The fan spun overhead, its blades cutting the warm air in a slow, rhythmic sweep that stirred the loose strands of hair against Neha's cheek. The weight of Arshad's body pressed her into the mattress, the heat of him seeping through the thin cotton of her saree blouse, and she could feel every ridge of muscle along his chest where it met hers. Her hands had come up between them, palms flat against his shoulders, not pushing—just resting there, feeling the flex of him as he held himself above her.

"You're mine tonight," he said.

The words fell into the space between them, heavy and certain, and Neha felt them land somewhere deep in her chest. Her breath came in short, shallow pulls, and she nodded—a small, jerky movement of her chin that she couldn't quite control. His eyes held hers, dark and patient, watching her the way he always did, like he could see straight through the silk and lace to the want pooling low in her belly.

His thumb came up, rough and calloused, and traced the mark on her neck. The bruise he'd left earlier—a claim pressed into her skin that she'd tried to hide with her dupatta. She felt the pressure of his touch, the slight sting of it, and her lips parted on a shaky exhale.

"Say it," he said.

Neha swallowed. "I'm yours."

The words came out barely above a whisper, but they were enough. His mouth found hers again, and this kiss was different—slower, deeper, a claiming that left no room for anything but him. His tongue swept against hers, and she tasted herself on him, salt and want, and her fingers curled into the hard muscle of his shoulders.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his breath hot against her lips. "Say my name."

"Arshad."

The name broke from her like a confession, and something flickered in his eyes—satisfaction, hunger, a dark pleasure that made her thighs press together beneath him. His hand moved from her neck, trailing down her collarbone, over the thin fabric of her blouse, and she arched into his touch before she could stop herself.

He made a low sound in his throat, almost a laugh. "So eager."

Neha's cheeks burned, but she didn't look away. She couldn't. His hand found the pins holding her saree in place, and one by one, he pulled them free, letting them fall to the bedspread with soft clicks. The fabric loosened around her, slipping from her shoulder, and she felt the cool air against her skin where the blouse had shifted.

He worked the saree away from her body with a patience that made her ache—unfolding her like a gift he had all night to unwrap. The pleats whispered against the sheets, and when the last of it fell away, she lay in just her blouse and petticoat, her breasts rising and falling with each quick breath.

His gaze traveled over her, slow and deliberate, and Neha felt herself flush under the weight of it. "You wore this for me."

It wasn't a question. She nodded anyway, her voice catching in her throat. "Yes."

His hand found the hook of her blouse, and he undid it with one flick of his fingers. The fabric fell open, and she felt the cool air on her skin before his palms covered her breasts, rough and warm, his thumbs circling her nipples until they tightened into hard peaks. A sound escaped her—a small, breathy moan that she couldn't hold back—and his mouth curved into that dark smile she was beginning to know.

"You're so responsive," he murmured, his hands kneading her breasts, rolling her nipples between his fingers until her back arched off the mattress. "Like your body knows exactly what it needs."

"Arshad—"

"Shh." He leaned down, his mouth closing over one nipple, and Neha's hands flew to his shaved head, her fingers gripping the smooth skin as he sucked. Her hips rolled against him, seeking friction, and she felt his cock hard against her thigh through the thin cotton of his lungi. The heat of him, the weight of him, the way his tongue laved at her nipple until she was trembling—it was too much and not enough all at once.

He moved to the other breast, giving it the same attention, and Neha's head fell back against the pillow, her eyes closing as pleasure coiled low in her belly. The fan spun overhead, its rhythmic creak a counterpoint to the wet sounds of his mouth on her skin, and she let herself sink into it—into him.

His hand slid down her stomach, over the waistband of her petticoat, and she felt the heat of his palm through the fabric. "Lift your hips."

She obeyed without thinking, and he pulled the petticoat down her legs, leaving her in just her panties—the red lace she'd chosen for him, the same set she'd worn that first night. His eyes darkened at the sight, and he let out a low whistle.

"You planned this."

Neha bit her lip, her cheeks burning. "I… I wanted to look nice."

"Nice." He laughed, a low, rough sound. "You look like a bride waiting for her husband." He paused, his hand tracing the edge of her panties. "But you're not waiting for him, are you?"

The words landed like a slap, and Neha's breath caught. His thumb hooked under the lace, pulling it aside, and she felt the cool air against her slick heat. He didn't touch her, just looked, and she felt herself clench around nothing, desperate for him.

"Answer me," he said.

"No," she whispered. "I'm not waiting for him."

"Who are you waiting for?"

"You." The word broke from her, raw and honest. "I'm waiting for you."

His smile widened, and he lowered himself over her, his weight settling between her thighs. She felt his cock against her, hot and hard, and her hips tilted up instinctively, seeking him. He didn't give her what she wanted—not yet. Instead, he kissed her again, slow and deep, his tongue tangling with hers as his hand slid beneath her, gripping her ass and pulling her closer.

She felt him move, the head of his cock pressing against her entrance, and she gasped into his mouth. He held there, just at the edge, and Neha's fingers dug into his shoulders.

"Please," she breathed.

"Please what?"

"Please—" She couldn't finish the sentence, the words tangling in her throat. He pulled back, just enough to look at her, and she saw the hunger in his eyes, the patient cruelty that made her ache.

"Say it," he said. "Tell me what you want."

Neha's face burned, but she couldn't deny him—not now, not when she was so close. "I want you inside me."

He entered her in one slow thrust, and Neha cried out, her back arching off the mattress as he filled her. The stretch of him, the fullness—it was overwhelming, and she felt her walls clench around him, drawing him deeper. He stilled, letting her adjust, his forehead pressed to hers, his breath ragged.

"You feel that?" he murmured. "That's me. All of me."

Neha nodded, unable to speak, her nails digging into the muscle of his shoulders. He began to move, slow and deliberate, each thrust a long, deep drag that sent sparks of pleasure up her spine. The fan spun overhead, casting shifting shadows across the walls, and the only sounds were her moans and the wet, rhythmic slap of their bodies.

"Look at me," he commanded.

Her eyes met his, and she saw the raw possession in them—the way he watched her come apart beneath him, the way he drank in every gasp and whimper. His pace quickened, harder, and she felt herself climbing toward something she couldn't name, her hips meeting his thrust for thrust.

"Say my name," he said, his voice low and rough. "Say it while I fuck you."

"Arshad—" The name broke from her on a moan, and he rewarded her with a harder thrust, hitting a spot that made her see stars.

"Again."

"Arshad. Arshad—"

His name became a rhythm, keeping time with the stroke of his hips. Each thrust drove it from her lips, and each repetition seemed to feed something in him, his pace turning harder, deeper, until the headboard knocked against the wall in a steady, insistent beat. Neha's fingers slipped on the sweat-slick muscle of his shoulders, and she grabbed at the bedsheet beneath her, twisting the fabric in her fists as he drove into her.

"Look at me," he said again, and she forced her eyes open. His face was close to hers, the planes of it thrown into shadow by the lamp on the nightstand, and there was something raw in his expression—not just hunger, but a kind of fierce attention, as if she were the only thing in the room that mattered. "Don't you dare look away."

She couldn't have if she tried. The way he watched her, the way his gaze pinned her to the mattress as surely as his body did, made her feel seen in a way that stripped her bare. He shifted his angle, and the head of his cock dragged against a spot inside her that made her cry out, her vision whiting at the edges. He did it again, and again, each pass of that spot sending a shockwave through her that curled her toes against his back.

"Please," she gasped, not knowing what she was begging for—more, or less, or something she couldn't name. The pressure built in her belly, coiling tight as a spring, and she felt herself clench around him, her body chasing the edge before her mind had caught up.

"Not yet," he said, and he pulled out.

The emptiness was a shock, a sudden hollow ache that made her whimper. She arched up, trying to chase him, but his hand pressed flat on her stomach, holding her down. He looked at her, breathing hard, his chest heaving, and she saw the sheen of sweat on his dark skin, the way his muscles flexed as he held himself over her.

"You think you get to come that easily?" His thumb brushed her swollen lips, and Neha's mouth opened on instinct, her tongue darting out to taste the salt of his skin. His eyes darkened. "Not yet," he murmured, and a dark smile played at the corner of his mouth. He pulled away, leaving her aching and empty, and reached for the silk dupatta lying on the floor where it had fallen with her saree.

Neha watched him, her breath coming in shallow pulls, her body still trembling with the force of what she'd almost reached. The silk slid through his fingers, a length of deep red that caught the lamplight, and she felt a flutter of something—fear, or anticipation, or both—as he turned back to her, the fabric hanging loose in his grip.

"Roll over," he said.