Hello everyone!
Welcome to Book 1 of the "Sensual Series" - a tale of obsession, passion, and intense emotions.
This is the story of Adhiraj Singh Rathore and Priya Ghoshal, two strangers whose fates collide in the most unexpected way.
"I really do...
Total words - 1600+ This chapter contains smut.. If you're not comfortable with that just skip this chapter. ...................................................................................................
Priya's Pov...
"You're mine, babygirl…" His voice was rough, edged with hunger. "And now… I’m going to remind you exactly what that means."
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🖤 ANNOUNCEMENT 🖤 Hey readers! To keep Sensual Destiny clean and accessible on Wattpad, I’ve moved the 18+ exclusive chapters (yes, those chapters 👀) to Scrollstack.
✨If you're craving the unfiltered chemistry between Adhiraj & Priya, the raw emotions, the possessiveness, and the intensity — You’ll find it all in Scrollstock at very reasonable price.
(18+ content. Read responsibly.)
Thank you for supporting my words and my madness. Your love means everything! 💌 — mmmm_writes_
. . . . Next Morning..
I woke up to the dull ache between my thighs, a reminder of the night before. Love bites trailed across my skin, blooming like evidence of his relentless passion. Fuck.
Blinking away the lingering haze of sleep, I glanced down at myself—his shirt draped over me, the faint scent of him still clinging to the fabric. The bed was pristine, the sheets freshly changed. He did it again. That idiot.
I sighed, shaking my head. He never let me handle anything, always slipping away to take care of things when I wasn’t looking.
Pushing away the thoughts, I stretched and made my way to the bathroom, letting the warm water soothe my sore muscles. The shower was relaxing, washing away the remnants of last night but not the lingering heat beneath my skin.
After wrapping myself in a towel, I stood before the mirror, my fingers gliding over my skin as I applied moisturizer and body lotion. The warmth of the blow dryer tickled my scalp as I ran my fingers through my hair, letting the strands fall naturally.
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Slipping into a stunning red kurta set, I let the fabric hug my form just right. I reached for my mangalsutra, the sacred black beads cool against my fingertips before I clasped it around my neck. A final touch—a streak of vermillion along my parting, a mark that tied me to him.
As I stared at my reflection, my heart fluttered. A wife. His wife. No matter how much I called him an idiot, he is mine, and I am his.
