Author's Note: It's been a while -- life has been busy and I truly don't have anything plotted for this fic so I am just writing when inspiration strikes. The inspiration always tends to be smut related too...which means we don't move forward plot wise. Here's yet another indulgent chapter! Thank you for all the love for the last chapters ya'll!

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He was sulking.

Murtasim Khan, Haveli ka maalik, former army major, stoic poster boy of restraint and control, was sitting on the edge of the living room couch sulking.

Pouting, even.

Brooding like a man half-feral, jaw locked, legs splayed wide, fists clenched on his knees like he was preparing for war.

And maybe he was.

Except the only battle he was losing was in his fucking pants.

Worse still, he was doing it on the very couch he'd fantasized about fucking Meerab on.

Not just any fuck. No. This was supposed to be the fuck. The one where he'd finally take her on the couch that had once been nothing more than a decorative prop in his sterile, guest-safe, boring-as-hell living room. The one where he'd imagined bending Meerab over, pressed down into those soft, overpriced cushions, that perfect little back arched towards him while he shoved his cock so deep into her that she couldn't say anything but his name in the way she did – breathless, broken, begging. The choodiyan he bought her would be clinking, her mouth covered by his palm as she tried not to scream, her eyes rolling back as he buried himself in her again, and again, and again.

That was the vision. That was the dream.

But no.

It was ruined.

He was just... sitting on the living room sofa.

Like a castrated saint whose sole purpose was to not rail his beautiful Meerab over antique upholstery.

He stared at the TV like it had personally insulted his manhood. Something was playing, a documentary, maybe, or some celebrity chef melting cheese on a pan, but his brain had long since ceased to process anything remotely rational.

It had stopped the moment Meerab giggled in the kitchen.

That giggle, that soft, sharp, sweet-as-sin giggle, was slicing through him like a goddamn blade. He could hear Dai Maa too, chattering away with her, their laughter rising, overlapping like waves of domestic bliss.

It should have been comforting. Warm. Pure.

And it was.

Their voices, their laughter, overlapping and light and so goddamn warm it made something twist in his chest.

He loved how they got along. How easy it was. How complete the house felt with her in it. Loved that Meerab had folded herself into every corner of his home, that she belonged here in every way that mattered.

But it also meant that his time with her – private time, intimate time, clothes-off time – was reduced to brief, stolen moments.

His thigh twitched in frustration.

And as if on cue, Sheru barked, his tail thumping against the floor.

Murtasim cut him a glare so sharp it could've drawn blood. His dog, as always, ignored the clear signs of homicidal rage and padded over with happy little paws, tail thumping like he too wasn't a cockblocker.

Sheru laid his giant head on Murtasim's thigh and looked up like the world's stupidest furry wingman.

Murtasim sighed. He rubbed behind Sheru's ear anyway. "Tera bhi kuch nahi ho sakta."

The laughter from the kitchen faded.

Footsteps.

The soft jingle of anklets, fabric swishing, two silhouettes emerging down the hall.

Meerab.

Meerab walked beside Dai Maa like she was made of sunshine and sugar, her hands folded in front of her, head tilted slightly in that too-polite way. Like she was innocent. Like she wasn't the reason he had a permanent ache in his fucking balls.

Her eyes found his, and the she gave him that look.

That was the look of a killer. A succubus in lavender cotton. The smug tilt of her chin, the barely-there smile on her lips, the way her eyes dragged down his body and lingered.

Like she knew.

Like she could feel him boiling under the surface.

Like she could see the bulge at the front of his beige pants that refused to die.

She didn't say anything.

Just winked.

Winked.

Sheru, the little traitor, followed after her, his tail wagging like a saboteur.

Murtasim let out a long, murderous sigh while pulling the maroon quarter-zip sweater down, covering his lap. He glared at the television like it had personally betrayed him. He held the stare for five full minutes before closing his eyes, trying – and failing – to push back the rage coiling in his gut, the frustration curling like a noose around his cock.

And then he heard her.

The soft jingle of her anklets, the clink of her bangles, soft and familiar, like a siren's warning before the storm.

He didn't open his eyes.

He didn't have to.

He felt her standing in front of him, heat prickling his skin before she even touched him, the smell of lavender and roses filling his senses.

"Muh phula ke kyun baithe ho?" She asked, her voice teasing.

He lifted his gaze, slow as sin, and gave her a long, pointed really? look. One that said you know exactly what the fuck you're doing.

His eyes dragged down her body first, because of course they did, hungry, lingering, devouring.

Her anklets caught the light, delicate little things wrapped around ankles he'd kissed in the dark more times than he could count, ankles he'd gripped when he'd had her legs thrown over his shoulders, trembling as he fucked her into the mattress. Her feet were bare, painted toes peeking out, and it made something deep in his gut twist tight.

Then higher, her long kameez, soft and clinging, outlining even her perfect thighs that he wanted around his waist, over his shoulders, squeezing his face as she came. He could see the faint shape of them shifting under the fabric as she stepped closer, and it made his cock twitch, thick and heavy behind his zip, already straining for her.

Her dupatta hung loose around her shoulders, one end falling down her side like an invitation. Like a ribbon waiting to be used, to bind her wrists, to shut her up when her pretty little mouth got too loud. He wanted to pull it off and use it to yank her to him.

Her kameez hugged her just enough to show the swell of her breasts beneath it, the curve of her waist, the shape of everything he was addicted to. Everything he needed to taste, to hold, to ruin. Just enough fabric to tempt. Just enough to infuriate.

Meerab giggled.

Like the unapologetic menace she was.

"Bilkul bache jaise act kar rahe ho," she teased.

His voice was a low mutter, just loud enough to be heard. "Bache aisa nahi sochte."

Not about pinning her wrists above her head. Not about fucking her till she couldn't speak. Not about bending her over the goddamn kitchen counter when Dai Maa went to the market on Wednesday mornings.

She laughed harder, tipping her head back. That sound was almost enough to forgive her for not sneaking up to his room during dinner.

"Aisa kya soch rahe ho, Major Moochasim?" she asked, her voice low and playful now, her fingers fiddling with the hem of her dupatta.

He opened his mouth to answer – something about how she had no idea what she did to him, how he'd been half-hard since sunset just thinking about her bent over this very couch – but the words never made it out.

Because she was already moving.

Dropping to her knees.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

The moment her body dipped down between his legs, it was like the air in the room shifted.

Heavy. Charged. Laced with her.

Her scent hit him like a drug again, warm and sweet with a bite underneath, like the way she kissed when she was needy. It wrapped around him, coiled in his lungs, filled his throat. He breathed her in like oxygen, and it still wasn't enough. It was the scent he'd wake up to every morning, clinging to the sheets they fucked on, to the collar of the shirt she always stole, to his own goddamn skin. It was hers. And now, it was his.

Then the bangles, the lavender set he had bought for her. The clink-clink-clink of the glass and metal against each other, delicate and precise, cut through the stillness like a fucking trigger. That sound had become a Pavlovian curse – every time she moved, every time he heard it, his cock stirred like it was answering her call. That little jingle haunted him everywhere.

And now she was on her knees, between his spread thighs, and the sound was like a fucking symphony.

Her palms slid up his legs, smooth, slow, sensual, pressing into the muscles tight under his pants. Murtasim's jaw ticked. Every nerve under her touch lit up. She moved with purpose, with sin in her fingers, dragging them up his thighs like she was mapping out where she wanted to sink her nails next. When her thumbs reached the crease of his hips, she pressed in, pushed his legs open wider - like he belonged to her.

And fuck, maybe he did.

She fit there.

Too well.

Settled right between his thighs like she'd been built for it, made to kneel for him, to drive him out of his mind, to take him apart piece by piece and smile while she did it.

He couldn't look away.

Her eyes flicked up, and the spark in them – pure mischief, filthy confidence – obliterated every rational thought he'd ever had.

Her smirk could bring armies to their knees.

His cock was already saluting.

There was nothing else.

No thoughts. No words.

Just...her.

On her knees.

Between his thighs.

Her fingers were at his waistband, nails dragging lightly over the skin just beneath his navel. Teasing. Testing. Torturing. Her knuckles brushed over his cock, once, twice, and he jerked, hips twitching like she'd shocked him. His muscles locked, thighs tight, abs flexed under his shirt. Every fucking inch of him was bracing for her.

She gave him a look, one that said, I know exactly what I'm doing to you.

And he was so gone.

Because all he could see, all he could feel, was the image in his head - those lips wrapped around his cock.

Soft, wet, plush lips.

Wrapped tight around him, stretched around his girth, cheeks hollowing with every pull, every slow, obscene suck.

Her spit glistening on his shaft, running down his length in messy, shiny streaks.

Her hand digging into his thigh, nails scraping his skin, while the other clutched at his shirt as he tangled a fist in her hair, holding her steady, guiding her deeper, watching her devour him like it was what she was born for.

Her eyes locked on his the whole time, mouth stuffed full of cock, drool dripping from her chin, and she'd look so fucking proud of it. Of wrecking him. Of owning him.

A sound tore out of him at just the thoughts in his head. His head tipped back against the couch, the muscles in his neck taut, his throat working as he swallowed down the groan.

One of her hands moved again, fingers curling into the fabric just above his knee, and her voice - low, teasing, like a siren singing him to wreckage, "Toh... kya soch rahe ho, Major Moochasim?"

He could barely look at her.

Because he was this close to unzipping his pants and fucking that smart little mouth until she choked on every cocky word she'd ever said. Until her throat was raw and her eyes were glassy and her lipstick was smudged halfway across her cheek.

But he did look.

Because he was weak for her. Hopeless. Helpless. Fucked in every sense of the word.

And there she was. Smiling.

Like she knew.

Like she knew the filth running wild in his brain and wanted to wear it like perfume.

Like she wanted to be ruined.

And God help him, he would.

Meerab giggled – a soft, sinful sound, a little breathless now, but still full of mischief, her palms warm on his thighs.

"Ab kya soch rahe ho?" she asked, all wide eyes and wicked grin, nails dragging upward with featherlight pressure, teasing every nerve ending he had.

Murtasim let out a deep, frustrated groan, head tilting back against the sofa for a moment before dragging his gaze back down to where she was between his legs, like a dream conjured out of a fevered, unspeakably horny imagination.

"Yeh sawal tha, Major Protein Shake," she added sweetly, her voice low and sticky with amusement, the name rolling off her tongue like his million nicknames.

Her hands kept caressing his thighs, slow and deliberate, like she had all the time in the world to drive him insane, her touch coming closer and closer to the straining length of his cock.

She looked right at him, unblinking, locked in, as her palm finally pressed over his cock, rubbing over the thick bulge through the fabric.

His entire body jerked.

He groaned, long and guttural, so rough it sounded like it came from somewhere far darker than his chest. His hips twitched, his cock straining upward into her palm like it was trying to escape the fabric.

Her choodiyan clinked, that sweet glass sound cutting through the silence in the most obscene, erotic way imaginable. He bought those bangles. For her. He'd picked them out himself.

And now they were on her wrists as she touched him. How was he to buy her choodiyan again without imagining them clinking while she touched his cock?

The room was mostly dark, TV flickering in the background, casting shadows and flashes of color across her face. Gold, blue, red. Her skin glowed under them, soft and flushed and so perfect. Her hair spilled over her shoulders, messy and wild, framing her face like a halo made of chaos, contrasting so perfectly against her creamy skin and that lavendar kameez she wore.

"Maine sawal pucha tha," she said softly, her lips pouting just slightly, like she was genuinely offended by the lack of answer.

Murtasim didn't remember the question. Heexhaled sharply, his voice a gravelled whisper, heavy with tension.

"Sawal kam pucha karo, Miss Ahmed," he muttered, hands moving to the waistband of his pants, unbuttoning them slowly, deliberately.

Meerab arched an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth curving in amusement as she watched him.

"Yeh kyun kiya?" she teased, hand still pressing against his cock through the fabric. Her tone was mock-innocent, like he was the one committing the crime, like it wasn't obvious where this was going.

Murtasim let out another groan, his head dipping forward.

"Phir sawal," he muttered, but there was no heat in it - just lust, frustration, adoration.

She bit her lip, cocking her head as she leaned in just a little more.

"Toh chup karwado," she whispered.

Fuck.

That broke something in him. No warning, no hesitation - he shoved his pants down in one rough, practiced tug, like he'd been holding back for far too long and finally decided to snap. His cock sprang free - thick, flushed, glistening with precum, hard enough to ache, veins bulging along the shaft, head an angry dark red from how long he'd been throbbing for her.

Her eyes dropped instantly.

He loved that.

Loved the way she looked at him every damn time, like she couldn't help it, like she was just as obsessed with him as he was with her.

Like the sight of his cock knocked every thought out of her pretty, smart little head. Her lips parted slightly, the smallest gasp escaping her, eyes going glassy. Like she was just as ruined for him as he was for her.

And then she licked her lips.

Slow. Deliberate.

Her hands wrapped around his cock, both of them, her skin soft and warm and slick with anticipation. Her grip wasn't shy. It was possessive. It was, you belong to me and I'm going to play with you until you break.

His breath stuttered.

The clink of her bangles echoed with every stroke, that delicate glassy sound twisted into something filthy now - accompanying the drag of her hands up and down his cock like a soundtrack to sin.

And those words – "toh chup karwado" – echoed in his head again and again, bouncing around like they were tattooed to his damn brain.

He groaned again, forehead tipping forward, his fingers tangling in her hair, stroking it back off her cheeks.

"Muh kholo, Miss Ahmed," he rasped, voice low and thick with command.

Her eyes met his, wide and dark, and she obeyed for once, lips parting, tongue peeking out just a little as her mouth opened for him.

And then he did the one thing he'd fantasized about endlessly.

He ran the thick, leaking head of his cock across her lips, dragging it over the plush, pouty curve like he was painting her with it.

Slow. Back and forth. Again and again.

Marking her.

His cock smeared slick across her mouth, glistening under the light, the feel of it. Hot, velvet-hard, pulsing. Making him tremble with restraint.

Her lips glistened, soft and parted, pink and puffy from the pressure, her breath coming in slow, shallow gasps. Her tongue flicked against him on every pass, just a little tease under the head, like she wanted to drive him to the edge before she even took him in.

And he wanted, no needed, to bury himself in her throat, to watch those perfect lips stretch wide around him, to feel her moan and suck and let him fuck her mouth like she was made for it.

She hummed, a soft, sweet vibration that ran right through the head of his cock, as he dragged against her lips, her mouth parting a little wider, her eyes fluttering like she was just dying to be full of him.

Murtasim's control was already dangling by a thread, and the way her lips were so soft, swollen, shiny with his precum, the way her tongue peeked out ever so slightly - teasing, tempting - made that thread snap a little more.

His voice was low, hoarse, filthy.

"Good girl."

Meerab's eyes flicked up to his, and fuck if she didn't look smug and pleased. That little flicker of approval lit her up like a fire, and she didn't wait for another word.

Her tongue darted out, finally, to taste him properly, a single, deliberate lick right over the tip, catching the bead of slick there and moaning as it hit her tongue.

His entire body jolted.

Her hand wrapped firmly around the base, warm and tight and perfect, choodiyan clinking with every stroke, that delicate little sound so obscene now, accompanying the slow pump of her hand as she leaned in further.

She licked him like he was some sweet treat, a luxury she planned to savor, from base to tip, slow, indulgent, tongue pressed flat against the length of him, lapping him up with long, deliberate strokes like he was a popsicle and it was the hottest summer of her life.

Then she reached the top again and licked around the head, once, twice - swirling her tongue there like she was tasting an ice cream cone, her breath hot and fast, her hand jerking him in time with her mouth.

He bit back a moan, his hand tightening in her hair.

And then, fuck, she took him into her mouth.

Her lips wrapped around the head, sealing tight, suctioning in a way that made his vision blur.

Then she sank lower.

Slow. Patient. Torturous.

Her mouth was so hot, so wet, so tight. It wrapped around him like a vice, like silk over steel.

Perfect.

She groaned around him, the sound vibrating through his cock, nearly undoing him entirely.

Her mouth was unreal.

Just like her cunt.

Warm, wet, hungry. Perfect.

She looked devastating between his legs, her eyes wide and glassy, lashes fluttering, her hair a mess of waves tickling his thighs, her cheeks already flushed, her breathing labored as she took more of him, deeper each time, like she wanted to bury his cock in her throat.

And the sounds...they killed him.

Slurping, messy, wet, her mouth working over him like she was starving for it, like the taste of him was everything. She sucked in time with her hand, saliva glistening at the corners of her lips, strings of it connecting him to her every time she pulled off to gasp for air.

And she looked at him.

Right at him.

Every time she took him deep, she looked into his eyes, and it was so hot, so filthy, so intimate he couldn't breathe.

Her mouth moved with rhythm, head bobbing, her grip firm, her tongue sliding under the shaft as she sucked, and when she couldn't go further, she pulled back with a gasp, lips swollen, eyes hooded, and jacked him off with both hands, twisting them together like she wanted to milk him.

She moaned again, licking up the side, flicking her tongue over the head, devouring him with enthusiasm, her own breath matching his now, ragged, fast, hungry.

She was enjoying it.

Enjoying him.

He could tell.

It wasn't just about pleasing him, though she was doing that so well he could hardly keep from exploding, it was about this filthy, perfect little act of devotion, and she was giving it her all.

Then, because she was still Meerab under all that sex goddess glory, she giggled.

Actually giggled, her lips still pink and shiny as she kissed the tip of his cock, soft and sweet, like she was thanking it.

Murtasim couldn't help but chuckle as he leaned forward, one hand cupping her cheek, his thumb stroking the curve of it.

"Meerab..." he murmured, voice cracked and tender, like he wasn't sure whether he wanted to laugh or cum.

She looked up at him, eyes wide and mouth still open just enough to make him want to slide right back in.

He wanted to.

She looked devastating like this.

Kneeling between his legs, hands still wrapped around the base of his cock, lips parted, cheeks flushed. Her breath came in short, hot pants, her chest rising and falling as if she needed him like air.

So beautiful.

His hands moved, both of them, slow and deliberate, into her hair, fingers curling through the thick strands. He gathered the weight of it into a makeshift ponytail, fisting it firmly, tugging her head back just slightly so her face tilted up at him.

He needed to see her.

All of her.

Her mouth. Her lips. Red, parted, slick with spit and precum.

Her tongue. Sinful and soft, peeking out like it was hungry for more.

Her expression. Her fucking soul.

She smiled, a soft, sinful smile, and without looking away, she leaned in again.

Her tongue dragged from the base of his cock to the tip, slow, languid, leaving a gleaming trail of spit, her eyes still locked with his like she was trying to burn him alive from the inside out.

And then she took him back into her mouth.

Fuck.

She was sucking him off like she'd been born for this.

Her cheeks hollowed, her tongue swirled, her lips stretched tight as she sank deeper and deeper, using her hands when she couldn't take it all, spit pooling and dripping from the corners of her mouth, her bangles clinking softly as her wrists moved.

His grip on her hair tightened, not to hold her still. No, he didn't want to stop her. But to ground himself, to keep from losing it completely as his hips began to twitch. Just the barest thrusts. Instinctual. Controlled only by the remnants of his military discipline.

And then...

Footsteps.

His entire body went rigid.

Frozen. Mid-thrust. Mid-moan. Mid-madness.

Her head froze, but her mouth didn't pull off. She just stilled, eyes flicking up in panic, but didn't move.

He turned his head toward the hall just as a voice called out.

"Khan? Abhi upar nahi gaye? Kuch chahiye?"

Mai.

Fuck.

His cock was still in Meerab's mouth.

Her hand was on his balls.

He was about to come.

And he absolutely did not want to stop Meerab.

Not now. Not when she was doing this with so much fucking enthusiasm, when her lips were suctioned around him like she wanted to steal his soul through his cock.

He moved fast, military reflexes kicking in, and yanked the throw-blanket draped across the back of the couch, snatched it like a man possessed, and tossed it down, covering her entirely, his lap, her head, her body, everything under the thin, patterned blanket, making it look like he was just...relaxing.

Like his cock wasn't being worshipped.

"Nahi! Aap so jaye!" he yelled, voice cracking as Meerab sucked again under the blanket.

Her cheeks hollowed like she'd been waiting for that moment.

She did it on purpose.

His hand smacked the throw on top of her head like that might somehow calm her down. It didn't.

Her tongue slid under the head, her fingers stroking his balls, rolling them gently, and he almost let out a groan that would've echoed down the damn hallway.

He was seconds away from forgetting he gave a shit who heard.

Seconds away from holding her head down and just fucking her mouth until he broke.

He needed a new house.

With no family. No Sheru. No Mai. No Dai Maa. No Barlas. No one.

Just him and Meerab and every surface he planned to ruin her on.

"Acha, theek hai," Mai's voice floated down the hall, and the merciful sound of footsteps retreating followed.

He exhaled hard.

The throw shifted.

And then, he heard her giggle.

Under the blanket.

It was muffled yet so sweet.

He yanked the throw off her, frustration and awe swirling in his blood like poison and perfume.

And there she was.

Still giggling.

Mouth shiny, pink lips parted, a little trail of spit still connecting her tongue to the head of his cock.

Looking so fucking proud of herself.

She brought her hand up, wrapped her fingers loosely around his cock again. Slick and twitching, flushed dark with need. And with a grin that could end empires, civilizations, worlds, she tapped the head against her lips.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Like she was tasting him again just for fun.

Murtasim stared at her, jaw tight, breath held, cock visibly twitching in front of her still-grinning mouth, and all he could think was that he needed to fuck that smart little mouth.

Not just feel it. Not just tease. Fuck it.

Feel her choke, moan, swallow. Take it like she wanted it.

He tightened his grip on her hair, fisting the ponytail he'd made, holding her like she was his and only his, tugging her head back just slightly so she looked up at him.

Meerab licked her lips, smug, pink tongue catching a drop of his slick, and whispered, all teasing, all sin, "Kya karoon?"

That. Fucking. Voice.

He stood.

Towered over her, one hand still in her hair, the other reaching down to grab his cock, thick, flushed, soaked with her spit, and slapped it gently, firmly, against her lips.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"Stop teasing me." He muttered.

Her eyes flared.

She opened her mouth - wide, obedient, eager.

And he groaned as he slid back in.

Not gently. Not like before.

This time, he fucked into her mouth, slow at first, measured, but undeniably fucking her, his grip in her hair controlling the angle, pulling her onto him in rhythm with his thrusts.

Her lips were so soft, her tongue curling around him with every pass, and now that she wasn't pulling off for air every few seconds, her mouth was pooling with spit, making every thrust wet and obscene.

Glug-glug-glug.

The sounds. The sloppy, messy, raw sounds of her mouth getting used, of her moaning around his cock, her throat tightening every time he pushed in just a bit deeper were unraveling him.

Her hands weren't bracing herself anymore.

They moved around his hips, around his ass, pulling him forward, deeper, silently begging for more.

That was it. That was the final thread.

Because her pulling him in like that, like she needed every inch, was going to end him.

He gritted his teeth, eyes clenched shut as her throat squeezed him, her tongue lapping around the underside of his cock, her lips forming the tightest, warmest seal around him.

She choked, just slightly, just enough to make his hand loosen in her hair, but then, she moaned.

Moaned around him.

And he lost it.

He pulled back just barely, just to the tip, and came with a harsh groan, cock twitching, spurting hot, thick ropes of cum across her lips, her tongue, her chin.

It dripped from the corners of her mouth, ran down her throat, onto the neckline of her kameez, her eyes fluttering shut as she breathed heavily, taking it all.

The only sound was his own breath, ragged, stunned.

Each inhale scraped down his throat like gravel, his chest rising too fast, too sharp, like he'd just survived a war.

He had to close his eyes, just for a second, to come back to his body, to stop himself from falling over.

When he opened them again and looked down, Meerab hadn't moved.

She was still there, kneeling, glowing, her face shiny with his cum, her lips slick, her pupils blown wide, and her smile dreamy. Sweet. Lethal.

Murtasim groaned, his knees giving out as he dropped in front of her, unable to stay upright another second. He reached for her dupatta, fingers shaking as he grabbed the corner of the lavender fabric and wiped her face, gently, reverently, like he was cleaning up something precious, not obscene.

Her eyes followed his every move, dazed, soft, smug.

She giggled, teasing. "Waise tum kaafi loud the, Major Moochasim."

He groaned. Dragged a hand down his face like he could wipe away the memory, the heat, the embarrassment, the need to do it all over again.

She only giggled harder.

He helped her up slowly, his hands steady under her arms as she swayed just a little, legs trembling.

He pulled her into him immediately, cupping her face, kissing her hard, deep, desperate, tongue claiming her, mouth devouring her, like he was trying to crawl into her skin.

She was so fucking sexy.

She moaned into his mouth, hips already moving against him, soft little rocks like she didn't even realize what her body was doing - like her need was instinct now. Her arms slipped around his neck, holding on tight, chest pressed to his, heartbeat pounding against his ribs like a drumbeat made just for him.

He bit her bottom lip gently as he pulled away, watching it pop back into place, swollen and wet.

Her grin returned, cocky and dangerously adorable. "Itna acha tha?" she whispered, a teasing lilt in her voice.

He groaned, again, for what felt like the hundredth time, but this time, he nodded.

He didn't bother with words.

He kissed her again, messy, hungry, open-mouthed, hands gripping her face, thumbs grazing her cheeks like he couldn't get enough of touching her, tasting her. He didn't stop kissing her as he guided her back, slow but urgent, like he couldn't decide if he wanted to cherish the moment or fuck her straight into the cushions.

Her knees hit the couch first, her body falling back against it, and he went with her, still kissing her, still holding her face, not letting her go for a second.

Then, he dropped to his knees.

Right where she'd been on her knees for him.

Still gripping her hips, still kissing her like she was the last soft thing on Earth, his hands moved down to her waist, fingers hooking into her shalwar, dragging it down, slow, with purpose, mouth never leaving hers as he bunched the fabric past her thighs, letting it pool at her ankles.

And still, he kissed her. Like he needed her more than air.

He knew they should stop.

They should move.

Someone could come downstairs again.

But he couldn't get himself to care enough.

He wanted to make her come apart on this couch.

This couch that deserved to be fucked on.

His hand slid up her inner thigh, rough fingers dragging over soft skin, disappearing under the hem of her kameez. He groaned – loud, guttural, possessive – straight into her mouth the second he found the soaked heat of her panties and pushed them aside.

Soaked.

Fucking soaked.

Hot and wet and dripping -- her arousal already clinging to his fingers, smeared down the inside of her thighs like she'd been leaking for him since the second she got on her knees. It was obscene, the way her slick clung to his skin like it had been waiting for him.

His cock, despite just unloading every drop he had all over her tongue minutes ago, was already hardening again. Throbbing. The kind of ache that came from needing her. Needing to be inside that tight, dripping heat again, now, now -

He pressed two thick fingers against her slit, groaning again when they slid in so easily, so tight and warm, her walls already fluttering around him as if they missed him.

She gasped, lips breaking from his as her head fell back against the couch, a broken, breathless, "Murtasim..." tumbling from her lips like a prayer.

His cock twitched hard at the sound.

He crushed his mouth to hers again, swallowing the sound, pushing his tongue into her mouth just like his fingers curled inside her, slow but deliberate, two thick fingers scissoring, stretching her open as he worked her with skill he'd only ever used on her.

Her hands shot up into his hair, gripping hard, nails scraping his scalp as she tried to pull him down toward her thighs, desperate for his mouth.

He chuckled against her mouth, breath hot, lips wet.

"Kya karoon?" he murmured, a filthy echo of her earlier tease.

She glared, a desperate little sound stuck in her throat.

He grinned as he pulled away from her lips, hands sliding down again to push her kameez up, inch by inch, until it was bunched around her waist.

The room was mostly dark, lit only by the television, colors shifting across the walls, across her flushed skin.

But even in the dim light, he could see she was glistening.

Her thighs were slick with arousal, wetness smeared from the top of her inner thighs all the way down to the throw that had landed atop the couch somehow. She looked ruined. Perfectly, beautifully ruined and they hadn't even started.

Was she this soaked just from sucking him off?

He wanted to ask. He really did.

But he was too starved. So he didn't.

He just leaned in and licked her.

The first pass of his tongue made her jolt, her hips arching toward his mouth, and he groaned into her pussy, deep, needy, raw, like he was the one being pleasured.

Her taste hit him -- sweet, salty, warm, intoxicating – and he buried his face in her, licking again, then again, his tongue flattening against her clit, then flicking, then circling.

She whimpered, head tipping back, hands tangling hard in his hair, and her choodiyan clinked and sang around her wrists, the glass music accompanying every filthy moan she let out.

She pushed against his face, hips grinding into him, thighs trembling as she rocked into his mouth like her life depended on it.

And he gave it to her.

All of it.

He lapped at her like he was starving, tongue pushing into her slit, then flattening and sucking her clit, fingers gripping her thighs to hold her open as he ate her like she was the only meal that had ever mattered.

He hooked his arms under her thighs and dragged her closer, flattening his tongue to lick one long, slow stripe up her slit, ending in a flick over her clit that had her gasping, wild and helpless.

Her ankles kicked, silver anklets jingling, her heels digging into the cushions as she bucked into his mouth.

He was grinning now, nosing deeper into her, licking wetter, messier, filthier, the sounds of it obscene.
His fingers reached up again, prying her slick lips apart, exposing her swollen clit, shining under the television light.

His other hand didn't hesitate, he pushed two fingers deep inside her again, curling them just right as he suckled her clit, slow at first, lips plush and wet around it. Her whole body jerked, hips lifting, a shiver running up her spine.

She was a vision, her choodiyan jingled wildly as she thrashed, the silver anklets clinking every time her legs twitched. Her heels dug into the cushions, eyes squeezed shut, mouth falling open to let out those helpless, desperate keens. Her hands fisted in his hair, pulling hard.

He grunted, adjusting his grip, fingers driving into her faster, tongue swirling in tight circles over her swollen clit. "Shhh... Miss Ahmed," he murmured, his breath hot against her soaked cunt.

She let out a choked, broken sob of pleasure. Her thighs trembled around his head. She was losing it, undone by every flick of his tongue, every curl of his fingers. Her cries grew high and sharp, chest heaving as that pressure coiled hard and fast inside her. And then it snapped.

She came with a cry, thighs locking around his head, grinding up into his mouth like she was trying to drown him in her.

And he let her.

Let her ride out, let her pussy clamp down on his fingers so tight it was almost painful. She gushed, coating his hand, his lips, his chin. He moaned into her, drinking her down like she was water in a desert.

Every sound of her, the breathy moans, the trembling gasps, the way his name slipped past her lips like a prayer, burned into his brain. "Murtasim, Murtasim, Murtasimmmm."

He stayed there, nuzzled between her thighs, licking her slowly through the aftershocks, groaning at the taste of her. His fingers never left her, still buried deep, her cunt fluttering around them.

He sat back, wiping his slick mouth with the back of his hand, looking down at her wrecked, trembling body on the couch. The same couch where her lips had wrapped around his cock earlier, eyes dark and hungry, where she'd swallowed every inch. The same couch that had been behind them while she'd let him fuck her pretty mouth.

He dragged her up with a rough pull, his mouth crashing against hers, teeth knocking, tongues tangling. The blanket hit the floor with a soft whoosh as she got up, he kicked it toward the sofa again, covering the cushions before he dropped onto it, and yanked her down into his lap like she was his personal sin.

Her knees sank to either side of him, her kameez hiked over her thighs, her cunt slick and hot where it rubbed over the rigid line of his cock. Her fingers curled around the nape of his neck, her breath tickling his lips as she whispered, "Agar ab koi aagaya toh kaise chupaoge?"

Murtasim's voice was gravel in his throat, barely a sound. "I don't care."

Her giggle was sin, warm and wicked, and her palms slid down his chest to push, gently, playfully. But she didn't move off him. No. She stayed straddling him like a fucking goddess, smirking with mischief, hips shifting, cunt pressing down harder against the thick length of him. He felt every inch of her, the soaked heat of her making him groan low, head tilting back to watch her grind her little body into him.

Then she reached down, fingers curling around his cock, hot and flushed and ready. She didn't say a word - just guided him to her slick folds, rubbing the head against her dripping slit, teasing.

And then she sank onto him.

Slow.

Tight.

Her cunt swallowed him.

Fuck.

His hands clamped down on her thighs, holding her as she sank inch by inch onto him, gasping as she took him in. Her mouth parted, head thrown back, her whole body trembled as her slick walls stretched around him. She didn't move.

Just sat there.

Full.

Stuffed.

Shaking.

Her pussy clenched around him, fluttering like it was trying to milk him dry already. His cock throbbed inside her, barely able to believe she could be this tight every single time.

He stared up at her, her face a picture of fucked-out bliss - lashes fluttering, lips swollen, hair wild. A mess. His mess.

A pretty, wet, trembling mess on his cock.

She whimpered and began to move, hips rocking gently, slow little circles that had his vision blurring. Her hands planted on his chest, steadying herself as she rode him. His hands stayed on her thighs, thumbs stroking her skin, watching her lose herself. He just watched. Let her take what she wanted. Let her feel how deep he was.

Then her eyes flicked down to him, narrowed. "Kya?" she asked breathlessly, catching him staring like he always did.

He shook his head, lips curling. "Kuch nahi." And then he kissed her again, hard, messy, before he gripped her hips and twisted them both down onto the couch, flipping her under him like she weighed nothing.

She giggled against his lips until he pulled her leg up and over his waist, spreading her wide. Her breath hitched as he pushed back in, deep, full, claiming, and her moan was instant.

His hand clamped over her mouth. "Ab sach mein chup rehna padega, Miss Ahmed," he growled into her ear.

She groaned under his palm, eyes rolling back, the filthiest little sound muffled against his skin. Then she nodded, like the little brat she was, biting down on his hand just as he started to move.

And he fucked her.

Fucked her like he'd wanted to all damn day, pressed between sofa cushions, half-dressed, TV light flickering over her flushed, glistening face, her hair splayed across the cushion like a halo, her nails clawing his shoulders over his maroon sweater. Her bangles clinked in time with the slap of skin against skin, her moans muffled, her thighs shaking, her cunt so fucking tight around him. Gripping him like her body was trying to keep him. Like it didn't care about consequences, only cock.

Her kameez was hiked up past her waist, bunched around her hips, and one of her tits had popped free, bouncing every time he drove deeper. Every thrust made her gasp against his hand, every inch sank in with a wet, obscene sound that made his balls pull up tighter. She was soaked. Slick dripping down her thighs, pooling under her on the blanket he'd barely remembered to throw down.

The sofa creaked, springs whining in protest, but he didn't care. Wouldn't care even if the whole damn thing snapped under them. He'd fuck her on the floor. Against the wall. Anywhere. This, her eyes wide, drowning in him, her mouth stuffed with moans, her body clutching around him like it couldn't let go, this was what he'd think about every time he saw the couch now.

Her breath caught, her hand smacked against his arm, nails digging in. She was close.

She was writhing beneath him like a dream turned delirium, tight, wet heat clenching around his cock like she never wanted to let go. Murtasim grit his teeth, the groan threatening to break out of him caged at the back of his throat. She was doing it on purpose, this little squeeze, slow and filthy and teasing, walls fluttering around him like her cunt knew how deep he was, how close.

She smiled.

He felt it against his hand still covering her mouth. That smug little smile. His breath shuddered out. And then, her fingers slid up, slow, curling over his mouth. Her palm soft and hot, her eyes burning into his, twinkling with mischief and arousal, sweat glistening on her flushed face.

That was it.

He drove into her with a brutal thrust that made the antique couch groan under them, her body jolting with the force of it, the sound she let out, muffled by his hand, was a choked, desperate moan, so fucking pretty he nearly came. Her legs tightened around his hips, her back arching just enough to let him slide in deeper, harder, like her body was made for this.

The room was a fucking fever dream.

Meerab laid under him, spread out on a goddamn antique piece worth more than some cars, one leg cocked up high over his back, her arms tangled around him, nails scratching down his spine through his sweater. Every sharp thrust sending out a wet, obscene sound from where their bodies met, slick with her arousal and his precum. The smell was thick, sex, sweat, desire, her shampoo and his cologne twisted into something feral.

Her eyes flashed, and she mewled against his hand, glaring at him like he'd ruined her, like she loved it.

He kissed her palm over his mouth, teeth grazing skin, and then slid his other hand down, between them, until his fingers found her clit. She gasped into his palm, body twitching as he rubbed her – fast, relentless, fucking her and playing with her at the same time, each press of his cock punching another noise out of her. She was so fucking loud, even muffled, even with his palm pressed against her mouth.

He felt it when she came, everything inside her clenched, her eyes slammed shut, her whole body shuddered. He shoved harder against her mouth, catching every broken, sobbing sound as her cunt milked him, squeezing him so tight it tore the orgasm from him like it owned him.

His hips jerked, stuttered. Then his cock spasmed, thick pulses of cum flooding her as he groaned hard into her hand, into her soul. His body locked, muscles trembling as he came deep, hard.

They stayed like that, panting, trembling, messy.

His cock still inside her, softening but not moving. Not yet.

Her cunt kept fluttering around him, still sensitive, still leaking. He exhaled against her throat, nuzzled in close, unwilling to let her go. The slick heat, the mess between them, the feel of her still wrapped around his cock - it was perfect. Addictive.

She was still breathing hard, lips puffy, face flushed, sweat-slicked and glowing.

Hands fell away, limp with exhaustion, their mouths meeting in a frantic kiss, lips crushed, tongues slow and wet, even though his lungs were clawing for air.

Her voice was a breathless whisper against his jaw. "Yeh itna hot kyun hai."

He groaned, kissed her again, dragged her bottom lip between his teeth.

"Pata nahi."

He exhaled against her throat, nuzzling into her as their bodies stayed tangled, twitching with the aftershocks.

She was still breathing hard, lips swollen, skin flushed and damp. He kissed her again, slow and open-mouthed, tasting the moan still on her tongue.

"More," she murmured against his mouth.

A low, wrecked groan rolled out of him, and he rested his forehead against hers. "Kahan?" His voice was thick, ruined.

Her fingers threaded lazily through his hair, tugging gently. "I need a shower," she muttered, sultry and reluctant, like she didn't want to leave his cock either.

He finally eased out of her with a soft hiss, both of them groaning at the wet squelch between her thighs as their mixed cum started to drip. She winced, thighs clenching, as she sat up.

They moved slowly, like they'd just survived a natural disaster. Clothes were being tugged back on, her shalwar, he tucked himself into his pants, still half-hard and aching to go again, her pulling her kameez down over sticky skin, giggling as she adjusted her disheveled bra.

Murtasim was grabbing the blanket covering the sofa to toss it in the laundry, when she suddenly laughed again.

He looked over his shoulder. "What?"

She sighed, trying to smooth her hair. "Ab yahan kaise bethoongi..." she whispered, gesturing to the sofa with a dramatic look of despair, still flushed, still glowing.

He chuckled under his breath, casually reaching over to fix a cushion. Leaving no evidence behind.

His smirk was all pride and no shame.

Mission accomplished.

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Author's Note: Tadaaa! What was your fave part? Whatever shall happen next (literally because who knows)! The next chapter is half done (smutty again), hehehe. OKAY BYE.