The morning light filtered into the grand dining hall as everyone gathered for breakfast. The air was warm, with the scent of fresh parathas and chai wafting in the room. Murtasim sat at the head of the table, engaged in a serious conversation with Anwar, his expression focused on the issue at hand. His sharp gaze and authoritative tone filled the room as he discussed the complexities of the land dispute with Malik Zubair.
Beside him, Meerab silently observed, her own gaze dark and calculating, remembering all too well the torment she endured at dinner last night. She was no longer the shy, flustered wife Murtasim had toyed with. No, today she was out for payback.
As Murtasim sipped his tea and continued his conversation with Anwar about the property conflict in the village, Meerab shifted slightly closer to him. Her hand found its way onto his thigh, the same innocent spot where he had once dared to trespass. At first, Murtasim didn’t think much of it—just a gentle touch, nothing out of the ordinary.
He continued discussing Malik Zubair’s manipulation of the village elders, his voice steady and controlled. But Meerab was far from innocent this morning. She began to slowly move her hand upwards, her fingers teasing the sensitive skin through his clothes.
Murtasim’s throat tightened as the warmth of her hand crept higher. He swallowed, eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to maintain his composure. He brought his teacup to his lips, but when her fingers ghosted higher, far too high, he choked on the hot liquid, nearly spilling it.
Maa Begum’s eyes shot up, her brows furrowed in concern. "Murtasim beta, are you alright? You seem...distracted."
Murtasim’s hand tightened around the teacup, his knuckles white as he cleared his throat, quickly regaining his composure. He forced a smile, though the discomfort was evident in his voice. "It’s nothing, Maa Begum, the tea is just...hot," he managed, shooting a side glance at Meerab, silently warning her to stop.
But Meerab only responded with a slow, mischievous smile, her hand now brazenly continuing its journey. Her fingers slid up higher, her touch more deliberate, teasing the waistband of his pants. Murtasim's jaw clenched as he tried to focus on Anwar, who had resumed talking about the land dispute, completely unaware of the silent battle happening right under his nose.
"Murtasim, we need to involve the village elders more directly. If we can get Malik Zubair-"
Anwar's voice seemed to blur into the background as Murtasim struggled to focus, his thoughts a chaotic mix of trying to maintain his dignity and the infuriating sensations Meerab was stirring within him. Her hand moved with deliberate slowness, a torturous pace that made his breath hitch every time she inched closer to his most sensitive areas.
"Murtasim, are you listening?" Anwar's voice cut through the haze, causing Murtasim to blink rapidly and nod, his voice tight. "Yes, Chacha, I... I agree. The village elders should be... more involved," he stammered, his hand gripping the tablecloth under the pretense of adjusting it, but in reality, it was the only thing keeping him grounded.
Meerab, meanwhile, was thoroughly enjoying herself. She had Murtasim exactly where she wanted him—helpless, struggling to keep his composure, much like she had been last night. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, smirking as she moved her hand with more confidence now, slipping under his waistband and undoing the button of his trousers with a deft flick of her fingers.
Murtasim’s breath hitched, and he shook his head ever so slightly, warning her, pleading with her silently to stop. But Meerab’s smirk only grew wider as she leaned closer, pretending to listen intently to the conversation, all the while pulling down his zip with painstaking slowness.
Anwar, oblivious to the tension, continued talking. "Malik Zubair has been a thorn in our side for too long. We need to get this under control, or it could escalate."
"Yes, exactly," Murtasim replied, his voice strained, sweat beginning to form on his brow as he shifted in his seat, trying to subtly move away from Meerab’s wandering hand. But it was no use. She was relentless, and before he knew it, her hand had slipped inside his trousers, brushing against him with a teasing squeeze that sent a jolt of electricity up his spine.
Murtasim gripped the edge of the table, trying desperately to keep his face neutral, his jaw clenched so tightly it was a wonder he hadn’t cracked a tooth. His heart pounded in his chest as he forced himself to respond to Anwar, though his voice came out in a strangled gasp. "I... I agree. We need to move quickly."
Haya, who had been watching the entire interaction from across the table, narrowed her eyes in suspicion. She had noticed Murtasim’s unusual behavior and Meerab’s infuriatingly calm demeanor. Something was definitely off. She again dropped her fork intentionally, letting it clatter onto the floor as she bent down under the table, pretending to pick it up. What she saw made her eyes widen in shock, jealousy burning hot in her chest.
There it was—Meerab’s hand inside Murtasim’s trousers, her fingers wrapped around him in a way that made Haya’s blood boil. How dare she, Haya thought furiously, her hands shaking with rage as she sat back up, trying to mask her emotions with a forced smile. But the image of Meerab’s hand on Murtasim wouldn’t leave her mind. It should have been her—Haya—sitting next to Murtasim, not Meerab.
Maa Begum, noticing Murtasim’s flushed face and labored breathing, frowned in concern. "Murtasim, you’re looking pale. Is everything alright? Meerab also wasn't feeling unwell last night, it seems you’ve caught whatever was troubling Meerab."
Murtasim forced a laugh, though it sounded more like a strangled groan. "I’m fine, Maa Begum. Just... a little warm."
Beside him, Meerab sweetly chimed in, her voice innocent as ever. "Murtasim, are you sure? You seem very... tense." She gave him a hard squeeze under the table, making him nearly jump out of his seat.
He shot her a look of pure desperation, but Meerab merely raised an eyebrow and smirked, thoroughly enjoying her revenge. She increased the pace of her movements, her hand stroking him with just enough pressure to make him squirm in his seat, his mind reeling from the intense sensations she was stirring.
Anwar, still engrossed in the conversation, continued speaking, oblivious to Murtasim’s internal turmoil. "We should call for a meeting tomorrow morning. Malik Zubair needs to understand that we won’t be pushed around."
Murtasim nodded weakly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Yes, tomorrow... sounds good."
Just when he thought he couldn’t take it anymore, Meerab leaned closer, her breath warm against his ear as she whispered, "Is everything alright, Murtasim? You seem... distracted."
He gritted his teeth, his fists clenched under the table. "Meerab...," he warned, his voice low and dangerous, though it was clear he was on the verge of losing control.
But Meerab, ever the vengeful wife, simply smiled and gave him one final squeeze, watching with satisfaction as his entire body tensed, his breathing ragged and uneven. She pulled her hand away, fixing her dupatta with a sweet smile as if nothing had happened.
Murtasim, left in a state of frustration and arousal, could do nothing but glare at her, his mind screaming with thoughts of payback. But for now, all he could do was endure the last few minutes of breakfast in silence, his mind racing with ways to get back at her later.
Meerab, victorious, leaned back in her chair, thoroughly satisfied with herself as she glanced at Haya, whose eyes were burning with jealousy. Meerab smirked inwardly—Murtasim was hers, and Haya could do nothing about it.
But as they rose from the table and made their way out of the dining hall, Murtasim caught her arm, pulling her close enough so only she could hear him.
"This isn’t over," he whispered, his voice dark with promise. "You’ll regret this, Meerab."
She looked up at him, her eyes twinkling with mischief as she leaned in, her lips brushing against his ear. "I look forward to it."
