Adultery Undercover Desires

[John446]

CHAPTER -77


Delhi → Hyderabad days after departure
Monday morning, Indira Gandhi International Airport, Terminal 3
Rajesh had insisted on coming to the airport despite Trisha’s protests. He walked steadily with his cane, barking at the porter to be careful with Kavya’s suitcase, teasing her about packing “enough clothes for six months”.
The check-in queue was long, but the family stood together in the bright, bustling terminal, the December chill outside forgotten in the warm air-conditioning.
Kavya hugged her father first.
“Papa, promise no extra sweets. I’m telling Danish to check your sugar reports.”
Rajesh laughed, eyes misty. “Go, go. Your husband is probably counting minutes at the gate. And bring him soon—rematch in teen patti pending.”
Then Kavya turned to her mother.
The hug was long, tight, full of whispered promises.
“I’ll call the minute I land.” “Take your medicines on time.” “Tell Danish I packed his favourite achar.” “Love you, Mummy.”
Trisha held her daughter close, breathing in the familiar scent of her hair oil, feeling the warmth of her body one last time before the distance returned.
When they pulled apart, Trisha’s smile was bright, but her eyes were wet.
“Fly safe, beta. And give Danish a big hug from me.”
Kavya grinned. “He’ll get plenty. Don’t worry.”
Security check. Final wave from the other side of the glass.
Kavya disappeared into the crowd.
Trisha and Rajesh stood watching long after she was gone.
In the cab home, Rajesh dozed against the window.
Trisha stared out at the passing city, fingers unconsciously touching the side of her neck.
Danish waited at arrivals, a small bouquet of jasmine in one hand, heart racing for reasons he told himself were only about seeing his wife again.
When Kavya appeared—suitcase dragging, dupatta slipping, eyes scanning—he felt the familiar rush.
She spotted him, dropped everything, and ran.
He caught her as she jumped into his arms, legs wrapping around his waist, arms tight around his neck.
The kiss was immediate—deep, hungry, months of missing poured into it right there in the middle of arrivals.
People smiled and looked away.
When they finally broke apart, foreheads touching, both laughing breathlessly.
“Welcome home, Mrs. Khan,” he whispered.
“Take me home, Mr. Khan,” she whispered back. “Right now.”
Feroz greeted them at the door with his usual warm smile and a bear hug for Kavya.
“Beta, finally! The house was too quiet.”
Kavya laughed, hugged him back. “Missed you too, Abbu.”
And I hope you didn’t let Danish eat non-veg the whole time I was gone.”
Feroz chuckled. “Only twice. He survived on your mother’s recipes mostly.”
Dinner was pure vegetarian celebration: paneer butter masala, dal makhani, jeera rice, aloo gobi, fresh rotis, and Trisha’s special mango pickle that Kavya had carried in her bag.
Stories flew across the table.
Feroz asked detailed questions about Rajesh uncle’s health, teased Danish about “surviving on bachelor food.”
Under the table, Danish’s hand rested on Kavya’s knee, thumb tracing slow circles.
Kavya’s foot nudged his ankle playfully.
Feroz noticed none of it, or pretended not to.
After dinner, Feroz retired early.
Danish and Kavya barely waited for his door to close.
They stumbled into their room, laughing and kissing, clothes coming off before the door fully shut.
The bed that had been cold for weeks finally warm again.
Delhi – same night
Trisha lay beside Rajesh in the quiet house, listening to his even breathing.
She opened WhatsApp, scrolled to Danish’s chat.
She typed:
Mummy ji 11:52 PM Beta, did Kavya reach safely?
Three dots appeared almost instantly.
Danish 11:53 PM Yes Mummy ji ? Thank you for taking such good care of her.
Mummy ji 11:54 PM It was my joy. The house feels empty already.
Danish 11:55 PM We’ll visit soon. Promise. Papa ji sleeping well?
Mummy ji 11:56 PM Like a baby. Good night, beta.
Danish 11:57 PM Always. Good night, Mummy ji ❤️ Jai Shri Krishna.
Mummy ji 11:58 PM Radhe Radhe ?
She set the phone down, turned off the light, and stared at the dark ceiling.
The house was quiet.
Her heart was not.
In Hyderabad, Danish lay beside his sleeping wife, phone face-down on the nightstand.
He didn’t open the chat again.
But he didn’t need to.
Some conversations live in the spaces between words.
And some good-nights carry the weight of everything left unsaid.
Kavya returned to Hyderabad with a suitcase full of memories, a heart full of love for her parents, and a renewed energy for her life with Danish. Rajesh was now walking confidently without support, eating well, and even started his morning walks again. Trisha was relieved, though the house in Delhi felt strangely empty without Kavya’s laughter and Danish’s quiet presence.
The first few days after Kavya’s arrival were a whirlwind.
Kavya’s office work had piled up during her extended Delhi stay. She was back to her 9-to-6 routine (often stretching to 8 or 9), glued to her laptop, attending back-to-back video calls, clearing overdue reports, and catching up with her team. She barely had time to unpack properly—her suitcase sat half-open in the corner of their bedroom for days.
Danish’s schedule was equally brutal. His IT project had entered the critical testing phase; he was leading daily stand-ups, debugging late into the night, and sometimes taking client calls at odd hours. He would come home exhausted, kiss Kavya on the forehead while she was still typing, and collapse beside her after a quick shower.
They still found stolen moments: quick morning cuddles before work, hands brushing under the dinner table, whispered “I love you”s in the dark before sleep. But the days left little room for anything deeper. The passion that had exploded on the night of her arrival slowly settled into the comfortable rhythm of busy married life.
Feroz, as always, kept to his gentle routine: morning walks, afternoon chai on the veranda with his Urdu poetry, evenings with old ghazal records or the newspaper. He was happy to have Kavya back—the house felt alive again—but he also noticed how little time she and Danish had for each other.
And so, quite naturally, Kavya and Feroz began spending more quiet time together.
One evening Danish was out with friends for a belated birthday dinner. Kavya decided to cook something special—pure vegetarian, of course: paneer lababdar, dal tadka, jeera rice, and fresh salad.
Feroz wandered into the kitchen, drawn by the aroma.
“Smells like heaven, beta,” he said, leaning against the doorframe.
Kavya smiled over her shoulder, stirring the gravy. “Just trying to recreate Mummy’s magic. Sit, Papa, it’ll be ready soon.”
He didn’t sit. He came closer, stood beside her at the counter, watching her work.
“You chop onions like a pro now,” he observed, voice warm.
Kavya laughed softly. “Years of practice. Mummy was strict—‘no tears in the kitchen’ was her rule.”
Feroz chuckled. “She’s still strict. I remember when Danish first came to Delhi—he tried to help in the kitchen and she scolded him for cutting potatoes too thick.”
Kavya giggled. “He still complains about that. Says he has ‘emotional trauma’ from the onion-chopping lesson.”
They both laughed, standing close enough that their arms brushed when she reached for the spice jar. Neither moved away.
Feroz reached up to get the garam masala from the top shelf for her. His chest brushed her shoulder as he stretched. She felt the warmth of him, the faint scent of his aftershave mixed with the kitchen spices.
He handed her the jar, fingers lingering on hers a second longer than necessary.
“Thank you, Papa,” she said softly, voice a little breathier than she intended.
He smiled, eyes soft. “Anytime, beta.”
He stayed while she finished cooking, talking about small things: the roses in the courtyard, Kavya’s new project at work, how Rajesh ji was planning to visit soon. But the air between them felt thicker than usual—every accidental brush of arms, every shared laugh, every time their eyes met a little too long.
When Danish came home later, smelling of biryani and beer, he found them laughing in the living room over old photo albums.
He grinned. “Papa stealing my wife’s time again?”
Feroz stood. “Just keeping her company till you returned, beta. Good night.”
He left.
Kavya watched him go, a strange little flutter in her chest.
Three weeks had slipped by in a haze of routine and quiet longing.
Danish had been grinding through his IT job, but the long hours and stagnant salary had worn him down. He had quietly applied to a few openings for senior roles—better package, more responsibility. One morning, while Kavya was in the shower, his phone buzzed with an email: interview scheduled in Mumbai next week. The position was for a lead developer at a top fintech firm; posting flexible—could be Hyderabad, Mumbai, or even Delhi if the team needed. He stared at the screen, heart racing. Better pay meant a better life for them—maybe a house of their own, trips, security. But relocation? He hadn’t told Kavya yet. Or Feroz.
That evening, as they sat for dinner (Kavya’s strict vegetarian spread: palak paneer, veg pulao, cucumber raita), Danish cleared his throat. “Got an interview call today. Mumbai, next week. Better package, but posting not fixed—could be here or elsewhere.”
Kavya’s eyes lit up. “That’s amazing! Go crush it. We can handle whatever comes.”
Feroz nodded slowly, smile warm but eyes thoughtful. “Proud of you, beta. Go with blessings. The house will always be here.”
The conversation shifted to logistics—flights, hotel—but underneath, a subtle current ran: change was coming, and with it, uncertainty.
The Hidden Folder
Feroz’s nights had become a ritual of guilt and compulsion.
Every other night, when the house slept and the courtyard fountain whispered softly, he would lie on his bed in the master suite, phone in hand, the hidden vault app open.
He traced every detail with his eyes, breath shallow, hand resting on his stomach, sometimes lower.
The wine-red satin nightie photo: He lingered on the way the fabric hugged the curve of her hips, the deep V cleavage framing the soft swell of her breasts, the smooth armpits exposed as she held the phone, the toned legs crossed, thighs pressed together, the shy smile that hid a world of sensuality.
The midnight-blue sheer: The faint outline of her nipples through the fabric, the deep cleavage plunging low, armpits smooth and inviting, legs toned and endless.
The blush-pink lace lingerie: The bra cups barely containing her, cleavage spilling over, armpits pale and flawless, legs crossed demurely but the pose screaming invitation.
The emerald saree: Dbangd low, bare midriff glowing, deep cleavage framed by the blouse, armpits raised in the side pose, legs peeking through the slit.
The crimson georgette: Pallu fallen, backless blouse revealing smooth skin, cleavage the deepest of all, armpits soft and shadowed, legs toned and crossed.
Each photo was studied like scripture—every curve, every shadow, every inch of skin. He felt the guilt burn in his chest, whispering duas for forgiveness even as his body betrayed him, hardening under the pajamas.
With Danish’s work intensifying in preparation for the interview (late nights practicing mocks, researching the company), and Kavya buried in her own backlog, Feroz and Kavya’s quiet moments grew longer, more frequent, more charged.
One afternoon, Danish at a team offsite, Kavya was in the living room folding laundry. Feroz joined her, picking up a shirt to help.
“You don’t have to, Papa,” she said, smiling.
“I want to,” he replied, voice low. “It’s nice to have company.”
They folded in companionable silence, arms brushing when they reached for the same piece. Kavya felt the warmth of his presence, the way his eyes lingered on her hands, her arms, the curve of her neck when she looked down.
“Beta,” he said suddenly, “you look tired. Let me massage your shoulders—like I used to for Danish when he was stressed.”
She hesitated, then nodded. “Okay, Papa.”
He stood behind her, hands gentle but firm on her shoulders, thumbs pressing into the knots. Kavya sighed, eyes closing. His fingers worked lower, grazing the back of her neck, the tops of her arms. The touch lingered—five seconds, ten—warm, soothing, but electric.
She felt her breath quicken.
He felt the softness of her skin under his thumbs.
Neither moved away.
“Better?” he asked, voice a little rougher.
“Much better, Papa,” she whispered.
He stepped back.
But the air hummed.
Another evening, Danish out with friends again (pre-interview stress relief), Kavya and Feroz shared chai on the veranda.
She wore a simple salwar kameez, dupatta loose.
They talked about poetry—Feroz recited a ghazal about unspoken love.
Kavya listened, eyes soft, knees almost touching his on the small bench.
When a breeze blew her dupatta off her shoulder, exposing the smooth curve of her armpit and the side of her breast through the thin fabric, Feroz looked away—too late.
She noticed.
Neither said anything.
But she didn’t fix the dupatta immediately.
The tension built like humidity before a storm.
The interview call from the Mumbai fintech firm had come with a short fuse: three days later, full-day onsite interviews, final round with the CTO. Posting still undecided—could be Hyderabad (ideal), Mumbai (possible), or even Bangalore or Delhi (worst-case). He prepped obsessively: mock interviews with colleagues, researching the company’s stack, revising algorithms at midnight. He left for Mumbai on a Friday morning flight, promising Kavya he’d be back Sunday night.
“Crush it,” she told him at the airport gate, kissing him deeply. “Come back with good news.”
He smiled against her lips. “And when I do, we celebrate properly. No interruptions.”
She laughed, but her eyes were soft. “Deal.”
After a day Danish left for Mumbai, The storm had been building all evening, the sky over Hyderabad turning an angry black, thunder rumbling like distant artillery. By 9:30 PM, the rain came down in sheets, lashing the old haveli's windows and roof with relentless fury. The wind howled through the courtyard, rattling the fountain and shaking the neem trees until leaves scattered like confetti in the dark. Inside, the air was thick and humid, the ceiling fans straining to cut through it.
Danish was still in Mumbai—his interview had gone so well they asked him to stay an extra day for a final discussion with the team. He had called at 8 PM, voice excited but tired. "I'll be back tomorrow night, jaan. Miss you already." Kavya had laughed, told him to nail it, but now, alone in the bedroom, the storm felt personal, like it was clawing at the walls just for her.
She had been scared of the dark since childhood—a deep, irrational fear that turned her into a child again, heart pounding, breath shallow, every shadow a monster. The power cuts in Delhi during monsoons had always meant nights huddled with Trisha, stories whispered under a blanket until sleep came. Here in Hyderabad, it was no different.
Then he heard it—the crash from the guest wing.
His heart skipped. Kavya.
He knew her fear. It had happened before, months ago, during a similar storm when Danish was not there.
That night, the boundaries had blurred—the heat, the closeness, her back pressed to his chest in sleep, his nose brushing her neck, inhaling her jasmine scent, his face dipping lower to graze her cleavage. He had pulled back, guilt crashing over him, but the memory lingered like a scar.
Now, heart beating fast, he took a deep breath at her door. The storm raged outside, rain hammering the roof like fists. His hand hovered over the wood, recalling that past night—the way she had sighed in her sleep, arched slightly, the forbidden thrill. Guilt and something darker twisted in his chest. He knocked gently.
"Kavya beta? Everything okay?"
Inside, Kavya’s voice came shivering through the dark. "P-Papa? Come in… please…"
He pushed the door open, candle in hand. The small flame illuminated the room in flickering orange: shattered glass on the floor, water pooling, Kavya standing in the middle, arms wrapped around herself, eyes wide with fear.
She was wearing a cut-sleeves nighty that ended at mid-thigh—white cotton with pink floral prints, the fabric thin and clinging slightly to her damp skin from the humidity. The deep neckline revealed the soft swell of her breasts, her armpits smooth and bare as she hugged herself, toned legs shifting nervously on the cold floor. In the candlelight, she looked vulnerable, beautiful, like a vision from one of his guilty memories.
Feroz stepped inside, locked the door behind him against the storm's howl. "Don't worry, beta," he whispered, voice low and steady. "I'm here."
She nodded, eyes locked on his, but neither said anything else. The thunder cracked again, making her flinch. He set the candle on the nightstand, its flame dancing shadows across the walls, and moved to her, calm and protective.
He took her hand first—warm, reassuring—leading her away from the glass. "Come, sit on the bed. I'll clean this."
She followed, sitting on the edge, knees pressed together, nighty riding up slightly to expose more of her smooth thighs. Feroz knelt to pick up the shards carefully, his eyes flicking up to her once or twice—her bare arms, the deep V of her nighty, the way her chest rose with shallow breaths. He stood, disposed of the glass in the bin, then turned back to her.
She was still shivering—not from cold, but fear. "Papa… the dark… it’s so bad tonight."
He sat beside her on the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. "I know, beta. It's okay. I'm right here." He opened his arms slightly.
She leaned into him without hesitation, her head resting on his shoulder, arms wrapping around his waist. He hugged her back, one arm around her shoulders, the other settling low on her back, holding her close to calm her. The thin fabric of her nighty did little to separate their skin; he felt the warmth of her body, the soft press of her breasts against his chest, the faint jasmine scent of her hair filling his senses.
They sat like that in silence, the storm raging outside, thunder rumbling, rain pounding. His hand rubbed slow, soothing circles on her back, fingers brushing the bare skin where the nighty’s cut-sleeves left her arms exposed. She sighed softly, relaxing into him, her breath warm against his neck. The closeness was comforting at first—paternal, protective.
To calm her down Feroz again shared a story with her like before, "When I was a boy—maybe twelve—there was a storm like this one. The power went out, thunder so loud it shook the walls. I was terrified of the dark, just like you. My father—your grandfather—found me hiding in the almirah. He didn't laugh. He sat on the floor with me, lit a single diya, and told me a story."
He paused, watching her face in the candlelight—her eyes wide, lips parted, listening.
"He said fear is like a shadow. It looks big and terrible when there's no light, but the moment you bring even a small flame, it shrinks. He told me to close my eyes and imagine the flame inside me—small, steady, warm. He said, 'As long as that flame burns, no darkness can touch you.'"
Kavya's breathing slowed. Her body relaxed against the mattress.
"I practiced every night after that," Feroz continued. "When the lights went out, I would sit in the dark and find that flame inside. And slowly… the fear got smaller. Not gone, but smaller. Manageable. Because I learned I carried my own light."
He reached out, brushed his fingertips across her forehead—slow, gentle strokes, tucking stray hair away, tracing the curve of her brow.
"You have that flame too, beta," he murmured. "It's in you. Strong. Beautiful. Unbreakable."
Kavya's eyes fluttered half-closed, soothed by his voice, his touch. Her hand moved instinctively, resting on his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart.
"Thank you, Papa," she whispered.
He smiled, fingers still caressing her forehead, then sliding into her hair, stroking gently.
She yawned softly, eyelids growing heavy.
Feroz leaned forward, blew out the candle in one gentle puff.
Darkness swallowed the room.
Kavya's eyes snapped open.
"P-Papa…"
She reached out blindly, fingers finding the front of his kurta, clutching tight.
Feroz froze.
The storm howled outside.
He whispered, "Shhh… shhh, beta. I'm here."
He adjusted himself on the bed, lying down fully beside her, facing her in the absolute dark. The mattress dipped; their bodies were close—too close. He could feel the heat radiating from her skin, smell the faint jasmine in her hair, hear the quick, shallow rhythm of her breath.
He opened his arms slowly.
"Come here," he murmured. "Just to keep the dark away."
Kavya hesitated for one heartbeat—then slid closer, pressing herself against him.
He wrapped his arms around her, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other settling low on her back, just above the curve of her hips. Her face tucked into the crook of his neck; her breasts pressed softly against his chest through the thin nighty
She was trembling faintly.
He rubbed slow circles on her back, fingers brushing bare skin where the nighty had ridden up. "Shhh… it's okay. I've got you."
After a long moment, she relaxed, melting into him. Her hand slid up to rest on his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his kurta. Her breath warmed his neck.
Feroz's heart pounded so hard he was sure she could feel it.
He tilted his head slightly, nose brushing her hair, inhaling her scent—jasmine, warmth, woman. His lips hovered near her temple, almost touching.
Neither spoke.
The storm raged outside.
In the dark, their bodies pressed together—chest to chest, thigh to thigh, breath mingling—the line between comfort and something far more dangerous blurred until it was almost invisible.
Feroz's hand on her lower back slipped lower—just a fraction—fingers splaying over the soft curve of her hip, thumb grazing the edge of her nighty.
Kavya sighed softly against his neck, arching slightly into the touch.
Neither acknowledged it.
But neither moved away.
Feroz held her in the darkness, the storm outside raging like a living thing—thunder cracking overhead, rain hammering the roof in relentless sheets. The candle was out; the room was absolute black, thick and suffocating, but Kavya’s trembling had slowly eased against his chest. Her breathing had steadied, her body softening into the protective circle of his arms. She was still afraid, but she was no longer alone with it.
His hand moved in slow, soothing circles on her lower back, fingers brushing the bare skin where her nighty had ridden up. The fabric was thin, damp from the humidity, clinging to the soft curve of her waist. He felt every rise and fall of her breath, the gentle press of her breasts against his chest, the warmth of her thighs tangled with his. The jasmine in her hair filled his lungs with every inhale, sweet and heady, pulling memories he had tried to bury.
He told himself this was only comfort. He told himself he was only being a father.
But his body knew better.
Slowly—almost without conscious thought—his head dipped lower. His cheek brushed the top of her head, then slid down until his nose rested against the crown of her hair. He inhaled deeply, the scent of her shampoo mixing with the faint musk of her skin. His lips hovered near her temple, not touching, just breathing her in.
Kavya sighed softly, a small sound of relief and trust, and shifted closer, her face tucking deeper into the crook of his neck.
That was his undoing.
His face turned, slow and deliberate, until his lips brushed the side of her neck—just the lightest graze. He felt her pulse flutter beneath the skin, rapid and alive. He lingered there, nose tracing the delicate line of her throat, inhaling the warmth rising from her cleavage. The nighty’s neckline had slipped lower in their embrace; the soft swell of her breasts pressed against him, the deep valley between them exposed, skin silky and fever-hot in the humid dark.
He pressed his lips there—soft, reverent, almost innocent at first. A gentle kiss to the side of her neck, right where the skin met the hollow of her collarbone. Kavya’s breath hitched, a tiny sound escaping her. She didn’t pull away. Instead, her hand on his chest curled tighter into his kurta, fingers trembling. Feroz’s control frayed.
Feroz groaned low in his throat—a sound he couldn’t suppress.
He rolled them slowly, carefully, until she was beneath him.
The mattress dipped under his weight. He braced himself on his forearms so he didn’t crush her, but their bodies aligned perfectly
He looked down at her in the absolute dark, unable to see her face but feeling every shuddering breath, every tremble of her body beneath him. His face hovered above hers, lips brushing her forehead, then her temple, then the corner of her mouth.
His face found the side of her neck first—cheek brushing skin, stubble scbanging lightly. He inhaled deeply, nose pressed to the warm hollow beneath her ear, breathing her in like a man starved. The scent was intoxicating: jasmine shampoo, the faint floral soap she used, the natural musk of her skin warmed by fear and closeness. He turned his head slowly, nose dragging along the curve of her throat, lips parting to let hot breath wash over her pulse point.
Kavya whimpered—soft, involuntary.
Long, slow inhales—nose dragging along the delicate curve of her throat, lips parted but not touching, only the faintest brush of his lower lip against her skin as he exhaled hot breath over her pulse point. He felt it flutter beneath his nose, rapid and alive, a tiny drumbeat of fear and something else. He moved to the other side, nose tracing the opposite line of her neck, inhaling deeply again—jasmine, skin, the subtle salt of her collarbone. His stubble grazed her softly, a rough whisper against smooth flesh.
Kavya sighed—a small, trembling sound—and tilted her head slightly, offering more without words. Her hand on his chest curled tighter into his kurta, fingers trembling. She didn’t pull away. She pressed closer, her breasts flattening against him, nipples hardening through the thin nighty, hips shifting just enough to nestle her core against the growing hardness of him.
Feroz groaned low in his throat—a sound he couldn’t suppress.
He buried his face deeper into the hollow of her neck, nose pressing firmly against the soft skin, inhaling her scent in long, greedy pulls. His lips hovered, parted, hot breath washing over her pulse, then lower—down the line of her throat to the deep valley of her cleavage. He nuzzled there, nose sliding into the shadowed cleft between her breasts, breathing in the warm, intimate perfume trapped there: skin, faint sweat, the sweet floral lotion she always dabbed between them. His stubble scbangd lightly along the upper swells, leaving faint red trails on her pale skin. He turned his head side to side, nose dragging slowly through the deep cleavage, inhaling every inch, every curve, every secret scent.
Kavya’s breath hitched, a soft whimper escaping her lips. Her back arched slightly, pressing her breasts higher, offering more of that shadowed valley.
Feroz’s hands flexed on her lower back, fingers digging into the soft flesh just above her hips, pulling her tighter against him. His nose stayed buried in her cleavage, breathing her in like oxygen, lips brushing but never closing, never kissing—only the slow, deliberate drag of open mouth and hot breath, tasting her without tasting, teasing without taking.
The storm outside matched the one building inside—thunder shaking the walls, lightning flashing in blinding white bursts through the curtains, illuminating them for split seconds: her head thrown back, throat exposed, breasts heaving, nighty bunched at her waist.
“Tell me to stop, beta,” he whispered, voice rough, trembling with the effort of restraint. “Say the word and I’ll go.”
Silence.
Feroz groaned low in his throat—a raw, broken sound—and finally settled his full weight on top of her.
Feroz’s control snapped.
He began with slow, deliberate pecks.
First the right side of her neck—soft, closed-lip kisses just below her ear, each one lingering longer than the last. His lips pressed gently, then firmer, tasting the salt of her skin, the rapid flutter of her pulse. He moved down the curve of her throat, pecking slowly, methodically, each kiss a tiny burst of heat. Then back up, tracing the same path, lips brushing, pressing, sucking lightly at the tender spot where neck met shoulder.
He switched to the left side—kissing along the line of her pulse, then lower, pecking the upper swell of her breast just above the neckline of her nighty. His stubble scbangd lightly, leaving faint red trails on her pale skin. He kissed the deep valley of her cleavage, lips open now, tongue flicking out to taste the shadowed skin between her breasts. Each peck was slow, reverent, possessive—lips closing briefly, then releasing with a soft, wet sound, breath hot and ragged against her.
Feroz’s lips had been hovering, brushing, tasting the side of her neck in slow, reverent pecks—each one soft, deliberate, a quiet confession in the roaring darkness. The storm outside was at its peak: thunder shaking the walls, lightning flashing white through the curtains in blinding bursts, rain hammering the roof like a thousand drums. Inside the room, the only sounds were their ragged breathing, the wet slide of lips on skin, and the soft rustle of cotton as their bodies shifted.
In one instinctive, breathless flow, her hands slid up from his shoulders to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair, nails scbanging his scalp. She pulled him down—harder, closer—pressing his face firmly into the curve of her neck.
Feroz groaned against her skin, a low, broken sound that vibrated through her.
The moment her fingers tightened in his hair, his control shattered completely.
He buried his face deeper into her neck, lips opening fully, kissing passionately now—open-mouthed, wet, hungry. His tongue traced the line of her pulse, slow and deliberate, then flicked out to lap at the sensitive hollow beneath her ear. He sucked gently at the skin there, pulling it between his lips, teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp and arch beneath him. His stubble scbangd deliciously, leaving faint red trails on her pale throat.
He moved lower—kissing a slow, burning path down the side of her neck to the deep valley of her cleavage. His nose dipped into the shadowed cleft between her breasts, inhaling her scent—jasmine, sweat, arousal—while his lips pressed open-mouthed kisses along the upper swells.
Kavya moaned—loud, raw, unashamed—her head falling back against the pillow, throat exposed, offering more
Every kiss was deeper, hungrier—lips parting wide, tongue tracing, sucking, tasting. His stubble scbangd deliciously, leaving trails of fire on her skin. His hands slid up her sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts through the nighty, feeling the weight, the heat.
Feroz switched to the left side of her neck, mirroring the path: tongue tracing the delicate tendon, lips sucking softly at the skin just above her pulse, nose nuzzling the warm hollow beneath her jaw. He inhaled deeply again, nose pressed firmly against her throat, breathing her in like a man who had finally found water after years in the desert. His tongue flicked out, tasting the faint salt at the base of her neck, then dragged upward in a long, wet stripe that ended with a gentle suck at the sensitive spot behind her ear.
Kavya moaned—low, needy, unashamed. Her hands slid from his hair to his shoulders, nails digging in, pulling him tighter against her. She went with the flow completely, body yielding, hips shifting slightly but not grinding—only pressing closer, seeking the solid warmth of him.
Feroz’s mouth had worshipped every inch of her neck and the upper swells of her cleavage for what felt like an eternity—slow, wet, open-mouthed kisses that left her skin glistening in the dark, faint red marks blooming where his lips had sucked and his stubble had scbangd. Kavya’s breaths were shallow, broken, her body trembling beneath him.
He lifted his head slowly, reluctantly, nose dragging one final path along her throat until his lips hovered above hers. In the absolute darkness, he couldn’t see her face, but he felt her—felt the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the way her hardened nipples pressed insistently against his chest through the thin cotton of her nighty, two stiff peaks that betrayed how aroused she was.
His breath caught.
He lowered his head again, but this time he moved lower—lips brushing the deep neckline, then pressing firmly over the soft swell of her right breast through the fabric. The satin was damp from his earlier kisses, clinging to her skin, outlining the full curve. He kissed there—slow, deliberate—lips sealing over the mound, tongue flicking out to trace the hardened nipple beneath the cotton. He sucked gently at first, then harder, pulling the peak into his mouth through the nighty, tongue swirling around it in tight, wet circles.
Kavya gasped—sharp, stunned, pleasure so intense it bordered on shock. Her back arched off the bed, pushing her breast deeper into his mouth, a broken moan tearing from her throat. She had never felt anything like this—never imagined the quiet, gentle man she called Papa could be so hungry, so focused, so utterly devoted to her pleasure. His mouth was relentless—sucking, licking, nipping lightly through the fabric—until the cotton grew soaked around her nipple, the sensation amplified by the wet friction.
He switched to the left breast, repeating the worship—lips sealing, tongue swirling, sucking harder, drawing out another sharp cry from her. Kavya’s hands flew to his hair, tugging, holding him there.
Feroz groaned against her breast, the sound vibrating through her. He was hard as iron beneath his pajamas—painfully, throbbing hard—his arousal pressed against her inner thigh, hot and insistent, but he made no move to grind or thrust.
This was about her, about tasting her, about worshipping the body he had only seen in stolen photos until tonight. Having her beneath him—real, warm, moaning—was a dream he had never dared fully admit to himself, and now it was happening, and it was driving him mad.
After long minutes—perhaps ten, perhaps more—he lifted his head again, breathing ragged. His lips found her shoulder—the bare one where the strap had already slipped. He kissed there softly at first, then sucked gently at the smooth skin, tongue tracing the delicate bone. His hand slid up her arm, fingers brushing the inside of her elbow, then higher, until he reached her wrist. He lifted her arm slowly, guiding it above her head, then the other, holding both wrists loosely in one large hand against the pillow.
Kavya’s breath hitched at the gentle restraint.
He lowered his mouth to the exposed underside of her raised arm—kissing the soft, smooth skin of her inner bicep, then higher, to the tender hollow of her armpit. It was slightly damp from the heat and the intensity of the moment—warm, salty, intimate. Feroz inhaled deeply, nose pressed to the silky skin, then kissed there—slow, open-mouthed, tongue flicking out to taste the faint sheen of sweat. He sucked gently, lips sealing over the sensitive hollow, tongue swirling in slow circles.
Kavya whimpered—high, needy, stunned by the intimacy of it. No one had ever kissed her there, never mind with such reverence. Her body trembled, hips shifting restlessly beneath him.
He moved to the other armpit—same slow worship: inhaling her scent, kissing the damp skin, tongue tracing, lips sucking gently. His free hand slid down her side, fingers brushing the outer curve of her breast, then lower, resting on her hip again, thumb stroking the bare skin just above her panties.
After what felt like forever—kissing her neck, her cleavage, her shoulders, her armpits—he finally lifted his head, breathing hard against her ear.
He shifted his weight carefully, slowly settling fully between her spread thighs.
His hips pressed down, the thick, iron-hard length of him nestling firmly against her core through the thin layers of their clothes—his pajamas, her soaked panties. The pressure was immediate, intimate, overwhelming. Kavya’s breath caught on a sharp gasp.
Feroz groaned low against her neck—the sound raw, animalistic, vibrating through her skin. He began to move—slow, steady humping, hips rolling in a gentle, deliberate rhythm. Each forward motion dragged his hardness along her slick folds through the fabric, teasing her clit with every pass, building a slow, burning friction that made her thighs tremble.
Kavya felt it all—the heat of him, the unyielding thickness, the controlled power behind every roll of his hips. She had never imagined Feroz like this—never pictured the quiet, gentle man she called Papa capable of such restrained ferocity. There was an animalistic strength in him, a deep, primal hunger that made her feel small and claimed beneath him. Her hands clutched his back, nails digging into his kurta, pulling him closer even as her mind screamed for her to stop.
“Papa…” she whispered, voice shaking. “Stoppp…”
But her body betrayed her words—hips lifting to meet his slow thrusts.
Feroz heard her—registered the plea—but his control was fraying.
He groaned again, deeper this time, the sound muffled against her neck. His lips sucked harder at the tender skin just below her ear, tongue swirling over the pulse point, teeth grazing lightly. His hips rolled again—slow, deep—grinding against her with more insistence.
“Stoppp…” Kavya breathed again, voice weaker, almost a moan. Her hands clutched him tighter, fingers twisting in his kurta, body arching into him even as she tried to calm him. “Papa… please…”
But the word “please” only fueled him.
Feroz’s hand slid down her left thigh, fingers curling around the soft skin behind her knee. He lifted her leg slowly, hooking it higher over his hip, opening her wider. The new angle pressed him deeper against her core—his hardness sliding along her soaked panties, nudging her clit with every slow roll.
Kavya gasped—sharp, stunned—pleasure spiking through her like lightning.
He leaned in more, chest pressing her breasts flat, mouth returning to her neck—kissing, sucking, tasting passionately. His hips rolled again—once, twice, three times—slow but deeper now, each thrust deliberate, powerful, claiming.
On the fourth deep thrust, Kavya’s body jerked, a choked cry tearing from her throat. She felt his strength—raw, unyielding, the way his body caged hers, the way his hips drove against her with controlled force. It was overwhelming, intoxicating, terrifying in its intensity.
“Papa… stop…” she whispered again, voice breaking, hands clutching him desperately. “Please… calm down…”
Feroz froze.
His mouth stilled against her neck, breath hot and ragged against her skin. His hips stilled, pressed hard against her, throbbing with need. For a long moment he didn’t move—body tense, trembling with the effort of restraint.
Then slowly—agonizingly—he relaxed.
They lay like that in silence—bodies still pressed close.
The storm outside began to quiet—rain softening to a steady patter, thunder rumbling farther away.
Inside the room, the storm between them lingered—slow, intense, unresolved.