The car ride back from Ahana’s parents’ house was quiet — windows cracked, soft music playing, her hand resting on his thigh the whole way.

Every red light — he’d lean over, kiss her slowly, thumb brushing the sindoor in her parting like he still couldn’t believe it was real.

When they stepped through their front door at 4:37 p.m., the house was silent.

No one home.

No parents.

No cousins.

Just them.

The door clicked shut.

Arjun locked it — turned — and the air changed instantly.

Ahana stood in the foyer — still in the light yellow saree from paghphera, pallu draped loosely over one shoulder, bangles chiming softly with every breath.

Her hair was slightly messy from the car ride, sindoor still vivid, mangalsutra resting between the gentle swell of her breasts.

Arjun looked at her — eyes darkening — and smiled.

Slow. Dangerous. Hungry.

“No one here,” he said — voice low, rough.

“Just my wife.

In my house.

Wearing my sindoor.”

Ahana’s breath hitched.

She took one step back — playful — teasing.

“Then come claim what’s yours, husband.”

That was it.

He crossed the distance in two strides — hands on her waist — lifted her straight onto the console table by the entrance.

The marble was cool against her thighs as the saree rode up.

He stepped between her legs — spread them wider with his hips — and kissed her like he’d been starving for it.

Hard.

Deep.

Tongue claiming every corner of her mouth — tasting the rose she’d eaten at her parents’ house.

She moaned into him — fingers threading through his hair — tugging just enough to make him growl.

He pulled back — only far enough to look at her — eyes blown black.

“Been thinking about this all day,” he rasped.

“Fucking my wife in our home.

No one to hear.

No one to stop me.”

His hands found the pleats of her saree — tugged — unraveling them in quick, impatient pulls until the fabric loosened and pooled around her waist.

Underneath — nothing but a tiny lace thong and the matching bra she’d worn for paghphera.

He groaned at the sight — palmed her breasts through the lace — thumbs circling her nipples until they peaked hard and visible.

“Fuck… you wore this for me?” he asked — voice wrecked.

Ahana nodded — breathless — hips rolling against him.

“Wanted to feel you rip it off.”

He didn’t rip — not yet.

He unhooked the bra with one hand — let it fall — then leaned down and took one nipple into his mouth — sucking hard — teeth grazing — tongue flicking.

She arched — cried out — nails digging into his shoulders through his kurta.

His other hand slid between her thighs — pushed the thong aside — fingers finding her already soaked.

Two fingers plunged deep — curling — pumping fast while his thumb rubbed her clit in tight circles.

“So fucking wet,” he growled against her breast.

“Been dripping for your husband since we left your parents’ house?”

“Yes—fuck—yes—” she gasped — head falling back — hips bucking against his hand.

He added a third finger — stretched her — fucked her fast — wet sounds obscene in the quiet foyer.

“Come for me,” he ordered — mouth moving to her neck — biting just below her ear.

“Come on my fingers like a good wife.

Then I’m going to bend you over this table and fuck you until you scream my name.”

She shattered — body locking — pussy clamping down on his fingers — squirting in hot pulses that soaked his hand and dripped onto the marble.

She cried out — loud, unrestrained — no one to hear but him.

He didn’t let her come down.

Pulled his fingers out — brought them to her lips — watched her suck them clean — eyes locked on his.

Then he spun her — bent her over the console table — saree bunched around her waist, thong shoved aside.

He freed his cock — hard, leaking — rubbed the head through her folds once — coating himself in her release.

Then thrust in — deep — brutal — one stroke burying him to the hilt.

Ahana screamed — hands slapping the marble — back arching.

He fucked her hard — relentless — hips snapping — hand fisted in her hair pulling her head back so he could kiss her neck — bite the spot over her pulse.

“Feel that?” he growled — voice rough.

“Your husband inside his wife.

In our home.

Claiming every inch of you.”

She pushed back — meeting every thrust — moaning brokenly.

“Harder—please—fuck me like you own me—”

He slapped her ass — once — sharp — then gripped her hips — pounded faster — deeper — angle perfect to hit her G-spot over and over.

“Come again,” he commanded.

“Come all over your husband’s cock.

Let me feel you milk me dry.”

She did — violent — walls fluttering wildly — squirting again — soaking his thighs, the table, the floor.

He followed — thrusting deep — grinding — spilling hot and thick inside her — groaning her name like a curse and a prayer.

They stayed like that — him buried inside her — both panting — bodies trembling.

He pulled out slowly — watched his cum leak out — thick and white — dripping down her thighs.

Then he turned her — lifted her onto the table again — kissed her slow — deep — tasting their combined release on her tongue.

“My wife,” he whispered — forehead to hers.

“My home.”

She smiled — soft, sated — traced the sindoor in her parting with her finger.

“My husband.

My everything.”

They stayed there — tangled, messy, loved — the house quiet around them.

First day home alone.

First of forever.