22-12-2025, 07:55 PM
Chapter 16 – The Dream and the Plan (Rohan’s POV)
Rohan drove back from ECR in silence, the wipers slashing through the lingering rain.
His suit jacket still carried the faint scent of her — jasmine hair oil mixed with wet cotton and warm skin.
He couldn’t shake it.
In the penthouse, he poured a whiskey, stood at the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the dark sea.
His mind replayed the afternoon in loops.
The way she spoke at the table — calm, sharp, commanding without raising her voice.
The way the breeze pressed her pallu against her body.
The way the rain turned that light saree into a second skin — full breasts straining, dark bra visible, nipples hard from the cold, hips swaying as she ran.
His cock stirred again, just remembering.
He had fucked models who posed for hours to look half as good.
Taken married women who whispered his name like a prayer while their husbands slept in the next room.
But none of them burned into him like this.
Nivi wasn’t offering herself.
She wasn’t even aware.
That was the fire.
A devoted wife. A hidden mind. A body softened by motherhood, yet still lush, untouched in the way he wanted to touch it.
He wanted to ruin that devotion.
Slowly.
Completely.
He needed leverage. Hooks. A way in.
He hadn’t heard their full story — only fragments. Aaravind knew her from college. Knew her weaknesses, her past. Rohan needed that knowledge.
He would get it.
Business would be the door to be near her — the 6% stake, the clients, the “training Nivi, - the Excuse Perfect cover.
Identity hidden. For now.
He finished the whiskey, went to bed.
Bright morning..
He was in a large hotel suite — one of his own properties, though he didn’t recognise it in the dream.
Soft lighting. Red curtains.
Nivi stood in the middle of the room.
No saree.
A red kurta — thin, no dupatta. Clinging to her curves like it was painted on. Full breasts pressing against the fabric, waist narrow, hips flaring. Fair skin glowing warm.
She looked at him, eyes dark, lips parted.
“Rohan,” she said, voice low. “Why are you pretending? Don’t you want to stare at me?”
He crossed the room in three strides.
Wrapped his arms around her from behind, hands sliding up to cup her breasts — heavy, soft, perfect weight in his palms.
“This is what you want, isn’t it?” he growled against her ear.
“Yes, baby,” she whispered, arching back into him. “Fuck me. I’m yours.”
He pressed harder, thumbs circling her nipples through the fabric, feeling them harden instantly.
“Why do you always wear sarees?” he muttered, teeth grazing her neck. “In a kurta like this… you look so fucking sexy. I want to tear it off and fuck you senseless.”
“Then do it,” she breathed. “Fuck me, Rohan. I’m yours.”
He spun her, pushed her back onto the bed.
She fell, legs parting, kurta riding up.
He climbed over her, cock throbbing, ready to—
A sudden jerk.
He hit the floor.
Hard.
Eyes snapped open.
Midnight. 2 AM.
Penthouse bedroom. Alone.
Cock aching against his boxers, heart pounding.
Just a dream.
The most vivid one he’d had in years.
He lay there, breathing hard.
No pretending games.
Tomorrow, he would start.
First — Aaravind. Get the history. The hooks.
Then — business meetings. Private ones.
He would hide who he really was.
Get close.
And when the time was right —
He would fuck her.
Madly.
Brutally.
Until she forgot every other man’s name.
Until that quiet fire screamed only for him.
He closed his eyes again, hand sliding down, stroking himself slow to the memory of her wet saree, her voice at lunch, the dream version begging.
Tomorrow, the plan began.
Rohan drove back from ECR in silence, the wipers slashing through the lingering rain.
His suit jacket still carried the faint scent of her — jasmine hair oil mixed with wet cotton and warm skin.
He couldn’t shake it.
In the penthouse, he poured a whiskey, stood at the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the dark sea.
His mind replayed the afternoon in loops.
The way she spoke at the table — calm, sharp, commanding without raising her voice.
The way the breeze pressed her pallu against her body.
The way the rain turned that light saree into a second skin — full breasts straining, dark bra visible, nipples hard from the cold, hips swaying as she ran.
His cock stirred again, just remembering.
He had fucked models who posed for hours to look half as good.
Taken married women who whispered his name like a prayer while their husbands slept in the next room.
But none of them burned into him like this.
Nivi wasn’t offering herself.
She wasn’t even aware.
That was the fire.
A devoted wife. A hidden mind. A body softened by motherhood, yet still lush, untouched in the way he wanted to touch it.
He wanted to ruin that devotion.
Slowly.
Completely.
He needed leverage. Hooks. A way in.
He hadn’t heard their full story — only fragments. Aaravind knew her from college. Knew her weaknesses, her past. Rohan needed that knowledge.
He would get it.
Business would be the door to be near her — the 6% stake, the clients, the “training Nivi, - the Excuse Perfect cover.
Identity hidden. For now.
He finished the whiskey, went to bed.
Bright morning..
He was in a large hotel suite — one of his own properties, though he didn’t recognise it in the dream.
Soft lighting. Red curtains.
Nivi stood in the middle of the room.
No saree.
A red kurta — thin, no dupatta. Clinging to her curves like it was painted on. Full breasts pressing against the fabric, waist narrow, hips flaring. Fair skin glowing warm.
She looked at him, eyes dark, lips parted.
“Rohan,” she said, voice low. “Why are you pretending? Don’t you want to stare at me?”
He crossed the room in three strides.
Wrapped his arms around her from behind, hands sliding up to cup her breasts — heavy, soft, perfect weight in his palms.
“This is what you want, isn’t it?” he growled against her ear.
“Yes, baby,” she whispered, arching back into him. “Fuck me. I’m yours.”
He pressed harder, thumbs circling her nipples through the fabric, feeling them harden instantly.
“Why do you always wear sarees?” he muttered, teeth grazing her neck. “In a kurta like this… you look so fucking sexy. I want to tear it off and fuck you senseless.”
“Then do it,” she breathed. “Fuck me, Rohan. I’m yours.”
He spun her, pushed her back onto the bed.
She fell, legs parting, kurta riding up.
He climbed over her, cock throbbing, ready to—
A sudden jerk.
He hit the floor.
Hard.
Eyes snapped open.
Midnight. 2 AM.
Penthouse bedroom. Alone.
Cock aching against his boxers, heart pounding.
Just a dream.
The most vivid one he’d had in years.
He lay there, breathing hard.
No pretending games.
Tomorrow, he would start.
First — Aaravind. Get the history. The hooks.
Then — business meetings. Private ones.
He would hide who he really was.
Get close.
And when the time was right —
He would fuck her.
Madly.
Brutally.
Until she forgot every other man’s name.
Until that quiet fire screamed only for him.
He closed his eyes again, hand sliding down, stroking himself slow to the memory of her wet saree, her voice at lunch, the dream version begging.
Tomorrow, the plan began.
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