Author's Note: I can't believe y'all (read: I) made it to this chapter. But at last, here we are. HEHEHEHE. I deleted this chapter 3 times and re-wrote it, and I was like "I might do it again, so let me just post", so tadaaaa! It is 16.5K words. Heheh. See you on the other side. 

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Murtasim didn't quite understand the point of it all: the baraat, the rukhsati, the elaborate string of ceremonies crafted to symbolize a transition that, in their case, had already happened long ago. For most, the rituals marked a turning point, a shift from one life to another – a woman leaves her family home, a man takes her to his. But Meerab had always belonged right beside him.

There was no distance left to bridge between them, no icy silences that needed melting, no unfamiliarity that required the gentle cushioning of games. That ice had melted years ago. They were already standing knee-deep in the warm ocean of each other, and yet, here they were, drenched in tradition, playing parts in a ceremony whose edges didn't quite fit the contours of their story.

Still, Murtasim played along.

He played along because it made Meerab smile. Not politely. Not with the restrained grace of a bride tiptoeing through expectations. She smiled like she meant it, full, bright, and dangerously disarming, every time the crowd swelled around them with their chaotic cheer.

He had lost his shoes, not once but twice, to a cunning scheme orchestrated by Maryam and Rumi, aided by half the cousins and backed by a chant so loud he had momentarily wondered if it was part of some kind of coordinated attack. She had just laughed, head thrown back, her nose scrunching just a little, like it always did when she couldn't contain her amusement.

He paid the ransom, of course. Twice what they asked for, just to see Meerab giggle.

And then came the bowl of milk and the hidden ring. Their hands had submerged into the cool mix at the same time. Her fingers brushed his, retreated, then returned again, playfully, as they both searched blindly for a ring hidden beneath rose petals. It was ridiculous, really, but it made her smile, and that alone made him linger longer than he should have. His fingers caught hers instead of the ring and he didn't let go right away. He traced the length of one knuckle with the pad of his thumb, slow, deliberate.

She didn't pull away, until Maryam squealed, "You're supposed to find the ring, not play with her fingers!" and Murtasim had to pretend like he hadn't just been caught touching his own wife like a man starved.

He slipped the ring onto her finger discreetly once he found it, his eyes locked onto hers, the weight of the crowd fading in the background as the corner of her lip lifted into a soft curve as she pulled it out and everyone cheered, telling her she would rule the household...as if there was ever a doubt.

And then, the rukhsati came. Finally.

The ceremony that was supposed to mark the sorrowful goodbye of a daughter leaving her childhood behind. He had tried to take it seriously, really, he had. But Meerab, his beautiful, maddening, endlessly cheeky Meerab, made it impossible.

She stood there in that heavy red jora, a gleaming, resplendent vision that had every man and woman around them stunned to silence.

Except for Arslan and Hamza.

Those two had no respect for solemnity. They had each grabbed a tissue box and started wailing as soon as the photographer asked Meerab to take her place by the car. Loud, theatrical sobs that echoed across the courtyard like some tragic soap opera scene.

"Haye!" Hamza clutched his chest, practically staggering into a chair like he'd lost a limb. "Hum par ab kaun chillayega?"

Arslan chimed in without missing a beat, dabbing his eyes with the corner of his kurta, "Hamari laadli ja rahi hai... ab hume thappad kaun marega jab hum bewakoofi karein?"

Even the photographer let out a snort.

Murtasim tried to tug her gently toward the car, murmuring near her ear, "Let's go."

But she swatted at his hand with a flick of her fingers and a sharp whisper, "We paid for the photographer. Let the man earn his money."

So she stood there. Back straight. Chin lowered just slightly. Eyes cast downward in an almost-convincing performance of sorrow.

And then, the moment was destroyed.

"Bano re bano meri chali sasural!" Arslan began singing at full volume, dragging the syllables like a Bollywood heroine in slow motion, while Hamza added backup vocals and tried to twirl a dupatta around his head like a bridal veil.

Meerab cracked.

She burst into a laugh so loud, so sudden, that the photographer's camera wobbled in his hands. Her shoulders shook as she clutched the handkerchief, the one she had swiped from his pocket without so much as a word, to her mouth in a poor attempt to smother the sound.

Maa Begum shook her head with a long-suffering sigh when he tried to rush them again, her expression somewhere between amusement and pride as she watched her son tug his laughing bride toward the car like a man barely holding onto his patience while Arsalan and Hamza sang.

He had chosen to drive. Not out of any grand gesture of romance, but because he didn't want to share the front seat with a driver, didn't want to listen to the murmured well wishes through the glass, didn't want anyone else to witness whatever this moment was about to be.

The G-Wagon purred softly under his hand as he opened the passenger door for her. Maryam and Rumi had stuffed the trunk with everything imaginable, suitcases, and a small box of her favorite snacks ("In case bhai forgets to feed you," Maryam had whispered to her).

Meerab slid into the seat with a grace that somehow made the stiff embroidery of her dress flow like silk. She looked back one last time and waved at the crowd.

And then she rolled the window up.

They both sighed at the same time.

It wasn't coordinated, but the timing was perfect, a mirrored exhale of tension and ceremony and expectation leaving their bodies at once. As if the weight of all that spectacle had lifted in a single breath.

Their eyes met.

And just like that, the silence dissolved.

Meerab laughed first. Softly at first, then with full-bodied delight, her head tilted back, earrings swaying with the motion. Murtasim couldn't help it, his lips parted into a slow smile, and he laughed too.

Meerab was muttering something about murder the moment she unpinned her red dupatta, fingers moving with a practiced urgency as if the fabric had personally offended her.

"I swear, I'm going to stab whoever invented heels," she grumbled.

Murtasim's lips quirked upward as he watched her struggle with the strap of her sandal, head bowed, hair falling forward in soft waves, just the way he had imagined she might wear it. Not stiff and sprayed into a helmet of bridal perfection, but loose and alive, cascading like silk over her shoulders. It framed her face like it belonged there, this version of her, flushed from the day, already slipping out of ceremony and into comfort.

She had changed into a red ensemble, rich and embroidered with fine thread work that shimmered whenever the street lights slanted through the windows. It clung to her in all the places that made him feel unreasonably warm.

"I mean it, Murtasim," she whined, finally tossing one heel onto the floor with a dramatic sigh. "I'll commit crimes. Actual, prosecutable crimes."

He chuckled, the sound low in his chest. "Should I be worried?"

"Yes," she huffed, tugging off the second heel with a little victorious sound. "Because you're married to a criminal now, not a lawyer."

She barely had time to finish her sentence when he abruptly eased the car to the side of the quiet road, well before the turnoff to the main highway.

Meerab blinked, confused. "Murtasim?" she started, suspicion blooming in her voice, but he reached over without warning, one arm snaking around her waist, the other hand braced firmly behind her head.

She squealed as he pulled her across the center console with ease. "Murtasim!" she yelped, laughing in disbelief as he maneuvered her effortlessly onto his lap, her legs draped over the console and passenger seat, her back pressed against the cool surface of his door.

Her arms instinctively looped around his neck for balance, breath hitching in her throat.

He hummed softly, almost like a purr, content as she settled into him. His forehead found hers for a moment, a silent beat of stillness. Everything outside the car vanished. No noise. No traditions. No crowds. Just the two of them, finally beyond the reach of ceremony, in the still air of a darkened road.

Her gaze lifted to his, wide and brown and shining even in the dim light.

"I should be scandalized by this as a new bride," she murmured, her voice playful, teasing. "Haina?"

He chuckled, low and warm. "Are you?"

She shook her head slowly. Her nose brushed his. "Not even a little." Then, with deliberate sweetness, she leaned in and kissed him, soft, lingering, right on the mouth, her smile spilling into it.

"You make such a pretty groom," she whispered against his lips, before trailing more kisses along the edge of his jaw, each one like a drop of fire pressed into his skin.

His hands tightened around her waist instinctively. "Should I be scandalized by how forward my new bride is?" he teased, voice graveling as she nipped at the hollow beneath his ear.

She smiled, wickedly innocent. "Yes, clearly she's done this before."

And then she bit him, lightly, but with enough teeth to make him groan under his breath, the sound escaping before he could swallow it. His eyes closed for a second too long, fingers digging into the fabric at her waist.

She giggled like she hadn't just short-circuited his entire nervous system and leaned back slightly, eyes dancing with mischief.

"Now," she said, grinning as she relaxed into the door, arms still loosely around his shoulders, "take me to my surprise."

Murtasim exhaled, flicking on the headlights again as he adjusted her slightly, her feet resting on the passenger seat, her body tucked between him and the steering wheel, soft curves pressed against him in ways he was not going to think about too deeply if he wanted to keep the car on the road.

The heavily tinted windows of the G-Wagon were a gift from above.

He put the car in drive, one arm wrapped around her waist, the other steady on the wheel, as they rolled forward again into the quiet night.

Her toes wiggled, free and bare, her anklets chiming softly with the movement.

"Do they hurt?" he asked, eyes flicking down.

She nodded, looking down at them herself. "I wish they had stolen my shoes. At least then I'd have a good excuse to walk around barefoot."

He snorted. "That'd be a nice tradition."

"Haina?!" she turned to him, eyes wide with mock outrage. "No one thinks of us women."

"I think of you a lot."

She whacked him gently on the shoulder.

He laughed.

"Where are we going?" she asked, voice sweetened with suspicion, her fingers still playing absently with the collar of his sherwani. He had changed out of the full wedding ensemble, but this was still a formal cut, still something chosen by Maryam that he had grumbled about wearing, until he saw the way Meerab's eyes had lingered.

He grinned without looking at her. "It's a surprise."

Meerab let out the kind of sigh that came from deep in the bones, the sigh of a woman who had smiled for hundreds of photos, endured dozens of rituals, accepted far too many compliments, and posed next to the same man for a thousand pictures.

"I'm too tired for surprises," she mumbled, dropping her head lightly onto his shoulder.

"Then go to sleep, meri jaan," he murmured, letting the endearment linger in his mouth like honey, tasting it more than saying it.

She made a noise that was somewhere between a whine and a laugh, her fingers curling into his sleeve before she looked out the windshield again, visibly trying to puzzle it out. He could see the glint in her eyes, the shift in posture. She wasn't going to let this go easily.

Every time he changed lanes, she tried to read the signs, stretching her neck just enough to squint through the windshield, her eyes narrowing. "That one said, wait, was that...?" she muttered, distracted.

And then her fingers were on the back of his neck again. That thing she did, nails scratching gently at the nape of his neck, just below the hairline. Lazy little circles that sent electric shivers crawling down his spine. She knew exactly what she was doing. He was convinced she had discovered it by accident, then weaponized it like a secret skill.

He cleared his throat, trying not to react. She kept doing it. She was trying to get answers the way she always did, by being the distraction.

And then, finally, she caught on, "...The airport?" she asked for the tenth time, brows lifting as she leaned just far enough to glance at the road again. "Murtasim, you better not be taking me to another country dressed like this." She looked down at her lehenga, as if only just remembering it. "Do you see what I'm wearing?"

He couldn't help the chuckle that escaped him.

"It's not another country."

She gave him a look. "Imagine how odd it'll be, getting on a plane in full bridal wear! People are going to think I'm a runaway bride. Worse, they'll think you kidnapped me."

The image made him laugh, the G-Wagon screeching onto a tarmac, a disheveled bride in the passenger seat, someone shouting "Ruk jaaiye! Yeh zabardasti hai!", and he shook his head, eyes still on the road.

"I'm just fulfilling a wish, meri jaan," he said softly, letting the mischief creep into his voice. "You wanted to run away and get married. Remember?"

She huffed, whining again, slumping dramatically against the door. "Not like this, this is logistically inconvenient."

Her voice was thick with mock irritation, but he could hear the smile behind it. She was so utterly adorable that he had to bite his cheek to keep from grinning like an idiot. Teasing her was his greatest joy, second only to her smiling like this, soft, whiny, secretly delighted.

"Meerab," he said after a pause, glancing at her, "do roads to airports usually look this deserted?"

She paused. Blinked. Looked out the windshield again.

And frowned.

Because he was right, they were headed toward the airport, that much was obvious. But this wasn't the usual route. There were no lit-up signs, no terminal buzz, no swirl of honking taxis or lines of suitcases wheeling down sidewalks.

Only an empty, dark road ahead, flanked by fences.

"What...?" she murmured, brow furrowed.

And then, she gasped.

A small plane emerged into view as they crested a turn, sleek and gleaming under the dim tarmac lighting, lights blinking softly along the wing. It was parked just off a private access road, surrounded by quiet movement, a few uniformed staff, a black van idling, a low hum of machinery.

Murtasim pulled the car to a stop beside it and killed the engine. The quiet settled between them for a second before he gazed at her rather than the road, trying and failing to hide his grin.

"A private jet in bridal attire is fine, right?" he asked, completely deadpan.

She turned to him slowly, her jaw slack, expression suspended between awe and suspicion.

"Are you... trying to impress me?" she asked, tilting her head like she didn't quite buy it.

He nodded. "Is it working?"

She shrugged, biting her lip. "Maybe."

He laughed, full and open, before leaning forward and pressing a kiss to her cheek. "Then, you'll love the real surprise."

Her eyes flew open wider. "This is not the surprise?"

He shook his head, far too pleased with himself.

"Murtasim Shahnawaz Khan!" she gasped, swatting his arm.

"Yes, Mrs. Khan?" he replied with a grin so smug she could've kicked him.

"Tell me!"

"A private jet is nice," he said, glancing casually out the windshield, "but it's not surprise-worthy."

She gaped at him. "Not...? Are you hearing yourself?"

He just smiled.

"Enjoy this first," he said softly, pressing a kiss to her temple.

She was still pouting when he gently eased her legs back to her side and helped her settle back in the passenger seat, carefully tucking the folds of her lehenga around her knees, hands unhurried, movements precise. He adjusted the fabric so none of the embroidery caught on the console, fingers smoothing it down like she was made of something more delicate than silk.

And then he stepped out into the night air, the cool breeze catching the edges of his kurta as he greeted the waiting ground crew with a polite nod. The men, dressed in sharp uniforms, returned the gesture, their movements swift and practiced. One of them moved to open the trunk without a word, while the other walked toward the jet, speaking briefly into a comm device clipped to his collar.

The stairs to the jet had been lowered, carpeted in a soft wine red, leading to a warm golden glow from the inside.

He walked around the car, his shoes crunching lightly against the gravel of the private runway, and opened her door with a soft click.

Meerab stepped out slowly. She looked up at the plane, then at the men moving silently around them, and then back at him.

Her expression was priceless, eyes wide with childlike wonder, lips parted just slightly in awe, a breath caught in her throat.

"You're showing off," she whispered, but her voice was too full of amazement to be truly accusatory.

"I am," he agreed, not bothering to deny it, offering his hand.

She took it.

He helped her up the narrow steps, one hand supporting the small of her back, the other curled gently around hers. She climbed slowly, careful of her lehenga, and the moment her foot crossed the threshold, he felt the breath catch in her throat.

The inside of the jet smelled faintly of polished wood and expensive leather, undercut with the subtle, clean scent of roses. Light pooled softly along the curved walls, glinting off the high-gloss walnut panels that ran the length of the jet. Everything gleamed: the cabinets, the table, even the buckles on the seatbelts.

The seats themselves looked impossibly soft, wide, cream-colored leather that seemed to invite him to sink in and forget the world outside. A folded blanket rested neatly on one armrest, and between two of the chairs, a small wooden retractable table.

Beyond the main seating area, a slender aisle stretched toward a door that likely led to the cockpit, though the soft lighting made even that seem distant, far away from wherever they now stood.

Meerab turned in a slow circle, lips parted. She looked enchanted. Not overwhelmed or intimidated, but quietly, completely in awe.

Murtasim stepped close, his voice low. "There are clothes in the suitcase if you want to change."

She turned toward him, still wide-eyed, but then shook her head.

Instead, she did something that made his eyebrows lift.

She reached under the hem of her lehenga, her fingers moving quickly with a kind of casual confidence he found... distracting. With two deft tugs and a twist, she pulled out a stiff mass of netting and in an instant, the entire silhouette of her lehenga changed.

The dramatic bridal flare collapsed inward, revealing the natural fall of the fabric. It clung and curved, hugging her hips and then tumbling in graceful folds around her legs. What had once been bridal pageantry now skimmed her frame like molten cloth.

"There," she said with a satisfied little smirk, tossing the bundle of stiff netting into the corner like discarded armor. "Much better."

His eyes flicked down, then back to her face. "Is it supposed to be like that?"

She nodded, calm and self-satisfied. "It's removable."

He stared at the discarded fluff of netting in the corner. "All of them are like this?"

A sly smile curved at her lips. "Mm-hmm." She tilted her head, watching him. "Why?"

He shrugged like it didn't matter, like he hadn't just learned something that would never leave his brain again. "Just asking."

She giggled, the sound bright and pleased, echoing lightly in the cabin like windchimes.

They settled into their seats, hers directly across from his, wide leather recliners, with armrests and deep cushions. She fastened her seatbelt with a small click and leaned her head against the cool window, staring out into the darkness.

He watched her, the way the soft light from the cabin gilded her cheekbones, the faint smudge of kohl at the outer corner of her eye from the long day, the little furrow between her brows as she stared at the blinking lights along the runway.

"Where are we going?" she asked again, turning toward him.

He gave her a lazy smile, arms crossed behind his head. "You'll see."

She narrowed her eyes at him, suspicious, but let it go. For now.

The plates were still warm when the attendant appeared, smiling softly and placing the trays down with practiced care. "Takeoff is in about twenty minutes," she said politely before gliding away, her voice calm and professional. Murtasim barely registered her words, his attention was too fixed on Meerab, whose face lit up the moment she lifted the cover off her tray.

Steak. Perfectly cooked and tender, just the way she liked it. And beside it, a tall glass filled with chilled pomegranate juice, her favorite. She looked up at him, brows raised in amused surprise.

"Did you tell them?"

He just leaned back and shrugged, one elbow resting on the armrest, smirking as if he had done nothing at all.

But her joy truly burst through when she uncovered the dessert, a small plate of molten chocolate lava cake, the center still hot, sauce already oozing into the edges.

She did a little dance in her seat, a small wiggle of her shoulders, fingers clasped together in glee. "This," she said, pointing to the plate, "makes up for you not telling me where we're going. Almost."

He laughed, watching the way she dug in.

"I know there was good food at the wedding," she mumbled between bites, "but between the photographers, the guests, the stupidly heavy dupatta on my head, I didn't even get to taste half of it properly."

He reached for his drink, swirling the juice around lazily. "I know."

They ate quietly for a while, the clink of silverware soft against china, the hum of the jet's systems barely audible beneath the low murmur of the cabin's filtered air. After the noise and chaos of the wedding, the silence between them felt like exhale, a slow release of hours of standing, smiling, posing, performing.

Then, gently, the attendant returned, murmuring a polite "you can use the call button if you need me" before collecting their plates and slipping away as discreetly as she'd appeared.

Murtasim felt faint shift beneath his feet. A low hum began to rise beneath them, subtle but unmistakable, as the engines stirred to life. The lights above dimmed slightly, adjusting for takeoff, casting everything in a warm twilight glow.

Meerab turned back to the window, posture straightening slightly as the plane began to taxi, slowly at first, then with increasing momentum. The wheels rumbled beneath them, subtle tremors carrying up through the soles of his feet, into the seat frame.

They passed rows of hangars, distant lights flickering at the edges of the runway like stars scattered across asphalt. A low voice from the cockpit came through the speakers, announcing clearance, and then the plane paused.

A moment of stillness. A breath.

Then came the surge.

Engines roared softly to full life, and the cabin pushed back around them, a gentle force, not jarring, but definite, like a hand pressed firmly to the chest. Meerab leaned forward slightly, eyes wide, as the lights outside blurred into gold and the wheels left the ground.

She didn't speak, just stared out the window, watching as the earth slipped away beneath them, roads turning into threads, buildings into toys.

Every time she flew, she looked like she was seeing it for the first time. And he, in turn, looked at her.

Murtasim's fingers twitched against the armrest. He wanted to reach for her, to touch her hand, her face, something, but the seatbelt light above still glowed red, stubborn and unmoving.

Then, mercifully, it dinged as they stopped climbing. The light went off.

She didn't hesitate.

Her fingers unbuckled her belt in one quick motion

Before he could even adjust in his seat, she was moving, lifting the folds of her lehenga, muttering a breathless, "So much fabric," as she tried to maneuver the fabric without tripping over herself.

He chuckled, already reaching for her.

"Come here," he murmured, his hands finding her waist as she leaned into him.

With practiced ease, he guided her gently into his lap. She twisted slightly as she straddled him, her knees settling on either side of his thighs, her hands bracing against his shoulders. The stiff embroidery of her outfit shifted between them, but her body was soft and warm and perfectly familiar.

Her perfume, floral and dizzying, wrapped around him instantly.

"Remind me," she grumbled softly as she adjusted her skirts behind her, "why did I do this to myself?"

"Because you look like this when you do," he said, letting his hands rest low on her waist, fingers spreading over the curve of her hips.

She rolled her eyes, but her smile was tugging at the corners of her mouth.

As she finally settled into place, she reached up with both hands and gently pushed the hair away from his forehead. Her fingers lingered for a moment before she tilted her head and smiled down at him, eyes soft.

"Hello husband."

He laughed, not because it was funny, but because it made something in his chest feel too big to hold still. His arms wrapped fully around her now, drawing her even closer.

"Hi, meri biwi."

She framed his face in her hands, thumbs brushing the faint line of his jaw. "You should tell your wife where we're going," she whispered, voice teasing but soft enough to make him close his eyes for a second.

He exhaled through a smile, fingers tightening at her waist. "No."

She pouted, playful, her mouth so close he could already taste the chocolate on her breath. "What's the other surprise?"

"Why would I tell you?"

Her nose skimmed his. "Because you love me."

He grinned, but didn't budge, "That's exactly why I won't."

Her sigh was exaggerated, her expression pure mischief as she rested her forehead against his. The closeness made it impossible to tell where her breath ended and his began.

"Murtasim," she murmured.

"Meerab," he countered.

Then she kissed him.

Not tentative. Not shy. Her mouth crashed into his like it had a mind of its own, hungry and coaxing all in the same breath. Her lips moved with purpose, soft but commanding, until his own opened beneath hers, letting her in, letting her take. Her fingers slid into his hair, threading through thick strands before curling tight at the base of his skull, nails grazing his scalp. The scrape sent fire down his spine.

And then her hips moved, slow, subtle, just the barest grind forward in his lap, but it was lethal. She pressed directly into him, and he groaned into her mouth, low and guttural. His hands clamped down on her waist, barely resisting the urge to lift her up and slam her back down until they both came undone.

She tasted like chocolate from the lava cake, and something richer underneath. Sin and heat and the start of a very long night.

"Tell me," she breathed against his lips, mouth now moving lower. She kissed along the edge of his jaw, the heat of her breath branding his skin as she worked her way down, lazy, unhurried, calculated. His head dropped back against the plush recliner, eyes fluttering shut for a second as her mouth found that devastating point beneath his ear. She licked, then kissed, and his cock throbbed beneath her.

"Meerab..."

"Tell me," she whispered again, now dragging her mouth down the column of his neck, letting her lips part just enough to press the faintest suction into his skin. Her hands were on his chest now, moving slow.

"You're a menace." His voice was unsteady, a rasp caught between pleasure and restraint.

"I'm your menace," she murmured.

Then she sat back on his thighs, just far enough to look at him, but not nearly far enough to spare him. Her weight still settled perfectly in his lap, through layers of fabric that were quickly becoming a curse. Her cheeks were flushed, mouth kiss-swollen, hair tumbling over one shoulder in a way that made his breath catch.

"Last chance," she said sweetly. "Tell me now or suffer the consequences."

His lips twitched, the beginnings of a smirk forming even as his blood roared. "What are the consequences, meri jaan?"

She arched one brow. The look was part challenge, part threat. Her voice was calm, but her hips shifted again, dragging heat across him that made him suck in a breath through his teeth.

"I won't let you touch me," she said.

He laughed, low and unbothered. "Acha."

His hands moved instantly, sliding beneath the heavy, but now lighter, folds of her lehenga. The fabric was rich and layered despite the removal of the stiff netting, it was now a luxurious barrier he pushed through without hesitation, the silk catching against his knuckles, bunched and gathered as his fingers worked higher, shoving it up until the bulk of it sat wrinkled around her knees.

She gasped at the suddenness, her body jerking slightly in surprise, but she didn't stop him. Her thighs instinctively parted, just slightly, as his fingers found skin.

His hands dragged slow up the length of her thighs, the muscles soft beneath his palms, trembling ever so faintly under his touch. Her skin was warm, impossibly soft, and every inch closer to the junction between her legs pulled him deeper into madness. His hands slid along the inner curve of her thighs, he looked up at her as he moved, catching the way her lips parted, her lashes low but fluttering. Her breath hitched when his thumbs reached higher.

He leaned up, caught her mouth again, lips brushing hers. "Are you sure that's a consequence for me?"

She groaned against his mouth, leaning in and kissing him harder, hunger breaking through her restraint. Her tongue tangled with his, messy and hot, her hips pressing down to meet the hands she had just threatened to deny.

His hands curled around the backs of her thighs, dragging her flush against him, and he felt it then, the slip of lace under his fingers, the heat behind it.

He pulled back just enough to whisper against her cheek, breath ragged, "Lace?"

Her voice was barely a whisper. "They're red."

He groaned louder, fingers tightening on her skin. "You're evil."

She just smiled. That wicked, innocent one she did when she knew she had him wrapped around her finger. "I'll let you rip them off if you tell me what the other surprise is."

He grinned, his fingers finding the lace edge, sliding up along the narrow slit.

He felt her body move, trying to shift forward to meet him, but he held her still.

"No need to rip them," he murmured, voice low and rough, "...when I can do this."

He slipped the lace to the side, his fingers dragging through her slick folds with practiced precision. She gasped, her body jerking in his lap, thighs tightening around his wrist.

She was wet, the kind of wet that made his fingertips glide without resistance, that left her slick on his skin and made his cock throb with need so sharp it bordered on pain.

The sound she made was soft, a little gasp, barely a plea, but it slammed into his chest like impact. Her hips rolled forward, chasing the friction, trying to get more from his hand. But he wasn't giving it to her yet. Not all of it.

He kissed the corner of her mouth again, then her jaw, slow and teasing, while his fingers continued their lazy exploration. He traced the length of her slit, dragging through her folds but deliberately avoiding her clit, avoiding slipping inside her. He was teasing her, torturing her with every slow stroke that skirted exactly where she needed him.

"Stop being annoying," she breathed, sharp and needy at once.

He hummed, the sound dark and knowing, lips brushing her skin as he let his hand wander even lower. His fingers mapped every inch of her bare mound, smooth and soft, and he marveled at the heat radiating from her, the way her skin felt like velvet under his touch. He spread his fingers wide, palming her whole, pressing in with just enough weight to make her gasp, cupping her so possessively she felt claimed, opened, exposed. She ground down, seeking more, but he only let her feel his palm for a second before he drew back, resuming that relentless, infuriating tease along her folds.

A low, wet glides up and down, pausing every so often to press just enough to make her moan, but never quite where she wanted. He felt her pulse under his fingers, her thighs trembling slightly as she held herself there, trying not to beg.

Her heat was everywhere, smeared across his fingers, rising off her skin, pulsing under the thin lace he'd pushed aside. All he could think about now, all he could see, was what she'd feel like when he finally slid into her. Hot. Tight. Bare.

Tonight. He was going to fuck her tonight, stretch her around his cock until she forgot how to speak, until her voice broke apart on his name. He was going to stay inside her, move slow, deep, until her legs gave out and her body begged for mercy. And then he'd keep going.

They had waited. They had earned this.

He slid one finger into her slowly, watching her face for that first beautiful flicker of surrender. She gasped, soft and broken, head dropping forward until her forehead rested against his shoulder. Her body clenched around him, warm and perfect, and she gasped as he dragged his thumb over her clit. He added a second finger, just as slow, and groaned when her hips rocked forward, chasing him like she couldn't help it.

He scissored them, widening her gently, and pressed his thumb against her clit, rubbing slow, steady circles until she shook in his lap.

"Fuck," he rasped, lips brushing her ear, voice thick with lust. "You're already soaking. Just from this..." He pumped his fingers again, curling them. "You're going to be a mess when it's my cock inside you."

Her head rolled back, mouth open, the breath knocked clean from her. She was coming apart already, grinding into his hand like her body had taken over.

He kept going, using that same, deep rhythm he wanted to fuck her with. His fingers worked in and out of her, every glide slick and hungry.

"Are you thinking about it?" he whispered, his breath hot at her throat. "How it's going to feel when I finally fuck you?"

He curled his fingers inside her again as he spoke, twisting his wrist, scissoring her open, deliberate. "When I stretch you with something thicker than this?"

She whimpered, words losing shape, body grinding down into his palm as if trying to ride him deeper. He refused to let the moment become words. "Answer me, meri jaan," he breathed. Her voice threaded through the air, a small, broken yes. That was the surrender he wanted, the permission he had been starving for.

"I'm going to ruin you," he said, lips brushing her ear. "Going to fill you up so deep you'll be walking funny for days. You want that, meri jaan?"

She nodded, helpless, hips chasing every movement of his hand.

"Please," she gasped. "Right now."

His breath caught. Fingers still inside her, his cock painfully hard under her, he almost gave in. "Here?"

"Yes." Her voice was wild, eyes unfocused.

He chuckled, dark and low. "Don't tempt me, meri jaan."

But his fingers didn't stop. Not for a second.

Every wet glide along her slit only made her tremble harder, her breath hiccuping in his ear. Her body clutched around his fingers like she didn't want to let them go, and Murtasim didn't want to. He couldn't. Not now.

He looked up briefly. The private cabin was swathed in dim light and shadows, windows ink-black with the sky outside. The flight attendant had long since disappeared behind the door, the cockpit sealed off. The flickering LEDs near the galley blinked faintly in the distance, and it felt like they were alone in the world. Alone in the air. Thirty thousand feet up, and she was falling apart for him.

He stood, smooth and quiet, lifting her from his lap in one clean motion. His fingers stayed inside her the whole way down. She gasped, breath catching in surprise, legs tightening around him as he guided her back into her own seat. Her lehenga swished as she landed, silk sliding against leather.

She tried to stop him, a breathless hand on his chest, a half-hearted shake of her head, but he leaned in, pressed a kiss to her temple, slow and grounding.

"Shhhh," he breathed, the sound a command and a caress both.

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, linen cool and absurdly civilized, and said nothing more. He bent toward her, close enough to see every detail of her, his bride: her makeup still perfect from earlier but now smudged in the most delicious places, lipstick messy and blurred at the edges from the kisses he couldn't stop stealing. Her eyes were hooded and dark, ringed with kohl, their depths molten, almost wild. Her lashes were heavy, fanned low as she blinked up at him.

He used his thumb to part her lips, slow and commanding. She stared up at him, mouth open and waiting, cheeks flushed, the perfect, sinful picture of a woman wrecked for him, her hair half-tamed, loose and tousled from his hands, the glossy waves spilling down over her shoulders, framing her face with abandon. The handkerchief slipped between her teeth, filling her mouth, muffling every noise she might make. The whimpers, the cries, the ruined pleas that she bit back for him.

She looked like a vision, her bridal outfit pooled and rumpled around her hips, bangles jingling softly on her wrists, anklets louder.

She looked at him with those eyes wide and trusting and utterly his.

He dropped to his knees without hesitation.

Right there, between her legs, on the thick carpeting of a private jet, he shoved the bulk of her lehenga higher, fingers pushing silk and tulle up until it bunched around her waist. Her thighs were bare now, soft and flushed, her panties nothing but that little scrap of red lace, soaked. Clinging to her like they didn't want to leave.

He hooked two fingers under the fabric and dragged it to the side, slow, letting it stretch just a little, watching the damp strip peel away from her heat. She made a choked sound, one she couldn't fully voice thanks to the gag. He felt it in his spine.

She was glistening. Entirely bare. No soft curls left, nothing but skin, smooth and glistening, flushed with need.

He didn't waste time.

He leaned in and licked her, one long, slow stroke from the base of her slit to the swollen tip of her clit. He tasted her and nearly groaned. She twitched, thighs jerking, and the handkerchief muffled a noise that was dangerously close to his name.

Her fingers flew to his hair, tangling tight, anchoring.

He licked her again, slower, harder this time. Tongue flat, then pointed. Then again. And again.

She was dripping, her folds slick and hot, her body arching up into his face like instinct. Her hips bucked, legs trembling, her bangles shifting on her wrists in time with every twist of her body, soft metal music under the breathless, wet sounds of his tongue working her open. Her anklets, the one he had bought her months ago, jingled faintly when she kicked her heels against the floor, fighting the pleasure, trying not to lose control.

He groaned into her, letting it vibrate against her clit before he sucked it into his mouth, firm and deep. Her entire body jolted.

She whimpered, a broken, strangled sound into the gag, her thighs clenching around his head, but he didn't stop. Wouldn't. He licked her again, faster now, tracing tight circles, flattening his tongue over her over and over until her hands clutched fistfuls of his hair and her head dropped back against the seat, throat bare, chest heaving.

His fingers slipped inside her again.

One first, then two.

She pulsed around them instantly, tight and eager, and he pumped them slowly, deliberately, curling them up with every thrust. The wet sounds echoed softly in the tight space, slick and obscene. His thumb found her again, circling her clit as his mouth returned to the tender skin above her entrance, licking, kissing, mouthing the crease of her inner thigh.

She came so fast it felt like being electrocuted, her whole body arched off the seat, a wild, feral sound breaking from her throat, muffled and desperate behind the gag. Her thighs slammed around his head, trapping him there, trembling violently as her heels dug into the leather, feet scraping for purchase. Murtasim only grinned against her, greedy for every raw tremor, his tongue relentless, his fingers stroking her through the clenching, pulsing waves.

He held her steady, one hand cradling her hip possessively, the other still buried inside her, curling to find that spot again and again until her body spasmed around him. He could feel the aftershocks in his palm, her cunt fluttering helplessly, so slick now that every glide of his tongue felt sinful.

He didn't stop. He couldn't. She tried to wriggle away, tried to shake her head as if to beg for mercy, but he only pulled her hips closer, pinned her open, mouth sealed to her clit. He licked her with long, slow, ruthless strokes, tongue flat and heavy, drawing whimpers that vibrated right into his chest. Her legs fell open wider for him, surrendering, her body slackening in utter, ruined bliss. Her hands slipped from his hair to his shoulders, nails digging in so hard he was sure there'd be marks despite the layers.

She tried to whine something behind the gag, muffled and frustrated, hips bucking away from his mouth, he knew she was on the edge of falling apart.

He lifted his head for just a breath, lips wet, voice wicked low. "Shhh, meri jaan, be quiet for me."

She let out a whiny sound again and he couldn't help but chuckle, "I know it's hard. As soon as we're alone, you can scream my name as loud as you want... 'Murtasim, Murtasim, Murtasim'." He grinned, biting at her inner thigh, and she managed a glare and a pathetic little smack at his shoulder.

He laughed, hot breath ghosting against her. "You know I'm right." And then, before she could protest again, he dove back in, mouth greedy, sucking her clit into his mouth and flicking it with the tip of his tongue, merciless and sweet.

It was too much for her, her thighs fluttered, her head falling back, fingers clawing at his hair, and then she shattered, coming apart with a wave that left her writhing and breathless.

Her fingers trembled on his skin. Her thighs quivered, wet and open, barely holding shape anymore. She was gasping, hiccupping behind the gag.

Still, he licked her.

He circled her clit with his tongue, drew tight patterns, kissed her folds like he was memorizing them. He sucked her again, this time gently, coaxing, until her whole body began to shake with overstimulation. The cloth in her mouth was soaked now, pressed between her teeth, her eyes squeezed shut.

Her hand found the back of his head, pressing at first, then pushing.

She was done.

He did not stop until she pushed his head away, palms flat and shaking against his crown, until she slammed her thighs together in a defiant, exhausted closure. He pressed one last kiss to the inside of her thigh before he let go, drawing back slowly, letting her come down in her own rhythm.

The handkerchief slid from between her teeth when she pulled at it with shaky hands, and she breathed raw and open into the cabin. Her cheeks were wet, her lips parted, mascara a little smeared at the corners of her eyes where tears and pleasure had left tracks.

She was breathless, flushed, and wholly undone when he pulled back, his mouth wet with her. Her body sank into the leather recliner, legs limp, chest rising and falling in slow, shallow heaves. Her lashes fluttered as she looked up at him, woozy, eyes glazed with afterglow and exhaustion. Her lips parted.

"I feel like jelly," she mumbled sleepily, voice hoarse and sweet, her fingers twitching where they rested on her stomach. Her lehenga had fallen in disarray around her hips, barely covering her, but she didn't care. Didn't move.

He smiled, soft now, brushing a knuckle down her cheek. "Sleep, meri jaan. I'll wake you when it's time."

She made a faint, contented hum and nodded once, eyes falling shut. The tension drained from her body; her shoulders loosened, her mouth softened. Within seconds she was asleep, curled slightly toward him, lips parted in a slow, even rhythm of breath.

He moved carefully, adjusting the folds of her lehenga to cover her, tucking the fabric around her thighs before covering her with the thin blanket on the armrest. Then he stood, hands steady despite the throb between his legs, and slipped into the small bathroom at the back of the plane to clean up. The water was cold and shocking against his skin, but not enough to dull the vivid memory of her taste on his tongue, the heat of her around his fingers.

By the time he returned to the cabin, the plane had started its slow descent. The hum of the engines deepened, the floor trembling softly beneath his feet. Meerab hadn't stirred. The seatbelt sign blinked to life, a quiet chime breaking the silence.

He crouched beside her and eased the belt across her lap, clicking it gently into place. She didn't even flinch. Her breathing stayed slow and steady, lashes resting against her skin. The corners of her mouth curved into the faintest, sleepy smile.

He sat back in his seat and buckled in, but hovered close to her, one hand resting lightly over hers, his thumb stroking the back of her fingers as if to soothe her deeper into the kind of sleep she'd rarely been allowed lately. She was utterly still, the slow rise and fall of her chest the only proof she hadn't been carved out of wax.

The plane shifted beneath them, wheels kissing tarmac, a faint jolt rolling through the cabin as they touched down but she didn't move. Not even a twitch. Overhead, the lights blinked on. She slept through all of it, curled in the seat.

By the time the plane came to a stop, Meerab hadn't stirred.

When the flight attendant came forward, her voice low, Murtasim shook his head with a subtle look and whispered, "Quiet, please."

The woman nodded and stepped away.

The ramp extended, cool Karachi air filtering into the cabin, he heard sounds beyond it, a car, people moving, luggage being unloaded. He unbuckled her gently and slid his arms under her with practiced ease. She stirred faintly as he lifted her, arms looping lazily around his neck, head lolling against his chest.

"Are we there yet?" she mumbled, her breath warm against his throat.

"Shhh," he whispered, pressing his lips to her temple. "Go back to sleep, meri jaan."

She hummed, the sound soft and trusting, and nestled closer to him. He carried her down the ramp and into the car that awaited them on the tarmac, slipping her into her seat with careful precision. She stirred just enough to blink at him through the haze of sleep, but she didn't ask anything else. Her head dropped against the headrest, lips parted, breath even. Gone again.

The drive through Karachi was silent. The city, still awake, shimmered with neon and the occasional honk of traffic, but she didn't stir. Not when he pulled into the private underground parking. Not when he unbuckled her and picked her up again, carrying her out of the car. Not even when the elevator opened directly into their penthouse.

He held her close, one arm under her knees, the other around her shoulders, her body limp and soft against his chest. She murmured his name once, twice, in her sleep, "Murtasim..." like it had become muscle memory, an echo etched into her even when unconscious.

She didn't notice the rose petals that lined the floor from the elevator to the bedroom. Didn't see the soft glow of candlelight placed on every surface, flickering against glass and marble. She didn't see the penthouse, now fully furnished, their clothes hanging in the closet, the bathroom filled with all the products she used, everything exactly as they had wanted it. Warm, quiet, private. Home.

She would have gasped at the sight of it. Would have teased him about being so dramatic. But she was lost in sleep, slack in his arms, her breathing slow and deep. He would've laughed, if it didn't hurt so much to walk with the unbearable weight in his pants, his body roaring.

Because all he could think about was the way she had felt around his fingers thirty thousand feet in the air. The way she had clenched, soaked, trembled for him. The way, not too long ago, she had straddled him in the car while it rained and almost slid down onto him, nearly taken him inside her with nothing between them but a thread of restraint. His cock twitched with the memory, hard and furious, but he swallowed the frustration and turned it into something softer.

He carried her to the bed and laid her down on the thick sheets scattered with petals. She shifted, eyes blinking open just enough to whine. "Mmm... heavy," she muttered, tugging weakly at her necklace and bangles.

"I got it," he whispered, already sitting beside her.

He worked quietly. The earrings first, careful not to tug. Then the necklace, unhooking the clasp at the back with gentle fingers. Her bangles slid off one by one with a quiet clink, her fingers twitching slightly each time he touched her wrist.

She squirmed as he helped her out of her clothes. "It's scratchy," she murmured, barely coherent.

"I know." He leaned closer, brushing his lips over her forehead. "I'll take it off."

He unzipped the back and peeled the top away from her flushed skin, revealing a deep red lace bra, barely there, delicate and sinful. He paused, breath catching. She had chosen it for him, clearly. His favorite color on her. He traced the edge of the lace along her side, down to her waist, brushing his knuckles along her ribs as he pulled her clothing off.

Her panties matched her bra perfectly. His fingers hovered over the line of her hip, tracing the edge with aching restraint. She was beautiful like this. Soft, bare, the memory of her arousal still damp between her thighs. But he didn't touch her again.

He pulled his hand away and pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead. "I'll be right back, meri jaan."

Then he stood and stripped off his sherwani and kurta, leaving them at the foot of the bed. His body was still thrumming with the ache she had left in him, but the cold shower washed most of it away, enough, at least, to let him breathe without groaning.

When he stepped out again, she was curled under the covers in his kurta. It dwarfed her frame, the sleeves falling long past her wrists. Her hair was a mess over the pillow, her face relaxed in deep sleep.

He crawled into bed beside her, tucking one arm under the pillow and facing her. He considered waking her just to clean her makeup, but the memory of her being tired and snapping at him during the last few days came back in full force.

It would be fine.

He stared at her in silence. Her lashes. Her lips. The little crease in her brow even as she slept. His wife. His Meerab.

He reached out, fingertips brushing the slope of her cheek, then the line of her nose, before smoothing back a lock of hair from her forehead.

"Good night, meri Meerab," he whispered.

She hummed softly in response, the sound instinctual, lost in sleep.

"I love you," he whispered again, kissing her cheek, letting the words settle over her skin like breath.

The he closed his eyes.

------------------------------

Meerab stirred just slightly, the soft drag of a sound pulling her from the thick warmth of sleep.

A tap turning off.

The low thud of a door clicking open.

Bare feet against wood.

The whisper of someone moving in the space just beyond her still-closed eyes, familiar weight and rhythm. And light. There was light in the room now, low and gold and natural, slipping through somewhere, a window, maybe, though her heavy lids refused to lift and check.

The bed shifted next to her, dipping under weight she instinctively recognized. A breath was exhaled. She felt it, warm against her shoulder. Then silence again, slow and easy.

She slipped back under.

------------------

The next time her eyes opened, everything was still.

No taps. No footsteps. No movement. Just quiet.

Meerab blinked slowly, her lashes brushing the pillow as her vision adjusted to a room soaked in soft, filtered light. That warm, washed-out glow that belonged only to coastal cities, the kind of light that crept in sideways, gentle and golden, kissing everything it touched.

Her body felt strange. Loose. Liquid. Like her bones had melted sometime in the night and hadn't remembered how to reassemble. She stretched a little beneath the sheets, felt the tug in her thighs, the faint ache at her core, and froze.

Oh no.

She turned her head slowly, eyes sweeping across the space.

A wide wall of glass stretched out across one side of the room, sunlight spilling in without hesitation. Beyond the windows, there was a glimpse of water, pale blue. The window was slightly ajar; she could hear the faint, irregular call of seagulls, and the rustling breeze and sound of water.

It was the penthouse.

The Karachi penthouse.

It hit her like a slap.

She sat up too fast, the sheet slipping to her waist, and looked around the room. Her breath caught.

Her eyes moved across the space. Light cream walls, brushed with warm shadows. Furniture that looked like it had been curated instead of chosen, warm wood tones, clean lines, soft beige and terracotta fabrics. A large abstract painting hung on the wall, bold strokes of copper and ochre that caught the sunlight like fire. Her gaze trailed toward the floor, the faint outline of scattered rose petals.

And candles. Everywhere. Tall glass pillars, some burnt halfway down, others still untouched, placed across every available surface, the dresser, the table, the ledge along the window.

She turned her head.

Murtasim.

Sound asleep beside her.

The sheets were low around his hips, the sharp lines of his shoulders and chest bare. His hair was a tousled mess, like he'd run his hands through it a dozen times before finally giving in to sleep. One arm was folded under the pillow, the other sprawled across the bed in her direction, loose and warm and open.

She didn't breathe for a second.

His lips were parted slightly, his jaw shadowed with stubble. He looked annoyingly gorgeous. How was it possible to look that good, that peaceful, that... unfairly attractive while unconscious?

Her eyes drifted past him again, toward the chair in the corner, where something deep red and heavy caught the light.

Her lehenga.

Meerab stared at it, then looked down at herself, suddenly aware of what she was wearing. His white kurta.

She blinked again.

And then slowly, dramatically, she facepalmed.

Did I actually fall asleep? On my wedding night? After all that?

She groaned internally, dropping her head back to the bed. Rose petals. Candles. Her bridal lehenga on a chair like an exclamation point to her utter failure. And there she was, curled up like a tired child who'd eaten too much cake.

After all the teasing. After all the build-up. After months of tiptoeing the line, of stolen touches, suggestive whispers, and that night in the car when she'd nearly slid down onto him with nothing but soaked clothes and adrenaline between them, this was how she ended her wedding night?

Dead asleep? After he fingered her into oblivion and ate her out like she was his last meal?

She groaned. Out loud. Her thighs clenched instinctively at the memory and even that tiny movement made her gasp. Her toes curled under the sheets.

She turned her head again, narrowing her eyes at her still-sleeping husband.

Of course he hadn't woken her up.

Of course he'd carried her in, tucked her in, undressed her gently, and probably taken a cold shower.

Because he was a gentleman. A thoughtful, stupidly considerate, irritatingly perfect man.

Her husband.

A rush of affection curled through her chest, immediately followed by a twist of mortification.

It was supposed to be the night they finally gave in. The night she'd looked forward to and fantasized about since the moment she realized she wanted him.

And she'd slept through it.

Meerab groaned again, dragging the sheet up to cover her face. This is going to haunt me forever.

With a quiet, disgruntled sigh, Meerab shifted, slowly pulling herself upright. The sheets fell away, and her eyes caught on the delicate clutter on the bedside table, her earrings, her necklace, her bangles. She sighed again.

She stood, wincing slightly as she stretched, bare feet pressing into the cool wooden floor. Her steps toward the bathroom were slow, her limbs still heavy with sleep, mind replaying the blur of the night before.

The plane.

The stairs.

The dark hallway, the soft clink of keys.

She remembered, just vaguely, being carried. His arms around her. Her cheek against his chest. The quiet thud of her heart slowing down somewhere between the jet and the elevator.

She opened the bathroom door, stepped inside, and gasped.

What the hell.

Her reflection in the mirror looked less like a blushing bride and more like a crime scene witness. Smudged kajal clung to her lower lash line like it had been through a bad breakup. The lipstick had dried into some abstract shape halfway between her mouth and her chin. And her hair? Her hair was a full-blown natural disaster, half flattened, half frizzed, somehow still perfect in places, and sticking out in others like it had opinions.

She squinted at herself, leaned in, then groaned out loud.

"I look like a wedding got into a fight with me and won," she mumbled to herself.

And it had. Because this wasn't the elegant, glowing, seductive post‑wedding version of herself she had imagined when fantasizing about her wedding night. This was the woman who had gotten fingered and eaten out into a coma, missed all the candles and rose petals, and now looked like she'd been dragged backwards through the mayoun, mehendi, nikaah, and baaraat all at once.

She grabbed a makeup wipe with the urgency of a woman possessed and began scrubbing at her face like she was trying to erase evidence. "Sorry, sorry, sorry," she whispered at her skin, even as her eyeliner refused to surrender. One stubborn patch of highlighter sparkled smugly on her cheekbone like it had no intention of going anywhere.

Once her face resembled something human again, she turned to her hair, untangling knots with the grace of a sleep-deprived goblin.

Finally, she staggered into the shower, twisted the knob, and let out a sigh as warm water poured over her like divine absolution. She stood there motionless, hands braced against the tiled wall, as if she needed to reboot her entire soul.

The wedding week. The traveling. The emotional rollercoaster. All of it peeled away in slow waves as the water wrapped around her shoulders and neck.

She let her head tilt back, eyes closed, letting the spray drum against her collarbones, down her chest, across every sore inch of skin. Her muscles loosened with every second, the steam softening everything sharp inside her.

Then she reached for the shelf.

And froze.

A grin tugged at her lips.

Lined up in perfect little rows, like soldiers reporting for duty, were her favorite things, the exact shampoos she'd hoarded over the years, the citrusy one she used when she wanted to feel awake, the almond one for when she wanted to feel soft, the thick hair mask she always claimed was "too expensive to use often" but used religiously anyway. The rose scented body wash and shower oil.

And next to them, his stuff.

The dark bottle of his body wash, already opened, cap loose.

She picked it up, brought it to her nose, and inhaled.

There it was. That scent, mint, bergamot, spice, a little arrogant. Him.

Her smile widened.

He took a cold shower, she thought. He definitely did.

"Pagal," she murmured affectionately, setting the bottle back down.

---------------------------------

Meerab stood at the threshold, towel-damp and clean, hair curling down her back in soft dry waves, and just stared for a breathless moment. Sunlight spilled across the room in soft bars, painting everything gold, but it was Murtasim her eyes couldn't leave. He lay tangled in white sheets, still bare to the waist, the sheet slung low, his body sprawled as if he owned not just the bed, but the world. His stomach was flat, cut with muscle, the V of his hips sharp and decadent, drawing her gaze downward to the scatter of hair that led beneath the cotton. His chest rose and fell in an easy, even rhythm, arms stretched above his head, biceps thick, forearms golden and dusted with more of that dark hair. He was ridiculously, unfairly, heartbreakingly gorgeous. And he was hers.

All hers. Again.

Meerab let out a quiet sigh, part awe, part triumph. Husband, she thought, the word blooming inside her in a way it hadn't before. Maybe because their marriage was no longer a secret, or maybe it was just the weight of everything they'd endured since that first nikaah. The uncertainty, the hurdles, the ache of waiting. But all of that was behind them now, and it felt like a new start.

She crossed the room on bare feet, padding softly to his side. For a second she just watched, then reached out, her hand trembling not with nerves but with anticipation, with desire so deep it made her fingers ache. She pinched the edge of the sheet and, slow as mischief, peeled it away from his hips, exposing the rest of him to the sunlight, to her greedy eyes.

He was beautiful in a way that demanded attention, a body built, then lost, and rebuilt for holding, loving, for sin and safety both. She traced with her eyes the curve of his lower stomach, the line of hair, the shape beneath his pajamas already pressing forward, hard and heavy with sleep and want. She could see every little scar now, most faded to silver, ghosting across his ribs and chest, one by his shoulder, a pale patch above his heart. She loved those scars. Loved the way they reminded her of his strength, and the battle they had fought and won.

She moved, climbing onto the bed, swinging her leg over his waist until she straddled him, her knees planted wide in the sheets, her hands braced lightly on his chest. She sat there for a heartbeat, just drinking him in, cataloguing every tendon, every muscle. Her gaze devoured him. Her heart thumped loud and fast in her chest, heat pooling low and urgent in her belly.

Then her hands joined her gaze. She ran her fingertips down the line of his chest, slow and reverent, letting her nails barely graze the warm skin. She traced the swell of his pectorals, the dip of his collarbone, the fine line of hair that pointed down, the flat plane of his stomach, the sharp notch of his hipbones. Her fingers lingered on the faded scars, one, two, three, memorizing the way they blended into him now, more part of him than not.

He stirred beneath her touch, a low sigh breaking the stillness, his lips parting as he shifted, muscles flexing in his sleep, chest rising up to meet her hand. She couldn't help herself; she leaned down, brushed her lips over his, feather-light, barely a breath. Then down, across the rough of his jaw, down the column of his throat, following the beat of his pulse. She kissed every scar, every dip and hollow, her hands restless and greedy, mapping him like she was discovering him for the first time.

He woke slowly, muscles rippling beneath her, and she grinned as she nipped at the edge of his abs, teeth grazing skin. When her mouth hovered just at his navel, he groaned her name, the sound deep and rough, raw with sleep and hunger. "Meerab... this better not be a dream."

She pressed a long, lingering kiss below his navel, then let her mouth drift lower, feeling him shiver under her. "Does it feel like a dream?" she whispered, glancing up, her hands sliding up his chest as he propped himself up on his elbows. He looked at her then, sleepy-eyed but blazing, the muscles of his arms and shoulders bunching tight as he held himself up just to see her, as if the sight of her straddling him was the only thing worth waking for.

He was the definition of temptation, every inch of him beautiful and hers, skin stretched over bone and muscle, heat radiating from him. She drank him in, lips curling into a smile meant only for him.

She watched his face as her hands slipped down again, trailing over his ribs and his taut stomach, her fingers pausing to draw lazy circles at the sensitive spot right above his pajama waistband. She pressed a kiss there and let her hands go lower, smoothing over the hard ridge beneath the soft cotton, feeling the outline of his cock, thick and eager, twitching beneath her touch.

He sucked in a sharp breath, his body arching up into her palm, hips stuttering. The sound that escaped him was half a groan, half a prayer, and she felt her own pulse skip in answer, heat flaring everywhere their bodies met.

"Come here," he murmured, voice deep and rough and so achingly tender it made her toes curl into the sheets. His hands were already reaching, large and warm, spanning her waist, guiding her forward.

Meerab smiled, wide, teasing, bright. She didn't crawl so much as glide, knees pressing into the mattress as she moved up his body, the length of her thighs bracketing his hips, her palms never leaving his skin. She traced him with her fingertips as she settled above him, kneeling with her knees tight against his sides, her hands slipping up his chest, over his shoulders, mapping every inch.

She leaned in, brushed her nose along his, and pressed her lips to his, her hair falling in a warm wave around their faces. "Good morning," she whispered, her voice colored with all the longing and delight she felt. Their kiss was slow at first, deepening by degrees, a luxurious slide of lips and tongue. He tasted of mint, sharp and familiar, the same toothpaste she'd just used in the bathroom. She let her mouth open under his, let him taste her, the heat and slow fire making her dizzy. Her body folded against his as he shifted, sitting up and guiding her until she straddled his lap, knees braced to either side, her hands tangling in the wild darkness of his hair as he leaned back against the headboard.

She hummed as his fingers threaded through her hair, not gentle but greedy, holding her close as if she might disappear. His mouth was moving on hers, slow at first, then deeper, then desperate, as if the night's restraint had left him starving. She moaned into his mouth, the sound swallowed by his tongue, their mouths sliding, pressing, sucking at each other with a need that felt both new and achingly familiar. She knew this body, these lips, these hands, but not like this. Not when there was no chance of anyone knocking, no risk, no need to stop.

They pulled apart just enough to breathe, their panting loud in the hush of the morning. He brushed the back of his hand over her cheek, fingers sifting through the clean, fresh strands of her hair, tucking them behind her ears with a care that made her heart pound harder. "Meri biwi." He whispered, his gaze found hers, soft and unblinking, as if he was memorizing every single detail.

She leaned in, pressing a series of small, worshipful kisses to his lips, her voice nothing but a sigh against his mouth. "You should have woken me up," she whispered, half plea, half scold. She let her weight sink into his lap.

He smiled at her, soft and unrepentant, running his thumbs in gentle arcs along her cheeks. "You were tired, meri jaan," he murmured, his voice deep, patient, and so full of adoration it made her heart thump faster, his hands stayed right there, possessive, steady, and so, so gentle.

Her lips parted in a soft whine, eyes narrowing just enough to let the protest sneak through. "But it was our wedding night," she said, equal parts dramatic and heartfelt. "Years in the making. Months of waiting. Of suffering. And then nothing!"

He chuckled, but his gaze didn't waver. "I know," he said simply, his thumbs pausing just for a second before moving again. "But you were sleeping."

She pecked his lips again, barely a breath between them. "You have my permission," she whispered, leaning in, their foreheads brushing. Her eyes glittered with mischief, with honesty. "Wake me up, whenever, for anything."

He hummed, a low sound deep in his chest, vibrating through her ribs where their bodies met. "For anything?" he teased, his mouth curving into a lazy, wicked smile, and she nodded, grinning. He laughed, softer than silk, dropping his head to the crook of her neck. "What if you're really tired?" he asked, voice teasing, breath warm on her skin, pressing a kiss there before pulling back.

She kissed his jaw, his cheek, his lips. "I'd tell you to stop annoying me...maybe, but probably not," she replied, her smile pressed against his mouth.

He groaned, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her even closer in his lap, so there was not a sliver of space between them. Their kiss reignited, hotter, hungrier, her hands clutching at his shoulders, sliding into his hair, his hands roaming up and down her back, slipping under the hem of his kurta on her.

"I can't believe I fell asleep," she murmured against his lips, her words breathless, pulling away just a smidge.

He caught her mouth, kissing her with a wild, starved edge, his lips parting hers, his tongue stroking against hers in a slow, thorough dance. She opened for him, matching him, giving back everything he demanded and more. Their mouths slid together. Hungry, wet, desperate. His hands slid beneath the kurta further, searching, fingers dragging over her bare thighs, up her sides, over the fabric of her new lingerie. When he found it, he groaned, deep and guttural, right into her mouth.

She giggled, delighted, gasping into his kiss, her body vibrating with anticipation.

And then suddenly, she was falling, gently but surely. He pushed her down into the soft mountain of pillows and mattresses beneath them, looming over her, his body big and hot, arms braced on either side, wild hair a mess, eyes blown wide with hunger. Her breath caught in her throat.

He kissed her wildly, lips crashing to hers, his voice threading between kisses, "Meri Meerab", breathless and rough, a claim, and then he bit her lower lip, pulling a shiver up her spine, making her arch into him.

His mouth found her jaw, slow and greedy, tracing the delicate line of her neck, every movement a deliberate tease. His tongue flicked against the pulse that thudded just beneath her skin, hot and wet and searching.

When his lips found that one spot, just below her ear, where she was always the most sensitive, he didn't hold back. He bit, then sucked, his mouth drawing hard, leaving behind a mark that bloomed with heat, and the sensation made her shudder. Her breath caught, her hips arching up to meet him as a desperate moan slipped out of her, helpless and high, the sound vibrating against his tongue. She could feel herself growing wetter, the heat and slickness between her thighs a deep ache now, her panties utterly soaked from just his mouth on her skin.

He shifted, pulling back just enough to grin down at her with that slow, lazy hunger she loved. Then, with a practiced motion, he hooked his hands under the hem of the kurta she wore and tugged it up and over her head, baring her to his gaze. His breath caught audibly as he took her in, sprawled out in red lingerie that left little to the imagination, the morning sun tracing every curve, every shadow, every bare inch of skin that the sheer fabric failed to hide.

He groaned, a sound rough and worshipful, and Meerab couldn't help it, she giggled, loving the effect she had on him.

She reached for him, wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing a teasing kiss to his lips. "I thought you should get the full experience even if I fell asleep last night," she whispered, nipping at his lower lip, her smile daring him to do something about it.

He kissed her back, hungry and amused, and muttered, "You have to wear the lehenga again so I can take you in it...and then peel it off you properly."

She smirked, her mouth moving against his. "Okay," she promised, but her hands were tangled in his hair and his were sliding along her sides, so neither of them made any move to break the moment for silk and sequins.

His lips were on her again, hot and demanding, sliding down the length of her neck, his mouth painting a path over her collarbones, the swell of her breasts. He nipped and licked, the scrape of his teeth sending jolts through her as her body arched off the mattress to meet him, needing more. Her back bowed, hips lifting unconsciously, chest pushing into his mouth, into his hands as he finally cupped her breasts through the red mesh, squeezing, shaping her with those big palms.

He brought her breasts together, mouth hot and open over the delicate bra, kissing her through the fabric, tongue flicking over the stiffened peaks, then sucking her nipples through the thin material. Every flick of his tongue sent a sharp thrill through her, making her gasp, her hands clutching his hair, dragging him closer. The heat of his breath soaked into her skin, and when he blew gently across the wet fabric, she shivered so hard she almost whimpered.

He looked up, his eyes glinting wickedly, and then bit her nipple through the mesh, just sharp enough to make her cry out, her hands tightening in his hair. He took his time there, sucking, teasing, tongue circling, driving her absolutely wild.

"Take it off," she moaned, writhing beneath him, hips shifting restlessly, her body so hungry for him it was almost painful.

He smirked, voice a low rumble. "It's too pretty to take off," he said, but relented anyway, tugging the cups down so her breasts spilled out, bare and aching for his mouth.

He didn't hesitate, his thumbs flicked over her nipples, long fingers pinching and rolling them, making her cry out, her back arching again as pleasure rolled through her. His fingers were so long, his hands covering her completely, and the feeling of being held, handled, loved like this was dizzying. He leaned down, taking a nipple into his mouth, tongue flat and slow at first, then swirling, then sucking hard, only to pull back and blow cool air across the wet peak. Meerab's moan was raw, breaking in her throat, her hips pressing up into him, desperate for more.

She reached down, pushing at his head, needing him closer, needing all of him, and he only chuckled, the sound deep and full of delight, "Patience, meri Meerab."

She gasped, half-laughing, half-pleading. "How do you have any left now?" she whined, her hands already tugging at the waistband of his pajamas, pushing them down, her focus narrowing to the hardness beneath. He helped her, hips moving, and together they kicked the fabric away, forgotten at the foot of the bed. Her hands closed around his cock, thick and heavy, so hot in her palm it made her pulse stutter.

He groaned, loud and unrestrained, his eyes fluttering shut, the sound echoing her own desperate need. She whimpered, hips spreading wider, her body open and ready, wetness flooding her again as she whispered, "Please." It was everything she'd ever wanted, everything she'd dreamed about in every fevered, stolen moment, finally she could have him, inside her, no distance.

He moved back, kneeling between her thighs, eyes dark and a little wild, stroking himself with slow, deliberate movements, his cock shining where she'd touched him. Meerab sat up on her elbows, eyes glued to his hand, her breath catching at the sight of him, so big, so hard, and all for her. The thought alone made her clench, made her ache.

He moved closer, guiding himself along her body, the heat of him not where she expected it. She moaned, feeling his balls nudge her clit through the damp fabric of her panties, his shaft dragging up her stomach, the head of him pressing against the dip of her belly button.

He groaned, the sound deep and rough, his head dropping forward, gaze riveted to the sight of his cock stretched long across her, resting obscenely high on her stomach, a line of hot, velvet promise against her skin.

"So deep." He muttered, voice hoarse, almost reverent.

It took her a breathless second to realize what he was staring at, and the moment it registered, her cheeks flushed and heat flared low in her belly, sharp and hungry. The visual alone, the undeniable evidence of just how much of him she'd take, how deep he'd be buried inside her, made her clench around nothing, her body already aching to feel it for real.

He dragged his cock down, slow and heavy, tracing it through her soaked slit over the fragile barrier of her panties. She moaned at the sensation, hips rising to meet the drag, hungry for the friction, for anything, for everything. Then his hands were on her hips, fingers curling at the elastic, and she felt the sharp, unmistakable give of fabric straining under his grip, then a sudden, decisive rip. Her panties fell away in two torn halves, tossed somewhere behind him, forgotten. She didn't care, not for a second, that they'd been new, that she'd picked them out just for him, she was far too gone, too ruined by the anticipation, by the heat and slickness between her thighs, by the look in his eyes as he surveyed her, bare and wanting.

Her gaze slid down his body, reverent and greedy. The planes of his chest, the hard ridges of his abs, the tensed strength in his arms as he stroked himself. She let her eyes drop lower, taking in the length of him, thick and flushed, shining with her wetness. It sent a tremor through her, want tightening her belly, flooding her with heat.

"Fuck," he muttered, voice half-gone, as he pressed the head of his cock to her, dragging it up and down, parting her folds but never pushing inside. The sensation was too much, teasing and maddening. She whimpered, hips circling, chasing the friction, her body begging for more. "Murtasim, please," she breathed, her voice a helpless plea, need lacing every word.

He looked up, and something in his gaze softened, the wildness settling into something deeper, almost reverent. For a heartbeat she wondered what was happening, she'd expected him to devour her, but instead he leaned in, his hand coming up to cradle her jaw, kissing her slow, his lips lingering against hers, breath mixing with hers. He pressed his forehead to hers, voice rough and trembling. "I don't know if I can be gentle," he whispered, and she felt his body tremble.

She pulled back just enough to see his face, her palms cupping his cheeks, the bristle of his beard soft and familiar against her skin. "I trust you," she told him simply, her thumb sweeping across his cheekbone, anchoring him.

He searched her face, dark eyes stormy with want and something like worry. "What if I hurt you?" His voice was small, unsure in a way she'd never heard before.

She smiled, lips brushing his. "It'll hurt for just a bit," she whispered, threading her fingers through his hair.

"Only if I don't completely lose it as soon as I feel you around me," he groaned.

"What are you afraid of?" she asked, her voice gentle, caressing, coaxing him to say it.

He closed his eyes for a moment, sighing, nuzzling into her palm, pressing a kiss to her wrist. "I've wanted this for years, Meerab. What if I can't stop myself? What if I don't go slow, what if I can't be gentle?"

She leaned up, kissed him, poured all the years, the longing, the trust into the slide of her mouth against his. "I love you," she whispered, over and over, as she chased him back, making him sit up against the headboard, her knees bracketing his hips again, hands trailing from his cheeks to his shoulders, bracing herself. "I love you," she repeated, voice shaking with certainty. She straddled him, hips pressing into his, and her mouth never left his.

She rolled her hips, grinding her soaked, bare pussy along the length of his cock, the glide slick and familiar, the heat making them both groan, lost for a moment in the friction and memory. "This is familiar, right?" she breathed into his mouth, the words a little wild, a little teasing, her body moving with a confidence born of knowing him, knowing them. Every time they'd been close, every time they'd nearly lost themselves, it had been like this, with her in his lap, with her in control.

That hesitant look on his face was of a man who'd spent a lifetime keeping his own hunger on a tight leash. He was the wall, the unshakeable protector, the man who had always put himself between her and anything that could hurt, including his own desire, his own strength, his own longing. For so long, he had guarded her even from himself. Always protecting her, from the world and from the fierce, overwhelming love that lived in his chest.

But now, with her straddling his lap, she could feel it: how hard he was shaking with the effort to hold back, how he ached to touch, to claim, to finally let go.

He groaned, a rough, unguarded "fuck" that shuddered out of him as she shifted her weight, letting her slick heat glide down the length of his cock again. The head of him caught on her entrance, before sliding along her folds and nudging insistently at her clit, and she reveled in the way he twitched beneath her, his hips trying not to buck. She rocked a little harder, teasing him, her body open and wild, and grinned down at him, her hair a soft veil between their faces.

"Is this better?" she asked, voice light, teasing, pretending she didn't know the answer.

He pulled her down into a kiss, tongue meeting hers, hands bracing at her waist but not forcing, just holding, letting her set the rhythm. "We can try like this," he said between kisses, his breath warm against her lips, "you can go as slow as you need." She nodded into his mouth, her hips grinding harder, desire crackling through her like fire, nerves flickering underneath.

As she lost herself in his mouth, she felt him shift, his hand sliding away, and she pulled back, breathless, to see him rummaging in the drawer beside the bed. He held up a small bottle, sheepish and hopeful all at once.

"What is that?" she asked, a little breathless.

"Lube," he admitted, cheeks flushed, and she couldn't help but giggle at how earnest he was, how he always tried to think ahead for her. "I read it might hurt less if..."

She smirked, delighting in him, "What have you been reading, Murtasim?" she teased, her laughter winding around the soft morning light.

He chuckled, unashamed. "Probably less than you," he shot back, and it wasn't wrong, he still looked a little dazed, a little overwhelmed, but so in love it made her ache. Then he had the audacity to grin, "I remember being tied to a chair as a result of your readings."

She whacked his arm, delighted, "You loved it."

He leaned in, voice all heat and affection. "Of course I did. I'm not stupid."

She watched, heart full, as he opened the bottle and squirted a slick pool of lube onto his cock, working it over himself in slow, deliberate strokes. The sheen caught in the golden light, and she couldn't help reaching down, wrapping her fingers around him, gliding her palm up and down his length, marveling at the heat, the soft glide, the way he shuddered at her touch, biting back another curse.

He coated his fingers with more, then slid his hand between her thighs. She gasped at the cool, slippery touch as he ran his fingers along her already soaked slit, adding more slickness to the heat pooling between her legs. His long fingers circled her entrance, gentle and worshipful, and then pushed inside, stretching her in slow, careful strokes, scissoring and coaxing her open, preparing her for him. She moaned, low and guttural, hips rocking down to meet his hand, wanting more, needing him, her pussy pulsing around his fingers, wanting to be filled, to be his, finally.

He looked up at her, eyes burning, watching every flutter of her lashes, every shiver of her body as he worked her open. She tried to keep her eyes open, tried to hold his gaze, but he was kissing her again, messy and slow, swallowing her sounds as she rode his slick fingers. Her body was greedy, desperate, riding every push of his hand, every slide, and her mouth never left his, breath mixing, tongues tangling.

"Now," she whimpered, desperate, a plea against his lips. "Please."

He pulled away, both of them gasping for air, his fingers slipping out of her, shining with slick. Together, they reached down, his hands grounding at her thighs, hers trembling but certain, guiding his cock to her entrance. He let her hold him, the weight and heat of him exactly where she'd dreamed of, as his hands braced her, gentle and anchoring, though his breath hitched, his control worn raw.

She felt the heat of him, thick, impossibly hard, slick from her hand and the lube, pressing at her opening, pressing right where she needed, right where her body had ached for him for years, ever since she'd learned what it was to want, ever since she'd learned that all her hunger, all her desire had belonged to him.

She swallowed, nerves and hunger and love tangling inside her. Then, heart thundering, she let her hips tilt forward, easing herself down, letting the blunt, swollen tip of him part her folds and press just inside, her body opening to him with a stretch that was deep and real and full.

Their groans overlapped, raw, half-sobbed, almost shocked, his voice deep, shaky, a sound that seemed to rumble out of his chest and straight through her bones. The way he looked at her, jaw clenched, breath sawing in and out, chest rising under her hands, he was so present, so there, every nerve on fire.

She moved again, hips rolling, letting him nudge inside a little more, her body clinging, clutching, slick and burning. His hands were warm on her thighs, grounding her, not guiding, just holding her steady as her breath stuttered out.

"Slow, meri jaan," he managed, voice thick, his thumb tracing trembling circles on her hipbone. His eyes never left hers, drinking in every tiny shift.

She nodded, rocked again, feeling his head slip in and out, every motion sending shivers along her spine. The friction was so new, so intimate she almost didn't recognize herself, her body greedy, welcoming, fluttering around him. Her hands gripped his shoulders, then his hair, then slid back to his chest, clutching for balance, for proof.

Every inch she sank down, she saw it in him, his brows drawn tight, mouth fallen open, the muscle at his jaw jumping as he strained not to buck up into her. He looked desperate, ruined, worshipful. "Meerab, oh fuck, you feel... I can't --" He cut himself off with a groan, one hand leaving her hip to cup her face, thumb stroking the corner of her lips, holding her in that look like it was the only thing keeping him tethered.

She whimpered, the stretch growing, fuller, deeper. She could barely breathe for how intense it was, her lungs tight, chest fluttering, every nerve in her body alive and straining. Inch by aching inch, she sank deeper onto him, every slow push stretching her more, overwhelming and sweet, her whole body trembling with the effort of taking him in. Then, just as she was getting used to the fullness, there was a sharper pressure, a dull, dragging ache and the unmistakable prick of her body yielding, the line between pain and pleasure suddenly paper thin. She gasped, hips going still, breath caught in her throat.

"It's okay," he whispered, instantly soft, his other hand cupping her cheek, lips skimming her jaw, her temple. "You're okay. Just breathe. I love you, I love you." His voice was a balm, and she held onto it, let it wash through her as the pain peaked and faded, just a moment, just a sting, just the feeling of being opened for him.

She whimpered, hips rocking, the pain dissolving under the rush of sensation, replaced by fullness so exquisite she wanted to sink all the way down, never stop.

So she did, rocking her hips again, just a little, taking him deeper, her body slick and eager, greedy for every inch. It was easier now, her body softening, welcoming him in, until, with a gasp, her thighs settled against his hips, the thick, perfect length of him buried inside her, utterly real. She tipped her head back, lips parted, breath stuttering out. He filled her so completely it was almost too much. Hot, thick, stretching her until she was gasping, helpless, barely able to get a sound out. She could feel his heartbeat inside her, their bodies joined in a way that made her dizzy with disbelief.

She looked down at him, breathless, her hands splayed over the hot, broad plane of his chest. His eyes were wide, pupils blown, jaw clenched so tight she could see the muscle ticking. Every inch of him was tense beneath her, shoulders, stomach, arms, all straining to keep control. "What's wrong?" she managed, her voice so soft, so small in the morning hush.

His grip tightened on her hips, anchoring her. "I'm trying very hard not to just push you down and fuck you right now, meri jaan, you feel so good," he groaned, his voice breaking at the edges, desperate, adoring, hungry.

She clenched around him, thrilled by his honesty, and moaned, the sound spilling into his mouth as he pulled her down for another kiss, this one deep and grateful, ruined and wild. She giggled softly, arching into him. "Next time... you can," she whispered against his lips, voice husky with promise.

He groaned, gasping through gritted teeth, "Don't say things like that right now or I will –" and she cut him off with another kiss, soft and playful, her mouth moving slowly, her hips pausing as she caught her breath. Their kisses turned languid, lips sliding, tongues tangling, hands wandering in slow, worshipful passes over skin.

He met her with patience and worship, his hands on her hips, guiding, not forcing, helping her rise and sink, rise and sink, until their bodies found a rhythm together. The friction built, slick and hot, her arousal spilling down around him, slicking his cock, making every glide easier, wetter, more desperate. The pleasure swelled and tightened, every pass lighting her nerves, every shift a new angle, a new sweetness.

They were a tangle of limbs and mouths and hands, kissing, talking, gasping, groaning, sometimes their teeth clashed, sometimes their noses bumped, but it was real, and it was perfect. She whispered his name, over and over, her voice tumbling out between moans. He murmured hers like a prayer, hands worshipping every inch of her, eyes never leaving her face unless he was kissing her senseless.

She started to lose herself in the sensation, the fullness, the slide, the way her body clenched around him. Every thrust made her shudder, every glide made her gasp, her pleasure mounting with every rock of her hips. She could see it in him, too, how his head would tip back, eyes rolling shut, his mouth falling open on a broken, "Oh, fuck, Meerabbbb..."

She leaned down, kissing his mouth, his throat, his jaw, her hands threading in his hair, his groans echoing against her skin. He was loud, unashamed, each sound, each curse, making her wetter, needier, more reckless. Their rhythm built, messy and real, hips meeting, hands grabbing, mouths always searching for more.

When she started to move faster, to grind down harder, his hands gripped her hips, helping her lift and sink, guiding her into a rhythm that made her gasp, cry out, clutch at his shoulders. Her orgasm built, tight and coiling, heat burning deep in her belly, mounting with every desperate glide. She felt wild, untethered, lost to the pleasure, and saw the same wildness reflected in his eyes, blown pupils, sweat at his temples, jaw clenched as he tried not to lose control.

"Meerab – I'm so close, fuck –" he gasped.

The pressure in her belly coiled so tight she felt like she was going to split open. She tried to ride it, hips rolling, but suddenly he gripped her harder, pulled her flush, and bucked up into her, deep, hard, perfect.

"Uhhhhnnnn, Murtasimmmmm!" she screamed, the name flying from her lips, high and sharp, her nails digging into his shoulders as she arched, body wild and desperate.

He thrust again, rougher, his own control fraying. "Right there?" he demanded, voice rough and wrecked, panting against her ear.

"Yes – yes, don't stop, please, please, Murtasim –" she babbled, every word a moan, every plea a prayer, chasing that sweet, impossible edge.

His hips snapped up again, relentless, and she lost the rhythm, lost herself, every thrust sending white-hot sparks ricocheting through her nerves. She was shaking, shuddering, her cries echoing against his throat as he fucked up into her, chasing her pleasure, his hands holding her open and steady, his eyes wild on her face.

"Meerabbbbb," he groaned, and it was all she needed, her whole body seized, pleasure tearing through her like lightning, and she screamed his name again, loud, raw, wordless, her walls pulsing around him, her orgasm so intense it bordered on pain, on bliss, on relief.

And then she felt it, his cock twitching, growing impossibly hard inside her, swelling, then pulsing as he spilled deep, hot, thick, filling her with wave after wave of heat. It was new, startling, the sensation of his release flooding her, slick and warm, a pressure blooming deep inside her, anchoring her in the reality of what they'd just done. Her body clenched, greedy, milking every drop from him, their bodies locked together, sweat slicking their skin, the world narrowing to the pulse between her legs and the sound of his voice breaking as he gasped out her name, worship and surrender and love tangled together.

She collapsed against him, still shaking, his arms catching her, holding her so tight she felt safe, shielded from the world. His heart hammered under her cheek, his breath rough in her ear, both of them trembling, broken open and put back together in the morning sun.

She could still feel him inside her, softening now, their fluids mingling, the sticky warmth of his cum leaking from her with every aftershock. It felt intimate, possessive, new and achingly right, his mark inside her, proof that they had finally crossed the last line.

He kissed her temple, her cheeks, her mouth, every inch he could reach as they lay tangled together, her name still a raw, reverent murmur on his lips, their bodies refusing to part, their hearts still racing.

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Author's Note: Let me know what you think, was it worth the wait? Hehehehe. What is this surprise? Whatever shall happen next?