep, helpless. The sound vibrated through the humid air, mingled with the frantic beat of rain overhead, his entire body thrumming with the agony of holding back. Her gasp was a breaking thing, shuddering out of her as her head fell back, throat arched and bared, "Murtasimmmmmmm."

"Don't," he growled, voice torn and rough as he gripped her ass, strong fingers biting deep, dragging her off him, back and away. "Not like this." The words were more plea than command, a reminder to her and to himself, necessary even as his body screamed at him to give in.

She whimpered, lips trembling, but tried again, the greedy, involuntary tilt of her hips sliding her down onto him once more. The swollen head slid in, just the tip again, a raw, desperate intrusion. Her eyes fluttered back, rolling up, her mouth dropping open as she begged, "Pleaseee, Murtasim," Her whole body ached with need, her thighs tensing, her hands clawing at his shoulders, trying to drag him deeper.

She moved greedily, grinding, rocking, the desperate twist and grind of her hips trying to coax him inside, to break his resolve, every slick glide of her soaked folds over him like a drug in his veins. Her cunt ached to swallow him, her muscles pulling at him, trying to claim what he would not yet give.

He snarled, pure, ragged animal sound, and pulled away before she took him in, his cock slipping free with a wet, obscene sound, twitching, drooling precum against the slick mound of her. "Fuck," he spat, voice cracking. "Don't make me break. I swear I'll lose it." He was shaking now, heart hammering, body drawn so tight with restraint it almost hurt to breathe.

She slid off, just barely, whining her frustration. "But it feels so good," she whimpered, grinding her clit along the length of him again, painting his shaft with her slick, the movement hungry and petulant. Her thighs were shaking, every muscle tense with want.

"I know," he growled, catching her hips, dragging her still. "I know, meri jaan. But not yet." The words were a promise and a curse, his entire will poured into them, his devotion measured in the space between what he could do and what he chose not to.

He had to stop. Because if he didn't, he would be inside her, deep and hard and helpless, breaking every line they'd drawn. Because the ache was so close to snapping into something reckless, something unstoppable. Because the way she moved, the way she begged, the way her body swallowed and cradled him just at the edge, it was more than he could take and remain himself.

He moved before he could doubt, pushing her down onto the seat, her bare back arching against the sticky, rain-damp leather, the press of his palm between her breasts keeping her there. The rain still hammered the roof in a frantic, feverish rhythm, every sound echoing the pulse in his blood. He dropped to his knees between her spread thighs on the seat, the car shrinking to nothing but her, his world narrowed to her shaking body and his own shaking hands. He grabbed her panties, soaked and clinging, and yanked them roughly back into place, not gently, not for her, but for himself, because he had to create some barrier, some line to save himself from plunging into her and giving in completely.

His cock slapped wetly against the fabric covering her, a sticky, messy sound, the length of him smeared with her arousal and his, throbbing with the ache to be inside. The friction was unbearable, almost worse than before. He ground into her harder, his cock pressing up against her cunt through the sodden cotton, watching the outline of her pussy lips shift and spread beneath the wet fabric, the head of his cock fitting into the seam, pressing in, spreading her lips just a little with each slow, hard rut. Every stroke drew a gasp from her, high and helpless, her hands gripping the seat above her head, nails digging crescent moons into the leather.

He thrust faster, rutting shamelessly against her panties, fucking himself with her clothed cunt, the movement raw and desperate, chasing the edge with each slick grind. Her hips rocked with him, every movement frantic, needy, her body arching to meet every thrust, her legs trembling on either side of his shoulders.

"Murtasim, please, just..." she was begging, wild now, broken, "we don't have to wait..." and he kissed her, hard, crushing his mouth to hers to stop the words, because if she said them again, if she asked one more time, he would be lost.

He broke the kiss, forehead pressed to hers, breath shuddering. "Not another word, meri jaan, or I will stop, am I clear?" His voice was dark, trembling on the edge of a plea, his hands still gripping her thighs so tight he could feel her pulse beating against his skin.

He saw the heat flare in her gaze, saw the rebellion, the hunger. She whined, small and needy, "Please," the word spilling out despite herself, as if she could not keep it in, as if even this small command was more than she could bear.

His jaw flexed, warning layered in every syllable as he said her name, "Meerab."

She bit her lip, nodding, the movement jerky, desperate, her hair falling forward to veil her eyes. She surrendered, breath trembling. He watched, transfixed by the way her lips parted, the way she let him take control.

He moved back, hands sliding down to her thighs, his grip possessive, bruising, greedy. He spread her wider, until the seat creaked beneath the strain of her hips, her bare skin pressed hard to the cold leather. He rocked into her, grinding his cock against the pulsing, soaked spot at the very heart of her panties, over and over, harder and harder, using every ounce of restraint to keep from simply pulling her down onto him and burying himself inside.

Her panties, already ruined, became a vision of filth and beauty: the thin, pale cotton so wet it was nearly transparent, disappearing between her swollen, glistening lips with each thrust, the fabric vanishing and reappearing, plastered to her heat.

Each time he pressed forward, the head of his cock spread her wider, stretching the material tight around himself, the tip pushing the panties just a little inside her, catching on the clutch of her entrance. Each time he rutted against her, the fabric was forced deeper, bunched between her folds, and they both gasped at the raw, helpless sensation.

Wet slaps echoed in the sealed car, the soundtrack a chorus of gasps, broken cries, the dull roar of rain and the animal pulse of need.

It hit him with no warning, a flash, a break, a shattering of control. His whole body jerked as release crashed through him, sudden and unyielding. He cried out, the sound low, feral, almost strangled, grinding harder into her as his cock pulsed and spilled, flooding her, soaking the already-drenched cotton with thick, hot ropes of cum. He kept thrusting, helpless, pushing his release against the fabric, the mess growing slicker, stickier, his cum and her arousal mixing, seeping between her folds until the fabric was painted with them, soaked through and through.

Meerab moaned, loud and shattered, her pussy twitching against him, hips arching, thighs quaking on either side of his shoulders as she felt the heat, the filth, the slippery, ruined sensation of them so close, so far, so tangled in each other she could barely breathe.

"Fuck..." he gasped, slumping forward, spent and aching, his face buried against her neck, lips pressed to the pounding pulse there. His cock still twitched, nestled against the mess and heat and ruined cotton of her panties, the last tremors of release pulsing through him.

They didn't move for a long moment. The world seemed suspended, caught between thunder and hush, breath and silence. Murtasim's chest heaved against her bare stomach, the sweat-slicked curve of her belly rising and falling beneath his cheek. His cock softened only slightly, still hot and slippery, nestling against the ruined cotton of her panties, the mess of their desire cooling, mingling, still painting her skin and his in viscous heat.

Her thighs trembled around him, quivering, every breath she drew a hitch, a burn, a shiver that raced through them both. He nuzzled her, mouth drifting in lazy circles over her neck and chest, letting his lips and jaw graze the soft, swollen underside of her breast, breathing in the wild scent of her, the salt, the rain, the unmistakable perfume of what they'd just done.

Rain clawed at the windows now, an endless hiss that dulled the outside world, wrapping the car in its own storm.

Then she stirred, a small, restless movement, fingers threading through his hair. Meerab sat up slowly, her arms winding around his neck, coaxing him upright with her. Her skin glowed in the dim, ghostly light, a flush painted along her cheeks, the high arch of her cheekbone, every inch dewy and radiant, marked by his mouth. Her neck mottled with faint bruises, proof of his kisses, her body a display of their hunger. The seat beneath her was slick with sweat and more, the leather gleaming, sticky and shadowed in the half-light.

She straddled him again, as natural as breathing, one knee on either side of his hips. Her ruined panties still clung to her, the thin cotton shoved slightly to one side again, twisted and bunched, sticking to her folds with every flex of her thighs, every tremor of aftershock. The sight of her, wild and unashamed, undid him all over again.

Murtasim hissed through his teeth as her weight settled on him. His cock, still half-hard, slick and flushed with their mess, nestled right against her heat once more. The warmth of her was unmistakable, a searing, liquid pulse he felt everywhere. When she began to move, just a slow, aching roll of her hips, forward and back, her soaked pussy dragging over his length, it squelched, obscene, the sound as filthy as the feeling.

"Meerab..." His hands clamped around her waist, fingers digging in, a desperate attempt to hold her still, to anchor her, to keep them from tumbling past the edge.

She didn't stop. Her breath came shallow and quick, lips parted and red, hair clinging damp to her temples. Her eyes flicked down, fixated on the place where their bodies met, as if she wanted to see the way his slick cock rubbed against her, how the swollen tip kept catching right where she was most hungry, most desperate.

The mess between them was obscene. His cum had soaked her through, smeared across his cock, her panties, the insides of her thighs, shining on her skin. She rubbed against it like she needed it, greedy for the filth, desperate to drown in it, as if every stroke could bring her closer to something they still refused to name.

"I need it," she whispered, her voice cracking, eyes glassy. "Just -- please...I –" The plea broke apart on a sob, raw and childlike, need sharpening to pain.

He shook his head, eyes burning into hers. "Just a few more days." His voice trembled, the words both a vow and a lifeline, a thread holding them to the world they'd chosen.

But her hand was already slipping between them, slick fingers wrapping around him, lifting his cock with a shuddering breath. She lowered herself just enough that the tip, bare this time, not even the ruined cotton in the way, pressed right against her entrance. The heat was dizzying, a heartbeat, a held breath, and then the swollen tip eased in.

He choked on a moan, head dropping back, eyes squeezed shut. "Fuckkkk –" The sound ripped from him, helpless and broken.

She whimpered, high and needy, every syllable splintered with longing. "Please, I need it, Murtasim, I swear I'll break –" she sobbed, voice shaking, whole body taut above him.

It took every atom of control in him to pull back, to not surge up into her, to not bury himself to the hilt and fuck them both blind. Every muscle screamed for release, for the sweet obliteration of restraint, but he held.

He grabbed her wrists, tugged her hands away from him, forced himself to hold her still. She sobbed, breaking against him, her voice a wound.

Her eyes glazed, dark and wet, tears threatening at the corners. Her lip trembled, bitten and swollen, the fight in her fading to raw, helpless want. He pressed his forehead to hers, holding her close, both of them shaking with the ache of everything they had not done.

Then his voice dropped, rough velvet, thick with promise and threat, trembling on the precipice of what he would and would not allow. "You want something inside you?" His eyes were molten, devouring her.

She nodded, frantic, tiny, desperate, not a hint of shame left in her. She looked wild, lips parted, her entire being distilled down to hunger, to need. He loved her this way: helpless, pleading, undone by want for him, and only him. It undid him, made him weak.

"Ride my fingers."

He didn't wait for permission, didn't give her a moment to question or protest. One arm slid behind her, cradling her weight as he guided her down, gentle now, as if she were the most precious thing in the world, and she was. He laid her out along the backseat, long and beautiful and shaking, skin sticking to the leather, every movement echoing with the soft suction of sweat and slick. The seat cradled the curve of her spine.

He knelt between her spread thighs again, gaze riveted to the swollen, dripping folds of her pussy. His cum was smeared across her slit, her clit gleaming, her entrance twitching open, pulsing and throbbing. She was soaked, needy, so slick he could see her heartbeat in the flutter of her cunt. He was almost undone, the urge to simply drive into her, to give in and fuck her senseless, threatening to sweep everything else away.

But he didn't torture himself this long to give in now, not like this, not just for relief. She deserved more, their first time deserved more than a desperate half-moment in the shadows, however much they both burned for it.

So, he spat into his hand, thick and messy, and ran his fingers through the mingled heat already slicked over her, adding his spit to the riot of wetness that coated her lips and clit. She gasped, writhed, shuddered beneath the filthy caress. He dragged his fingers up and down, parting her folds, teasing the trembling mouth of her pussy.

Then, without warning, he pushed two fingers inside her.

Meerab gasped, sharp, raw, a sound so bright and shattering it rang through the car. Her hips bucked up, wild, helpless, hands flying to his wrist, clinging hard, anchoring herself to him as he filled her. His fingers were thick, callused, and they pressed and stretched her in the way he knew she loved, the way that made her whimper and break.

"Ride them," he said, voice gentle but inexorable, watching her face contort with pleasure as he stilled. "Go on, meri jaan."

She obeyed with a broken whimper, hips rocking down, slow at first, tentative, grinding herself onto his hand. She began to move, bolder with every thrust, her thighs shaking as she rode his fingers, her cunt squeezing tight, muscles rippling around him. Wet sounds filled the small, dark car, slick, obscene, the echo of their mess coating everything, her arousal mixing with the sticky remnants of his cum, sliding over his hand, onto the seat beneath.

He hooked his fingers deeper, curling them up inside her, and her eyes flew open with a desperate gasp.

"Right there, hmm?" he murmured, voice thick with love and hunger, rubbing that spot inside her, pressing, circling. "Are you going to come for me, meri jaan?"

She nodded frantically, eyes rolling back, hips slamming down onto his hand again and again. Her breasts bounced with every movement, the nipples still tight, flushed dark and glistening. Her mouth was open, moans spilling out, raw and wild, utterly uninhibited.

"I can feel you," he whispered, transfixed, eyes glued to where she rode his fingers. "So wet, so hot. You're dripping. You're...look at that..." He spread her folds with his free hand, watched as more slick leaked down over his knuckles, down her trembling thighs, pooling on the seat beneath.

The inside of her thighs gleamed, slick and messy, his other hand holding her open, letting him see everything as his fingers disappeared into her, knuckle-deep, her hips grinding, taking him with frantic, greedy need.

She moved faster, body trembling now, cries louder, breaking. "Murtasimmm...I'm...ohhhh..." Her head fell back, spine bowing. He twisted his wrist, fingers pumping, curling, pressing into her deepest ache. Her body bowed and fluttered, every muscle drawn taut.

"Come for me," he said, voice low, right in her ear. "Now, meri Meerab."

And she did. Hard. Her whole body tensed, locked, then snapped loose. A cry tore from her throat, sharp and high, her pussy pulsing in wild, hot waves around his fingers, gushing slick down his hand, over his wrist, soaking them both in heat and ecstasy.

She sobbed, clamping her thighs around his wrist, hips grinding desperately to ride out the trembling, wild pleasure. Every muscle shuddered, her hands clutching for something, anything to hold her to the world.

Murtasim didn't pull out. He kept his fingers buried deep, watching every twitch, every aftershock, every ripple move through her, burning the sight into his memory.

He ached to feel that around his cock, to have her squeezing him this way, to watch her gush and clench and sob with him inside, to give her everything, take everything, until she had nothing left to give.

Then, slowly, he withdrew. The drag of his fingers from her body was tender, deliberate, as if reluctant to leave the heat he'd coaxed to a fever. His hand was drenched, her slick and his cum mixed into a thick, shiny mess that gleamed on his skin, stringing in sticky lines between his knuckles and dripping onto the leather seat below in slow, glistening trails. Her thighs stayed open, trembling, parted for him, lips swollen and twitching, the wet folds glistening with every pulse. The tip of his cock was still hard, flushed and slick, where it lay heavy against her thigh, throbbing with all the want that still lingered in his veins.

He brought his soaked fingers to her lips, voice low and commanding. "Open."

She obeyed without question, her lips parting for him. She sucked his fingers in, greedy, sweet, wrapping her mouth around them and dragging her tongue along every knuckle, tasting the mixed mess of their bodies. Her eyes were on him the entire time, wide and knowing, shining with defiance. Even as her mouth worked around his fingers, her hands crept down to find his cock again, eager and sly.

"Don't," he said, voice thick, rough with warning.

She pouted, lips glossy, eyes wide with a plea she didn't voice. He hardened his jaw, catching her gaze, "The first time I take you, you are going to be dressed as my bride. Do you understand?"

She nodded as he pulled his fingers from her mouth, a silent, heated agreement passing between them.

He let himself look at her then. Her hair was a wild halo, damp and tangled, framing her flushed face and wide, shining eyes. Her nose was red and impossibly cute, and her mouth was split in the most satisfied, sultry smile he'd ever seen on her. She was almost naked against the black leather, her bra pulled down, breasts flushed and marked, nipples still hard and wet from his mouth. Bite marks bloomed along her shoulder, faded bruises and new kisses mottling her neck. Her flat stomach rose and fell, the muscles trembling, quivering. Her panties, ruined, still pushed to the side, a slick mess pooled and glistening between her thighs, her bare legs open, skin dewy and shaking.

Before he could second-guess himself, he reached for the camera, he'd tucked it between the front seats hours earlier. He picked it up, heart pounding, breathless, unable to resist the urge to immortalize this: her, like this, his.

She gasped, but her eyes sparkled. He gave her a moment, watching for a sign to stop, but she didn't flinch, didn't hide, didn't cover herself. Instead, she met his gaze with a confidence that took his breath. He groaned softly, remembering the words she'd whispered when she'd pressed the camera into his hand all those months ago.

He held the camera, hands shaking only a little, and lifted it. She gazed at the lens with a lazy, wicked smile, sexiest thing he'd ever seen. Hair wild, lips kiss-bruised, body sprawled and glowing, the aftershocks still in every line of her. He took picture after picture, framing her in every possible way, desperate to remember, to keep her, to hold this.

He groaned, low and certain, knowing in his bones that he would never, in this life or any other, take a better picture or find a better subject. She was everything – his need, his promise, his undoing.

She teased, eyes suddenly clear, voice playful and sly, "Are you going to look at that all week now?" Her tone was different, sharp, lively, the haze lifting.

He snickered, tucking the camera away, relief and affection bright in his eyes. "You're back."

She whacked him, half-heartedly, laughing. "I was here this whole time."

He leaned in, kissing her, sweet, lingering, every promise he had ever made pressed between their mouths. Only then did he tug his boxers and pajama back on, moving slow, tender, unwilling to break the moment's spell. He helped her sit up, helped her wriggle her panties back into place, tugged her bra gently up, kissing each breast as he covered her.

He fumbled for her shalwar, fingers slipping on the fine, damp fabric as he tried to gather it up and slide it over her hips. "Lift," he muttered, nodding, trying to coax her into cooperating.

But she only shook her head, hair tumbling around her face in damp, wild curls. Her mouth twisted into a pout, a child's rebellion alive in her eyes.

"Meerab," he said, his voice low, stern but gentle.

She pouted deeper, still refusing. At last, with a sigh heavy as rain on glass, she relented, lifting her hips for him. "Why are you putting clothes back on me?" she grumbled as he carefully pulled her shalwar into place, smoothing the fabric over her thighs. The touch lingered but she only rolled her eyes as he grabbed his kurta and tugged her gently upright.

But as soon as he tried to put his kurta on, she pushed him back, playful and stubborn, and clambered right into his lap again, the thin shalwar covering her but her arms winding around his shoulders. "You can't put this back on," she protested, tugging at his kurta, half-dragging it off just as he tried to get it over his head.

He laughed, hands catching hers, "Behave."

She whined, all plaintive longing, "I thought 'behave Murtasim' was gone."

He grinned, pulling his clothes on despite her half-hearted resistance. "He's back now," he said, his voice soft and teasing.

She sighed, a gusty little sound, pouting but relenting as he dressed her, letting him tug her kameez down over her bare arms and chest. Her skin was still warm beneath his touch, the memory of his hands and mouth painting every place the fabric covered.

As he finished, she leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his mouth, sweet, soft, lingering. He kissed her back, letting it deepen for a moment before she whispered against his lips, "I don't want to wait a week."

He chuckled, low and helpless, kissing her again, drinking in the taste of her. "I love drunk Meerab."

She made a sound of protest, laughing, "I'm not drunk!"

He nuzzled her, his voice a wicked murmur, "On orgasms."

She giggled, curling herself against him, "I want to be more drunk."

He laughed, long and warm, wrapping his arms around her. "Save something for our honeymoon," he whispered, the words heavy with promise.

She whined, a soft, defeated noise that made him kiss her temple, stroke her back, cradle her close.

They just sat there, tangled in the backseat, clothes mostly in place but hearts still wild. The rain had gentled outside; inside, their laughter and low voices spun around each other like a new kind of storm. She kissed him again and again, sometimes quick and teasing, sometimes lazy and lingering, as he played with her hair, running his fingers through the dark, wild tangle as it dried.

She cupped his face, thumb brushing his cheek, studying him with mock seriousness. "Your beard is messy," she declared, as if this were a grave problem.

He smiled. "I should trim it."

She tipped her head, mischief glinting in her gaze. "Should I help?"

He snorted, "If you want bad wedding pictures."

She laughed, eyes shining. But her gaze slid to the camera, still lying within reach, and her voice went softer, more intent. "I want more pictures like that one."

He groaned, the sound torn between longing and helpless delight. "You're killing me."

She grinned, bold and unrepentant, "You're killing yourself."

He sighed, drawing her closer.

"I feel so sticky," she complained suddenly, wrinkling her nose, twisting in his lap as if only just now realizing the way her skin still shone with sweat, his release, her own, every shared secret dried and cooling on her thighs.

He winced, guilty and not at all sorry, and murmured, "Sorry."

She leveled him with a look, eyebrow arched. "If you're sorry," she retorted, matter-of-fact and imperious, "you should take me home...and to your shower."

His mouth curved in a slow, wicked smile, admiration and adoration mingling. "Good idea, meri jaan."

But she was already at work, fingers busy again, unbuttoning his kurta, tracing the skin of his chest with her knuckles, her nails teasing, gentle. "You need to be in the shower too," she declared, half-command, half-suggestion, her gaze steady, soft and gleaming.

He let out a rich laugh, shaking his head as she slid her palm over his heart. "I don't think that's a good idea."

She pouted, adorable and stubborn, all at once. "You think I have bad ideas?"

"Never," he answered instantly, with all the seriousness she demanded.

She grinned, smug and mischievous, patting his cheek like he was her favorite little boy. "This is why you're a good husband. You're smart."

He caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm, and she melted into him again, her laughter joining his.

It was a riot of tangled limbs and lingering laughter as they finally gathered themselves, clothes pulled into some semblance of order, both still glowing, still sticky, still flushed from everything that had passed between them. She squealed when he scooped her up and they tumbled from the backseat to the rain-cooled air outside, half-running, half-stumbling as he helped her into the passenger side. The night was cool and fresh, rain now just a hush, the world emptied of everyone but them.

But as soon as he was behind the wheel, ready to drive, she found a way to wriggle back into his lap, heedless and delighted, settling herself sideways so her back was against the door and her legs stretched across the seat. He hooked one arm around her waist to steady her, the other on the steering wheel, and she gazed up at him, shameless, content, her eyes bright.

She played with his beard, tugged at his hair, pressed a series of little, distracted kisses along his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, her body warm and perfectly weighted in his lap.

"Meerab," he chided, half-heartedly, grinning against her lips, "You're going to get us killed."

She pressed her face to his shoulder, unfazed. "It's not my fault they didn't make cars properly," she declared, mischief glinting in her eyes. "I want to be here."

And he, helplessly, always, let her stay.

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Author's Note: Please do come back after a cold shower...or whatever...to let me know what you think! OKAY BYE!