Woh shikaar bhi tha…

aur shikaari bhi.

Main bhaagna chahti thi,

par uski nazron ne pehle hi pakad liya.

Uska har qareeb aana ek hukm tha,

aur mera har saans lena… uski ijazat.

I come out of my office room, Arshan following behind. I wrap my coat around my tuxedo outfit and say to him, "Make sure that moron doesn't pull my nerve. Until and unless he wants to see sweet bloody mother."

Arshan nodded his head—our discussion is something else entirely.

The infamous titan of Dubai.

Zafar Karim Al-Rashid.

The Devil in Gold.

They don't call him that as a metaphor. They call him that because even hell has standards—and Zafar has none.

He's the man who bought a judge's entire family just to prove he could.

The man who sank a rival's yacht with his competitor still on board—and sent flowers to the funeral.

The man who turned betrayal into an art form and vengeance into a religion.

He built Dubai's underworld from nothing. Took the scraps the old families left behind and forged them into an empire so vast, so ruthless, that even governments negotiate with him now.

And tonight, he's walking into my world.

Arshan's hand hovers near his holster. Instinct.

But I know better.

You don't pull a gun on Zafar Al-Rashid.

You either bow—or you bury yourself before he does it for you.

And I'm not bowing.

Not tonight. Not ever.

Arshan followed behind me as we stepped out—and just then, from the stairs, Harshika chachi appeared.

Her eyes immediately landed on me—and a proud smile curved on her lips.

“You’re looking dashing, handsome,” she said warmly, walking closer,

“no girl’s dirty eyes should catch on you.”

I almost choked on my breath.

“Chachi…” I muttered under my breath.

She gave me a sheepish smile. I shook my head lightly and replied, “I only belong to my wife. No one else.”

Her expression softened instantly.

“That’s like a gentleman.”

She applied a small kajal mark behind my earlobe—just like mom.

But the moment we both turned—we saw them. Arshan. And Yasmin. Standing there. Looking at each other. No words.

No movement. Just… lost. Lovers.

Even though they weren’t allowed to be close until their marriage was fixed—their eyes said everything.

Chachi cleared her throat. Once. Twice.

Still—no reaction. I almost smirked. Finally—she stepped forward and lightly smacked Arshan’s arm.

That snapped him out of it.

“W-what h-happened, mom?” he stammered, blinking rapidly. Cheeks slightly flustered.

Chachi folded her arms, raising a brow.

“Seems like you can’t control yourself, right?”

On the other side—Yasmin’s cheeks turned a deep shade of red.

I exhaled softly. Enough drama. I needed my woman. Where was she?

Without waiting further, I walked away from them. Behind me—I could hear the teasing continue.

Arshan, completely flustered, rushed past me—his face still red.

I stepped slightly aside, letting him pass, a quiet chuckle leaving my lips.

Chachi really loved teasing her son. As I moved ahead toward the corridor—one thought remained clear in my mind.

Find her. My woman loves to tease—and right now, she was nowhere to be found.

I moved through the corridor, opening doors one after another—slightly impatient.

Where the hell was she? The next door I pushed open—bad timing.

Yashveer stood there, halfway into wearing his pants, towel barely hanging on. He froze. I froze.

“…Seriously?” he grumbled under his breath. I didn’t even react. Just leaned casually against the doorframe.

“Where’s my wife?” I asked nonchalantly, like I hadn’t just walked into that scene.

He narrowed his eyes at me.

“Knocking naam ki bhi koi cheez hoti hai,”

(There’s something called knocking)

he muttered, fixing his clothes properly.

I shrugged.

“Important matter,” I replied dryly.

He scoffed.

“Your ‘important matter’ is always your wife,” he said, shaking his head, though there was a faint smirk on his lips.

I didn’t deny it.

“Answer,” I said simply.

He adjusted his cuff, then nodded toward the other side of the floor.

“Paridhi ke room mein hogi… ya phir already neeche chali gayi hogi.”

(She’ll be in Paridhi’s room… or maybe she’s already gone downstairs.)

I straightened.

“Hmm.”

Without wasting another second, I turned and walked out. Behind me—I heard him chuckle faintly.

But I didn’t care. Because the moment I stepped back into the corridor—my focus returned.

Sharp. Finding her. Because in a house full of people—noise—chaos—My eyes only searched for one face. And I was going to find her—no matter where she decided to hide.

Finally—I stepped into the living room.

And that’s when I saw them. From the other side of the staircase—Varshika, Paridhi…and her. My woman. Walking down together—giggling softly.

Lost in their own world. For a second—I just stood there. Watching. Their bond was growing. Fast. Natural. And strangely—I didn’t mind it.

But still—My jaw tightened slightly.

Because even if the world had her attention—I needed it too. My gaze locked on her completely. The way she descended the stairs—that red gown hugging her perfectly—her hair falling softly—those eyes shining with something alive—Dangerous.

Mine.

My fingers twitched slightly at my side. She hadn’t noticed me yet. Still laughing with them. A small smirk tugged at my lips. Fine. If she won’t come to me—I’ll make her.

I took a step forward—then another—my presence slowly entering their space.

Paridhi noticed first. Her lips curled.

Varshika followed—and instantly elbowed her, whispering something.

And then—She looked at me. Our eyes met. Silence. Everything around blurred. I tilted my head slightly—my gaze dark, claiming.

“Enjoying?” I asked, voice low.

Not a question. A pull. Because no matter how much she laughed with them—At the end of the day—Her attention belonged to me.

Krishti tilted her head slightly, a small smile playing on her lips.

“Very much,” she replied sweetly. Behind her—Paridhi and Varshika exchanged a look. Dangerous. Then—Paridhi leaned toward Varshika and whispered just loud enough,

“Dekha? Hero aa gaya apni heroine lene."

(See? The hero has come to take his heroine.)

Varshika bit her lip, trying not to laugh. I ignored them. Completely. My eyes never left her. I walked closer—slow, calculated—until I stood right at the bottom of the stairs.

She was just one step above me now.

“Come here,” I said quietly.

Not a request. A pull. She hesitated for a second—glancing back at them. Wrong move. I stepped up one stair—closing the distance. My hand reached out—fingers wrapping gently around her wrist.

A soft gasp left her lips. I leaned in slightly, my voice dropping near her ear,

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere… and you’re busy here?”

Her breath hitched. Behind us—

“OOOHHHH—” Paridhi dragged dramatically. Varshika clapped her hand over her mouth to stop laughing. I didn’t even turn. Instead—I slid my hand from her wrist to her waist—pulling her down that one step—closer to me.

Now she stood right in front of me. Mine.

“Let’s go,” I murmured. She blinked up at me,

“Maan… everyone is here—”

“I know,” I cut her off calmly. And then—just to prove my point—I leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to her temple.

In front of everyone. Silence. Then chaos.

“BHAI!” Varshika groaned,

“Public mein bhi control nahi hota aapko?!

(You can’t control yourself even in public?!)”

Paridhi added instantly,

“Bhai, hum log abhi yahin hai!

(Brother, we are still here!)”

I finally looked at them—unbothered.

“Then don’t look,” I replied dryly. They both gasped. Krishti’s face turned red instantly. I smirked slightly—then tightened my hold on her hand.

“Come,” I said again, softer this time. And this time—she didn’t resist.

Good. I turned, guiding her with me, away from the chaos behind—but not before hearing—“Byee BHABHI!”

Paridhi sang dramatically.

“Jaao jaao… private time disturb nahi karenge!

(Go go… we won’t disturb your private time!)”

Varshika added. I didn’t even bother reacting. My focus was already on her.

The moment we stepped a little away from them—I stopped. She almost bumped into me. Before she could say anything—I pulled her closer by her waist.

Her breath hitched.

“Enjoying a lot, hmm?” I murmured, my gaze dropping to her lips for a brief second. She looked up at me—a mix of shyness and boldness in her eyes.

“I was just talking,” Krishti replied softly.

“Talking…” I repeated, tilting my head slightly, “or forgetting your husband exists?”

Her lips parted slightly.

“I didn’t forget—”

I didn’t let her finish. My thumb brushed her lower lip lightly—a silent interruption.

“I was searching for you everywhere,” I said, my voice dropping, “and you’re here… laughing.” A pause. My forehead leaned against hers.

“Not fair, sweetheart.”

She swallowed softly. Then—unexpectedly—she smiled.

“Jealous?” she whispered.

That made something in me shift. Slowly—dangerously—A smirk appeared on my lips.

“Very.”

Her eyes widened just a little. Before she could react—I leaned closer, my voice barely above a whisper near her ear,

“Don’t test me today… I’m already holding back.”

A shiver ran through her. My hand tightened slightly on her waist—possessive. Certain.

Then I straightened—as if nothing happened.

“Come,” I said normally, intertwining our fingers again,

“we’re getting late.”

And just like that—I shifted back. From the man who almost lost control—To the man who owned it completely.

But inside—I was already planning—How I’d take my time with her—once the night ends.

Her fingers stayed intertwined with mine—soft, warm—exactly where they belonged. We walked back toward the main hall—where the rest of the family was already gathering.

Voices. Laughter. Movement. But beside me—she had gone quiet.

I glanced at Krishti from the corner of my eye. Her gaze was lowered—a faint blush still resting on her cheeks. A small smirk tugged at my lips.

“Still thinking about what I said?” I murmured low enough that only she could hear. She looked up at me instantly—eyes widening slightly.

“I’m not,” she replied quickly.

I hummed.

“Liar.”

Her grip on my hand tightened just a little. Before she could argue—

Gaurika’s voice came from ahead,

“Riddhimaan, beta… finally! We’re getting late.”

I nodded once.

“Coming.”

Everyone was already ready—cars lined up—security in place. The night had begun. The reception. The real game.

I glanced at her again—this time fully. The red gown. The soft glow on her face. The way she stayed close to me—like it was instinct now.

My wife. I leaned slightly toward her and said quietly,

“Stay close to me tonight.”

Not a warning. Not a request. A promise. Because tonight—wasn’t just about celebration. It was about power. Presence.

Eyes watching from every corner. And people like—Zafar Karim Al-Rashid.

My jaw tightened slightly. But my grip on her hand only grew firmer.

Because no matter who walks into my world tonight—She walks in as mine.

And I don’t let anything touch what belongs to me. We stepped outside—

the night air of Jaipur brushing against us, cooler now, quieter—but beneath it—there was tension. Cars lined up perfectly.

Engines low. Security already in formation. The moment I appeared—everything shifted. Guards straightened. Drivers opened doors. Eyes lowered.

Power. But beside me—her fingers tightened slightly in mine. I glanced at Krishti. She looked ahead—taking it all in.

The scale. The intensity. The unspoken rules of this world. I stepped closer—my hand moving from her fingers to her lower back.

A silent reassurance.

“You’re with me,” I murmured. She nodded softly. Good. I opened the car door myself—not letting anyone else do it—and guided her inside carefully, making sure her gown didn’t crease.

“Careful,” I said quietly. She smiled faintly and adjusted herself inside. I closed the door—then moved around to the driver’s side.

The engine started smoothly. Within seconds—the convoy began to move. Black cars. One after another. Like a silent procession. Inside—it was quiet.

Only the faint hum of the engine and her soft breathing. I glanced at her again. She was looking out the window—the city lights reflecting in her eyes.

“Thinking?” I asked. She turned slightly toward me.

“A little,” she admitted. I nodded once.

“Don’t.”

She blinked.

“Tonight… you don’t think,” I said calmly, my eyes back on the road,

“you just stay with me.” A pause.

“Everything else… I’ll handle.”

Silence settled again. But this time—it wasn’t uncertain. It was steady. As the car moved deeper into the night—toward that haveli—toward that gathering—toward them.

My grip tightened slightly on the steering wheel. Because tonight—wasn’t just a reception. It was a statement. And I was about to remind everyone—Whose world they had stepped into.

The convoy cut through the night—headlights slicing the darkness of Jaipur like a warning. No music. No distractions.

Just silence. And anticipation.

Beside me—Krishti sat quietly, her fingers resting over mine now. Not tight. Not nervous. Just… trusting. I glanced at her once—then back at the road. Good. The haveli came into view.

Massive sandstone gates. Lit by fire torches. Guards lined both sides—not just mine.

Others too. Different allegiances. Different empires. All gathered under one roof tonight. The main gate opened slowly—like it knew who was arriving.

Our cars rolled in—one after another—into the grand courtyard. The moment my car stopped—everything paused.

Eyes turned. Men stopped mid-conversation. Women lowered their voices. Because they recognized power when it entered. I stepped out first.

Straightened my coat. Adjusted my cuff.

Then—I opened her door. My hand extended toward her. She placed hers in mine. And stepped out. The lights—the chandeliers—the fire glow—all reflected off her.

For a second—even I paused. Because she didn’t just look beautiful. She looked like she belonged here.

Beside me. Mine. A murmur spread through the crowd.

“Ranawat…”

“Woh aa gaya…”

“His wife…”

I didn’t care. My hand moved to her waist—pulling her slightly closer.

“Stay with me,” I murmured again. She nodded softly. Good. We began walking forward—toward the main entrance.

Each step—measured. Controlled. And then—I felt it. A shift in the air.

Subtle. But sharp. My gaze lifted—across the courtyard—toward the far end.

Where a group stood. Centered around one man. Still. Silent. Watching me. Zafar Karim Al-Rashid. The Devil in Gold. Our eyes met. No smiles. No greetings. Just recognition. Challenge. My grip on her waist tightened—not out of fear—But out of declaration.

Because tonight—He stepped into my world. And I was about to remind him—Even devils bleed.

The moment we stepped into the courtyard—the flashes began.

Paparazzi. Cameras. Voices calling out from every direction.

“Sir! Over here!”

“Ma’am look this side!”

I don’t usually entertain this. Not my world. Not my rules. But tonight—she tugged my hand slightly.

Krishti looked up at me, her eyes shining with a soft excitement.

“Just one…” she whispered. I exhaled slowly. I couldn’t refuse her. Not when she looked at me like that.

“Fine,” I murmured. Before she could step away—I pulled her closer. My hand slid firmly around her waist—locking her against me. Possessive. Natural.

With my other hand, I adjusted my sunglasses over my eyes—masking everything—except control.

“Ready?” I asked low. She nodded softly. And then—we turned toward the cameras.

Flashes exploded. I kept my gaze steady—cold—unreadable. While she—stood beside me—elegant, graceful, radiant.

We gave them exactly what they wanted. A perfect frame. A perfect power. A perfect claim.

“Sir, solo please!”

I released her waist slowly—just enough. She stepped forward—owning the moment. Confident. And for a second—I just watched her. Then—my turn.

I stepped ahead—hands in pockets—shoulders squared—presence heavy. No smile. Just authority. Because I don’t pose. I exist. And tonight—They weren’t just capturing pictures. They were capturing—Power.

We stepped inside—leaving the flashes behind. But the real storm? It waited within. I saw them. Her world.

Devendranath, Sarvajit…and her mothers—Divyanshi, Niharika. Their faces—a fragile mix of joy and something deeper. Something time couldn’t erase. Twenty-four years of grief—eased. But not gone. Then—Sara and Arijit rushed forward.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. They just held her. Tightly. Like if they let go—she might disappear again.

Sara clung to her—while Arijit rested his chin on her head, his jaw locked with emotion. She was safe. She was home.

Then—her mother stepped forward. Divyanshi’s trembling hands cupped her face—tears flowing freely.

Devendranath stood beside her—silent. Strong. Breaking quietly. This moment—belonged to them. I didn’t interrupt. I only acknowledged. A slight nod. My hand briefly touching my chest.

Respect. Honor. Promise.

Divyanshi and Niharika met my gaze—and nodded back. They understood. I would protect her. With my life. Then—I turned and walk toward Zafar, who stands near the bar like a king holding court. His men flank him, silent sentinels in tailored suits.

But my eyes never leave Krishti.

Even as I move through the crowd, even as I navigate the predators in expensive cologne and blood-stained smiles, I track her.

She's safe.

Athvik, Anavit, and Arijit have formed a protective triangle around her, their bodies angled outward, eyes scanning the room like trained soldiers.

Good.

Her brothers know what they're doing.

Still, my gaze flicks back to her every few seconds. I see the way she laughs at something Sara says. The way her hand rests on Divyanshi's arm. The way her eyes—those dark, unflinching eyes—sweep the room and land on me.

She's watching me too.

Always.

A slow smile tugs at my lips, and I force myself to look away before I do something stupid like abandon this entire political circus and drag her out of here.

Later.

Right now, I have a dragon to face.

I reach Zafar and stop three feet away. His men tense, but he raises a hand lazily, and they relax.

Control.

Everything with Zafar is control.

I lift my head slightly, meeting his gaze, and slowly remove my sunglasses. The movement is deliberate, unhurried.

Let him see my eyes.

Let him see I'm not afraid.

Zafar's lips curve into a smile—sharp, predatory, amused.

And then he speaks.

"Marhaban bik, Riddhimaan Singh Ranawat. Sa'eed jiddan billiqa'ik. Mabrook 'ala zawajak."

(Welcome, Riddhimaan Singh Ranawat. Very pleased to meet you. Congratulations on your wedding.)

His voice is smooth, rich, like aged whiskey and barely concealed danger. The Arabic rolls off his tongue with the kind of elegance that makes women lean in and men straighten their spines.

He's testing me. Seeing if I'll stumble. If I'll show weakness. I don't.

Instead, I let my lips curve into a slow, deliberate smile—the kind that promises violence wrapped in silk.

And I reply in flawless Arabic, my voice low, smooth, dripping with controlled power.

"Shukran jazeelan, Zafar. Tasharrafna biwujoodak."

(Thank you very much, Zafar. We are honored by your presence.)

But the way I say it?

The cadence. The tone. The slight rasp that makes it sound less like gratitude and more like a warning.

You're in my house now.

Zafar's smile widens. His eyes gleam with something that might be respect—or might be the anticipation of a worthy opponent.

"Rajul dhu quwwa. Hatha jayid."

(A man of power. This is good.)

I incline my head slightly, acknowledging the compliment without bowing.

"Wa anta rajul yuhtaram. Lakin la tunsaa..."

(And you are a man of respect. But do not forget...)

I let the pause hang in the air, heavy with meaning.

"...hadha bait-ee."

(...this is my house.)

Silence.

The men around Zafar tense again. One of them shifts his weight, hand twitching toward his jacket.

Mistake.

Arshan, who's been standing just behind me, doesn't move. Doesn't need to. His presence alone is a warning.

Touch your gun, and you won't leave this room alive.

But Zafar?

Zafar laughs.

A real, genuine laugh that makes the tension shatter like glass.

"Ana uhibuk, Riddhimaan," he says, switching back to Arabic, his tone warmer now. "Anta tudhakkirunee binafsi qabla an ata'allam al-khudu'."

(I like you, Riddhimaan. You remind me of myself before I learned to bow.)

He steps closer, close enough that I can smell the oud and tobacco clinging to his suit.

"La takhra'," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Al-'aalam yahtaj ila rijal la yankasiroon."

(Do not bow. The world needs men who do not break.)

I hold his gaze, unflinching.

"La anwi al-khud'u," I reply softly. "Wa la al-kasr."

(I do not intend to bow. Nor to break.)

Another beat.

Then Zafar claps me on the shoulder—hard enough to be a test, light enough to be friendly.

"Jayyid," he says. "Lakin tadhakkar... al-a'da' yataharrakoon. Aqrab mimma tatawaqa'."

(Good. But remember... enemies move. Closer than you expect.)

I don't react. Don't tense. Don't let him see the flicker of cold calculation that runs through my mind.

"Da'hum yataharrakoon," I say evenly. "Al-dhi'ab tada tataharrak... hatta tadrik anna al-farisa asbaha al-sayyad."

(Let them move. Wolves always move... until they realize the prey has become the hunter.)

Zafar's eyes flash.

Respect. Danger. Warning.

"Mumtaz," he murmurs. "Mumtaz."

(Excellent. Excellent.)

He releases my shoulder and steps back, his smile never faltering.

"Istamti' billaylah, Riddhimaan," he says, switching to a lighter tone. "Wa bi zawjatik al-jameela."

(Enjoy the night, Riddhimaan. And your beautiful wife.)

There it is again. The mention of Krishti. The subtle reminder that he's noticed her. My smile doesn't waver, but my eyes turn to ice.

"Sa'af'al," I reply smoothly. "Wa anta... istamti' bi hayatak."

(I will. And you... enjoy your life.)

The implication is clear. While you still have one. Zafar's smile widens into something sharp and dangerous.

"Hatman," he says.

(Certainly.)

Then he turns and walks away, his men falling into step behind him like shadows.

And I stand there, watching him go, my heart pounding, adrenaline singing through my veins. That was a warning. And a declaration of war.

But I don't care. Because when I turn around, Krishti is watching me from across the room, her eyes dark and knowing. She saw everything. And she's not afraid. God, I love her.

The night deepened—darker, heavier—just the way this world breathes.

People came and went—congratulating us, shaking hands, offering smiles that never reached their eyes.

Power recognized power. And envy—it followed close behind. I stood beside Krishti, one hand resting lightly on her waist—but my eyes?

They noticed everything. The lingering glances. The way some women looked at me—not subtle, not respectful—just… hungry. My jaw tightened. I was used to it.

But tonight—I wasn’t alone. Before I could even react—she did. Krishti shifted slightly closer—her hand sliding over my arm, fingers curling possessively.

A silent claim. Then—she looked at them. Not angry. Not insecure. Just calm. Sharp. Unapologetic. The kind of look that said—He is mine. And that was enough.

The women looked away. One by one. A slow heat rose inside me—hotter.

My grip on her waist tightened—pulling her just a little closer. I leaned down slightly—my voice brushing her ear, low and dangerous—

“Careful…” I murmured,

“you’re testing my control tonight.”

She tilted her head just enough—her lips curving faintly.

“I didn’t do anything,” she whispered back innocently. I huffed a quiet breath—almost a laugh.

“Innocent?” I repeated softly.

My fingers pressed slightly into her waist—not enough to hurt—just enough to remind.

“Not with me.”

Her breath hitched. Good. Because right now—standing in a room full of people—watching eyes—hidden intentions—All I could feel—was her. And the dangerous edge of losing control—Just because she claimed me—like I already belonged to her and always.

I took out my mobile and opened the WhatsApp family group. Tonight I won't be coming to the mansion. And don't worry about us. I shut the mobile and inhaled a breath, composing myself despite her warmth nearly stirring my member in my pants. Ahh, I hate this discomfort. Tightening from everywhere. I inhaled again and composed myself.

I whispered in her ear, "Let's go from here. I already messaged the group."

She nodded her head and let the guests enjoy, along with her family and mine. We walked away from there, and the driver handed me the car keys. I walked outside with her and went towards the car. First, I opened her door so she could get inside. And closed the door. I went to my side and started the engine, heading towards my penthouse.

The drive was quiet, but the air between us was thick with everything unsaid.

Krishti sat beside me, her red gown glowing under the passing streetlights, her hand resting lightly on her lap. I kept one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally brushing her thigh — a silent reminder that she was mine.

When we reached the penthouse, I parked and turned off the engine. The silence felt heavier now, charged.

I got out first and opened her door, offering my hand. She took it, stepping out gracefully, the soft chime of her anklets echoing in the quiet garage.

As we walked toward the private elevator, I pulled her closer, my arm wrapping around her waist.

Inside the elevator, the doors slid shut, and the moment we were alone, I turned to her.

My hand cupped her cheek, thumb brushing her lower lip.

“You were perfect tonight,” I said, voice low. “But the real night is just beginning.”

She looked up at me, eyes shining with a mix of nervousness and desire.

The elevator dinged at our floor.

I didn’t let go of her hand as we stepped inside our home.

The lights were dim, the city glittering beyond the windows.

I closed the door behind us and locked it.

Then I turned to her — my wife — and let the hunger I had been holding back all night finally show.

“Tonight,” I said, stepping closer until she was backed against the wall, “no more holding back. No more waiting.”

My voice dropped to a whisper against her ear.

“I’m going to take my time with you, Krishti. Every inch. Every sound. Every breath. Until you forget everything except me.”

But she did it unexpectedly, in the boldest way.

She stepped toward me with that sexy, confident sway — hips moving like sin wrapped in red silk — and lifted her head. Her small hand cupped my left cheek, thumb brushing my jaw.

My jaw tightened. I watched her, every muscle coiled, wondering what my brave little wife would do next.

She looked up at me, eyes shining with a mix of nervousness and fire, and said softly, yet in that seductive tone that always wrecked me,

“But I wanna play something.”

I bit my lip hard, fists clenching behind my back to stop myself from grabbing her right there.

“What do you want to play?” I asked, voice low and rough.

She tilted her head more, and my eyes caught the way her throat bobbed, those red, kissable lips parted slightly. She was nervous — I could see the slight tremble — but she was also bold. My bold lady.

“Control and charge in,” she said.

I smirked, steadying myself, and answered with a dangerous edge in my voice.

“Do whatever you want, moya zvezdochka. But once I take everything back in my hands… you won’t be able to walk for days.”

She shivered visibly — that delicious little tremor of fear and excitement — and I had to bite my lip harder not to laugh.

She huffed slightly, then smirked in victory, as if she had already won.

Her palm pressed flat against my abs, warm through my shirt, and she guided me backward until I sat on the couch. I exhaled sharply, then inhaled, trying to keep control.

Blood was rushing badly to my south. My cock was fucking hard, straining painfully against my boxers, the discomfort making me grit my teeth. It felt like it wanted to tear through the fabric and come out.

She leaned in, whispering in my ear, her breath hot against my skin.

I closed my eyes.

“Hands on your back.”

Her voice, her fragrance, her closeness — it was causing more aching for her, more need to take charge. But she wanted to play. So I let her. For now.

I put my hands behind my back.

She took my blue handkerchief and tied it over my eyes, blindfolding me gently but firmly.

“Moya zvezdochka?” I whispered, confused, voice low.

Instead of answering, she shushed me softly.

I gulped, throat tight, not understanding what kind of game this was.

What was my bold wife planning?

I sat there — blindfolded, hands behind my back, completely at her mercy — heart pounding, cock throbbing, every sense heightened.

I felt her slow, warm breath ghosting over my lips — a shiver racing down my spine like electricity. Then she kissed me.

I kissed her back instantly, sucking on her lower lip, deepening the kiss with raw hunger. She gasped into my mouth, and I swallowed it greedily, kissing her like a starving man who had finally found water.

Only she could extinguish this thirst.

She shifted, moving onto my lap. The warmth of her body pressed against me caused a brief moment of relief — but it wasn’t enough. Not when my hands were tied behind my back with her inner belt rope.

Just great.

I groaned into her lips, sucking both of them between mine, and rasped against her mouth,

“Baby, you’ll be the death of me.”

Instead of answering, she giggled — soft, mischievous, victorious — and I felt her fingers working on the buttons of her gown.

I inhaled a sharp breath.

Then she came closer, lips brushing my neck. She bit, sucked, nibbled — every touch deliberate, teasing, driving me insane.

I was animalistic now, moaning low and rough for her, my restraint fraying with every second.

The discomfort grew worse — my cock standing painfully hard in my pants, pre-cum leaking, throbbing against the fabric like it wanted to tear free.

Ahh.

She opened my shirt buttons one by one, her nails tracing over my chest, then her mouth followed — sucking, biting, nibbling on my skin.

“Shit,” I cursed under my breath, muscles tensing.

She was enjoying this way too much.

Just wait until I take charge again.

Then I felt her breath on my torso — hot, teasing — causing my cock to twitch violently inside my pants.

“Baby…” I warned, voice strained.

She ignored it.

Her fingers worked slowly, deliberately, unzipping my pants and pulling my boxers down.

I gritted my teeth.

My cock sprang free — thick, veined, rock-hard — the cool air hitting it like a shock.

I felt a slight relief, but the ache only intensified. My veins were running hot, pulse pounding in my length.

I felt her warm breath first — teasing, hesitant, then bold.

Then her mouth.

Her soft lips wrapped around the swollen tip of my cock, and her tongue flicked over the sensitive head.

“Ahhh… mphmm…”

My cock twitched violently in her mouth, thickening even more as she stroked the thick shaft with her soft fingers — slow, curious, exploring every vein.

My breath grew ragged, chest heaving as I fought to stay still with my hands tied behind my back.

She took more of me — sliding her warm, wet mouth down my length. Her tongue swirled, teeth grazing lightly, cheeks hollowing as she sucked.

The heat, the wetness, the way her mouth worked me — it was pure torture and heaven at the same time.

She sucked harder, taking me deeper, her tongue pressing flat along the underside while her hand stroked what she couldn’t fit.

“Ahh… fuckkkk ittt… Babyyyyy…” I groaned, head falling back, voice broken and raw.

My hips jerked involuntarily, but I forced myself to stay still — not wanting to hurt her, not wanting to take control yet.

She was sucking me like she was starving for me — greedy, eager, her moans vibrating around my cock, making my balls tighten.

The wet, obscene sounds filled the room — her soft slurping, my heavy breathing, the occasional gag when she took me too deep.

I was losing my mind.

“Fuck… sweetheart… just like that,” I rasped, voice hoarse. “You’re sucking me so good, baby… my perfect wife…”

She hummed around me — the vibration shooting straight to my spine — and sucked even harder, her tongue flicking relentlessly over the head while her hand pumped the base in tight, twisting strokes.

I was throbbing in her mouth, leaking pre-cum that she eagerly swallowed.

My hands clenched behind my back, the rope biting into my wrists as I fought every instinct to grab her head and fuck her mouth.

But I let her have this.

Let her play.

Let her take what she wanted.

I came hard — groaning her name like a prayer and a curse as thick, hot pulses flooded her mouth.

Krishti swallowed every drop, sucking me through the orgasm with soft, greedy pulls until I was completely spent, shuddering in her mouth.

The moment the last tremor faded, I broke the rope behind my back with one sharp tug — the fabric tearing like paper under my strength.

I ripped the blindfold off.

And the sight that greeted me stole the air from my lungs.

Krishti stood there in the hottest maroon lingerie I had ever seen.

Deep red lace barely covered her breasts, the cups pushing them up like an offering. The matching thong sat high on her hips, delicate straps framing her waist and disappearing between her thighs. The sheer fabric clung to her curves, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. Her hair was slightly tousled, lips swollen from sucking me, cheeks flushed, eyes wide with a mix of shyness and boldness.

She looked like sin wrapped in silk.

My eyes widened, drinking in every inch of her — from the way the lace hugged her breasts to the way the thong disappeared between her legs, the mangalsutra still resting between her cleavage like a sacred claim.

She looked up at me — shock flickering across her face as her gaze traveled up and down my body, taking in my naked, still-hard form.

I stood slowly, cock still heavy and wet from her mouth, and stepped toward her.

My voice came out low, rough, almost reverent.

“Fuck, moya zvezdochka…”

I reached out, fingers tracing the lace edge of her bra, then down to the strap of her thong.

“You wore this for me?”

She nodded shyly, cheeks burning darker.

“I… I wanted to surprise you.”

I groaned, pulling her against me, my hard cock pressing against her stomach.

“You did more than surprise me, baby,” I rasped, lips brushing her ear. “You just made me want to ruin you all over again.”

My hands slid down her sides, gripping her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh as I ground against her.

“Look at you… my wife in maroon lace… looking like my personal sin.”

I kissed her hard — deep, claiming — then pulled back just enough to look into her eyes.

“On the bed,” I ordered softly, voice dark with need. “Now. I want to see every inch of you in that lingerie before I tear it off with my teeth.”

She shivered, but obeyed — climbing onto the bed, kneeling there in nothing but the maroon lace, looking up at me with those beautiful almond eyes full of love, trust, and desire.

I stood at the edge of the bed, cock throbbing, heart pounding with pure, raw love for this woman.

My wife.

My addiction.

My forever.

I looked down at her — my wife, still flushed and trembling from what she had just done to me — and let the last thread of my control snap.

“Strip,” I commanded, voice low and rough. “And lay on the bed. Bare.”

Her eyes widened in shock, a flash of nervousness crossing her face. She looked so innocent like that — shy, hesitant — and it only made the hunger inside me burn hotter.

I liked this.

The shift in dynamic.

From her bold little game to me taking full control.

My wife.

She obeyed — fingers trembling as she unhooked her bra, letting it fall. Then she slid her panties down her legs, stepping out of them until she stood completely naked before me.

I pushed my shirt off my shoulders, letting it drop. My pants and boxers followed, shoes kicked aside. Naked, hard, and aching, I crawled onto the bed toward her like a predator stalking its prey.

She lay back, eyes wide, breathing fast.

I inhaled deeply — her sweet nectar of arousal filling my lungs — and swallowed hard. I couldn’t control myself any longer.

I dove between her thighs, spreading her legs wide.

My mouth found her pussy — soft, wet, swollen — and I sucked gently at first, then licked her folds like she was the sweetest ice cream I had ever tasted. Slow, broad strokes, then flicking over her clit with the tip of my tongue.

Krishti moaned — loud, broken — her hips bucking.

I pushed her harder.

I devoured her.

Sucking her clit into my mouth, tongue lashing relentlessly, then plunging inside her, drinking every drop of her juices.

She came the first time with a sharp cry — thighs shaking around my head.

I didn’t stop.

I pushed her through a second orgasm — then a third — then a fourth — until she was senseless, breathless, sobbing my name.

Her juices drenched my face, coated my tongue, slid down my chin. I slurped every bit greedily, groaning against her like a man starved.

She tried to push me away — oversensitive, trembling — but I gripped her hips tightly, holding her in place, forcing her legs wider.

“Stay,” I growled against her pussy, voice dark and commanding. “You’re not going anywhere until I say so.”

I spanked her thigh once — sharp, possessive — and she whimpered, but obeyed.

Outside, I was gentle with her — careful, loving, making sure she felt safe.

Inside, I was raw. Passionate. Unrelenting.

Exactly how she craved.

I ate her until she was a trembling, moaning mess — until her voice was hoarse from screaming my name, until her body had nothing left to give.

Only then did I crawl up her body, kissing every inch of her on the way — her stomach, her breasts, her neck — until I hovered over her.

She looked up at me — eyes glassy, lips parted, completely ruined and utterly mine.

I kissed her deeply, letting her taste herself on my tongue.

Then I whispered against her lips,

“Now, moya zvezdochka… it’s my turn to ruin you properly.”

I teased her relentlessly — sliding the thick head of my cock through her soaked folds, rubbing it against her swollen clit, pressing just the tip inside her before pulling back again.

Krishti whimpered, hips chasing me, eyes glassy with need.

“Please, Maan…” she begged softly, voice trembling with pleasure.

I leaned down, lips brushing her ear.

“Beg properly.” I commanded her.

She moaned — erotic, desperate — and whispered,

“Please, hubby…”

That word — hubby — shot straight to my cock.

“That’s it, moya zvezdochka,” I growled.

I pushed inside her — slow, deep, stretching her inch by thick inch until I was buried to the hilt.

She gripped me tightly, her inner walls fluttering around my massive length.

I grunted, voice strained.

“Moya zvezdochka… loosen your muscles.”

She did — slowly, trustingly — relaxing around me.

I pushed in softly, carefully, because she was my priority. Fucking hell, her tight muscles were incredible — hot, velvet, gripping me like she never wanted to let go.

I let her adjust to my size, staying still, forehead pressed to hers, breathing with her.

When she gave me the signal — a soft nod, eyes shining with love — I started moving.

Slow. Deliberate.

This was my home.

This was where I belonged.

Her moans filled the room — soft, sweet, addictive. I fastened my hips, moving more like an animal, hammering into her with deep, powerful strokes.

She cried out, screams of pleasure tearing from her throat.

I swallowed them with my mouth, kissing her fiercely as I fucked her harder.

Then I pulled her into the Nelson position — folding her legs back toward her shoulders, driving even deeper.

Slow, grinding strokes now — letting her feel every inch of me, letting her feel how completely I owned her.

She was moaning louder, body trembling.

I shifted again — moving into the lotus position, sitting up with her in my lap, her legs wrapped around me.

I held her close, rocking into her deeply, kissing her neck, her breasts, her lips.

Then I laid her back and moved into the octopus position — her legs over my shoulders, body folded, allowing me to thrust even deeper, slower, more intimate.

Her flexibility was amazing. My love.

I made love to her — passionately, intensely — until her screams turned into broken sobs of pleasure.

She came hard — walls clamping around me like a vice, body convulsing, crying my name.

I followed — burying myself deep, filling her with my release, groaning her name like a prayer.

She passed out in my embrace — limp, glowing, completely spent.

I took care of her — gently cleaning her, pulling the sheet over us, holding her close.

Then I slept in her arms — content, in love, at peace.