Fantasy Priyanka and Sameek : Love, Lust and much more.

[cutekomal]

Act 4: Rainstorm at Dusk – Their Bodies Become One

The storm was merciless that night. Potholes had punished Sameek’s car until it finally crawled into the basement, his body drenched, every step heavy with fatigue. He sneezed his way up the stairs, each breath shuddering with exhaustion.

The door opened before he could reach for the bell. Priyanka stood there — barefoot, hair loose, wearing nothing but his oversized T-shirt. She had waited all evening for this moment, her chest buzzing with the familiar ache of longing.

She expected his arms. Instead, his palm landed sharply on her ass, a wet slap echoing in the hallway. Even half-dead with weariness, he hadn’t lost his hunger.

Priyanka: (mocking, but her lips already curved) “That’s the welcome I get?”

Sameek: (hoarse, eyes blazing despite his exhaustion) “Couldn’t resist. You look… indecently perfect.”

She loved that — how he could be bone-tired, sneezing, water dripping from his hair, and still find the strength to desire her. Desire was his language of love.

The electricity failed as he stripped his shirt, leaving the room in darkness. The pale LED from his phone stretched shadows across his chest hair, his broad shoulders glistening with water.

Priyanka fetched a towel, pressing it to him gently, motherly, even as her eyes feasted on the lines of his body.

Priyanka: “Here. Dry off. You’ll catch cold.”

Sameek: (sniffing, rubbing his hair) “Got a tee for me?”

Priyanka: (steady, almost stern) “No. I don’t want you clothed tonight.”

The firmness in her voice surprised even her. But it was true — she wanted him bare, vulnerable, hers.

He asked for food, his voice gravelly with hunger. She rushed to the kitchen and returned with a single plate, steam curling into the damp air. Instead of sitting opposite, she lowered herself onto his lap. Eating together from one plate was her ritual, her declaration: This is love. This closeness. This surrender.

Their fingers brushed, lips brushed, morsels passed back and forth. Rain drummed louder outside, their silence filling with intimacy.

When the plate was empty, he washed his hands, and she cleared the dishes. Their bodies moved with unspoken choreography — both knowing exactly what came next.

The towel he had used lay forgotten in the sitting room. Priyanka, following him toward the bedroom, tugged her T-shirt over her head and dropped it like a breadcrumb for morning laundry. Entering the room, she found him at the window, naked, watching rain pound the roof. The faint glow of his vape flared in the dark, then dissolved into smoke.

She crossed silently, nude now, and pressed her body against his back. Her breasts flattened first against his cold skin, then her stomach, her thighs. She wrapped her arms around him, hugging, warming him. In her mind, she whispered: *I will always be the fire when you return frozen.*

He took two more puffs, then turned. His back met the window, his hands found her ass, his lips found hers.

Their mouths opened, tongues tangled, saliva spilled. She tasted his day — the bitterness of vape, the salt of rain, the faint musk of his exhaustion. She drank it all because it was him.

Her body lifted naturally, legs wrapping around his waist, his grip steady. He carried her to the bed, laid her down, and descended to her breasts.

Priyanka gasped when his mouth clamped down, sucking with desperation. His teeth grazed her nipples, his tongue circled them endlessly. She arched, hair splayed on the pillow, and thought: *This is how he says he missed me. Not with words, but with hunger.*

Her hand slid to his Dojo, hot and stiff. She stroked him once, then twice, before guiding him into her mouth. She loved this part — not just the act, but the power of it. To take him whole, to control his trembling, to bring him to the edge. She swallowed him deep, her throat opening to house him fully, her hand cupping his sacks, her fingers teasing his ass the way she knew drove him wild.

She felt him arch — a silent signal. She pulled back just as he erupted, ropes of cum painting her chest.

She didn’t flinch. She smiled. She gathered the hot fluid in her palms, rubbed it into her breasts, into her cleavage. She inhaled deeply. To her, this was holy: his scent, his essence, his claim on her skin. She wanted to smell of him when she woke, to carry his mark into the morning.

But he wasn’t done.

He bent lower, kissed her ass, spread her wide, and licked from her tight hole up to her slit. His tongue was deliberate, patient, tormenting. When he circled her clit, sucking, lapping, she shivered violently. She reached for his vape, drew a puff, and exhaled smoke into the dark, moaning as the rain thundered harder.

Priyanka: (whispering, almost lost in sound) “Take me… from behind.”

He obeyed. He pulled her onto all fours, spread her, spat to wet her, and thrust in hard. She yelped, the pain sharp — but then it turned into fire. She clawed the sheets, her body rocking back to meet his merciless rhythm.

He was ruthless: one moment his fist twisted her hair, the next it cupped her breast, then slid to her chin, forcing her to look at him. She cried out, each thrust splitting her open wider, deeper.

Her orgasm tore through her like lightning. She collapsed, trembling, Dojo still iron-hard inside her. She turned, spread her legs, begged him into her pussy.

He entered without hesitation. No barriers, no shields. Just trust. Just raw, complete surrender. Their rhythm built again, sweat and rain mingling, moans syncing with thunder. She wrapped her legs around him, thinking: If this is sin, then let me never be holy.

When his body tensed, he pulled out, spilling hot cum over her chest again — her throat, her breasts, her cleavage.

Priyanka laughed softly, gathering it, smearing it into her skin like perfume. Mine. My man. My scent.

Outside, the storm raged. Inside, they lay tangled, breath slowing. Tomorrow was a working day, but dawn would bring their ritual. Good morning sex — their way of saying, Love does not pause, even for life.