01-06-2026, 10:37 AM
He let out a low chuckle, the sound vibrating in the quiet night air. "Bapre… Aaj pata chala… Patni jitni khoobsurat hoti hai, utna hi mushkil hota hai uske pati ko door karna." (My god… Today I finally understood… The more beautiful the wife, the harder it is to get her husband away from her.)
Shazia felt a flush creep up her neck—not of embarrassment, but of something more complex. Pride, perhaps. Or pleasure at the compliment wrapped inside the complaint. "Woh thode protective hain... unhe mera kisi aur mard ke paas hona pasand nahi aayega." (He is a bit protective... he won't like me being close to another man.)
She meant it as a warning. A gentle reminder of the boundaries she was already stretching to breaking point. But the words came out softer than she intended, laced with something that sounded almost like regret.
Rohan stopped walking. His hand on her hip tightened, pulling her to a halt beside him. She turned, and found him looking down at her—his dark eyes fixed on hers with an intensity that made her breath catch. In the moonlight, his features were sharp and almost unnervingly beautiful: the strong jaw, the slight quirk of his lips, the way the silver light caught the faint stubble on his cheeks.
"Possessive?" he repeated, and the word dripped with a mocking, knowing amusement. "Ek mard possessive tab hota hai jab woh apni cheez ki hifazat karna chahta hai." (A man is possessive when he wants to protect what is his.) He paused, letting the statement settle. Then his voice dropped, lower and more intimate, as if he was confiding a dark secret. "Insecure tab hota hai, jab use pata ho ki saamne wala uski biwi ko usse behtar khush rakh sakta hai." (He is insecure when he knows the man in front of him can keep his wife happier than he can.)
The words hit Shazia like a slap—not because they were cruel, but because they were devastatingly, undeniably true. She thought of Iqbal sitting at that table in the restaurant, his knuckles white around his water glass, his face a mask of impotent fury while another man ground his erection against his wife's ass on the dance floor. He hadn't intervened. He hadn't protected her. He had simply... watched.
“Could he give you this feeling? Could he ever?”
She didn't answer. She couldn't. Her throat had gone dry.
"Abhi soch ke dekho… agar maine tumhe wahi chhod ke gaya hota, kya woh tumhe ye ehsaas de sakta? Aise nazdeek hoke, aise watawaran mein maze se time bitana?" (Just think about it now… if I had left you right there, could he have given you this feeling? Being this close, spending time so enjoyably in an atmosphere like this?)
No. The answer was immediate and absolute. Iqbal had never made her feel like this—never walked with her under moonlight, never made her heart race with a single, knowing glance, never touched her with the casual, possessive confidence of a man who knew exactly what he wanted and was not afraid to take it. Iqbal's love—if it could even be called that—was a cage. Rohan's attention was a liberation.
And that terrified her.
"Jaldi chalo… laut aate hain jaldi," (Come fast... let's return soon,) she said, her voice trembling with the effort of resistance.
She tried to quicken her pace, but the towering four-inch stilettos she wore—the same heels that had made her hips sway so hypnotically on the dance floor—were a liability on the uneven, decorative stones of the path. Her ankle wobbled. She stumbled forward, her arms flailing for balance.
Rohan caught her.
His arm wrapped around her waist—not gently, but firmly, decisively, pulling her flush against his side. Her body collided with his, the soft, yielding curves of her breasts and hips pressing against the hard planes of his chest and thighs. She felt the solid wall of his torso, the strength coiled in his muscles, the heat of him seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt and her saree. Her hand, instinctively, came up to grip his shoulder. Her fingers curled into the expensive cotton, feeling the ridge of his collarbone beneath.
"Careful," he murmured, but he didn't let go. His arm stayed wrapped around her waist, his hand splayed across the bare skin of her lower back, his thumb resting just above the swell of her buttocks. He kept her tethered to his side.
Continuing to support her walking, Rohan wrapped his muscular arms around her from behind, pulling her voluptuous body violently flush against his side. His forearms rested low across her lower back, just above the swell of her ass, and with every step she took, his arms shifted subtly, allowing him to feel the alternating flex and release of her buttocks bumping softly against him. The path wound deeper into the cluster of cottages, away from the main building, away from the restaurant, away from her husband and children. The silence here was deeper, more absolute. The cottages were dark, their occupants either asleep or still at the lounge. There was no one to witness them.
Feeling the night air on her skin, feeling the warmth of his body against hers, Shazia felt the last vestiges of her resistance begin to crumble. She raised both her arms high above her head, gathering her dark hair that the night wind had begun to unravel. It was a practical gesture—her clip had come loose, the strands falling in her face. But her body, moving on its own instinct, transformed the motion into something else entirely.
Shazia felt a flush creep up her neck—not of embarrassment, but of something more complex. Pride, perhaps. Or pleasure at the compliment wrapped inside the complaint. "Woh thode protective hain... unhe mera kisi aur mard ke paas hona pasand nahi aayega." (He is a bit protective... he won't like me being close to another man.)
She meant it as a warning. A gentle reminder of the boundaries she was already stretching to breaking point. But the words came out softer than she intended, laced with something that sounded almost like regret.
Rohan stopped walking. His hand on her hip tightened, pulling her to a halt beside him. She turned, and found him looking down at her—his dark eyes fixed on hers with an intensity that made her breath catch. In the moonlight, his features were sharp and almost unnervingly beautiful: the strong jaw, the slight quirk of his lips, the way the silver light caught the faint stubble on his cheeks.
"Possessive?" he repeated, and the word dripped with a mocking, knowing amusement. "Ek mard possessive tab hota hai jab woh apni cheez ki hifazat karna chahta hai." (A man is possessive when he wants to protect what is his.) He paused, letting the statement settle. Then his voice dropped, lower and more intimate, as if he was confiding a dark secret. "Insecure tab hota hai, jab use pata ho ki saamne wala uski biwi ko usse behtar khush rakh sakta hai." (He is insecure when he knows the man in front of him can keep his wife happier than he can.)
The words hit Shazia like a slap—not because they were cruel, but because they were devastatingly, undeniably true. She thought of Iqbal sitting at that table in the restaurant, his knuckles white around his water glass, his face a mask of impotent fury while another man ground his erection against his wife's ass on the dance floor. He hadn't intervened. He hadn't protected her. He had simply... watched.
“Could he give you this feeling? Could he ever?”
She didn't answer. She couldn't. Her throat had gone dry.
"Abhi soch ke dekho… agar maine tumhe wahi chhod ke gaya hota, kya woh tumhe ye ehsaas de sakta? Aise nazdeek hoke, aise watawaran mein maze se time bitana?" (Just think about it now… if I had left you right there, could he have given you this feeling? Being this close, spending time so enjoyably in an atmosphere like this?)
No. The answer was immediate and absolute. Iqbal had never made her feel like this—never walked with her under moonlight, never made her heart race with a single, knowing glance, never touched her with the casual, possessive confidence of a man who knew exactly what he wanted and was not afraid to take it. Iqbal's love—if it could even be called that—was a cage. Rohan's attention was a liberation.
And that terrified her.
"Jaldi chalo… laut aate hain jaldi," (Come fast... let's return soon,) she said, her voice trembling with the effort of resistance.
She tried to quicken her pace, but the towering four-inch stilettos she wore—the same heels that had made her hips sway so hypnotically on the dance floor—were a liability on the uneven, decorative stones of the path. Her ankle wobbled. She stumbled forward, her arms flailing for balance.
Rohan caught her.
His arm wrapped around her waist—not gently, but firmly, decisively, pulling her flush against his side. Her body collided with his, the soft, yielding curves of her breasts and hips pressing against the hard planes of his chest and thighs. She felt the solid wall of his torso, the strength coiled in his muscles, the heat of him seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt and her saree. Her hand, instinctively, came up to grip his shoulder. Her fingers curled into the expensive cotton, feeling the ridge of his collarbone beneath.
"Careful," he murmured, but he didn't let go. His arm stayed wrapped around her waist, his hand splayed across the bare skin of her lower back, his thumb resting just above the swell of her buttocks. He kept her tethered to his side.
Continuing to support her walking, Rohan wrapped his muscular arms around her from behind, pulling her voluptuous body violently flush against his side. His forearms rested low across her lower back, just above the swell of her ass, and with every step she took, his arms shifted subtly, allowing him to feel the alternating flex and release of her buttocks bumping softly against him. The path wound deeper into the cluster of cottages, away from the main building, away from the restaurant, away from her husband and children. The silence here was deeper, more absolute. The cottages were dark, their occupants either asleep or still at the lounge. There was no one to witness them.
Feeling the night air on her skin, feeling the warmth of his body against hers, Shazia felt the last vestiges of her resistance begin to crumble. She raised both her arms high above her head, gathering her dark hair that the night wind had begun to unravel. It was a practical gesture—her clip had come loose, the strands falling in her face. But her body, moving on its own instinct, transformed the motion into something else entirely.
Disclaimer:
All photos, GIFs, and videos are either own or derived from the internet. PM for complaint/removal of any posted content.
All photos, GIFs, and videos are either own or derived from the internet. PM for complaint/removal of any posted content.
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