Saathiya (5) (18+)

Adil's POV

"Khuda kasam, bohot bure lag rahe ho, Adil," Zaid said, his voice laced with that annoying mix of concern and mockery. (Swear to God, you look really terrible, Adil.)

The urge to throttle him surged through me. Only the fact that he was Anisa's brother kept my hands at my sides. I had to respect the bastard, no matter how much I wanted to wipe that smug look off his face.

We were deep in the basement of the Ali Zaveri family's sprawling haveli, the air thick with the metallic scent of gun oil and old stone. Zaid was methodically counting the rifles from the recovered shipment, his fingers moving with practiced precision over the cold steel. The other two guards were stationed outside the heavy door. 

The room was lit by the cold blue glow of multiple TV screens mounted on the far wall. They flickered with live feeds—grainy footage from different locations: our warehouses on the outskirts, the docks where shipments came in under cover of night, the narrow alleys where deals happens. Every angle watched, every move tracked.

"Kya zarurat thi itna khatra mod lene ki?" he asked, his tone shifting to something almost sincere as he resumed counting the guns—the very ones that had been stolen from us. (What was the need to take such a big risk?)

Three fucking days.

That's how long it had taken me to track down the bastards who'd dared to steal from us. Three days of sleepless nights, shadowed informants, and finally infiltrating their hideout. I'd fought my way through armed men, fists and blades flashing in dim light, until the shipment was back in our hands.

In return, I'd earned a long, jagged gash along the left side of my face. It started just below my eye and curved down toward my jaw—raw, angry, and undeniably scary. The stitches were fresh, the skin around it swollen and bruised purple.

I hope my Gulabo doesn't get scared when she sees it.

"Zaruri tha," I replied curtly, my voice low. (It was necessary.)

Zaid only huffed, shaking his head like I was a reckless child. But he didn't argue further. He knew the truth I wouldn't say out loud: I had to bring the shipment back because it had been stolen because of me.

I was supposed to oversee the training that day, ensure the delivery happened on schedule without a hitch. Instead, I'd gotten lost in the intoxicating body of my best friend's sister's eyes. Anisa. My Anisa. I'd dragged her into my cabin, lost every shred of control, and fucked her raw against the desk until she was trembling, marked, and mine.

Even now, the memory made my cock tighten painfully against the zipper of my pants. Her soft moans echoing in my ears, the way her nails dug into my back, her full breasts pressed against my chest.

I sighed, shaking my head sharply to banish the images before they consumed me completely.

Three fucking days I'd been away from her. Three days without seeing her face, without touching her. I'd had to call her personal guards just to know where she was. She'd gone to a high-end salon in the city with her cousin and her closest friend. I wanted to see her so badly it ached in my chest.

"Zakhmi shakhs?" Zaid asked, glancing up from the rifles, his eyes flicking to the gash on my face. (The injured guys?)

I'd led the infiltration team myself into their warehouse—a group of our best men, moving like shadows.

"Teen log," I said flatly. "Hospital bhej diya hai unhe." (Three men. Sent them to the hospital.)

He nodded, satisfied, but I wasn't done.

"And we rescued two dogs," I added quietly.

 I still couldn't wipe the image from my mind. Those poor animals—pit bulls, starved and trembling—had been cruelly used as drug mules. The bastards had sliced open their skin, stuffed packets of heroin underneath, and stitched them back up like they were nothing more than walking cargo. Blood had matted their fur, their eyes dull with pain and fear. Weak, broken, but alive.

We'd cut the stitches, pulled out the poison, and carried them out. They were with our vet now, being treated. But the sight of them—trusting eyes looking up at me even as they bled- made me sad. 

Zaid paused, his hand still on a rifle. For once, he didn't have a smart remark. He just looked at me, something unreadable in his eyes.

Zaid stopped counting the rifles mid-motion, his sharp gaze lifting to study me. 

He knew I had a soft spot for the innocent and the unhurt—beings who were used, broken, and discarded like they meant nothing. 

"Rafiq called," he said quietly, eyes narrowing as they roamed over the fresh stitches, the bruises blooming like dark ink under my skin. "Tum fighting pit nahi jaa rahe." (You're not going to the fighting pit.)

Fuck.

I never missed a night at the pit. Not once. The underground arena was the only place raw enough to let the violence inside me breathe without consequences. Rafiq and Zaid had dragged me out of there more times than I could count—bloodied, half-dead, knuckles split to the bone—because if they didn’t, I would’ve kept going until someone finally put me death for good. It was the only thing that used to quiet the storm.

But now? Now I’d forgotten the entire damn schedule.

Because every spare second of my mind was consumed by her. By sinking into Anisa’s soft body behind their backs, by the way she gasped my name like a prayer when I fucked her slow and deep in the shadows of my cabin, by the taste of her skin and the way her thighs trembled around me. Their sweet, untouchable little sister. The one they’d kill to protect.

And the guilt of it burned, but not enough to stop me.

I knew it wouldn’t stay hidden forever. Rafiq and Zaid were too sharp, too obsessive about Anisa’s safety. And when they did, blood would spill. Mine, most likely.

Worse—they’d learn about Sabria too. The girl I’d kept hidden even deeper, the one who wasn’t just a reckless fling but something dangerously close to real. If they connected those dots before I could lock everything down…

My head throbbed, a dull, angry pulse behind my eyes.

I pushed off the table, the movement sharp enough to make the stitches pull tight.

“I’m leaving,” I said, voice flat, final.

"Khuda Hafiz," I grunted, already turning toward the stairs. (God be with you.)

Zaid’s voice called as he threw a notebook at my back. 

"Sawal se dur mat jao, Adil!" he shouted after me, then let out that low, mocking chuckle. (Don’t run from the question, Adil!)

I shook my head, lips twitching despite myself. 

The stone stairs spiraled upward, cool and worn smooth under my boots. I emerged onto the upper floor of the Ali Zaveri haveli just as Dadajaani was stepping in from the garden doors, his white beard catching the late-afternoon light like fresh snow. The old man walked with slow, deliberate dignity, leaning lightly on his carved walking stick. 

"Adil," he greeted, voice deep and steady.

"Assalamu alaikum, Dadajaani," I replied, stepping forward immediately. I took his weathered hand in both of mine, bent low, pressed my lips to the back of it, then touched my forehead to it in the old gesture of deepest respect. (Peace be upon you, Grandfather.)

"Khuda barkat se nawaze tumhe, bache," he blessed me, his palm resting briefly on my head. (May God bless you with abundance, child.)

"Aao, garden mein chalein," he said—not a request, an order with gentleness. (Come, let’s walk in the garden.)

I obeyed without hesitation. Conversations with Dadajaani were rare; he was a man of few words, but every one carried weight. And beneath that stern exterior beat a protective love for his family. 

We stepped out into the sprawling garden together. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and wet earth after the afternoon watering. Roses climbed the trellises, bougainvillea spilled over the walls in violent pinks and purples. We walked slowly along the gravel path, his stick tapping softly in rhythm with our steps.

"Abbu kaise hain tumhare?" he asked after a long, comfortable silence. (How is your father?)

I smirked, the corner of my mouth pulling tight.  

"Angry. Mad."

He let out a low, rasping chuckle that ended in a sigh.  

"Hmm… zahir hai. Ek hi aulad hai, woh bhi khilaf arzi karti hai." (Obviously. He has only one child, and he always breaks the rules.)

I met his eyes, unflinching.  

"Unke usool mujhe manzoor nahi. Meri taleem mujhe ijaazat nahi deti, Dadajaani." (I don’t accept his principles. My upbringing doesn’t allow it.)

He studied me for a long moment, then nodded once, slowly.  

"Tumhare usool bohot nek hain, Adil. Isliye tum Ali Zaveri khandaan ka hissa ho." (Your principles are very noble, Adil. That’s why you are part of the Ali Zaveri family.)

I dipped my head in quiet acknowledgment.

"Aage bhi rahoge," he continued, voice softening, "lekin Anisa ka dil mehfuz rakhna." (You will remain so in the future… but keep Anisa’s heart safe.)

Oh shit.

My steps faltered. He knew. Of course the old man knew. Nothing moved in this house without his awareness.

He glanced sideways at my stunned expression and smiled—small, knowing, almost amused.  

"Humein apna parivaar jaan-o-dil se pyara hai. Parivaar par hum sab kuch qurban kar dete hain," he said, gazing back at the towering haveli with a fierce tenderness. (My family is dearer to me than life itself. I can sacrifice everything for family.)

I swallowed, throat suddenly tight.  

"Aapki manzoori hai, Dadajaani?" (Do I have your permission?)

 I would burn the world to win her, but I would never take her without the blessing of the man who mattered most.

He turned fully to face me then, eyes clear. A warm, rare smile spread across his face. He nodded once.

The azaan rose in the distance just then—soft, melodic, calling the faithful to prayer. The sound wrapped around us like a blessing, vibrating through the garden air. For the first time in days, something inside my chest loosened. I felt… blessed. Truly.

Dadajaani lowered himself carefully onto one of the wrought-iron garden chairs, resting his stick against his knee.  

"Jaao," he said quietly. (Go.)

I bowed my head again, kissed his hand once more, and asked formal permission to leave. He gave it with a gentle wave.

I walked back through the house, pulse steady now, purpose clear. My black Mercedes waited in the courtyard. 

The drive took almost half an hour. I pulled up outside the upscale salon in city. My two guards were already stationed discreetly by the entrance, blending into the shadows of the manicured palms. They gave me a single nod—no words needed. They’d booked the entire private area for the girls, just like I’d ordered.

I stepped inside. The air smelled of expensive vanilla candles, essential oils, and the faint chemical bite of hair dye. The attendant—a young woman in a crisp black uniform—recognized me instantly, eyes widening for a split second at the fresh scar slicing down my face before she schooled her expression.

“Sir, aap wait kijiye yahan,” she said softly, gesturing to the plush velvet chairs in the waiting lounge just outside the private suite. (Sir, please wait here.)

I nodded and remain standing, trying to look patient when every nerve in my body was screaming to barge in and see her.

A few minutes later, the heavy silk curtain parted.

A small, petite girl with jet-black hair stepped out, froze, and gasped audibly when her eyes landed on me. Dalia. Her gaze immediately locked on the ugly gash across my cheek, and I saw the flash of concern—and maybe a little fear—before she masked it.

“Salam,” she said, voice hesitant, almost a whisper.

“Salam,” I returned, keeping my tone low and respectful. Damn it. One wrong move and Rafiq would have my head on a platter. Best friend or not, the man was dangerously obsessed with this girl—more than even he admitted.

“Anisa ko bula dein,” I said politely. (Call Anisa.)

She stared at my scar another long second, then turned without another word, disappearing behind the curtain again. I heard the soft rustle of fabric, the click of her heels fading.

Then—her voice.

“Arre itni martaba keh diya na, humne yeh garam wax nahi lagana!” A furious shriek echoed from inside, high and indignant. (I’ve told you so many times, I don’t want this hot wax!)

My lips curved instantly. That was her. My fierce, bad girl. Unmistakable.

“Aur yeh kaisa shade hai pink ka?! Humne maroon mixed with chatak pink order kiya tha!” Another outraged cry. (And what is this shade of pink?! I ordered maroon mixed with bright pink!)

I listened with arms crossed to her rant like it was the sweetest music. I wanted to push through that curtain so badly—to see those puffed cheeks, those flashing eyes—but I stayed put. 

“Ani, shaant ho jao,” a calmer voice soothed from inside. (Ani, calm down.)

Seconds later, the curtain flew open again.

Anisa stormed out first—cheeks puffed out in full tantrum mode, hands on her hips, freshly dyed hair a shade of pink that was definitely not what she’d asked for. Her cousin—some friend whose name I could never remember—followed right behind, arm wrapped around Anisa’s waist in a placating side-hug.

“Bekar salon hai yeh, ekdum!” Anisa declared hotly. (This salon is completely useless!)

Then her eyes landed on me.

Everything stopped. 

“Adil,” she whispered, voice cracking on my name.

She ran.

Full sprint. She launched herself at me like she hadn’t seen me in years instead of three damn days. I caught her mid-air, arms locking tight around her waist as she wrapped herself around me like a vine—legs around my hips, arms strangling my neck.

“Begairat shakhs ho tum!” she accused, voice muffled against my shoulder as she started punching my back—light, angry little thumps that didn’t even sting. (You shameless man!)

I chuckled, deep and low, burying my face in the crook of her neck. Her hair smelled like chemicals and strawberries and her. My Gulabo.

“Sorry, meri Gulabo jaanam,” I murmured against her skin, inhaling her like oxygen. (Sorry, my rose, my life.)

“Bahut martaba call kiya humne tumhe,” she complained, hugging me even tighter. (I called you so many times.)

“Ek bhi call nahi uthaya,” she added, pouting fiercely before leaning in and biting the side of my neck—hard. (You didn’t answer even one call.)

I chuckled again, then hissed when her teeth broke skin, a tiny sting followed by the warm trickle of blood. Brat.

I set her gently back on her feet but didn’t let go completely. My hands framed her face, thumbs brushing over those flushed, angry cheeks.

“Mauf kar do humein, Gulabo. Kaam aa gaya tha,” I said softly, eyes locked on hers. (Forgive me, my rose. Work came up.)

She searched my face—lingering on the scar—then nodded slowly.

“Janti hoon,” she whispered, cheeks blooming pinker. “Woh shipment ke liye gaye the tum.” (I know. You went for that shipment.)

The way she blushed at the same time told me she knew exactly what “shipment” had cost me—and why I’d disappeared for three days. My brave girl.

I pulled her back into my chest, one arm banded around her waist, the other cradling the back of her head.

That’s when I noticed the audience.

Dalia stood a few feet away, dupatta now pulled over her head, eyes wide.

“Nazar na lage,” she muttered under her breath, half to herself, half in prayer. (May no evil eye touch them.)

The other girl—Anisa’s friend—stood beside her, dramatically fanning her face with one hand.

“Look at the height difference, ya Khuda,” she said, voice thick with mock awe.

“Oh mai toh bhool hi gayi!” Anisa exclaimed suddenly, clapping her hands together with fresh excitement. (Oh, I completely forgot!)

She turned to her friends, eyes sparkling, and launched into an enthusiastic introduction like I was some celebrity guest.

Dalia’s gaze flicked back to the jagged scar on my face for what felt like the tenth time.  

“Itni tabdeeli aa gayi hai aap mein, pehchaan hi nahi paaye hum,” she said softly, voice tinged with unease. (You’ve changed so much, I can barely recognize you.)

I gave her a short nod—nothing more. 

Amira, on the other hand—Anisa’s bubbly friend—kept gushing without filter.  

“Ya Allah, kitne achhe lag rahe ho dono saath mein! Height difference, chemistry, sab kuch perfect!” she squealed, clasping her hands dramatically. (Oh God, you both look so good together! Height difference, chemistry, everything perfect!)

I ignored the praise. My focus was only on Anisa.

“Ab humein chalna chahiye. Ijaazat hai?” I asked her quietly, voice low and intimate. (We should leave now. Do I have permission?)

She nodded immediately, eyes bright with happiness.  

“Chalo na,” she whispered back, already stepping closer to me. (Let’s go.)

The girls exchanged quick goodbyes—hugs, promises to text, the usual. My guards got ready to escort Dalia and Amira safely home. I didn’t wait for more pleasantries. I took Anisa’s hand and led her out to the Mercedes waiting outside.

The moment we were inside the car, doors shut, tinted windows sealing us in our own world, she turned to me. I started the car and drove to roads. 

“Tumhe zakhm hai,” she murmured, her delicate fingers rising to trace the edge of my scar with heartbreaking gentleness. (You’re hurt.)

Her touch was feather-light. I caught her wrist softly and guided her hand down to rest on my thigh instead. My eyes dropped—couldn’t help it. Her pink dress had ridden up slightly in the seat, the deep neckline giving me a clear, sinful view of the soft swell of her breasts straining against the fabric.

I gulped. Hard. My cock was already thickening, shameless and insistent against the tailored fabric of my pants.

“Yeah,” I grunted, voice rougher than I intended.

“I missed you,” she whispered, her hand sliding upward from my chest, slow and deliberate.

I sighed, head tipping back against the leather.  

“I missed yo—Anisa, stop!”

The word tore out of me as a screech. I slammed on the brakes, car jerking to a halt on the empty stretch of road. Her small hand had slipped down and wrapped boldly around my rock-hard cock through my pants, squeezing just enough to make my vision blur.

She laughed—bright, wicked. 

“Kya hua, Adil sahab? Ladki dekh kar sakht ho gaye aap toh?” she teased, batting her lashes innocently before winking. (What happened, Mr. Adil? You got hard just looking at a girl?)

I couldn’t stay angry. Not when she looked like that—playful, flushed, mine.

I decided to flip the game.

My hand shot out, cupping one full breast through her dress and squeezing hard. She moaned instantly, head falling back against the seat.

“Kitna sakht hoon, woh tumhe ghar jaake mehsus karwaunga… Anisa bibi,” I growled low in her ear, pinching her nipple between thumb and forefinger until it pebbled under the thin fabric. (How hard I am, I’ll make you feel it when we get home… Mrs. Anisa.)

Her eyes fluttered shut on a shaky breath, then snapped open again—dark, molten with lust.

The next second she was climbing over the console, straddling my lap in the driver’s seat. Our mouths crashed together—obnoxious, desperate, starved. Tongues tangling, teeth clashing, hands everywhere. She rocked against me shamelessly, grinding down on the thick ridge of my erection while I devoured her mouth like I’d been dying without it.

“Jaldi chalo na,” she panted against my lips, voice wrecked. “Ab sabr nahi ho raha.” (Drive fast. I can’t wait anymore.)

I didn’t need to be told twice.

I shoved her back into the passenger seat—carefully, but fast—buckled her in, then floored the accelerator. The Mercedes roared to life, eating up the road toward my private apartment on the outskirts.

We barely made it inside.

I scooped her up bridal-style at the threshold, her arms looping around my neck, legs dangling. My keys were already in hand, but when I reached the door—it was ajar.

Unlocked.

Every instinct sharpened. I set Anisa down gently but firmly behind me.

“Piche raho,” I ordered under my breath, voice deadly calm. (Stay back.)

I pulled the Glock from the holster at my lower back, chambered a round with a soft click, and nudged the door open with my boot—gun up, barrel steady.

The apartment was dimly lit. 

“Sir?”

Huda—one of my trusted trainees, still in his black tactical gear—stepped into view, hands raised instantly in surrender.

I exhaled sharply, lowering the weapon but not holstering it yet.

Then I heard—two sharp, happy barks.

Two tails wagging. The dogs we’d rescued from the warehouse. Bandages still wrapped around their shaved patches, but their eyes were bright, alert, alive. They skidded to a stop in front of me, tongues lolling, looking up with joy.

Anisa peeked out from behind me—and squealed.

She darted past before I could stop her, dropping to her knees right there in the entryway.

I looked at Huda, who was still standing there frozen, eyes wide. Me—alone in my apartment with Anisa. No guards hovering, no brothers breathing down our necks. Just us.

“Kya khabar hai?” I asked, tucking the Glock back into its holster at my lower back with a soft click. (What’s the news?)

He cleared his throat twice, Adam’s apple bobbing, before he managed to speak.  

“Hospitalized wale teeno stable hain ab, sir. Doctors ne green light de di. Aur yeh dono…” He gestured at the dogs, who were now sprawled happily at Anisa’s feet. “…in ki health bohot kharab thi. Vet ne full check-up kiya—skin infections, malnutrition, internal stitches ke saare complications handle kar diye. Medicines yahan hain.” (The three hospitalized men are stable now, sir. Doctors gave the green light. And these two… their health was really bad. Vet did a full check-up—skin infections, malnutrition, all complications from the internal stitches handled. Medicines are here.)

He handed me a small paper bag with pill bottles and ointment tubes.

“Inhe kis warehouse mein rakhein?” he asked, glancing at the dogs again. (Where should we keep them—in which warehouse?)

Anisa, who had been cooing and scratching their ears, suddenly looked up at the question. Her eyes—big, soft, pleading—locked straight on mine. They shimmered with something so tender it cracked open my chest and made my heart stutter.

I didn’t even hesitate.

“Mere paas rahenge,” I told Huda, voice firm. (They’ll stay with me.)

Anisa’s face lit up like sunrise. She smiled at me—slow, radiant, full of that quiet trust that could bring me to my knees. I’d burn cities for that smile. Two dogs were nothing.

Huda nodded once, smart enough not to question it. He murmured “Good night, sir,” and slipped out, closing the door softly behind him.

Anisa flopped onto the wide sectional sofa, one dog immediately curling up on either side of her like furry bodyguards.  

“Tumhara apartment toh 'Gigantic building' mein tha na?” she asked, tilting her head curiously. (Wasn’t your apartment in that gigantic building?)

I walked over to the mini bar, pouring her a tall glass of chilled mango juice and a double shot of whiskey for myself.  

“Hmm… naya kharida hai,” I said casually, handing her the glass. (Hmm… I bought this new one.)

She took a happy sip, humming in approval. This place was mine alone—fresh, clean slate. No traces of Sabria’s late-night visits, no lingering perfume in the drawers, no memories I didn’t want here. Only a few people knew about it: Huda, the building manager, and now Anisa. I wanted to build something real here. A new life. With my Gulabo.

I sank down beside her. The pit bull nearest me—big scarred head—gave a low, warning growl the second I got too close to her.

Like fuck. She was my girl, and this mutt was giving me territorial looks.

“Kebab, noooo… baithne do Adil ko bhi,” she scolded gently, pressing a kiss to the top of his massive head. (Kebab, nooo… let Adil sit too.)

The dog huffed, shot me one last suspicious glance, then obediently slid down to the carpet at her feet, resting his chin on her ankle like he owned the spot.

“Kebab?” I echoed, raising an eyebrow.

She beamed, patting the other one—the sleek Doberman with rich brown markings.  

“Iska naam hai Aladdin… aur uska naam hai kebab .” (This one’s name is Aladdin. … and that one’s Kebab )

Wow. Great. Now I had two possessive dogs, plus her two overprotective brothers. What a fucking life.

We settled in—some mindless rom-com playing on the massive screen, bowls of snacks scattered between us. Anisa curled against my chest like she belonged there, head tucked under my chin, fingers idly tracing patterns on my shirt. The earlier heat between us had simmered into something softer, quieter. She’d texted Zaid earlier—said she was staying over at Amira’s for the night. He’d bought it. For now.

I pressed a kiss to the top of her head, breathing her in. The clock on the wall showed 11:45. Fifteen minutes to midnight.

The dogs had slept—medicine and exhaustion finally winning. Anisa yawned, snuggling closer.

I reached for the remote, switched off the TV, plunging the room into soft darkness lit only by the city glow through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Then I scooped her up in one smooth motion—arms under her knees and back.

“Adil! …Movie dekhni hai,” she whispered in protest, even as her arms looped around my neck. (Adil! …I want to watch the movie.)

“Usse acha kuch dikhana hai tumhe, Gulabo,” I growled low against her ear, already carrying her toward the bedroom. (I have something better to show you, my rose.)

She grinned—mischievous, wicked—and deliberately ground her ass right against my cock as I walked.

“Ohhhh,” she purred, eyes glittering with trouble.

I kicked the bedroom door open.

“Wowww,” she breathed, eyes widening as she took it in.

The room was different from the stark minimalism of my old place. Deep burgundy sheets on the king bed, fresh roses—her favorite deep red ones—scattered across the pillows and nightstands. A new crystal chandelier dripped soft gold above us. Thick velvet curtains blocked out the world. It looked like a damn honeymoon suite.

“Itna decorate kyun kiya hai room?” she asked, voice hushed with wonder as I set her down. She wandered around, fingertips trailing over the silk pillow. 

I locked the door behind me with a deliberate click.

Then I peeled off my shirt, letting it drop to the floor.

I stepped up behind her, arms sliding around her waist, pulling her soft body flush against my bare chest. She fit perfectly—like she was made for this spot, for me. I buried my face in the curve of her neck, inhaling the sweet mix of her scent. 

“Tumhare liye,” I murmured against her skin, voice low and rough. (For you.)

I trailed slow, open-mouthed kisses down the side of her neck, sucking lightly, then biting just enough to make her gasp. Every little sound she made went straight to my cock—moans, whimpers, the way her body arched back into me like she couldn’t get close enough.

My fingers found the zipper at the back of her pink dress. One slow drag down and I let it slide off her shoulders, pooling at her feet in a soft heap of silk and lace.

I turned her around slowly, hands on her hips.

Fuck.

She stood there in nothing but tiny lace panties that were already damp at the center. Big, heavy breasts heaving with every breath, dark nipples tight and begging for my mouth. Her soft belly curved gently, leading down to that perfectly waxed pussy—smooth, glistening, already swollen for me.

“So beautiful, baby,” I rasped, voice wrecked.

I dropped to my knees in front of her like a man praying. Started at her collarbone—kissing, licking, sucking marks I wanted her to see tomorrow. Down over the swell of her breasts, tongue flicking one hard nipple, then the other, until she was trembling.

Lower. Over the dip of her belly, the soft give of her stomach.

“Ohhhh Adil… ll… ahhhh,” she moaned, fingers tangling in my hair when I finally reached her center.

I hooked my fingers in the lace and dragged her panties down her thighs, tossing them aside. Then I buried my face between her legs and sucked her clit hard into my mouth.

“Ahhhhh!”

Her hips bucked. I pushed her backward gently until the backs of her knees hit the edge of the bed. She fell onto the burgundy sheets with a soft bounce, legs spreading instinctively. 

I devoured her—tongue flat and broad, then circling fast, sucking, licking, relentless. She tasted like sin and sweetness and everything I’d been starving for these three days.

“Tumhari chut bohot tasty hai, baby,” I growled against her wet folds, the words vibrating right into her. (Your pussy is so fucking tasty, baby.)

I stood just long enough to shove my pants and boxers down in one rough motion. My cock sprang free—thick, hard, leaking at the tip. Anisa’s eyes went wide and dark; she reached for it immediately, small hand stretching toward me.

I caught her wrist and pushed her back down onto the mattress. She whimpered in protest, pouting up at me.

“Sabar karo, baby,” I teased, voice dark with promise. (Have patience, baby.)

Then I dropped back between her thighs, spreading her wider with my shoulders. I attacked her pussy again—sucking her clit hard, tongue plunging inside her, then back to flicking fast over that sensitive bundle until her hips were grinding against my face.

“Ohhh yessss… ahhhh Adil!”

Her fingers yanked at my hair, pulling me closer, thighs clamping around my head. I groaned into her, the sound muffled against her slick heat.

“Acha lag raha hai meri baby ko, hmm?” I murmured, pulling back just enough to let her feel the words on her swollen clit. (Feels good, doesn’t it, my baby?)

Before she could answer, I brought my hand down—sharp, controlled slap right over her dripping pussy.

She cried out, back arching off the bed, eyes rolling back.

I did it again—lighter this time, then rubbed the sting away with slow circles of my palm.

“Adil… please…” she begged, voice breaking, hips rolling desperately. 

I smirked against her skin, nipping the inside of her thigh.

“Abhi toh shuruat hai, Gulabo,” I whispered, sliding two fingers inside her soaked heat, curling them just right while my mouth went back to her clit. (This is just the beginning, my rose.)

She was shaking, moaning my name like a prayer, completely mine.

Her taste still lingered on my tongue—sweet, salty, addictive.  

“Chut chatwane mein maja aa raha hai baby ko meri?”  

(Does my baby enjoy having her pussy eaten?)  

I murmured the words against her soaked folds before pushing two fingers deep inside her without warning. 

Her walls clenched instantly, hot and slick, greedy. She nodded frantically, eyes glassy, lips parted in a silent plea. I crashed my mouth over hers, kissing her hard, letting her taste herself on my tongue. She whimpered into the kiss, hips jerking up, chasing more.

I pulled back just enough to watch her face—flushed, desperate, beautiful.  

“Tumhe laga main bhul Gaya baby?”  

(Did you think I forgot, baby?)  

I dragged my lips down the column of her throat, sucking hard enough to mark while my fingers curled inside her, stroking that spot that made her thighs tremble. She cried out softly. Then I withdrew my fingers completely—slow, cruel—watching her body chase them, hips lifting off the mattress in helpless frustration.

“Wh… what—” Her voice cracked, hazy with lust, barely coherent.

I shifted higher, fisting my cock once, twice, spreading the wetness she’d left on me. The blunt head nudged her entrance. She gasped sharply, eyes flying wide as she looked down between us, then up at me—equal parts fear and hunger.

I held myself there, unmoving, every muscle in my body screaming to slam home. But not yet.

“Ijāzat hai?”  

(Do I have permission?)  

My voice came out rough, strained. I was barely holding back the urge to ram into her.

She searched my face for a long heartbeat. Then the most devastating smile curved her lips—shy, wicked, desperate. She nodded, quick little jerks of her head, nails digging into my shoulders.

I exhaled through my nose and began to push in.

Slow.

So fucking slow.

Her heat enveloped me inch by torturous inch. Tight. Impossibly tight. I glanced up at the wall clock above the headboard.

12:00 a.m.

Exactly.

“Happy Birthday, baby,” I rasped.

And then I snapped my hips forward—hard.

She screamed my name, the sound raw and broken. I felt it—the soft resistance give way, the sudden warm rush as her hymen tore. Tears instantly spilled from the corners of her eyes, sliding down her temples into her hair. 

I froze, buried halfway, fighting every instinct to move.

“Gehri sāns lo baby… dard kam hoga.”  

(Take deep breaths, baby… the pain will lessen.)

I lowered myself, pressing my chest to hers, caging her gently. My arms slid under her shoulders, cradling her head. I kissed the tears away, tasting salt.

“Adil… ahhhhh—”

Her moan cracked in the middle. I started moving—small, careful rocks at first, barely pulling out before sliding back in. 

“Ahhhh bhenchod!!! Dhīlā chhodo ahhh—”  

(Ahhhh motherfucker!!! Loosen up ahhh—)

I grunted through clenched teeth. She was strangling me—hot, wet silk clamped so tight I could barely think. 

“Ohhh ahhhh bahut andar tak hai ahhhh—”  

(Ohhh ahhhh it’s so deep ahhhh—)

Her fingers twisted in the bedsheet, knuckles white.

“Abhi toh pūrā andar nahīn hai baby.”  

(It’s not even all the way in yet, baby.)

I cooed the words against her temple, kissing her damp hairline. 

“Noo… ahhhh bas… aur andar nahīīī—”  

(Nooo… ahhhh enough… not deeper—)

Her voice splintered. Her thighs clamped around my waist like she wanted to stop me and pull me closer at the same time. 

“Abhi itna hi lo apni chut mein, baby. Meri baby ka chut ka chhed itna tight hai…” (take thus much only. My baby's pussy is tight) 

I grunted low in my throat, voice gravel-rough, as I fed her another slow, deliberate inch. 

I kept the rhythm steady and deep. 

“Ummmm… ahhhhh… maze aa rahe hain Adil… ahhh… aur…”

She smiled up at me through half-lidded eyes—lazy, blissed-out, lips swollen from earlier kisses. I dipped my head, captured one pebbled nipple between my lips and sucked hard while my hips rolled in lazy circles. 

“Roz aise hi chudogi baby toh tumhari nipple mein se doodh aayega ahhh…” (if I will fuck you everyday, one day you will have milk filled in your boobs);

I groaned against her skin, teeth grazing the sensitive bud. Her nails raked down my back in retaliation—sharp, possessive little lines that made me hiss and fuck her just a fraction harder. She loved marking me as much as I loved marking her.

“Aaa… dill… ahhhh… mera… ahahhhh…”

Her words dissolved into whimpers. I slipped my hand between our bodies, found her swollen clit and rubbed fast little circles—rough, relentless. Her thighs immediately started quaking, inner muscles clamping down so tight I nearly lost it right then.

“Jaldi jhad jaao babyyy… ahhhh… mera lund geela kar diya pura… ummmm…” (cum for me baby..... cream up my cock);

She shattered with a broken cry, flooding me, coating my cock, my balls, the sheets beneath us. 

Her milky skin had turned a beautiful flushed pink, scattered with darkening hickeys—my mouth’s artwork across her throat, breasts, collarbones. I looped an arm around her soft waist, flipped her onto her stomach in one smooth motion.

“Ahhhh meri baby, hilaao inhe!” (move your ass baby);

I delivered a sharp smack to her ass—loud enough to echo. The flesh jiggled, bloomed red under my palm.

She obeyed instantly, pushing back, rolling her hips in slow, filthy circles. My cock disappeared inside her again and again as she fucked herself on me. The sight—her slim back arched, ass high, hair spilling wild over the pillow—made my mouth water.

“Ahhh Adil…ll… itna bada hai… ohhh ahhhh…” (it's is so big) 

Her movements grew sluggish, thighs trembling from the stretch. I gripped her hips, took over.

“Pura andar daalunga kisi din isse baby… ahhh… mera lund ko tadapti ho tum bahut.” (one day i will put my cock wholly in you....you make my cock suffer) 

I slammed forward—harder now—burying myself in her. Her moans pitched higher, more desperate. I couldn’t resist: one hand came down on her ass again—crack—while the other slid between her cheeks.

“Ahhhh jor se nahi… ahhh Adil hhh… ahhhh… mera aa jayega… ahhh Adil!!?” she cried and i circled a finger on her anal hole. 

“Woh wala chhed nahi… ahhhh… ruk jaa toh…”

She panicked for a second, voice high and shaky. 

“Jhad mere lund pe baby!!! Tumhari gaand ka chhed chhodta tha maine… ahhhh… aaj chut bhi chhod di… ohhhh—” (cum on my cock baby! I had fucked your anal and look today I'm fucking your pussy ...oooohh);

Her cunt spasmed violently around me as the second orgasm ripped through her. She screamed my name, body convulsing, milking me so hard stars burst behind my eyes. Her face dropped to the pillow, eyes rolling back, completely gone.

“Ahhhhhh meriii pusssy… ohhhh…” (my pussy);

She collapsed forward, boneless. I chuckled. 

I rose to my knees, hooked my hands under her hips and pulled her ass high again. She moaned weakly as I notched myself at her entrance once more and sank back inside in one long, slow glide.

“Bohot chhota chhed hai meri baby ka…” (such a small cunt you have baby)

I groaned at how tightly she still hugged me, even after two orgasms. Her body was made for this—for me.

“Roz chodunga apne lund se baby. Bada ho jayega ye… tumhari boobs ki tarah.” ( i will fuck you daily then your hole will be big like your boobs);

She gave a tired, dreamy nod, sighing into the pillow.

“Ahhhh Adil… ummm… thak gayi hoon ab toh… bas karein…” (Adil.... I'm tired now )

Her voice was small, sleepy, honest. I softened instantly. She still had to face her family later—cake, hugs, birthday photos. I didn’t want her limping, barely able to walk. Not tonight.

“Jor se chodne do baby fir… ahhhh… mera ras aayega phir.” (let me fuck you fast then baby, only then I can cum) 

She whispered a soft “yes,” arching just enough to let me know she wanted it too.

That was all the permission I needed.

I gripped her hips and started pounding—fast, brutal, relentless. The bed creaked loudly under us, headboard knocking the wall in rhythm with my thrusts.

“Ahhhh ahhhh Adillll… ohhh ahhhh—”

She shook violently, clutching the sheets. I felt her start to tighten again—impossibly.

“Ahhhh Anisa baby… ahhhh… meri gulabo ki chut… ahhhh… mera lund fas raha hai baby… ahhh ahhh…”. (Anisa baby ahhh I'm cumming)

Heaven. Pure fucking heaven.

“Ras nikaal do apna mujhme hi… ahhhh… please Adil… ahhhh… meri chut mein… ahhh… daal do ras… ahhhh…” (cum for me Adil. Fill my pussy with your cum);

Her innocent, pleading voice snapped the last thread of my control. I spanked her ass once—hard—and then buried myself as deep as I could go.

“Ahhhh babyyy… ahhhhhh… mera ras nikal gaya baby… tumhari chut mein… ahhhh—”

(Fuckkk baby here i came in your pussy) 

I came with a guttural groan, pulsing thick ropes inside her. When I finally pulled out, my cock glistened with our mixed release—white cum streaked with faint traces of her earlier blood. It dripped from her swollen, reddened pussy. 

She collapsed flat on her stomach, utterly spent, chest heaving. I dropped down beside her, pulling her limp body against my side. She curled into me like she belonged there—because she did.

“Best 20th birthday gift ever…” she murmured drowsily, pressing a soft, tired kiss to my chest.

I chuckled, low and satisfied, brushing sweat-damp hair off her forehead.

“Happy birthday, meri jaan.”

I scooped her up carefully—bridal style, like she weighed nothing even though her limbs were heavy with exhaustion. Her head lolled against my shoulder, warm breath fanning my neck in slow, even puffs. She was already half-asleep, murmuring something incoherent that sounded suspiciously like my name.

The bathroom light felt too bright after the dim bedroom glow. I set her down gently on the closed toilet lid, steadying her when she swayed. Wet a fresh towel under warm water, wrung it out, and started cleaning her with slow, careful strokes.

Between her thighs first—gentle—wiping away the mix of release. She hissed softly when the cloth brushed her swollen folds, thighs twitching together on instinct.

“Sorry, baby,” I whispered, kissing the inside of her knee. “Almost done.”

I cleaned her stomach, the sticky trails that had dripped down, then her breasts—soft, passes over the darkening hickeys I’d left like signatures. She sighed, leaning into my touch, eyes fluttering closed.

When I was satisfied she was clean and comfortable, I slipped one of my oversized white T-shirts over her head. 

I carried her back to the sofa chair, laid her down, and change the bedsheet on bed quickly. 

She was already asleep by the time I tucked her on blanket with a thin summer blanket. 

I cleaned myself next and Pulled on a pair of black boxer briefs, nothing else. 

I stepped toward the bedroom door to check on the dogs—and froze.

Both of them were sitting bolt upright right outside the threshold. They hadn’t barked, hadn’t scratched, hadn’t made a single sound the whole time. 

Just sat.

I stepped aside. They padded in without a second glance at me—straight to the bed. Then dropped heavily onto the large bed right at Anisa’s feet, curling their big body. 

I moved quietly around the house—checked all the locks. Everything secure. 

Then I slid under the blanket behind Anisa.

She stirred just enough to press back against me—seeking warmth, seeking me even in sleep. I wrapped one arm around her waist, hand splaying protectively over her stomach, the other sliding under her head so she could use my bicep as a pillow. 

I buried my nose in the crook of her neck, inhaled deep.

My gulabo.

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