04-02-2026, 07:13 PM
Beedaa’s kiss lingered longer this time in the cramped bathroom — slower, deeper, his tongue exploring hers with a patience that belied the hunger underneath. Divya’s hands stayed curled loosely in his vest, no longer pushing,
Then she felt it.
His rough fingers had already found the tucked end of her pallu at her waist. With one firm tug, the maroon fabric began to loosen — sliding free from the fold, the gold border whispering against itself as it started to unravel. His other hand joined the first, pulling steadily, insistently. The saree gave way inch by inch, pleats coming undone, the pallu slipping off her shoulder completely and pooling at her elbow.
The cool tiled wall pressed against her bare midriff now, blouse fully exposed, the deep neckline riding low from the earlier struggle.
Divya’s eyes snapped open.
Reality crashed back in a cold wave.
She broke the kiss with a sharp gasp, head turning away, hands finally pushing again — harder this time.
“No… don’t do that!”
Her voice cracked — small, urgent, trembling with a mix of panic and leftover heat.
Beedaa froze. His hands stilled on the half-unwrapped saree, fingers still gripping the fabric but no longer pulling. He didn’t release her entirely — one palm stayed flat against her lower back, keeping her body pinned gently to the wall — but the aggressive unraveling stopped.
He pulled his head back just enough to look down at her face. Dark eyes searched hers — intense, unblinking. No anger. No frustration. Just that same quiet patience, like a man who’d expected this moment eventually.
Divya’s chest heaved. Her lips were swollen, glistening. Pallu hung loose, saree half-off one shoulder, blouse askew, exposing the upper curves of her breasts and the black bra strap that had slipped down her arm. She looked vulnerable, disheveled, beautiful in a way that made his throat work visibly.
“Please…” she whispered, voice barely audible over the drip of the tap in the corner. “Yeh… yeh nahi. Ghar mein… Monu andar hai. Ranjith ji… kabhi bhi aa sakte hain. Please… mat karo.”
Then she felt it.
His rough fingers had already found the tucked end of her pallu at her waist. With one firm tug, the maroon fabric began to loosen — sliding free from the fold, the gold border whispering against itself as it started to unravel. His other hand joined the first, pulling steadily, insistently. The saree gave way inch by inch, pleats coming undone, the pallu slipping off her shoulder completely and pooling at her elbow.
The cool tiled wall pressed against her bare midriff now, blouse fully exposed, the deep neckline riding low from the earlier struggle.
Divya’s eyes snapped open.
Reality crashed back in a cold wave.
She broke the kiss with a sharp gasp, head turning away, hands finally pushing again — harder this time.
“No… don’t do that!”
Her voice cracked — small, urgent, trembling with a mix of panic and leftover heat.
Beedaa froze. His hands stilled on the half-unwrapped saree, fingers still gripping the fabric but no longer pulling. He didn’t release her entirely — one palm stayed flat against her lower back, keeping her body pinned gently to the wall — but the aggressive unraveling stopped.
He pulled his head back just enough to look down at her face. Dark eyes searched hers — intense, unblinking. No anger. No frustration. Just that same quiet patience, like a man who’d expected this moment eventually.
Divya’s chest heaved. Her lips were swollen, glistening. Pallu hung loose, saree half-off one shoulder, blouse askew, exposing the upper curves of her breasts and the black bra strap that had slipped down her arm. She looked vulnerable, disheveled, beautiful in a way that made his throat work visibly.
“Please…” she whispered, voice barely audible over the drip of the tap in the corner. “Yeh… yeh nahi. Ghar mein… Monu andar hai. Ranjith ji… kabhi bhi aa sakte hain. Please… mat karo.”
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