Azaan pressed me down on the bed. I gasped as he climbed on top of me, my pulse kicking against the inside of my wrist under the steady, warm weight of his body. The mattress creaked softly beneath us; a curtain of dim light pooled from the bedside lamp, turning the room into a private, honeyed theater where every small movement was magnified. His lips and teeth descended along my neck, leaving hickeys and love bites like hot punctuation; he lingered at the soft hollow where my neck met my shoulder, lavishing attention there until that little juncture of flesh felt both worshiped and branded.

I arched as his hard cock ground against my thigh. The sensation was at once animal and intimate—the stubborn heat of him pressing insistently at my skin. His hands travelled with practiced care: one steady at my waist, securing me as if to promise he wouldn't let anything go; the other cupped the side of my cheek, thumb tracing the seam of my lower lip in a slow, owning rhythm. The friction of his hip, the press of his chest at mine, the rough-sweet graze of his mouth against my throat made me inhale sharply as he humped my thigh, the motion small but incendiary.

He grunted, breath low and rough, "This is the best gift you could ever give me, Wife," and captured my lips for the fifth time that night—hungry, reverent, as though pressing his mouth to mine could somehow remind him I was real. His kiss was warm and insistent; when it broke the air between us seemed fuller, as if oxygen itself had been reshaped around us.

His hands sketched arcs across my bare skin, gathering what felt like rose petals, little crescents of skin warmed by his touch—over my belly and hips. My saree had been discarded somewhere behind us without ceremony; tonight reverence had been traded for rawness. I was down to my blouse, the lower half exposed, and he was shirtless too, sleeves and manners shed. 

The simplicity of it—the ordinary way our bodies fit together—felt startling. I had imagined surrender many times in the shadowed hush of my thoughts, but never like this: messy, intimate, threaded with humor and ownership. It was his birthday, and giving myself felt absurdly, perfectly right—like a thank-you note written in the language of skin and breath.

Under it all, something deeper had shifted: my own timid axis had tilted toward wanting. He lifted my chin until our eyes met. His gaze held a dozen promises, and his voice, when he spoke, was low and deliberate. "Tell me how you want me—behind, face-to-face, against the wall?" he asked, as if offering me a catalogue of options and the freedom to choose. "You get to decide, so tell me, Heaven, before I lose my cool and pin you down and fuck the preference out of you," he murmured against the hollow of my throat in both a dare and a plea.

Words like that loosened something in me. The scenarios he traced with his voice wild, commanding, tender—blurred with the present until someone else's past judgment felt very far away. When his teeth grazed the column of my neck, a small, involuntary sound left me, and I bit at my lower lip. "Mujhe nahi, nahi pata,"  ["I don't know"] I blurted in a mix of Hindi and breath.

His brow lifted; a question softened his features. "Kya nahi pata, Jaan? Ye ki aap nahi janti apko apka pati kaise pyar karta hua chahiye?" [What's it, Jaan? You don't know how do you want your husband to love you?] he said, the phrase rolling like a familiar lullaby and yet sharp with curiosity. My cheeks warmed, crimson spreading beneath his palms.

"I don't know... I don't know anything," I confessed, the words small and embarrassed and somehow honest.

There was a pause long enough for me to think panic might take hold, and then comprehension softened his face. "You're a virgin?" His voice was a rough whisper, more disbelieving than shocked. "Fuck..."

I felt my throat constrict. "I am...so-so s-sorry, I didn't—" The apology tumbled out, clumsy and unnecessary.

He shushed me with a kiss that bruised and steadied at once, ending in a small, soft pop when his lips left mine. "You have nothing to apologise for. I do, for what I am gonna do to you," he said, and the tenderness threaded through his words steadied something in my chest.

In one fluid sweep he kicked off his trousers and pushed them aside, revealing that stubborn, beautiful hardness. His cock rose, thick and fully erect, the pink tip gleaming with precum. Light pooled along the plane of his skin, making him look sculpted and familiar at once; the sight, far from shocking, felt like another language we were learning together.

He gave his shaft a single, deliberate squeeze before settling back over me. The contact made my breath hitch. "Mujhse nahi hogaa...I can't—" I started, the fear and wonder braided in my voice.

"You were made for this," he murmured, one thumb brushing my bottom lip as if bookmarking the moment. "Breathe with me when I fill you..." His certainty wrapped around the words, and it steadied me in a way no speech could.

His hands moved with surety: one palmed himself while the other nudged me open, circling the tip of him on my entrance with a pressure that was teasing and terrifying in equal measure. The sensation rolled through me—sharp, aching, electric—until I begged, "Oh fuck...pleaseee..."

"I don't wanna hurt you," he whispered, leaning in, and then kissed the place he meant to enter. Then the slope of my pussy like small souvenirs. His tongue coaxed gently at the rim, a slow, exploratory prodding that felt like an assessment and a promise. "Shh...relax. I am not gonna hurt you...much. Not tonight." The small attempt at humor in his tone made me manage a breathy, shaky laugh that dissolved into another intake of air.

With the softness of his mouth on me, two of his fingers slipped inside, moving with patient, teasing strokes along my lower walls. The sensation unspooled through me, and my head lolled back. He lifted my chin so I met his gaze; his onyx eyes were steady, hawkish with focus yet soft with care.

When his fingers left, he pinched my nipple through my blouse, gentle at first, then rolling it between thumb and forefinger until the sensation threaded through me like a live wire. Time expanded and contracted: what felt like an eternity had been barely thirty minutes, long enough to make my nerves sing and short enough not to break me. By the time his fingers withdrew and he prepared to enter properly, I felt both raw and readied, exposed and held.

He lay down over me and, inch by inch, began to push in. He paused when he hit that tight, unfamiliar place inside me he didn't force it; instead, he rested his forehead to mine, fingers tangling in my hair as if anchoring both of us. "It's okay—breathe with me, in and out," he told me, and matched his breath to mine until my inhales and exhales were no longer mine alone but shared cadence.

When I relaxed around him, he slid forward, and for a suspended second I felt utterly, achingly full — not pain so much as the overwhelming, almost absurd realization that something had been fitted into a place inside me I hadn't known was waiting. I couldn't help the strangled little yelp that escaped me. "Oh...I can't...I can't," I whispered, undone by the sensation.

His hand at my throat was not possessive so much as anchoring: gentle pressure, a promise to steady what might otherwise tumble. "You are made for this... but if it gets too much I will stop," he said, and tucked a softness into the edge of the command.

Then he bent and took my nipple in his mouth. The world narrowed to a point: the slick press of his tongue, the rock of his hips, the small, involuntary noises that left me. He thrust; my mouth fell open in a sound that felt part prayer, part astonishment. "Oh...my god," I moaned.

He thrust again, keeping the rhythm relentless, and between movements said, "As much as I like the term 'God'—" Thrust. "—I will appreciate my name falling out of your mouth like a prayer." Thrust, the cadence biting into the syllables. "It's not God who's doing all sorts of unholy things to you," he added with a small laugh that was half commandment and half caress, then returned to my nipples with a hunger that was both fierce and oddly reverent.

I could not hold my scream. "Azaan," I cried out, voice raw.

"Yeah baby, louder," he urged, driving into me with a tender ruthlessness that sent stabs of sensation through my limbs. When my fingers clawed at the bedsheet he captured my hands, hot and sure, and told me, "Bite me, scratch me. Don't stop touching me." He wanted to see my reaction writ on my face; he wanted proof I was there with him, that this was mutual and not merely taken.

My nails sank into his shoulder as he continued, alternately planting his mouth on my nipples and my lips, his attention moving like a deliberate punctuation. The pleasure ratcheted up in careful increments—the slow build, the tug-and-release, that kept me hovering at the edge rather than snapping in sudden collapse. Then, when we both teetered on the brink, he sealed our mouths in a soft, claiming kiss and spilled into me, filling me in a way that felt at once violent and perfectly integrative.

The release that swept through me was raw and blindingly physical; it shook me down to the marrow. He didn't pull away or let the aftermath splinter me; he stayed, riding out the tremors alongside me, his body a steadying presence that prevented the fall from being too far.

After a few minutes he eased back and looked at me, breath uneven and eyes star-bright with something like worship. "God, you are so beautiful," he said, then reached to cradle my lower lip with a thumb, marveling at the flushed, swollen softness his mouth had made.

"Of course I would look beautiful to you, after you have fucked the dignity out of me..." I answered, surprised at the bitter laughter that tasted almost proud.

He rolled beside me, body folding against mine, still not entirely free. "Not that beautifully fucked type," he said, smile soft and oddly pious. "More like the sinner-who-finally-wrecked-heaven type."

"You finally admitted you're a sinner, huh?" I teased, reaching up to ruffle the hair at his temple.

"I always was, Heaven," he chuckled, his hand sweeping across my ribs to rest where our bodies joined. "I just found my home." He tapped the small hollow between us with a little, satisfied sigh.

I smacked his chest lightly. "Aren't you going to pull out?" I asked, voice lazy with the aftershocks of release.

He shook his head and grinned, unabashed. "Of course not." His fingers threaded through my hair and held my face as we lay tangled, the hush of the room populated by soft sighs and the faint, steady beat of our hearts returning to a slower rhythm. The warmth around us was not just from the sunless lamp or the residual heat of sex but from a thin, courageous thread of tenderness that now wound us together.

🌸

The press of sweet, full lips and the salty-sweet trace of Azaan's mouth tugged me from some drifting place between dreams and wakefulness. A small, sleepy smile curved my lips before my eyes were fully open; he kissed the corner of my mouth—a featherlight claim, then lifted his head and teased, "Look who decided to come back to Earth." When he took my lips properly, the kiss was tender and slow, like sunlight uncurling over the horizon.

"I need to sleeeep," I mumbled, voice thick with sleep, and shoved a pillow at him. The duvet was a warm cocoon; I clutched it tighter and buried my face into the cotton to hide my laughing, flushed cheeks. The mattress sighed as he settled closer, the world outside the duvet dwindling to nothing more than the soft thud of his breathing and the hush of lamp-light on the wall.

He tucked his face into my hair and breathed against my nape. "If it were up to me I'd keep you in bed all day and do all sorts of NSFW things to you," he murmured, half promise, half joke. His voice was rough with sleep and something like hunger. Then, with a crooked grin, he added, "But it's your first day at the new medical college, remember?" His bare body slid under the covers, warm and reassuring where it met mine.

The mention of classes snapped me alert. "Am I late already?" I asked, the practical edge of panic cutting through my drowsiness like cold water.

"No, early, actually. That means..." he said, and his gaze roved over me as the duvet slipped, slow and deliberate. The sunlight through the curtains painted a gold strip along the bed; the light landed on the slope of his shoulder, the curve of his collarbone. For a heartbeat the room felt like a stage lit for one small, intimate scene.

I lobbed another pillow at his face; he caught it, laughed, then teased, "Poor shot for an Olympic shooter's wife," and pushed the pillow aside. He backed me gently toward the edge of the bed, fingers trailing a warm path down my arm, and said, "Let's shower together."

"T-together...w-why?" I stammered, cheeks burning with a mix of embarrassment and the sillier, softer kind of thrill.

"Why do you think?" he asked, playing my hair between his fingers like a musician tuning strings.

"Shameless," I sniffed, attempting a dignified retreat.

He climbed down effortlessly, scooped me up as if I weighed nothing, and held me close. "You're lighter than I expected," he said, voice low and oddly fond as he nuzzled the hollow behind my ear. The small intimacy of it being picked up, carried—unspooled a laugh from me that felt surprised and entirely at ease.

The bathroom already steamed when we pushed the door open; the tub had been drawn and the water shimmered with a haze of warmth. Candles weren't necessary—Azaan had a way of making ordinary things feel deliberate. He eased into the bath first, then guided me so I could settle against his chest, my back pressed to the steady cadence of his heart. He reached for the sponge, and the first touch of warm, sudsy foam across my arm felt like a caress meant to memorize every inch of me.

He kissed the side of my neck once, slow and reverent, and murmured without flourish, "You are the most beautiful thing that's ever happened to me." He moved the sponge in languid, careful strokes—thigh to waist, shoulder to collarbone each motion mindful, as if exploring a map he intended to learn word for word. The soap smelled faintly of citrus and something deeper—bergamot, perhaps—a smell that would forever recall the early hours of this day.

Leaning back into him, I let myself absorb the small domestic sanctity of it all: the lazy spirals of steam, the muted world beyond the bathroom door, the timing of his hands. There was no pretense in him here, no bravado. The tenderness that seeped out of his movements contradicted the arrogant face he sometimes put on for others; it felt real and grounding.

After the shower—after the small, intimate insistence that had left us both smiling and breathless—we dressed in the quiet ritual of pair-synchronized dressing. I was in the closet adjusting the collar of my blouse, smoothing a crease in my skirt with small, exacting motions, when my phone buzzed against my palm. An unfamiliar number. The screen lit up, stark against the soft wood of the closet: one short message, plain and brutal. 

"I know what you did."