Saathiya (4) (18+)

 

Anisa's POV

"You need to smile or leave, girl!" Amira yelled right into my ear, her voice sharp enough to make me shriek and nearly spill my drink. I whipped my head around, cheeks burning as every single person in the crowded canteen turned to stare—some amused, some annoyed, a few openly curious.

I huffed loudly, crossing my arms tighter over my chest.

"Pura din aise hi muh bana ke baithi raho tum, Ani (The whole day you're just sitting there with that sulky face, Ani)," Amira groaned dramatically, burying her face in her hands like I'd personally offended her entire existence.

I sighed instead, wrapping my fingers around the cold glass of strawberry milkshake and taking a long, slow sip. 

I miss Adil.

Last night I'd tried calling him—once, twice, then a pathetic third time—staring at the screen as it rang and rang into silence. No answer. No text. Nothing.

My mind drifted back to yesterday evening. That orgasm… God, it had been blinding. I'd collapsed against him, boneless, drifting into the deepest, most blissful sleep I'd had in weeks.

When I finally woke up—hours later, groggy and disoriented—the room was empty. Dinner had come and gone while I slept like the dead, and now here I was, surrounded by chatter.

I kept telling myself he was just busy. That’s all it was. My new security guards were so damn alert—hovering like shadows, eyes scanning every corner, hands never far from their holsters. The two of them must have planned it together, the way they always did—silent nods, that annoying brotherhood code I was never fully let in on.

But he didn’t even try to meet me. Not once. 

"Ani! Tumhare bhai ke dost hai Adil . Just take guards and go meet him!" Amira said for what felt like the hundredth time since morning, her voice bright and stubborn.

"L…ekin wo na milna chahte ho toh? (But… what if he doesn’t want to meet me?)" I asked, my voice smaller than I wanted it to be. The real question burned underneath: Why is he ignoring me? What did I do?

Amira rolled her eyes, then leaned in close, her hand landing firmly on my shoulder. "Toh usse doh tamache maarna aur U-turn leke wapas mere paas aana (Then slap him twice and take a U-turn straight back to me)," she declared, patting my back like a proud coach sending her player into the ring. "You deserve answers, Ani. Go get them."

She was right. God, she was so right. The knot in my chest loosened just a fraction, and for the first time all day, the corner of my mouth actually lifted.

I finally smile. "Chal fir, mera makeup touch-up karne mein help kar (Come on then, help me touch up my makeup)."

We both burst into giggles, the sound bubbling up like relief, and I grabbed her wrist, dragging her toward the washroom. 

I stepped out near exit of college, squared my shoulders, and faced the two stone-faced guards waiting by the SUV.

"Ma’am, we are not allowed to take you so far from home," the taller one said immediately, voice flat, rehearsed.

I tilted my head, channeling every bit of bratty authority I’d learned from watching my brother handle people. "Dekho guard bhai… chup chap mujhe leke chalo. Warna main apne bhaijaan se complain kar dungi (Look, guard brother… just quietly take me where I want to go. Otherwise I’ll complain to my brother)."

They exchanged a quick, uneasy glance. I could practically hear the silent conversation: *She’s serious. And she’ll actually do it.* After a long second, they nodded.

The drive took nearly an hour. The chaotic traffic eventually gave way to wider roads, then empty stretches, until we reached an open, dusty industrial area on the outskirts—chain-link fences, low gray warehouses, the faint smell of gun oil and hot metal in the air.

I stepped out of the car, heels sinking slightly into the gravel, heart thudding too loud in my ears.

And then—a sharp, unmistakable crack split the air.

Gunshot.

I froze. My breath caught hard in my throat.

"Relax ma’am. It’s just a training warehouse," the guard said quickly, already moving forward like this was normal.

I barely nodded, forcing my legs to follow him. Gunshots are never just anything. Not to me.

We walked past rows of rusted shipping containers, the sound growing louder—controlled bursts, not wild. The guard led me around the corner of a massive shed, and the scene opened up in front of me like something out of a movie I wasn’t supposed to watch.

A long, dimly lit pit stretched out under floodlights. Rangers—men in black tactical gear—stood in a neat line, rifles raised, firing in disciplined rhythm at distant bullseye targets. Brass casings glinted on the concrete like fallen coins.

"Shoot or die. That’s the only deal here. Follow it."

The voice cut through the gunfire like a blade—low, calm, commanding. Every man in the line straightened a fraction more at the sound of it.

Adil.

He stood at the far end of the pit, arms crossed over his broad chest, black shirt stretched tight across muscle. 

I sucked in a sharp breath the moment I saw him like that—dominant, unyielding, every inch the man who commanded respect with nothing more than the set of his shoulders and the low timbre of his voice. 

The guards halted at the top of the stairs leading down into the sunken pit—what looked like an old basement converted into this private shooting range. I didn’t wait for permission. I moved forward, heels clicking softly against the metal steps, each one carrying me deeper into his domain.

The instant my foot touched the first stair, his head snapped up. Our eyes locked across the dim, smoky space. Then he started walking toward me, moving parallel to the line of rangers.

“Focus on target!” he barked suddenly, bringing his palm down hard on the back of one young ranger’s head. The boy had turned, eyes wide and curious, staring straight at me instead of the bullseye.

I couldn’t help it—I chuckled, soft and involuntary, covering my mouth with my fingers. 

Adil stopped right in front of me, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. He towered over me, broad chest rising and falling steadily, the faint scent of gun oil and his cologne wrapping around me like smoke. Heat radiated off him, and I felt it lick across my skin even through the distance of a few inches.

“You are distracting everyone here, ma’am,” he said, voice low and mocking, the word *ma’am* dripping with sarcasm. Then he reached for my hand. His fingers closed around mine and he lifted it to his lips. The kiss he pressed to the back of my hand was soft. 

“Is that so, Sir?” I batted my eyelashes, all wide-eyed innocence, letting my voice go sweet. 

His gaze dropped. First to my lips, lingering there like he was remembering exactly how they tasted last night. Then lower—darker, hungrier—tracing the curve of my neck, the swell of my breasts pushing against the thin fabric of my top. I arched my back just the tiniest bit, giving him a better view, loving the way his jaw tightened, the way his throat worked on a swallow.

I loved teasing him. 

“Teach me a little,” I said softly, stepping even closer until the toes of my sandals brushed his boots.

He shook his head once, sharp, almost amused despite himself. “Don’t play with me, Anisa. Warna anzaam acha nahi hoga (Otherwise the consequences won’t be good).”

But even as he warned me, the corner of his mouth twitched—half threat, half promise. I only smiled wider, all innocence, letting my lashes flutter again.

“Break!” he ordered suddenly, voice cutting through the basement like a whip.

The rangers didn’t hesitate. One by one they lowered their rifles, turned on their heels, and filed out—silent, disciplined, disappearing up the stairs without a backward glance. I caught the flicker of movement from the corner of my eye: my own guards exchanging a quick look before they too retreated, leaving the heavy metal door at the top to clang shut behind them.

The basement section fell quiet.

Just the low buzz of the lights. 

Only me and him now.

Adil moved between the long tables, his broad shoulders cutting through the low light. Rows of rifles and handguns lay in disciplined order, black steel gleaming dully under the lamps. My gaze traced him helplessly: the easy roll of his shoulders, the deliberate way his long fingers skimmed over barrels.  

“Come here, Gulabo,” he murmured, voice so low it felt like velvet dragged across my skin.

He selected a compact black pistol—I didn’t know its name, only that it looked sleek and dangerous in his hand. Before I could blink he was beside me, slipping the strap of my bag off my shoulder. 

“First we need to correct your posture,” he said.

He turned me gently until my back faced his chest, sliding fully behind me. Heat bloomed instantly where his body aligned with mine. Strong arms encircled my waist; warm palms covered the backs of my hands and guided them to the pistol waiting on the table. His chest pressed to my shoulder blades. His breath ghosted the sensitive shell of my ear.

“Yeh 9mm Glock hai. Small and reliable. Yeh slide hai—ise peeche khincho taaki round chamber ho jaaye.”  

His fingers brushed mine—deliberate, unhurried—as he drew the slide back with a smooth metallic snick.

I tried—God, I tried—to concentrate on the lesson. But my mind kept slipping to the hard, insistent pressure of him nestled against the thin cotton of my skirt. No shorts underneath today. Just lace panties and far too little barrier between us.

“Safety ab off hai. Sights ke saath aim karo, front post ko rear notches ke saath line up karo. Trigger dheere se dabao and let it surprise you.”

His voice had dropped even lower, rougher at the edges. I nodded mutely, heart slamming against my ribs—equal parts adrenaline, nerves, and raw want. His face hovered so close I could feel the warmth radiating from his cheek, could smell the faint cedar-and-smoke scent that clung to his skin after a long day.

He adjusted my stance one last time, hands sliding to my wrists, then higher to cup my elbows, straightening my arms. His entire front molded to my back. The thick ridge of his arousal pressed unmistakably against the curve of my ass. My breath hitched.

I exhaled slow and steady, just like he’d taught me, sighted down the barrel, and squeezed.

The crack split the air—sharp, deafening in the enclosed space. The recoil shoved me backward, straight into the immovable wall of his body. His arms locked tighter, absorbing the jolt without a flicker. I blinked at the target feets away.

Dead center. Perfect bullseye.

A wild, giddy grin split my face. I lowered the Glock carefully to the table, still buzzing.

“Very good, Gulabo.” Adil’s soft laugh rumbled through his chest and into mine, warm and proud.

I twisted just enough to glance up at him through my lashes. “Let’s try again.”

The words came out innocent. My intentions were anything but.

He gave a single nod—wary, already suspecting. His hands settled on my hips this time, fingers flexing once before he tugged me back, flush against him. No space left. Nothing but heat and hardness and the rapid thump of his heartbeat against my spine. He was already so aroused just from standing behind me, from feeling me handle the gun under his guidance.

I let a slow, wicked smile curve my lips.

Then I rolled my hips—deliberate—grinding back against him in a lazy circle. His breath stuttered against my neck.

“Don’t,” he warned, voice gravelly and almost breathless.

I didn’t listen.

I arched my back a fraction more, pressing my ass firmly against the rigid length of him, rocking in the smallest, most torturous rhythm. He felt like stone—hot, straining, perfectly outlined through his jeans and my skirt. A quiet, involuntary sound slipped from his throat.

His fingers dug into my hips, hard enough to bruise in the sweetest way, holding me still. 

“Why,” I whispered, the word trembling with raw need, barely audible over the pounding of my own heart. I rolled my hips again—slow, deliberate, shameless. 

His hands clamped down on my hips, fingers digging in with punishing strength, forcing me to still.

“You need to stop, Anisa. Warna mera lund tumhare andar hoga,” he murmured right against the shell of my ear, lips brushing skin, voice dark and fraying at the edges. (“Otherwise my cock will be inside you.”)

My skirt had ridden up with every grind, the hem now bunched high on my thighs, cool air kissing newly exposed skin. I could feel the damp lace between my legs clinging, betraying exactly how badly I ached.

“Andar… daal do…” I pleaded, voice cracking, shameless and desperate. “Please, Adil.” The words spilled out like I’d been holding them prisoner for hours—maybe I had. I didn’t care how I sounded. I only cared that he was right there, hard and hot and so close to giving me what I was begging for.

He let out a low, evil chuckle that vibrated straight through my spine.

“Ek baar main shuru hua na Anisa… toh tumhare rokne se bhi nahi rukunga…” His palm cracked down once—sharp, stinging—right across the curve of my ass. The sound echoed in the quiet range; the burn bloomed instantly, sweet and bright, making me gasp and arch harder into him. (“Once I start, Anisa… even you won’t be able to make me stop.”)

That was my answer.

I launched myself upward, arms looping around his neck, legs hooking at his waist. I kissed him—hard, messy, starving.

“Anisa…” he growled against my mouth, a final warning that dissolved the second his control snapped.

With a rough, guttural sound from deep in his chest, he claimed my mouth again—fiercer this time, devouring. His tongue stroked deep, possessive, like he was trying to brand himself inside me. I kissed him back with everything I had, fingers knotting painfully in his hair, tugging, moaning helplessly into the wet heat of his kiss.

He broke away only long enough to scoop me up properly—strong arms banding under my thighs, lifting me like I weighed nothing. My legs locked around his waist on instinct, ankles crossing at the small of his back. Every step he took rubbed him against my soaked center through the thin barrier of my panties, sending fresh jolts of pleasure-pain spiking through me.

He carried me toward the far end of the range, past the shooting lanes, straight to the small private cabin tucked against the wall.

“Ab dard hua toh chillana mat,” he rasped against my swollen lips as he kicked the door open with his boot. (“If it hurts now, don’t scream.”)

I laughed—breathless, wicked, delirious with lust. The sound turned into a moan when he pressed me hard against the nearest wall the second we were inside. The rough concrete scraped my back through my top; I didn’t care. His mouth was on mine again, devouring, while his hands roamed—greedy, impatient—mapping every curve he could reach. Palms dragged up my ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts, then down again to grip my ass and grind me against the thick ridge still trapped behind his zipper.

“Bahut garmi aa rahi hai tumhare jism mein,” he muttered, voice gravel-rough, lips grazing the sensitive spot just below my ear. (“Your body is burning up.”)

“Bhenchod!” he growled, the curse ripping out of him raw and ragged the instant his hand slid under the bunched fabric of my skirt and met only the thin lace of my panties. His palm cracked down again—harder this time—right across the bare curve of my ass, the sting blooming hot and bright, making me jolt forward against the table’s edge with a sharp gasp.

“Tum chudne aayi thi yahan mujhse, Gulabo,” he grunted, voice thick with dark satisfaction. His fingers hooked into the delicate lace at my hips and tore—sharp, ruthless. The fabric tear away with a soft rip, cool air rushing against my suddenly bare, slick folds. (“You came here to get fucked by me, Gulabo.”)

“A…dil… mmmmm,” I moaned, the sound breaking high and needy as two thick fingers dragged slowly through my wetness, parting me, teasing the swollen entrance without mercy. I gripped the edge of the table so hard my knuckles ached.

“Puri geeli hai tumhari chut, Gulabo,” he teased, low and mocking, the words vibrating against the back of my neck while his other hand yanked at the thin strings of my top. One tug—then another—and the fabric slithered down my arms, pooling at my elbows before he shoved it aside completely. Cool air kissed my bare breasts; my nipples tightened instantly under his burning gaze. I was naked now—completely, shamelessly—bent over the table in this dim little cabin, ass in the air, legs spread, dripping for him. (“Your pussy is completely soaked, Gulabo.”)

“A…dil… jaldi… ahhhh,” I moaned, desperation clawing up my throat. He was taking his time—deliberately—circling my clit with maddeningly light strokes, dipping just the tips of his fingers inside me and pulling out again, leaving me clenching around nothing.

“Open your ass for me, jaan… Tumhari gaand maarunga aaj main, baby,” he cooed against my ear, voice velvet-soft and filthy all at once. Behind me I heard the rustle of his belt, the metallic clink of his zipper, the soft thud of denim hitting the floor. My heart slammed harder. (“Open your ass for me, love… I’m going to fuck your ass today, baby.”)

I reached back with shaking hands, fingers digging into the soft flesh of my cheeks, spreading myself open for him—vulnerable, exposed, aching. The position made me feel filthy and cherished all at once.

Then I felt it—the blunt, scorching head of his cock nudging against my tight entrance. He was thick, impossibly hard, already slick from how wet I’d made him earlier with all my grinding.

“Ahhhh Adil… ummm,” I hissed, the stretch burning sharp and immediate even with just the first inch.

“Relax… dard hoga warna. Geheri saans lo,” he murmured, one hand smoothing up my spine in long, soothing strokes while the other gripped my hip, holding me steady. His voice was rough but patient, coaxing. (“Relax… it’ll hurt otherwise. Take a deep breath.”)

I forced a slow, shuddering inhale—chest rising, falling—trying to soften around him. He pushed forward again, slow, relentless, inch by burning inch. The stretch was intense, almost too much; tears pricked the corners of my eyes even as pleasure coiled tighter in my belly.

“Ahhh Ad…il… ummmm… yess… ahhh… ohhh,” I moaned, the sounds spilling out broken and helpless. He filled me so completely I could feel every ridge, every pulse of him inside me.

“Fuck… kitni tight ho tum” he groaned against my shoulder, teeth grazing skin. (“Fuck… you’re so tight.”)

I could only whimper in response, rocking back the tiniest bit—testing, craving more. 

Then he started to move.

“Ahhh bhenchod, itni moti gaand hai meri baby ki… ahhhh shit!!” Adil groaned, the words torn from his throat like he couldn’t hold them back anymore. His hands gripped the full curves of my ass hard enough to leave fingerprints, spreading me wider as he slammed in again. 

“Dee…per… yesss… ahhh… ah…hhh,” I begged, voice splintering. 

“Madarchod!!! Ahhh chudna hai tumhe baby!!!” He grunted, hips snapping forward with punishing force. The table creaked under us; my palms slipped on the wood, nails scraping as I tried to brace myself against the onslaught. 

“Ahhhh ahhh Adil yesss ahhh ohhh ahhh,” I moaned, the sounds spilling out unchecked, high and broken. My body was no longer mine—it belonged to the rhythm he set, to the thick drag of him inside me, stretching me open over and over.

“Maza aa raha hai baby ko meri. Ahhhh ummmm… tumhari gaand tight hai baby… ahhhh mera lund bhenchod!” He groaned, voice wrecked. 

“Fuck… ahhhh Adil… I’m cumming… fuckkk…” The words dissolved into a scream as the orgasm ripped through me—white-hot, shattering. My walls clenched around him in violent spasms, milking him as wave after wave crashed over me. My thighs shook uncontrollably; tears slipped down my cheeks from the intensity.

“Nikal do baby apna paani… ahhh aaj pura chod dunga tumhe!!!” he growled, not slowing even as I came apart beneath him. His hand snaked around to rub furious circles over my clit, dragging the climax out longer, forcing every last tremor from my body.

Without warning he pulled out—slow, deliberate—making me whine at the sudden emptiness. Then strong arms banded around my waist. He lifted me like I weighed nothing, spun us, and dropped onto the worn leather sofa in the corner of the cabin. I landed straddling his lap, thighs splayed wide over his hips.

“Aao baby… mere lund pe baitho,” he rasped, voice dark velvet. His hands squeezed my breasts—hard, possessive—thumbs flicking over aching nipples before sliding down to grip my hips. He guided me down slowly, the thick head breaching me again, sinking inch by torturous inch into my still-pulsing heat.

“Ahhh Adil… dheere,” I moaned, head falling back as he filled me completely once more. The new angle drove him even deeper; I felt him in places I didn’t know existed.

“Abhi toh kuch kiya hi nahi baby,” he teased, wicked smile flashing in the dim light. Then his hips snapped up—hard, sudden—ramming into me with fresh force.

“Ahhhh ahhh Adil… ummmm… dheereee… ohh ahhhh,” I yelled, nails digging into his shoulders. The fullness was overwhelming; every upward thrust hit that spot inside me that made stars burst behind my eyelids. Another climax was already building—fast, merciless—coiling low in my belly like a spring wound too tight.

“Dheere chodunga toh tumhari garmi kaise nikalegi baby,” he grunted, one hand fisting my hair to yank my head back. 

I was lost—shaking, moaning, riding him like I’d die if I stopped. 

“Fuckkk… cum for me, baby,” he commanded, voice rough as gravel.

The order hit like a trigger. My body obeyed instantly—another brutal orgasm tore through me, ripping a silent scream from my throat. 

“Thak gayi hoon main,” I moaned, the words slurring with exhaustion. I collapsed forward, forehead dropping to his sweat-slick chest. 

He chuckled—low, dark, indulgent—and pressed a surprisingly tender kiss to my swollen lips. Then strong arms banded around me. In one smooth motion he lifted us both, turned, and laid me gently back on the sofa—on my back this time—sprawled and open for him.

“Tum bas leti raho baby. Main tumhari chut aur gaand maar leta hoon,” he grunted, eyes blazing. Without warning, two thick fingers shoved past my lips. (“You just lie there, baby. I’ll fuck your pussy and ass.”)

“Chaato.”

I obeyed instinctively—tongue swirling around his fingers, tasting salt and myself as I sucked greedily. His gaze darkened further. Then he pulled them free with a wet pop and plunged them straight into my dripping pussy—curling, pumping, stretching me open while his cock—still rock-hard—pushed back into my ass in the same brutal rhythm.

“Ohhh Adil… ummmm,” I whimpered, the dual invasion overwhelming. Fingers fucking my pussy in short, ruthless strokes; cock claiming my ass in long, punishing drags. 

“Bhenchod… ahhhh… saare ched dheele ho jayenge tumhare aaj baby,” he rasped, hips pistoning faster, the filthy promise vibrating against my throat as he leaned down to bite the soft skin there. (“All your holes are going to be loose by the end of today, baby.”)

“Ahhhh… ummmm… ahhhhh,” I moaned mindlessly, body shaking, too tired to do anything but take it—take him.

“Look at you baby… puri tarah chudi hui ho… ahhhh… mera lund bhi daba rahi ho… ahhhh,” he grunted, watching my face with something close to reverence. I mewled—high, broken—feeling the next orgasm cresting already, unstoppable.

I came again—wordless, shattering—nails raking down his chest, leaving red trails. He encouraged me through it, murmuring filthy praise against my ear, never slowing.

“Bas… ahhhh… thak gayi main… ummmm Adil…” I scratched at his shoulders, his chest—desperate, pleading—trying to slow him.

“Yeahhh… I know baby. Bas thodi der aur… ahhhh… mera aane wala hai,” he growled, eyes so dark they looked black, pupils blown wide with lust. (“Just a little longer… I’m about to cum.”)

He kept ramming into me—deep, relentless—switching to slow, grinding rolls of his hips that hit every sensitive spot. His mouth found my nipples—sucking hard, teeth grazing, tongue flicking—sending fresh sparks straight to my core.

“Bhenchod… ahhhh… babyyyyyyy… aahhhhhh… mera paaaani (my cum,)!… ahhhh bhenchod… tumhari gaand mein (I'm cumming in your ass) babyyyyy,” he roared, the sound raw and animal as his rhythm stuttered, then broke.

Hot, thick pulses flooded deep inside my ass—spurt after spurt—filling me so completely I felt it overflow, warm and slick. 

“Bhenchod… pura andar hi nikal gaya mera Anisa…” His head fell back, throat working, body shaking violently through the aftershocks.

We both collapsed—panting. Then he gathered me close—strong arms wrapping around my trembling body, pulling me against his chest.

The small cabin smelled of sex and gun oil and us.

“Gulabo,” he called softly after a long stretch of quiet. 

I lifted my head from his chest, blinking up at him. His brows were drawn together, something troubled flickering in those dark eyes that had been so wild and sure just minutes ago. Confusion… guilt… I couldn’t quite read it all.

“Kal raat maine tumhara call nahi uthaya,” he said. ( I Didn't answer your call last night) 

“Yeah…” I answered, still soft, still floating a little. 

“Kuch hua hai Adil?” I asked, lifting my hand to caress the sharp line of his jaw, thumb brushing over the stubble there. He sighed—a long, weary sound. (Did something happened Adil ?);

“Anisa… mere abbu,” he started, voice low, rough around the edges. I stayed quiet, patient, letting him find the words. (Anisa...my father)

“Woh ache insaan nahi hai. You know main tumhare bhai ke saath business kyun karta hoon?” He searched my face, waiting. ( He's not a good man. Do you know why I'm doing business with your brothers?)!

I shook my head slowly. “No.”

“Your brother, Rafiq and Zaid, helped me to save my mother from him. My father is abusive and woh chahte hain ki main unke khaandan ka naam badhane ke liye kuch karoon,” ( he wanted me to do something to make name our family famous) he said, anger simmering beneath every word, tightening his jaw, darkening his gaze. 

“Is he powerful?” I asked quietly.

He nodded once, sharp. “Politician hai. Paisa aur power dono hai.”

(He's a politician. He has money and power);

He reached out, tucking a damp strand of hair behind my ear with surprising gentleness. His thumb lingered on my cheekbone.

“Main tumhe chahta hoon, meri Gulabo,” he murmured, leaning in to brush the softest kiss across my lips. (I like you, my Gulabo)

“Woh chahte hain ki main…” He started again, voice dropping even lower, but the words never finished. (He want me to .....) 

A shout echoed from somewhere above us— furious. 

“Adil… harami!!! Kidhar mara hai!” (Adil... bastard....where are you!?) 

Zaid.

My heart lurched into my throat. We were in the basement of the warehouse and Zaid was up there. 

“Oh shit!” I scrambled out of Adil’s arms so fast my muscles protested, still tender and shaky from everything we’d done.

“Relax. Main dekhta hoon. Tum bahar mat aana,” he said quickly, already moving. He yanked on his jeans, t- shirt , shoes and strode toward the door. I heard the heavy metallic click of the lock turning—sealing me inside.

I hissed through my teeth as I moved, every step reminding me exactly how thoroughly he’d taken me. My skirt was crumpled on the floor; I dragged it up over my hips with trembling fingers. The top next. My torn panties lay in a ruined scrap near the table. I left them there, cheeks burning. 

I snatched my small mirror from my bag. My reflection stared back—flushed cheeks, smudged kohl, tear tracks from the overwhelming orgasms drying on my temples. I looked wrecked. Beautifully wrecked.

I dabbed quickly at my face with a tissue, fixed my lipstick as best I could with shaking hands. Five minutes felt like forever.

Then the lock clicked again. Footsteps descending the stairs.

Adil appeared, expression tight, already scanning the room. He grabbed a sleek black pistol from the nearby table and tucked it into the back of his jeans.

“We need to leave, baby,” he said, voice clipped.

“What happened?” I asked, watching as he bent to scoop up the torn lace of my panties from the floor. He didn’t hesitate—just shoved them into his pocket. 

“A shipment got stolen. Zaid is going crazy for it.”

“Was it important?” I asked 

“Bhot paisa laga hai usme, isliye haan,” he added grimly.

I nodded, pulse still racing. We moved together—his hand finding mine, fingers lacing tight as he led me up the narrow stairs and out into the cooler air of the warehouse proper.

In the parking lot, my guards stood near the black SUV I’d arrived in. They straightened when they saw us. Adil gave them a single nod—calm, authoritative. They didn’t blink, just climbed into their vehicle and started the engine.

“Tum mere saath chalo. I’ll drop you off at home. It’s already late,” Adil said, opening the passenger door of his sleek Mercedes for me. 

I slid inside. He rounded to the driver’s side, started the engine, and we pulled out behind my guards’ car. 

“Guards Zaid bhai ko bata toh nahi denge humare baare mein?” I asked, voice small as exhaustion finally crashed over me like a wave. I yawned, sinking deeper into the leather seat.

“Maine hi training di hai unhe. They will not backstab me,” he said calmly, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching over to gently massage the back of my head. His fingers threaded through my hair—slow, soothing circles that made my eyelids grow impossibly heavy.

“Sleep, baby,” he murmured, voice soft now, almost tender.

I drifted off to the low hum of the engine, the warmth of his hand. 

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