Saathiya (6) (18+)

 

Anisa’s POV

"Aap dono break lein,” I said softly but firmly to the two guards shadowing my every step. They hesitated for half a second before nodding once and stepping back toward the glass entrance.  

I exhaled, feeling the cool lobby air kiss my bare shoulders. The black dress clung lightly to my body. My heels clicked sharply on the polished marble. In my left hand I cradled the bouquet: deep red roses wrapped in kraft paper. 

It had been exactly Four days since my birthday. 

The memory still made my chest ache in the sweetest way.  

But lately… something had shifted.  

He’d grown quieter. Distracted. The smiles he gave me still reached his eyes, but they arrived a second too late, as though he had to remind himself to wear them. Jaw tight even when we were alone. Sleepless hours when I’d wake to find him staring at the ceiling, one arm flung over his forehead.  

So today I decided I wouldn’t wait for him to come back to me.  

Today I would go to him.  

I’d heard from my guards that Adil had been spending late nights at his old apartment.

So here I was. Flowers. Black dress.

“Hello. Mr. Adil Farooqi se milna hai,” I told the receptionist, offering her my smile.  

She returned a practiced polite one and slid her finger down the screen. “Aapka naam?”  

“Anisa Ali Zaveri.”  

Her brows lifted the tiniest fraction. She tapped again, then reached for the receiver. “Let me just confirm—”  

“Nahi, please don’t call him,” I said quickly, leaning forward a little, voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. “It’s a surprise.”  

She paused, studied my face — the roses, the dress, the hopeful sparkle I knew was shining too brightly in my eyes — and something softened in her expression. She understood.  

“Okay… let me check the list.”  

Her fingers moved again. Then stopped.  

The smile faded.  

“Sorry, Ma’am. Aapka naam list mein nahi hai. Due to high security we can’t allow entry without prior approval.”   

My name wasn’t on the list?  

Disappointment curled sour in my stomach, followed quickly by stubborn fire.  

No. I didn’t come all this way — heels aching, heart racing, roses slowly wilting in my grip — to be turned back at the desk.  

Then the idea sparked.  

If my name wasn’t trusted enough… maybe his men were.  

I pulled out my phone and dialed my guard.  

Two minutes later both guards strode through the revolving doors like they were about to neutralize a threat. Shoulders squared, eyes scanning, hands hovering near their waists. The receptionist visibly stiffened.  

I almost laughed.  

“Chill karein,” I told them, raising a palm. “Sirf entry ke liye permission leni hai.” [Relax, we just need permission to enter.]  

They gave a curt nod, slid two sleek black cards across the counter. The receptionist scanned them, checked her screen again, and this time her shoulders relaxed.  

“You’re cleared, Ma’am. Floor 27. Apartment 2703.”  

I flashed her a grateful smile — the kind that says thank-you-for-not-ruining-my-evening — and turned toward the elevators, heels clicking faster now.  

I reached the apartment from elevator. Knocking on the door, I waited then it was opened by Adil wearing white shirt and blue jeans.

“Surprise!”  

The word burst out of me bright and breathless as I threw my arms around him, crushing the bouquet between our chests. Roses pressed against his white shirt, petals already bruising. 

He stiffened.  

Then slowly, hesitantly, his arms came around me. Not tight. Not the way they usually did, like he was trying to merge us into one person. Just… polite. Careful.  

My smile faltered against his shoulder.  

Something was wrong.  

“Yeh kon hai, Adil?”  

The voice was soft, cultured.  

I froze.  

Adil’s arms dropped away like I’d suddenly become radioactive. I pulled back just enough to turn my head.  

There she was.  

Standing in living room and hallway like she belonged there. Red sharara — Heavy gold zari work on the dupatta that was draped modestly over her head and one shoulder. Simple kohl-lined eyes. No heavy makeup. Just quiet, expensive elegance.  

And those eyes were locked on me with open, unapologetic suspicion.  

“Anisa baby…” Adil whispered, so low I almost didn’t catch it over the sudden roaring in my ears.  

I stepped fully out of his hold. Forced my lips into the sweetest, most poisonous smile I could manage.  

“Main Anisa hoon.” (I'm Anisa )!

I said it clearly, pleasantly, like I was introducing myself at a dinner party. Then I turned to her fully, placed the now-crumpled bouquet on the side table and tilted my head.  

“Aap inki kaun hain?” (who are you to him?) 

She didn’t flinch.  

Instead she smiled — small, soft, pitying — and raised her right hand in a graceful Salam.  

“Main Sabria hoon.”  

A pause. Just long enough for the air to thicken.  

“Adil ki hone wali dulhan.”  

The words hit like a slap  

My smile froze. Then cracked.  

A hysterical little laugh tore out of my throat before I could stop it — sharp, ugly, echoing off the high ceilings.  

“Wow.”  

The syllable hung there, ridiculous and broken.  

Unbelievable.  

Utterly unbelievable.  

Adil moved behind me. His arm came around my waist in that casual side-hug he used in public when he wanted to look affectionate. 

I jerked away so violently his hand fell empty into the space between us.  

I spun to face him.  

His face was all guilt now — eyes wide, mouth half-open, the same expression he wore when he knew he’d fucked up beyond repair but still hoped words could fix it.  

“Adil sahab ki dulhan bhi hai,” I said, voice dripping acid. “Humein toh maloom hi nahi tha.” (Adil sir has a bride. I didn't know about it) 

Every word tasted like rust and betrayal.  

“Anisa…” His voice cracked. “Yeh sach nahi hai. Main tumhe batana chahta tha—”  

He took a step toward me.  

Sabria’s hand closed around his forearm — delicate fingers, manicured nails painted the same deep red as her outfit. 

My vision blurred at the edges. My throat closed so tight I could barely breathe. I wanted to wrap my hands around both their necks — his for the lies, hers for the audacity — and squeeze until neither of them could ever speak my name again.  

Instead I stood there, trembling, fists clenched so hard my nails bit crescents into my palms.  

The roses on the side table were already starting to droop.  

My heart was a live wire, sparking dangerously close to explosion.

“Yahi sachi hai. Dekhiye hum engaged bhi hai.”  

(This is the truth. Look, we’re even engaged.)

Sabria thrust her hand forward like a weapon. The diamond on her ring finger caught the overhead light and sliced straight into my eyes—cold, perfect, mocking. It glittered the way betrayal glitters.

I swallowed the scream clawing up my throat. My nails dug half-moons into my palms until I felt the sting of broken skin. Pain was good. Pain kept me from shattering right there.

Adil stepped away from her—slow, deliberate—and came to me.

“Anisa… breathe, baby.”

His voice was velvet-soft, the same tone he used when he pulled me against his chest and promised the world couldn’t touch us. Now it felt like poison being poured down my ears.

Before my brain could catch up, my hand flew.

The slap cracked across his cheek—sharp, satisfying. The old knife-scar along his jaw turned an angry red under my palm.

Sabria gasped, hand flying to her mouth like some Victorian heroine. My vision swam; tears burned behind my eyes, hot and furious, but I refused to let even one fall. I would bleed out before I cried in front of them.

“Mujhse dagabaazi karne ka anjaam nahi jaante tum, Adil Farooqi.”  

(You don’t know the consequences of betraying me, Adil Farooqi.)

My voice came out low, venom dripping from every syllable. I felt it radiate off me like heat from an open flame.

He didn’t flinch. Instead he reached out, cupped my face with both hands—gentle the way he always did when he thought I might break.

“I can never do that to you. You know that. You are my everything.”

I wanted to believe him so badly my chest ached. My stupid, treacherous heart lurched toward his words like a moth to fire, even as my mind screamed liar, liar, liar.

“Aapne Adil pe haath kaise uthaya?”  

(How dare you raise your hand on Adil?)

Sabria was closer now, voice shrill. I squeezed my eyes shut for one heartbeat, two—stopping myself from slapping the taste out of her mouth too.

“Dikhayein mujhe laga toh nahi aapko.”  

(Show me—did it hurt you?)

She reached to cradle his face. Adil jerked away so fast she stumbled.

“Sabria,” he warned, voice like broken glass. The fury in his eyes was the kind he had never—never—turned on me.

I let honey coat my next words, slow and poisonous.

“Nikah tak nishaan nahi rahega, mohtarma.”  

(The mark won’t even last till the nikah, esteemed one.)

“Nikah do din mein hai. Behtar hoga aap mere shauhar se ab door rahein.”  

(The nikah is in two days. It would be better if you stay away from my husband now.)

Her words hit like acid. My mind went white-blue with rage—pure, blinding betrayal. How could he look me in the eye and lie for days? Did Bhai know? Had he lied to them too, used me out for whatever this was?

“Anisa… yeh nikah nahi hoga.”  

(Anisa… this nikah won’t happen.)

Adil caught my hand. His fingers were warm, steady. He still looked straight into my eyes—open, shameless, desperate. Either he had no shame left… or he was telling the truth.

“Yeh nikah zaroor mukammal hoga.”  

(This nikah will definitely be completed.)

Sabria’s voice cracked with real anger for the first time.

“Bhulein na Adil, agar yeh nikah nahi hua toh apni Ammi ki nishaani aapko nahi milegi.”  

(Don’t forget, Adil—if this nikah doesn’t happen, you won’t get your mother’s keepsake.)

My brothers had drilled it into me since childhood: never lose control in anger. Words said in rage are bullets you can’t take back. Sabria had just handed me the loaded gun.

I tilted my head, let a slow, dangerous smile bloom.

“Ammi ki nishaani ke liye nikah kar rahe hain, Adil shahab toh?”  

(So the nikah is only for your mother’s keepsake, Adil shahab?)

Sabria’s eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering.

“aisi konsi nishaani aapke paas hai, Sabria baji… humein bhi toh batayein.”  

(What kind of keepsake do you have, Sabria sister… tell us too.)

I needed her angry again. Anger makes people stupid. Anger makes them spill secrets.

“Anisa…” Adil tried.

I shot him a look that could cut steel. Shut up.

“Tumhara ishq sirf jism tak hi tha, Adil Farooqi.”  

(Your love was only physical, Adil Farooqi.)

His face drained of color. Good. Let it hurt.

“Jismani talluq—” Sabria whispered, horrified.

“Jee haan, Sabria baji,” I said sweetly, “aapke hone wale shauhar ke mere saath jismani talluq hain.”  

(Yes, Sabria baji—your would-be husband and I have a physical relationship.)

Her face twisted—anger, disgust, betrayal all at once. She stared at Adil, waiting for denial. He only looked at me, raw pain in his eyes, begging me to believe him.

“Jo bhi aap dono ke beech hua, ab woh nahi hoga. Ab Adil mere shauhar honge.”  

(Whatever happened between you two is over. Now Adil will be my husband.)

Like hell.

I arranged my face into perfect innocence.

“Sahi kaha aapne, baji.”

Her lips curved—victorious—until my next words landed.

“Adil aapke hain… lekin sirf unki Ammi ki nishaani milne tak.”  

(Adil is yours… but only until he gets his mother’s keepsake.)

“Kyuki unki mohabbat toh main hoon na.”  

(Because his love is me, isn’t it?)

I let my fingers trail down his cheek—slow, deliberate, possessive—right in front of her. Adil froze. Sabria looked like she’d been slapped.

“Yeh kya wahiyaat baatein bol rahi hain aap!”  

(What vulgar things are you saying!)

“Aap Adil ko apna shauhar mukammal karein… par kya woh aapke saath apna ishq mukammal karenge?”  

(You can complete the nikah with Adil… but will he ever complete his love with you?)

She grabbed his arm, yanked him toward her.

“Dekhiye iss behaya ko! Kaisi baatein kar rahi hai!”  

(Look at this shameless girl! The things she’s saying!)

“Jawaab dein inhe, Adil—ki aap sirf mujhse mohabbat mukammal karenge.”  

(Answer her, Adil—that you will only complete your love with me.)

She shook his collar. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

Adil pried her fingers off—calm, cold, emotionless.

“Nikah ka waada Abbu ka tha. Mere liye humara na koi rishta pehle tha… aur na kabhi hoga.”  

(The promise of nikah was Abbu’s. There was never any relationship between us before… and there never will be.)

Sabria staggered like she’d been punched.

“P… par… nikah… aap dhoka denge mujhe?”  

(But… the nikah… you’ll deceive me?)

He turned to me then—eyes soft, burning with so much love it almost undid me. I looked away. I couldn’t bear it.

“Anisa Ali Zaveri meri mohabbat hai. Aakhiri saans tak rahegi.”  

(Anisa Ali Zaveri is my love. She will be till my last breath.)

I forced my gaze back to Sabria.

“Sach dukh deta hai, Sabria baji.”  

(The truth hurts, Sabria baji.)

I stepped closer, voice syrup-sweet.

“Nikah kab hai waise aapka ab?” she gave me a cold look and smiled in return. 

(When is your nikah anyway?)

“Zahir hai main bhi ek sundar sa joda le lungi… aakhiri suhaag raat toh yeh mere saath hi mukammal hogi.”  

(Obviously I’ll get a beautiful outfit too… at last wedding night will be completed with me, after all.)

Her hand flew up to slap me. I caught her wrist mid-air—hard.

“Tsk tsk.”

I smiled, slow and cruel, and shoved her hand away.

“Anisa par haath uthane ki haisiyat nahi hai aapki, Sabria baji.”  

(You don’t have the right to raise your hand on Anisa, Sabria baji.)

“Jeet sakti ho toh apne hone wale shauhar ko toh jeet lo.”  

(If you can win him, go ahead and win your would-be husband.)

Inside, something dark and vicious uncoiled.

Anisa Ali Zaveri does not bend.  

Anisa Ali Zaveri does not break.  

If they wanted to shatter my heart, I would burn their entire fairy tale to ash—and dance in the flames while their world bled.

Let them try to find peace.  

I would make sure hell felt like mercy.

“Thik hai,” Sabria said, squaring her shoulders like she was stepping onto a battlefield.  

(Alright.)

“Jab tak Adil mere kadmon mein aake nahi baithenge, tab tak yeh nikah nahi hoga.”  

(As long as Adil doesn’t come and sit at my feet, this nikah won’t happen.)

She declared it like a queen issuing a decree. Adil’s lips curved—slow, satisfied, victorious. That smile… it twisted something inside me. I couldn’t read him. Not anymore. Not after everything.

“Challenge accepted,” I sang back, voice light and lethal. I folded my arms, tilted my head, and gave her the same poisonous smile she’d worn seconds ago.

“Tum bhi nahi juda kar sakti humein phir, Anisa bibi,” she shot back, smug as if the war was already won.  

(You won’t be able to separate us either then, Anisa bibi.)

She grabbed her bag, tossed a clipped “Khuda Hafiz,” and walked out like she owned the damn place.

The automatic lock clicked shut behind her. The apartment fell deathly quiet.

I moved before the echo faded.

My hand dipped into my bag, fingers closing around cold steel. The knife came out smooth . 

“Anisa… ahh—"

Adil stepped toward me, arms open, voice soft like he could still fix this with tenderness.

I didn’t let him finish.

The blade slashed across the left side of his chest—clean, deep enough to bloom red instantly. His white shirt drank the blood, dark crimson spreading like spilled wine.

“Mujhe dhoka denge, Adil Farooqi?”  

(You’ll betray me, Adil Farooqi?)

My voice cracked with rage. Another slash—this time across the back of his hand. Blood welled, dripped onto the marble floor in fat, accusing drops.

“Mujhse dagabaazi karne ka anjaam sirf qabar mein jaana hai, Adil!”  

(The consequence of betraying me is only the grave, Adil!)

I pressed the sharp edge right over his heart. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t step back. He just… smiled. That stupid, adoring, bloody smile.

“I’m so proud of you, baby,” he grunted through the pain.

I shoved the knife deeper—an inch, maybe more. Fresh blood pulsed hot over my fingers. He hissed but still didn’t move to defend himself.

He could have. I knew he could. Adil Farooqi—my brothers’ deadliest man, trained to kill before he could walk properly. One twist and the knife would be in me instead. But he stood there bleeding for me. Willingly.

That made the fury worse. And the tears worse.

“Kyuu kiya aisa?”  

(Why did you do this?)

My voice broke. A tear escaped, traitor that it was, sliding hot down my cheek.

“Anisa…”

He reached to wipe it. I twisted the blade in warning—sharp, shallow rotation. He sucked in a breath.

“Jawaab do!” I yelled in anger. 

(Answer me!)

He nodded once, slow.

And then he told me everything.

The cruelty of his father. The mother he hadn’t seen in years because one wrong move and she’d be dead. The childhood “engagement” forced on him when he was too young to understand what a ring meant—illegal, meaningless, never accepted in his heart. Sabria was a chain his father had tried to lock around him. The land in Manwar—his mother’s only wish, the only thing keeping her alive in secret. The nikah was leverage. Nothing more.

“Maine sirf tumse mohabbat ki hai, Anisa.”  

(I have only ever loved you, Anisa.)

The words rang in my skull like a struck bell. My head spun.

“Mujhe sach pehle hi batana chahiye tha.”  

(I should have told you the truth earlier.)

I yanked the knife free. Blood welled fresh. I flung the blade—it clattered onto the same small table where I’d thrown his bouquet earlier tonight, the petals still crushed and dying.

“Agar mujhe dhoka dene ka socha bhi, toh jaan se maar dungi tumhe, Adil.”  

(If you ever even think of betraying me again, I will kill you with my own hands, Adil.)

My voice shook with the promise.

He only smiled wider—like I’d just confessed undying love.

“Tumhaari di hui maut mujhe manzoor hogi.”  

(A death given by you would be acceptable to me.)

He leaned in, pressed a soft kiss to my forehead despite the blood running down his chest, then pulled me into his arms.

I let him.

Because my family trusted him. Because I could still kill him in a heartbeat if he ever lied again. Because—God help me—I believed him.

“I love you,” he whispered, breaking the hug just enough to look into my eyes.

“You are mine,” I growled back, possessive to the marrow.

And then I kissed him—fierce, claiming, teeth and desperation and all the anger still burning under my skin.

My hands tore at his ruined shirt, ripping it open the rest of the way. Blood smeared across my palms, my dress, his skin. I didn’t care.

“Only mine,” I hissed against the fresh wound on his chest, kissing it, tasting copper and salt and him.

“Only mine.”

I shoved his jeans down, buttons popping. He stumbled back onto the sofa. I climbed over him before he could speak.

“Anisa… bedroom—”

“No.” I cut him off, hiking my black dress up to my waist. “Yahi chudoge tum bhi… sirf mere Adil.”  

(You’ll be fucked right here… only my Adil.)

I slid my panties aside, gripped his hard length—hot, pulsing, already weeping for me.

“Kiske ho tum?”  

(Who do you belong to?)

My voice was low, dangerous. He was bleeding, scarred, completely at my mercy—and still the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

“Sirf tumhaara.”  

(Only yours.)

His voice strained as I sank down, taking him to the hilt in one slow, punishing slide.

“Sirf mere,” I snapped. 

I rolled my hips—hard, deliberate—claiming every inch, every scar, every drop of blood he’d shed for me.

My thighs trembled from the effort, but I didn’t care. The slight burn only made the pleasure sharper.

Adil’s head fell back against the same fa head with a dull thud. His throat worked as he swallowed hard.

“Yes baby… uchalo mere lund pe baby… ahhhh… ahhh… yesss…” (ride my cock baby)

His groan cracked in the middle, turning raw. I loved that sound — the way his usual calm, controlled voice splintered only for me.

I braced my palms on his shoulders and started moving properly — slow drags up. 

“Mujhse door jaane ka sochna bhi mat, Adil… ahhhh…” (Don’t even think about going far from me, Adil)

The words came out half-threat, half-plea. I leaned in and kissed his face everywhere — forehead, closed eyelids, sharp cheekbones, the corner of his mouth that always curved when he was trying not to smile too obviously. My lips were frantic, marking territory.

He opened his eyes then — dark, glassy, completely undone — and met my stare without blinking.

“Yess baby… kabhi nahi…” he rasped, voice thick with something fiercer than lust. Something that sounded almost like worship. (Never)

I slid my fingers into his damp hair, tugged his head back so I could reach his neck. “Meri tight chut kabhi nahi milegi warna tumhe…” I cooed against his pulse, letting my teeth graze the skin before I bit down — hard enough to make him hiss, soft enough not to break. I sucked until the mark bloomed dark and angry under my tongue. Mine. (You’ll never find a pussy like mine otherwise)

“Tumhari jaise chut toh kahin nahi milegi baby… ahhh… yesss…” (A pussy like yours doesn’t exist anywhere else baby)

He sounded wrecked, reverent. Then his mouth was on my neck in retaliation — open-mouthed kisses turning into sharp bites, mirroring every hickey I’d left on him. We were painting each other in purple bruises like signatures.

The rhythm changed. I couldn’t hold back anymore.

I snapped my hips faster, harder. 

Adil’s hands left my hips and flew to my breasts. He grabbed them roughly, squeezing so tight I gasped — thumbs flicking over my nipples, pinching just enough to send lightning straight to my core. 

“Anisa…” My name broke on his lips — desperate, almost frightened.

I leaned forward until our foreheads touched, breaths mingling, eyes locked.

“Bas mera rehna…” I whispered against his mouth, voice shaking now. (Just stay mine)

He surged up and kissed me — messy, deep, teeth clashing — swallowing the moan that tore out of me as the first violent wave of pleasure crashed through my body.

I shattered around him, clenching so hard he cursed under his breath.

“Yes babyy… jhad jaao mere lund par baby.” (Come on my cock baby)

My body obeyed before my mind could catch up. I shattered again, harder this time, a broken cry ripping from my throat as I clenched around him in violent pulses. My thighs shook uncontrollably; slick heat flooded between us, coating him, dripping down.

“Ahhh… dekho baby… itna geela kar diya tumne mera lund…” (Look baby… you made my cock so wet)

He sounded proud, filthy, obsessed. 

With a small grunt I shoved him backward until he was flat on the sofa, chest heaving, eyes wild and dark. I didn’t give him time to adjust — I planted my knees on either side of his hips and sank down onto him in one brutal drop, taking every inch again. 

Then I started jumping — fast, deep, relentless bounces that made my breasts slap against my chest and the wet slap of our bodies echo in the room.

“Meri chut ka ras… ahhhh… nipple chusu mere… ummm…” (The juice from my pussy… ahhhh… suck my nipples… ummm)

The words tumbled out between moans. He obeyed instantly — head lifting so he could latch onto one breast, sucking greedily while his other hand gripped my waist, helping me slam down harder.

“Itne ache se chod rahi ho tum mujhe baby… ummmm…” (You’re fucking me so good baby… ummmm)

His moan vibrated against my skin. Then his palm cracked across my ass — once, twice, the sting blooming hot and bright. I hissed but didn’t slow down; if anything, I rode him faster, chasing the burn.

“Meri best baby… keep going… ahhhh… punish me for lying…”

His voice cracked on the last word — guilt and hunger twisted together. I leaned down and claimed his mouth in a punishing kiss, teeth sinking into his lower lip until I tasted blood. He groaned into it, hips bucking up to meet every downward snap of mine.

Blood still trickled from the fresh scratches I’d left earlier — thin red lines across his chest, his forearm, the back of his hand where my knife had dug. The sight should have stopped me. It didn’t. If anything, it made me want to mark him more, ruin him more, Own Him completely.

“Sirf Anisa ko chod sakte ho tum…” (You can only fuck Anisa)

The words came out fierce, possessive, almost a snarl.

“Sirf mere ho tum… ahhhhh…” (You’re only mine… ahhhhh)

He stared up at me like I was his entire world — eyes glassy, lips swollen and bleeding, chest rising and falling in ragged bursts.

“Sirf tumhara…” (Only yours)

The surrender in his voice undid me.

I came again. My vision whited out for a second; I felt him swell inside me, felt the first hot pulse as he followed right after, 

My legs gave out completely. I collapsed forward onto his chest, body trembling, breath coming in short, uneven gasps.

Adil didn’t speak. He just lifted one hand and began massaging my scalp with slow, firm circles — fingers threading through my sweat-damp hair. No words. 

I lifted my head, met his eyes watching me like I was the only thing that existed.

“Fuck me now,” I ordered, voice hoarse but steady. “Come inside my pussy."

He leaned up and kissed me — soft at first, then deeper, tongue sliding against mine like a promise.

“Joh aap hukum karein…” (As you command…)

The words were murmured against my mouth. Then his hands were on my hips again, guiding me off him with surprising gentleness before flipping me around.

He positioned me on all fours — knees sinking into the sofa cushions, palms braced, ass arched high.

One hand gripped my hip, the other guided himself to my entrance — and then he thrust in, deep and smooth, filling me in one long stroke that punched the air from my lungs.

“Yess… ahhhh… aur andar daalo… ummm…” (Yes… ahhhh… put it deeper… ummm)

I moaned, pushing back to meet him, greedy for every inch. He snapped his hips forward — hard, deliberate — setting a punishing rhythm that made my breasts swing and my arms tremble.

“Meri brave baby… ahhhh… tumhara gussa itna pyara hai baby… ahhhh…” (My brave baby… ahhhh… your anger is so adorable baby… ahhhh)

His voice was wrecked, praising, almost awed. Each word landed like a caress even as his thrusts turned hard.

Then he leaned over me, chest pressing to my back, lips brushing the shell of my ear.

“Tumhari yeh black dress se zyada sundar tum ho baby…”

(You’re more beautiful than this black dress, baby)

He kissed the curve of my ass — open-mouthed — before sinking his teeth in just enough to make me gasp. The sting bloomed hot; I clenched around him involuntarily.

“Kiske ho tum, Adil?” I demanded, voice shaking as I rocked back harder. (Who do you belong to, Adil?)

He groaned — low, guttural — and snapped his hips even more viciously.

“Sirf tumhara…” (Only yours…)

The confession tore out of him like it hurt to hold back. His pace turned faster, deeper, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room.

Then he pushed me down fully — chest flat to the sofa, ass still high, face pressed into the leather that smelled of us. The new angle let him sink impossibly deeper; I cried out, nails scrabbling at the cushion.

“Fuckkk… mai jhadne wala hu baby… ahhhhh…” (Fuckkk… I’m gonna come baby… ahhhhh)

His grunts turned desperate. I felt it too — the coil tightening again, ready to come. 

“Mere chut mein daalo apna ras… ahhhh…” (Put your cum inside my pussy… ahhhh) I demanded as I felt my core tightened to cum for him again. 

“Yess… ahhhh… sirf tumhari chut mein baby… ahhh… ohhh…” (Yes… ahhhh… only in your pussy baby… ahhh… ohhh) he grunted as his cock swelling more inside me. 

“Sirf meri pussy milegi tumhe, Adil. Sirf meri… ahhhhhh…” (You’ll only get my pussy, Adil. Only mine… ahhhhhh…)

“Bhenchod… ahhhh… babyyy…”

The curse ripped from us as we shattered together.

He came with a broken shout, flooding me in hot, thick pulses that seemed endless. I clenched around him, milking every drop, my own release crashing so hard my vision blurred and my thighs shook violently. 

His cum started leaking out almost immediately — warm, sticky trails down my inner thighs. 

I reached back, scooped some with trembling fingers, and held it up so he could see — glistening on my skin like proof.

“Meri chut bhar di baby…” (You filled my pussy, baby…)

I cooed the words, soft and smug, showing him his release like a trophy.

He chuckled — low, breathless, wrecked — and collapsed beside me on the sofa, pulling me into his arms. I curled against him instantly, head on his chest, listening to the thud of his heart.

I smiled and repeated the words silently in my mind like a vow carved into bone.

Adil Farooqi belongs to Anisa Ali Zaveri.

He was mine.

And I would kill anyone—Sabria, his father, the whole damn world—who tried to take him.

Only mine.

Forever.

➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖