22-01-2026, 02:56 AM
CHAPTER – 78
Feroz had been a widower for years. In all those years, he had never sought companionship, never allowed himself the intimacy of another woman. It wasn't just grief; it was a self-imposed vow of sorts—a quiet devotion to Aisha's memory, a belief that no one could replace the softness of her touch, the warmth of her body in their bed. He had buried his desires deep, channeling them into work, poetry, and family. Sex had become a distant echo, something from another life, controlled and forgotten.
The sexual tension with Kavya had built in layers. The kitchen brushes, the veranda chais, the power-cut nights where boundaries blurred. He felt it in every shared silence, every time their eyes met a little too long. It was hard for him to control—years of celibacy had left him starved, and Kavya’s youth, her softness, her unwitting sensuality, was like rain on parched earth. He prayed for strength, but the animal inside him stirred stronger each day.
The storm outside had begun to fade, the thunder retreating to distant rumbles, the rain softening from a furious assault to a steady, lulling patter against the roof. Inside the room, the absolute darkness felt heavier now—oppressive, intimate, a blanket that trapped their shared breaths and the lingering heat of their bodies. Feroz lay on his side beside Kavya, his arm still dbangd loosely around her waist, her head resting on his shoulder, their legs tangled beneath the thin sheet. The nighty was still bunched at her waist, her bare thighs pressed against his pajama-clad ones, the damp fabric of her panties a silent reminder of how close they had come to crossing the final line.
Neither spoke for what felt like an eternity. The only sounds were their breathing: his deep and ragged, hers shallow and unsteady. Feroz stared into the blackness, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest, guilt crashing over him in waves that made his stomach churn. He was sixty-two—a man who had lived a life of honour, of quiet devotion to family, of burying desires that had no place in his world. Kavya was his bahu, his son's wife, a girl he had welcomed into the family with open arms, treated like a daughter. Yet here he was, lying beside her after tasting her neck, inhaling her scent, feeling her body arch beneath him. The memory of her moans, the way her thighs had trembled, the forbidden thrill of her cleavage under his lips—it all flooded back, making his hardness throb painfully against his pajamas, even now. He wanted to roll away, to leave the room, to pray for forgiveness until dawn. But his arm stayed around her, fingers lightly tracing the curve of her hip without meaning to, the tension in his body like a coiled spring, hard to control after months of slow-building desire. Those accidental photos had been the spark—the way he had traced her curves in secret every other night, the guilt feeding the fire until it burned out of control. Tonight, with the storm and the darkness, the line had blurred too far. He felt ashamed, a deep, gnawing shame that made his throat tight. "Ya ,.'," he whispered in his mind, "what have I done?"
Kavya lay curled against him, her hand resting on his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath her palm. She stared into the dark, eyes wide, a storm of her own raging inside. Shame burned hot in her cheeks, her stomach twisting with guilt.
This was her father-in-law, the man who had welcomed her into the family with kindness, who told her stories during power cuts, who protected her secrets like the photos she had accidentally sent. He was her father's age, a man of respect, of quiet strength. How had she let this happen? How had she pulled him closer, moaned under his mouth, arched into his kisses? The thought made her want to curl into a ball and disappear. She was married to Danish—her husband, her love—and yet here she was, lying half-naked beside his father, her body still humming with the pleasure of his touch. Guilt clawed at her, sharp and unrelenting, making her eyes sting with unshed tears. She should get up, ask him to leave, pray for forgiveness. But deep inside, buried under the shame, was something else—a quiet, forbidden awe. She had never experienced anything like this with a man her father's age: the raw strength in his body, the way he had worshipped her neck with such hunger and care, the animalistic power simmering beneath his gentle exterior. It was intense, overwhelming, a mix of tenderness and ferocity that left her breathless. Danish was loving, passionate, but this was different—deeper, more primal, like being claimed by a force she didn’t know existed. She felt ashamed for the thought, guilty for the way her body still ached for more, but she couldn’t deny it.
The power cut stretching on like an endless night. The air was still thick and humid, heavy with the scent of wet earth seeping through the windows, mingled with the jasmine from Kavya’s hair and the faint musk of their shared heat. Feroz lay on his back, one arm wrapped around Kavya’s shoulders, holding her gently against his side. Her head rested on his chest, ear pressed to the steady thud of his heart. Her hand lay flat on his stomach, fingers lightly curled into the fabric of his kurta, as if anchoring herself to him. His free hand rested on her upper arm, thumb tracing slow, soothing circles over the smooth, bare skin—gentle, reassuring, a quiet rhythm to calm the lingering echoes of her fear.
Kavya nestled closer, her body soft and yielding against his, breaths slow and even now. The terror of the darkness had ebbed, but it lingered in the back of her mind like shadows in the corners of the room.
But tonight, with Feroz beside her, the fear had transformed into something manageable. She felt his caring in every gentle touch, every whispered reassurance. Despite what had happened between them—the slow, intense kisses on her neck, the way his mouth had worshipped her skin—he had stopped when she asked, had pulled back with trembling restraint. It showed a maturity she had always admired in him, a self-control that made her feel safe, protected, even in this vulnerable moment.
He was a man her father's age, wise and steady, yet his presence was a comforting anchor—caring, patient, always putting her needs first. Deep inside, beneath the guilt, she felt a quiet gratitude: no one else had ever calmed her like this, held her through the fear without judgment, made the darkness feel less like an enemy and more like a shared secret.
Feroz stared into the blackness, his heart still racing, body tense with the effort of restraint. His arm around her was loose but secure, holding her gently, fingers lightly stroking her shoulder as if to remind himself she was safe. The guilt was a knife in his chest—sharp, twisting. He was her father-in-law, a man who had vowed to protect her like a daughter, yet tonight he had let desire take over, had tasted her neck with a hunger he hadn't felt in years since his Wife’s death.
It was hard for him to control now; his hardness still throbbed against her thigh, aching for release, his mind replaying the way her skin had tasted, the soft moans she had made. But he held back—mature, self-controlled, knowing one more move could shatter everything. He cared for her deeply—beyond the forbidden desire, he saw her as family, as the light in his son's life, and that caring made him pull back, made him whisper soothing words even as his body screamed for more.
"Shhh, beta," he murmured again, voice low and steady, though it trembled slightly. "The storm is passing. Close your eyes. I'm right here."
she whispered, voice soft and vulnerable. "You always make me feel safe… even in the dark. No one else ever has."
He swallowed hard, guilt deepening—guilt for the way he had pushed, for the hunger that still simmered beneath his skin. "That's what family is for," he replied, his hand moving to stroke her hair gently, fingers threading through the soft waves. "You're like a daughter to me. I'll always protect you." She felt the truth in his words—the caring, the maturity.
It was 4:17 AM when the first faint gray light began to seep through the heavy curtains of Kavya's bedroom, turning the absolute blackness into a murky twilight. The storm had long since quieted—rain reduced to a soft drizzle, thunder a distant memory, the wind now a gentle sigh against the windows. The power was still out, the room cool and heavy with humidity
Feroz shifted slightly, his arm tightening around her for a moment before loosening. He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and began to slide his hand away from her arm. "Beta… it's almost morning. The storm is over. I should go."
Kavya's eyes snapped open at the movement. She lifted her head from his chest.
He paused, lying back down fully, their faces now inches apart in the dim gray light seeping through the curtains. They looked into each other's eyes—his dark and conflicted, filled with guilt and lingering desire; hers wide and ashamed, but soft with gratitude and something unspoken.
For long minutes—perhaps five, perhaps ten—they just stayed like that, gazes locked. Feroz's eyes searched hers, then flicked down to her lips—soft, parted, still swollen from the intensity of the night. Then lower, to the deep cleavage exposed by her slipped neckline, the soft swells of her breasts rising and falling with her breaths, nipples still hardened against the thin fabric. He did it a few times—eyes drifting from hers to her lips to her cleavage—each glance longer than the last. It was hard for him—the desire still burned, his hardness aching, the softness of her body pressed against him a constant temptation. Guilt clawed at him, but the pull was stronger, his breath growing ragged again.
Kavya noticed—felt his gaze like a touch, heat blooming in her cheeks, her stomach twisting with shame. She knew she should look away, adjust her nighty, push him out. But she didn’t. Instead, her tongue darted out unconsciously, moistening her lips, a small, nervous gesture that made her heart race. She didn’t know what would happen next—didn’t know if she wanted it to stop or continue.
The guilt made her whisper in her mind, "This is wrong… he's Papa…" but the caring she felt from him—the way he had calmed her fear, held her through the night—made her stay still, eyes locked on his.
Feroz leaned in slowly—hesitant, inevitable.
His lips brushed her cheek first—a soft, gentle kiss meant as a goodmorning.
But he remained there, face hovering inches from hers, eyes still locked, breaths mingling. The kiss on her cheek lingered, his lips not fully pulling away, stubble grazing her softly.
Then he leaned down again—slowly, deliberately—and pecked her neck one more time.
What started as a single, soft peck turned into more.
His lips pressed to the side of her neck, parting slightly, tongue flicking out to taste the skin he had worshipped earlier. The peck deepened—lips sucking gently, then harder, tongue swirling over the pulse point in slow, wet circles. He moved to the other side, kissing passionately, lips open, tongue tracing the delicate tendon, sucking the tender flesh until she gasped. His stubble scbangd deliciously, leaving faint red marks. The kisses lasted a few minutes—passionate, unrelenting—his mouth devouring both sides of her neck, then dipping lower to her cleavage. Lips sealing over the upper swells of her breasts, tongue swirling over the soft skin, sucking lightly at the inner curves through the nighty. He kissed the deep valley between them, nose nuzzling, lips parting wide to taste every inch.
Kavya’s breath hitched, a soft moan escaping her. Her hands clutched his hair again, pulling him closer without thinking.
After a while—perhaps five minutes, perhaps more—he finally stopped, lifting his head with a shuddering breath.
And after a while he left the room leaving kavya laying on the bed breathing heavy.
Feroz had been a widower for years. In all those years, he had never sought companionship, never allowed himself the intimacy of another woman. It wasn't just grief; it was a self-imposed vow of sorts—a quiet devotion to Aisha's memory, a belief that no one could replace the softness of her touch, the warmth of her body in their bed. He had buried his desires deep, channeling them into work, poetry, and family. Sex had become a distant echo, something from another life, controlled and forgotten.
The sexual tension with Kavya had built in layers. The kitchen brushes, the veranda chais, the power-cut nights where boundaries blurred. He felt it in every shared silence, every time their eyes met a little too long. It was hard for him to control—years of celibacy had left him starved, and Kavya’s youth, her softness, her unwitting sensuality, was like rain on parched earth. He prayed for strength, but the animal inside him stirred stronger each day.
The storm outside had begun to fade, the thunder retreating to distant rumbles, the rain softening from a furious assault to a steady, lulling patter against the roof. Inside the room, the absolute darkness felt heavier now—oppressive, intimate, a blanket that trapped their shared breaths and the lingering heat of their bodies. Feroz lay on his side beside Kavya, his arm still dbangd loosely around her waist, her head resting on his shoulder, their legs tangled beneath the thin sheet. The nighty was still bunched at her waist, her bare thighs pressed against his pajama-clad ones, the damp fabric of her panties a silent reminder of how close they had come to crossing the final line.
Neither spoke for what felt like an eternity. The only sounds were their breathing: his deep and ragged, hers shallow and unsteady. Feroz stared into the blackness, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest, guilt crashing over him in waves that made his stomach churn. He was sixty-two—a man who had lived a life of honour, of quiet devotion to family, of burying desires that had no place in his world. Kavya was his bahu, his son's wife, a girl he had welcomed into the family with open arms, treated like a daughter. Yet here he was, lying beside her after tasting her neck, inhaling her scent, feeling her body arch beneath him. The memory of her moans, the way her thighs had trembled, the forbidden thrill of her cleavage under his lips—it all flooded back, making his hardness throb painfully against his pajamas, even now. He wanted to roll away, to leave the room, to pray for forgiveness until dawn. But his arm stayed around her, fingers lightly tracing the curve of her hip without meaning to, the tension in his body like a coiled spring, hard to control after months of slow-building desire. Those accidental photos had been the spark—the way he had traced her curves in secret every other night, the guilt feeding the fire until it burned out of control. Tonight, with the storm and the darkness, the line had blurred too far. He felt ashamed, a deep, gnawing shame that made his throat tight. "Ya ,.'," he whispered in his mind, "what have I done?"
Kavya lay curled against him, her hand resting on his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath her palm. She stared into the dark, eyes wide, a storm of her own raging inside. Shame burned hot in her cheeks, her stomach twisting with guilt.
This was her father-in-law, the man who had welcomed her into the family with kindness, who told her stories during power cuts, who protected her secrets like the photos she had accidentally sent. He was her father's age, a man of respect, of quiet strength. How had she let this happen? How had she pulled him closer, moaned under his mouth, arched into his kisses? The thought made her want to curl into a ball and disappear. She was married to Danish—her husband, her love—and yet here she was, lying half-naked beside his father, her body still humming with the pleasure of his touch. Guilt clawed at her, sharp and unrelenting, making her eyes sting with unshed tears. She should get up, ask him to leave, pray for forgiveness. But deep inside, buried under the shame, was something else—a quiet, forbidden awe. She had never experienced anything like this with a man her father's age: the raw strength in his body, the way he had worshipped her neck with such hunger and care, the animalistic power simmering beneath his gentle exterior. It was intense, overwhelming, a mix of tenderness and ferocity that left her breathless. Danish was loving, passionate, but this was different—deeper, more primal, like being claimed by a force she didn’t know existed. She felt ashamed for the thought, guilty for the way her body still ached for more, but she couldn’t deny it.
The power cut stretching on like an endless night. The air was still thick and humid, heavy with the scent of wet earth seeping through the windows, mingled with the jasmine from Kavya’s hair and the faint musk of their shared heat. Feroz lay on his back, one arm wrapped around Kavya’s shoulders, holding her gently against his side. Her head rested on his chest, ear pressed to the steady thud of his heart. Her hand lay flat on his stomach, fingers lightly curled into the fabric of his kurta, as if anchoring herself to him. His free hand rested on her upper arm, thumb tracing slow, soothing circles over the smooth, bare skin—gentle, reassuring, a quiet rhythm to calm the lingering echoes of her fear.
Kavya nestled closer, her body soft and yielding against his, breaths slow and even now. The terror of the darkness had ebbed, but it lingered in the back of her mind like shadows in the corners of the room.
But tonight, with Feroz beside her, the fear had transformed into something manageable. She felt his caring in every gentle touch, every whispered reassurance. Despite what had happened between them—the slow, intense kisses on her neck, the way his mouth had worshipped her skin—he had stopped when she asked, had pulled back with trembling restraint. It showed a maturity she had always admired in him, a self-control that made her feel safe, protected, even in this vulnerable moment.
He was a man her father's age, wise and steady, yet his presence was a comforting anchor—caring, patient, always putting her needs first. Deep inside, beneath the guilt, she felt a quiet gratitude: no one else had ever calmed her like this, held her through the fear without judgment, made the darkness feel less like an enemy and more like a shared secret.
Feroz stared into the blackness, his heart still racing, body tense with the effort of restraint. His arm around her was loose but secure, holding her gently, fingers lightly stroking her shoulder as if to remind himself she was safe. The guilt was a knife in his chest—sharp, twisting. He was her father-in-law, a man who had vowed to protect her like a daughter, yet tonight he had let desire take over, had tasted her neck with a hunger he hadn't felt in years since his Wife’s death.
It was hard for him to control now; his hardness still throbbed against her thigh, aching for release, his mind replaying the way her skin had tasted, the soft moans she had made. But he held back—mature, self-controlled, knowing one more move could shatter everything. He cared for her deeply—beyond the forbidden desire, he saw her as family, as the light in his son's life, and that caring made him pull back, made him whisper soothing words even as his body screamed for more.
"Shhh, beta," he murmured again, voice low and steady, though it trembled slightly. "The storm is passing. Close your eyes. I'm right here."
she whispered, voice soft and vulnerable. "You always make me feel safe… even in the dark. No one else ever has."
He swallowed hard, guilt deepening—guilt for the way he had pushed, for the hunger that still simmered beneath his skin. "That's what family is for," he replied, his hand moving to stroke her hair gently, fingers threading through the soft waves. "You're like a daughter to me. I'll always protect you." She felt the truth in his words—the caring, the maturity.
It was 4:17 AM when the first faint gray light began to seep through the heavy curtains of Kavya's bedroom, turning the absolute blackness into a murky twilight. The storm had long since quieted—rain reduced to a soft drizzle, thunder a distant memory, the wind now a gentle sigh against the windows. The power was still out, the room cool and heavy with humidity
Feroz shifted slightly, his arm tightening around her for a moment before loosening. He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and began to slide his hand away from her arm. "Beta… it's almost morning. The storm is over. I should go."
Kavya's eyes snapped open at the movement. She lifted her head from his chest.
He paused, lying back down fully, their faces now inches apart in the dim gray light seeping through the curtains. They looked into each other's eyes—his dark and conflicted, filled with guilt and lingering desire; hers wide and ashamed, but soft with gratitude and something unspoken.
For long minutes—perhaps five, perhaps ten—they just stayed like that, gazes locked. Feroz's eyes searched hers, then flicked down to her lips—soft, parted, still swollen from the intensity of the night. Then lower, to the deep cleavage exposed by her slipped neckline, the soft swells of her breasts rising and falling with her breaths, nipples still hardened against the thin fabric. He did it a few times—eyes drifting from hers to her lips to her cleavage—each glance longer than the last. It was hard for him—the desire still burned, his hardness aching, the softness of her body pressed against him a constant temptation. Guilt clawed at him, but the pull was stronger, his breath growing ragged again.
Kavya noticed—felt his gaze like a touch, heat blooming in her cheeks, her stomach twisting with shame. She knew she should look away, adjust her nighty, push him out. But she didn’t. Instead, her tongue darted out unconsciously, moistening her lips, a small, nervous gesture that made her heart race. She didn’t know what would happen next—didn’t know if she wanted it to stop or continue.
The guilt made her whisper in her mind, "This is wrong… he's Papa…" but the caring she felt from him—the way he had calmed her fear, held her through the night—made her stay still, eyes locked on his.
Feroz leaned in slowly—hesitant, inevitable.
His lips brushed her cheek first—a soft, gentle kiss meant as a goodmorning.
But he remained there, face hovering inches from hers, eyes still locked, breaths mingling. The kiss on her cheek lingered, his lips not fully pulling away, stubble grazing her softly.
Then he leaned down again—slowly, deliberately—and pecked her neck one more time.
What started as a single, soft peck turned into more.
His lips pressed to the side of her neck, parting slightly, tongue flicking out to taste the skin he had worshipped earlier. The peck deepened—lips sucking gently, then harder, tongue swirling over the pulse point in slow, wet circles. He moved to the other side, kissing passionately, lips open, tongue tracing the delicate tendon, sucking the tender flesh until she gasped. His stubble scbangd deliciously, leaving faint red marks. The kisses lasted a few minutes—passionate, unrelenting—his mouth devouring both sides of her neck, then dipping lower to her cleavage. Lips sealing over the upper swells of her breasts, tongue swirling over the soft skin, sucking lightly at the inner curves through the nighty. He kissed the deep valley between them, nose nuzzling, lips parting wide to taste every inch.
Kavya’s breath hitched, a soft moan escaping her. Her hands clutched his hair again, pulling him closer without thinking.
After a while—perhaps five minutes, perhaps more—he finally stopped, lifting his head with a shuddering breath.
And after a while he left the room leaving kavya laying on the bed breathing heavy.
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