𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝟏: 𝐉𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐲 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐋𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄
.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.
"What?" she said, she couldn't believe her ears, that her Kabir ji would say something like that when he had been showering his whole life at her feet.
"Kabir ji, if it's abo...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The air hung heavy with the aroma of spices and rising dough as sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, painting golden streaks across the worn floorboards. Dressed in a simple light blue saree, Aisha kneaded dough with practised ease. The fabric clung softly to her figure, the milky white of her midriff peeking through where the saree's end, the pallu, had become dislodged and tucked into her waistband. Her hair, usually meticulously braided, was now piled in a messy bun, escaping tendrils framing her face.
Kabir stood frozen at the doorway, his breath catching in his throat. The sight that greeted him was both forbidden and captivating. The thin fabric of the saree seemed to reveal more than it concealed - a glimpse of cleavage, the hint of a lacy bra strap peeking through the loose blouse. As Aisha reached for something across the counter, he watched, mesmerized, as she bent, the curve of her ass accentuated by the backless blouse and the way the saree clung to her form. At that moment, the air crackled with tension and his desperation peaked.
"If you don't want me to fuck you raw here, being a tease is not going well for you," A low growl, more animalistic than human, rumbled from Kabir's chest. His voice, when it came, was a hoarse rasp. "Jaan," he breathed, the endearment heavy with unspoken desire. His gaze, no longer appreciative but predatory, devoured her form. The redness in his eyes, a testament to a sleepless night spent wrestling with forbidden thoughts, sent a shiver down Aisha's spine. It wasn't fear, not entirely. It was a primal awareness of the raw hunger that emanated from him.
With a subconscious movement, Aisha took a step back, putting distance between them. But the heat in his eyes burned a brand into her skin, a stark contrast to the coolness of the dough-dusted countertop she instinctively reached for support. Kabir's predatory steps, slow and deliberate, echoed in the tense silence of the kitchen. Each one felt like a beat of a dangerous drum, pulling her closer, and pushing her away. The air, once fragrant with spices, now tasted metallic, thick with unspoken desires and a tension that threatened to shatter into something far more primal.
Aisha's voice, though firm, held a tremor that betrayed the storm raging within her. "Kabir ji, ruk jaiye," she pleaded, a single hand raised in a futile attempt to halt his predatory advance.
(Kabir, stop)
Kabir, momentarily stunned by her command, stopped in his tracks, his body taut with restrained desire. The raw hunger in his eyes flickered for a moment before being replaced by a flicker of frustration. He retreated back to the dining table, muttering a curt, "Breakfast do." (Give me breakfast).
Aisha moved with a practised grace, serving him with trembling hands. The physical proximity was a torment. In another life, in another moment, this closeness would have been a prelude to their usual morning routine – playful pinches, stolen kisses, a simmering heat that would erupt later in the privacy of their bedroom or the cool embrace of the washroom. But the weight of Guruji's instructions hung heavy in the air, a suffocating barrier separating them.
