Ma noticed the change in me—the way I hummed while washing dishes, the way I lingered over my reflection, adjusting my skirt to hug my hips, smoothing my hair to catch the light. “What’s got you glowing, my girl?” she teased, her eyes kind but piercing, seeing the fire in me. I’d blush, muttering about college, but she knew. Papa’s gaze turned sharper, sensing the woman I was becoming, his protective instincts flaring. My siblings poked fun at my “daydreaming,” calling me “lovestruck Sona,” but I didn’t care. Aakash was my secret, my fire, burning hotter with every stolen glance, every brush of his hand.
Our moments grew bolder, the tension between us a live wire. One evening, after a late study session, he walked me to the campus gate, the air thick with monsoon promise. “What do you do at night, Sana?” he asked, his voice low, teasing, his shoulder brushing mine. “I think… about someone,” I admitted, my cheeks burning, my pussy wet as I met his gaze. “Who are you thinking about?” he pressed, stepping closer, his breath warm on my cheek, his hand grazing my waist, sending a shiver through me. “What do you think?” I whispered, bold, my lips inches from his, my tits brushing his chest, my pussy aching for his touch. He chuckled, dark and dangerous, his fingers lingering on my hip. “Tell me, how much do you think about him?” His words were a challenge, and I wanted to answer with my body, to pull him into the shadows and let him fuck me senseless, but I just smiled, letting the heat build, knowing we were on the edge of something wild.
One night, at a college cultural event, we found ourselves alone in a quiet corner of the auditorium, the music a distant hum. He leaned close, his lips brushing my ear. “You look fucking gorgeous tonight,” he murmured, his hand sliding to my lower back, pulling me against him, his cock hard against my thigh through his jeans. “And you… you feel so hot,” I whispered back, my voice trembling with want, my pussy dripping as I pressed closer, feeling his heat. His fingers slipped under my dupatta, tracing the curve of my tit, his thumb brushing my nipple, making me gasp. “Not here, Sana,” he growled, but his eyes said he wanted to fuck me right there, to rip my kurta off and bury his cock in my pussy. I wanted it too, my body screaming for his touch, my slit begging for his cock, but we pulled back, the promise of more hanging between us like a storm ready to break.
The tension didn’t stop there. One sweltering afternoon, we ended up in an empty classroom, the air heavy with the scent of rain and desire. He backed me against the wall, his hands on my hips, his eyes dark with hunger. “You’ve been driving me crazy, Sana,” he growled, his lips grazing my neck, sending sparks straight to my pussy. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” I whispered, my hands sliding up his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle under his shirt, my nipples aching against my bra. His hand slipped under my kurta, cupping my tit, squeezing gently, his thumb circling my nipple until I moaned softly, my pussy clenching with need. “Fuck, you’re so soft,” he murmured, his other hand sliding down to my thigh, inching up my skirt, brushing the edge of my panties. “Aakash, please,” I gasped, my hips bucking toward him, desperate for more, my slit dripping for his touch. He pulled back, his breath ragged, his cock straining against his jeans. “Not yet, baby,” he said, his voice thick with restraint, but his eyes promised he’d fuck me soon, and I was ready to beg for it.