19-11-2025, 03:22 AM
CHAPTER – 72
The house was still wrapped in pre-dawn darkness, the storm long gone, leaving only the faint drip of water from the balcony railing and the occasional creak of old wood settling.
Danish stood in the guest room, zipping his small suitcase. He wore a fresh shirt (light blue, sleeves rolled once), hair still damp from the shower, the faint shadows under his eyes from the short, intense sleep.
Kavya slept curled on her side, one arm stretched toward the empty half of the bed, lips slightly parted, peaceful.
He bent, kissed her forehead softly. “Back in ten days,” he whispered. She murmured something incoherent and burrowed deeper into the pillow.
He smiled, shouldered his backpack, and stepped into the hallway. The kitchen light was already on.
Trisha was there. She stood at the counter in a simple cotton nightie covered by an old floral apron, hair in its usual neat bun, a few loose strands curling at her temples from the steam of the stove. The flame under the tawa hissed softly. The air smelled of ghee, cumin, and fresh parathas.
Danish paused in the doorway. She didn’t turn immediately, but her shoulders stiffened (just a fraction).
“Mummy ji… aap itni subah?” (You’re up so early?)
She kept her eyes on the tawa, flipping a paratha with practiced flicks of her wrist. “Flight hai na. Kuch kha ke jaana chahiye.” (You have a flight. You should eat something before leaving.)
Her voice was steady, but there was a faint tremor only a mother would notice.
She had not slept.
All night the images had played on an endless loop: Danish’s back muscles rippling as he drove into Kavya. The slow, merciless stretch of his cock disappearing inside her daughter again and again. That roar (raw, animal, shaking the walls). The way Kavya had shattered beneath him, completely undone.
Trisha’s hands moved automatically (rolling dough, pressing, dusting with flour), but her mind was somewhere else entirely.
She remembered the exact moment Danish’s hips had slammed forward one final time, the night before, the way his entire body had locked, the way that primal sound had torn from his throat as he emptied himself deep inside Kavya. She remembered the wet, rhythmic slap of skin, the way Kavya’s thighs had trembled over his shoulders, the way her daughter’s face had looked (lost, ecstatic, transformed).
Her cheeks burned even now.
She slid another paratha onto the tawa, pressed it gently with the spatula, watching the edges curl and brown.
Danish stepped closer, setting his bag down quietly. “Main madad kar doon?” (Shall I help?)
She shook her head too quickly. “Nahi… baitho. Main kar leti hoon.” (No… sit. I’ll manage.)
But her voice cracked on the last word. He didn’t sit. Instead he moved to the sink, began washing the steel tiffin boxes she had set out, his movements calm presence filling the small kitchen like it always did.
Trisha stole a glance. He looked exhausted but content, the faint red scratch marks on the back of his neck just visible above his collar (Kavya’s nails).
She remembered those same shoulders flexing under her daughter’s hands, remembered the way his buttocks had clenched as he came.
Her stomach flipped.
She turned back to the stove, hands trembling as she folded a paratha, stuffed it with spiced aloo, pressed it flat again.
He is leaving in an hour. He will walk out that door and take that… that force… that beast… back to Hyderabad. And I will never see it again.
The thought brought an ache so sharp it stole her breath.
She packed the tiffin with mechanical care: three aloo parathas, a small box of curd, a spoon of mango pickle, two theplas, a handful of roasted makhana, a banana. Every item placed with the precision of a woman trying to keep her hands busy so her mind wouldn’t wander.
Danish dried his hands, leaned against the counter, watching her.
“Mummy ji,” he said softly, “aap theek hain na?”
She froze, spatula suspended mid-air.
For one terrifying second she thought he knew (knew she had watched, knew she had touched herself in the hallway, knew she had come silently while listening to him ruin her daughter with pleasure).
But his eyes were only gentle, concerned.
She forced a smile that felt like breaking glass. “Haan, beta. Bas… thaki hui hoon. Neend nahi aayi.” (Yes, beta. Just… tired. Couldn’t sleep.)
He nodded, accepting it.
Every time she reached for something on the upper shelf (salt, pickle jar, foil), the fabric rode another fraction, exposing the soft, pale underside of her left buttock and the faint dimple there.
She didn’t notice.
Or pretended not to.
Danish noticed everything.
He had been watching her for the last four minutes without moving.
He watched the way the apron string pulled the nightie tight across her lower back, outlining the gentle dip of her spine and the swell of her hips.
He watched the way her breasts shifted under the cloth when she bent to flip a paratha (full, heavy, the faint bounce of flesh that had been hidden under modest sarees all week).
He watched the thin strap slip off one shoulder and stay there, revealing the delicate line of her collarbone and the upper slope of her breast, pale skin glowing in the half-light.
His pulse thudded in his ears.
He remembered the first morning:
her body in Downward Dog, hips high, back long, the perfect curve of her ass presented to him like an offering.
The way her armpits had glistened with the first sheen of sweat when she raised her arms overhead.
The accidental flash of cleavage when she folded forward, the soft weight of her breasts swaying gently.
The memory slammed into him now, raw and unfiltered.
Trisha turned with the steel tiffin box in her hands.
She caught him staring (eyes dark, jaw tight, chest rising a little too fast).
The box trembled between them.
Neither spoke.
She stepped forward to hand it to him.
The kitchen was so small that her breasts almost brushed his chest when she leaned in.
Danish took the box slowly, deliberately.
His knuckles grazed the inside of her wrist (once, twice), then stayed there, the pad of his thumb pressing lightly against the frantic beat of her pulse.
Trisha’s breath stuttered.
His thumb traced a tiny, unconscious circle on her skin (just one), then slid higher, under the edge of her sleeve, touching the soft inner flesh of her forearm.
The contact was feather-light, but it burned.
Trisha’s nipples tightened instantly against the thin cotton, two hard points suddenly visible.
She felt them ache, felt heat flood between her legs so fast she swayed.
Danish’s gaze dropped (slow, helpless) to her chest, lingered on the stiff peaks pressing against the nightie, then dragged back up to her face.
His pupils were blown wide.
For three endless seconds the only sound was their breathing and the soft pop of cooling ghee.
Trisha’s lips parted (no words, just air).
Danish’s thumb pressed a fraction harder, then slid down again to the centre of her palm, tracing the lifeline once, slowly, possessively.
He remembered the exact moment in yoga when she had stood in Tadasana, arms overhead, the fabric of her kurti pulling tight across her breasts, the faint outline of her nipples visible even then.
He remembered wanting to step behind her, slide his hands under that kurti, cup the weight he had only glimpsed.
The memory collided with the present: her standing inches away, flushed, trembling, nipples hard, pulse racing under his thumb.
His cock stirred (thick, unmistakable) against the front of his track pants.
Trisha saw it.
Her eyes flicked down, widened, snapped back up.
Colour flooded her cheeks, her throat, her chest.
Danish released her hand like he’d been burned.
He stepped back, voice rough.
“Thank you… for the food.”
Trisha couldn’t answer.
She just nodded, arms crossing instinctively over her breasts, trying to hide what was already seen.
Danish set the tiffin and backpack down on the dining table with a soft thud.
The kitchen was lit only by the low blue flame under the empty tawa and the first pale hint of dawn.
Trisha stood three feet away, arms wrapped around herself, nightie clinging to damp skin, eyes shining in the half-light.
He took one slow step toward her.
“Thank you, beta,” she whispered, voice cracking with genuine emotion. “Rajesh… when he was in hospital… you came running from Hyderabad, stayed with us, held everything together… I can never repay that.”
Her words trembled out, raw with gratitude and exhaustion.
Danish’s eyes softened.
He opened his arms without thinking. “Mummy ji… please.”
She stepped into the hug like it was the most natural thing in the world.
It began gently, almost formally.
Her arms went lightly around his shoulders; his circled her waist with careful distance.
Her cheek rested against the side of his neck, just above the collar.
His chin brushed the top of her loose bun.
“Thank you,” she murmured again, voice muffled against his shirt. “You gave Kavya strength… gave me strength…”
His arms tightened (just a fraction), pulling her a little closer.
“Of course,” he said quietly. “You’re family.”
The word family should have ended it.
Her arms circled his shoulders lightly.
His arms settled around her waist, careful distance.
Then gratitude cracked open into something else.
Danish lowered his face slowly, deliberately, until his cheek rested against the side of her neck.
His stubble scbangd the tender skin just below her ear.
His nose brushed the shell of her ear, then settled into the warm hollow where neck met shoulder.
He inhaled (deep, shaky), lips parted, the faintest graze of teeth against her racing pulse.
Trisha’s entire body went rigid for half a heartbeat… then melted.
At the exact same moment, her hands moved on their own.
Fingers that had rested politely on his shoulders slid upward, palms gliding over warm skin until they cradled the back of his neck.
Her thumbs brushed the short hair at his nape, then pressed, nails lightly scoring the sensitive skin there.
She pulled him in (just a fraction), anchoring his face against her throat.
Danish felt the shift.
His answering exhale was ragged against her skin.
His hand on her lower back slid lower (slow, inevitable), palm spreading wide, fingers slipping beneath the hem of her nightie to rest on bare skin just above the curve of her buttock.
His other hand followed, openly cupping her, pulling her hips flush against the hard, unmistakable ridge of his erection.
Trisha felt every thick inch of him pressed into her belly.
A soft, broken whimper escaped her lips, vibrating against his ear.
His mouth opened fully against the side of her neck (warm breath, the faintest brush of tongue tasting her pulse), while her fingers tightened at the back of his neck, nails digging in, holding him exactly where he was.
Seventy endless seconds of perfect, silent devastation.
Neither moved to end it.
Trisha’s entire body was trembling, thighs clenched, pulse roaring in her ears.
Danish’s mouth still hovered at her throat, lips wet, stubble burning, the ghost of his teeth imprinted on her skin.
They both knew it had to end.
Slowly, reluctantly, his arms began to loosen.
That was when Trisha moved.
On pure instinct (gratitude, longing, madness), she turned her face and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek.
A mother-in-law’s thank-you kiss.
Meant to be chaste.
It wasn’t.
Her lips stayed longer than they should have, warm and trembling against the rough stubble of his jaw, just beside the corner of his mouth.
The moment her lips touched him, Danish froze.
Then something inside him snapped.
His arms tightened again (hard, sudden), crushing her to him.
At the exact same second, he dipped his head and pressed a single, deliberate, open-mouthed kiss to the side of her throat (right over the spot he had marked with teeth seconds ago).
His lips parted just enough for her to feel the wet heat of his tongue, the soft drag of his lower lip, the faintest suction before he released.
Simultaneously, the hand cupping her ass squeezed (slow, possessive, fingers digging into soft flesh through the nightie, lifting her slightly onto her toes).
Trisha’s breath broke on a tiny, shocked moan against his cheek.
The kiss on her throat lasted two full seconds.
The squeeze lasted three.
Then, as suddenly as it began, he released her.
His hands slid away (fingers trailing one last burning path across her hip before dropping).
His mouth left her skin with a soft, wet sound.
They separated.
Trisha’s hand flew to her throat, covering the fresh, wet mark he had just left.
Her other hand clutched the counter behind her for balance.
Danish’s eyes were black, pupils blown, lips parted and glistening.
He looked like a man who had just tasted something forbidden and wanted more.
Neither spoke.
He grabbed his bags with shaking hands, turned, and walked out without looking back.
The door closed.
Trisha remained standing, legs barely holding her, one palm pressed to the side of her neck where his mouth had been twice now, the other pressed between her thighs, trying to still the violent ache he had woken.
Her cheek still tingled from where her own lips had touched his skin.
Her ass still burned from the slow, claiming squeeze of his hand.
She had kissed him to say thank you.
He had kissed her neck and squeezed her like a man who already knew exactly how she would feel beneath him.
And for the rest of her life, every time she looked in the mirror, she would see the faint red mark on her neck and remember the ninety-eight seconds when her daughter’s husband held her, tasted her, and marked her as his in a way no one else would ever know.
The house was still wrapped in pre-dawn darkness, the storm long gone, leaving only the faint drip of water from the balcony railing and the occasional creak of old wood settling.
Danish stood in the guest room, zipping his small suitcase. He wore a fresh shirt (light blue, sleeves rolled once), hair still damp from the shower, the faint shadows under his eyes from the short, intense sleep.
Kavya slept curled on her side, one arm stretched toward the empty half of the bed, lips slightly parted, peaceful.
He bent, kissed her forehead softly. “Back in ten days,” he whispered. She murmured something incoherent and burrowed deeper into the pillow.
He smiled, shouldered his backpack, and stepped into the hallway. The kitchen light was already on.
Trisha was there. She stood at the counter in a simple cotton nightie covered by an old floral apron, hair in its usual neat bun, a few loose strands curling at her temples from the steam of the stove. The flame under the tawa hissed softly. The air smelled of ghee, cumin, and fresh parathas.
Danish paused in the doorway. She didn’t turn immediately, but her shoulders stiffened (just a fraction).
“Mummy ji… aap itni subah?” (You’re up so early?)
She kept her eyes on the tawa, flipping a paratha with practiced flicks of her wrist. “Flight hai na. Kuch kha ke jaana chahiye.” (You have a flight. You should eat something before leaving.)
Her voice was steady, but there was a faint tremor only a mother would notice.
She had not slept.
All night the images had played on an endless loop: Danish’s back muscles rippling as he drove into Kavya. The slow, merciless stretch of his cock disappearing inside her daughter again and again. That roar (raw, animal, shaking the walls). The way Kavya had shattered beneath him, completely undone.
Trisha’s hands moved automatically (rolling dough, pressing, dusting with flour), but her mind was somewhere else entirely.
She remembered the exact moment Danish’s hips had slammed forward one final time, the night before, the way his entire body had locked, the way that primal sound had torn from his throat as he emptied himself deep inside Kavya. She remembered the wet, rhythmic slap of skin, the way Kavya’s thighs had trembled over his shoulders, the way her daughter’s face had looked (lost, ecstatic, transformed).
Her cheeks burned even now.
She slid another paratha onto the tawa, pressed it gently with the spatula, watching the edges curl and brown.
Danish stepped closer, setting his bag down quietly. “Main madad kar doon?” (Shall I help?)
She shook her head too quickly. “Nahi… baitho. Main kar leti hoon.” (No… sit. I’ll manage.)
But her voice cracked on the last word. He didn’t sit. Instead he moved to the sink, began washing the steel tiffin boxes she had set out, his movements calm presence filling the small kitchen like it always did.
Trisha stole a glance. He looked exhausted but content, the faint red scratch marks on the back of his neck just visible above his collar (Kavya’s nails).
She remembered those same shoulders flexing under her daughter’s hands, remembered the way his buttocks had clenched as he came.
Her stomach flipped.
She turned back to the stove, hands trembling as she folded a paratha, stuffed it with spiced aloo, pressed it flat again.
He is leaving in an hour. He will walk out that door and take that… that force… that beast… back to Hyderabad. And I will never see it again.
The thought brought an ache so sharp it stole her breath.
She packed the tiffin with mechanical care: three aloo parathas, a small box of curd, a spoon of mango pickle, two theplas, a handful of roasted makhana, a banana. Every item placed with the precision of a woman trying to keep her hands busy so her mind wouldn’t wander.
Danish dried his hands, leaned against the counter, watching her.
“Mummy ji,” he said softly, “aap theek hain na?”
She froze, spatula suspended mid-air.
For one terrifying second she thought he knew (knew she had watched, knew she had touched herself in the hallway, knew she had come silently while listening to him ruin her daughter with pleasure).
But his eyes were only gentle, concerned.
She forced a smile that felt like breaking glass. “Haan, beta. Bas… thaki hui hoon. Neend nahi aayi.” (Yes, beta. Just… tired. Couldn’t sleep.)
He nodded, accepting it.
Every time she reached for something on the upper shelf (salt, pickle jar, foil), the fabric rode another fraction, exposing the soft, pale underside of her left buttock and the faint dimple there.
She didn’t notice.
Or pretended not to.
Danish noticed everything.
He had been watching her for the last four minutes without moving.
He watched the way the apron string pulled the nightie tight across her lower back, outlining the gentle dip of her spine and the swell of her hips.
He watched the way her breasts shifted under the cloth when she bent to flip a paratha (full, heavy, the faint bounce of flesh that had been hidden under modest sarees all week).
He watched the thin strap slip off one shoulder and stay there, revealing the delicate line of her collarbone and the upper slope of her breast, pale skin glowing in the half-light.
His pulse thudded in his ears.
He remembered the first morning:
her body in Downward Dog, hips high, back long, the perfect curve of her ass presented to him like an offering.
The way her armpits had glistened with the first sheen of sweat when she raised her arms overhead.
The accidental flash of cleavage when she folded forward, the soft weight of her breasts swaying gently.
The memory slammed into him now, raw and unfiltered.
Trisha turned with the steel tiffin box in her hands.
She caught him staring (eyes dark, jaw tight, chest rising a little too fast).
The box trembled between them.
Neither spoke.
She stepped forward to hand it to him.
The kitchen was so small that her breasts almost brushed his chest when she leaned in.
Danish took the box slowly, deliberately.
His knuckles grazed the inside of her wrist (once, twice), then stayed there, the pad of his thumb pressing lightly against the frantic beat of her pulse.
Trisha’s breath stuttered.
His thumb traced a tiny, unconscious circle on her skin (just one), then slid higher, under the edge of her sleeve, touching the soft inner flesh of her forearm.
The contact was feather-light, but it burned.
Trisha’s nipples tightened instantly against the thin cotton, two hard points suddenly visible.
She felt them ache, felt heat flood between her legs so fast she swayed.
Danish’s gaze dropped (slow, helpless) to her chest, lingered on the stiff peaks pressing against the nightie, then dragged back up to her face.
His pupils were blown wide.
For three endless seconds the only sound was their breathing and the soft pop of cooling ghee.
Trisha’s lips parted (no words, just air).
Danish’s thumb pressed a fraction harder, then slid down again to the centre of her palm, tracing the lifeline once, slowly, possessively.
He remembered the exact moment in yoga when she had stood in Tadasana, arms overhead, the fabric of her kurti pulling tight across her breasts, the faint outline of her nipples visible even then.
He remembered wanting to step behind her, slide his hands under that kurti, cup the weight he had only glimpsed.
The memory collided with the present: her standing inches away, flushed, trembling, nipples hard, pulse racing under his thumb.
His cock stirred (thick, unmistakable) against the front of his track pants.
Trisha saw it.
Her eyes flicked down, widened, snapped back up.
Colour flooded her cheeks, her throat, her chest.
Danish released her hand like he’d been burned.
He stepped back, voice rough.
“Thank you… for the food.”
Trisha couldn’t answer.
She just nodded, arms crossing instinctively over her breasts, trying to hide what was already seen.
Danish set the tiffin and backpack down on the dining table with a soft thud.
The kitchen was lit only by the low blue flame under the empty tawa and the first pale hint of dawn.
Trisha stood three feet away, arms wrapped around herself, nightie clinging to damp skin, eyes shining in the half-light.
He took one slow step toward her.
“Thank you, beta,” she whispered, voice cracking with genuine emotion. “Rajesh… when he was in hospital… you came running from Hyderabad, stayed with us, held everything together… I can never repay that.”
Her words trembled out, raw with gratitude and exhaustion.
Danish’s eyes softened.
He opened his arms without thinking. “Mummy ji… please.”
She stepped into the hug like it was the most natural thing in the world.
It began gently, almost formally.
Her arms went lightly around his shoulders; his circled her waist with careful distance.
Her cheek rested against the side of his neck, just above the collar.
His chin brushed the top of her loose bun.
“Thank you,” she murmured again, voice muffled against his shirt. “You gave Kavya strength… gave me strength…”
His arms tightened (just a fraction), pulling her a little closer.
“Of course,” he said quietly. “You’re family.”
The word family should have ended it.
Her arms circled his shoulders lightly.
His arms settled around her waist, careful distance.
Then gratitude cracked open into something else.
Danish lowered his face slowly, deliberately, until his cheek rested against the side of her neck.
His stubble scbangd the tender skin just below her ear.
His nose brushed the shell of her ear, then settled into the warm hollow where neck met shoulder.
He inhaled (deep, shaky), lips parted, the faintest graze of teeth against her racing pulse.
Trisha’s entire body went rigid for half a heartbeat… then melted.
At the exact same moment, her hands moved on their own.
Fingers that had rested politely on his shoulders slid upward, palms gliding over warm skin until they cradled the back of his neck.
Her thumbs brushed the short hair at his nape, then pressed, nails lightly scoring the sensitive skin there.
She pulled him in (just a fraction), anchoring his face against her throat.
Danish felt the shift.
His answering exhale was ragged against her skin.
His hand on her lower back slid lower (slow, inevitable), palm spreading wide, fingers slipping beneath the hem of her nightie to rest on bare skin just above the curve of her buttock.
His other hand followed, openly cupping her, pulling her hips flush against the hard, unmistakable ridge of his erection.
Trisha felt every thick inch of him pressed into her belly.
A soft, broken whimper escaped her lips, vibrating against his ear.
His mouth opened fully against the side of her neck (warm breath, the faintest brush of tongue tasting her pulse), while her fingers tightened at the back of his neck, nails digging in, holding him exactly where he was.
Seventy endless seconds of perfect, silent devastation.
Neither moved to end it.
Trisha’s entire body was trembling, thighs clenched, pulse roaring in her ears.
Danish’s mouth still hovered at her throat, lips wet, stubble burning, the ghost of his teeth imprinted on her skin.
They both knew it had to end.
Slowly, reluctantly, his arms began to loosen.
That was when Trisha moved.
On pure instinct (gratitude, longing, madness), she turned her face and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek.
A mother-in-law’s thank-you kiss.
Meant to be chaste.
It wasn’t.
Her lips stayed longer than they should have, warm and trembling against the rough stubble of his jaw, just beside the corner of his mouth.
The moment her lips touched him, Danish froze.
Then something inside him snapped.
His arms tightened again (hard, sudden), crushing her to him.
At the exact same second, he dipped his head and pressed a single, deliberate, open-mouthed kiss to the side of her throat (right over the spot he had marked with teeth seconds ago).
His lips parted just enough for her to feel the wet heat of his tongue, the soft drag of his lower lip, the faintest suction before he released.
Simultaneously, the hand cupping her ass squeezed (slow, possessive, fingers digging into soft flesh through the nightie, lifting her slightly onto her toes).
Trisha’s breath broke on a tiny, shocked moan against his cheek.
The kiss on her throat lasted two full seconds.
The squeeze lasted three.
Then, as suddenly as it began, he released her.
His hands slid away (fingers trailing one last burning path across her hip before dropping).
His mouth left her skin with a soft, wet sound.
They separated.
Trisha’s hand flew to her throat, covering the fresh, wet mark he had just left.
Her other hand clutched the counter behind her for balance.
Danish’s eyes were black, pupils blown, lips parted and glistening.
He looked like a man who had just tasted something forbidden and wanted more.
Neither spoke.
He grabbed his bags with shaking hands, turned, and walked out without looking back.
The door closed.
Trisha remained standing, legs barely holding her, one palm pressed to the side of her neck where his mouth had been twice now, the other pressed between her thighs, trying to still the violent ache he had woken.
Her cheek still tingled from where her own lips had touched his skin.
Her ass still burned from the slow, claiming squeeze of his hand.
She had kissed him to say thank you.
He had kissed her neck and squeezed her like a man who already knew exactly how she would feel beneath him.
And for the rest of her life, every time she looked in the mirror, she would see the faint red mark on her neck and remember the ninety-eight seconds when her daughter’s husband held her, tasted her, and marked her as his in a way no one else would ever know.
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