Continues....

Smut Warning

Dev whimpered again—soft, fussy little sounds that echoed through the room—and she reached down to soothe him, tucking the blanket around him.

Her hand shook.

He watched.

His own body was trembling now, tense with want... but he took a slow breath and stilled his own hands against the sheets. She breastfed Dev. He watched. Silent and still... trying to control the pounding of his own heart. The aching want between his legs. Every fibre of his body was taut. Tight as a bowstring as he watched her feeding their son.

His fingers clenched into the sheets.

She was so close.

But not for him.

He sat in silence until Dev was sleeping in her lap once more—safe, full, at ease with her.

Then she looked at him—her eyes dark and wanting. She kept the Dev back beside Conrad.

He didn't move until. Then he was on her.

Slowly.

Quickly.

Taking her mouth like they were still a young couple—frantic, starving, desperate.

He'd wanted to give her time—he had—but now all he wanted was her.

Just her.

"Touch me... please," he panted against her mouth, hands on her wrists.

"Didn't I say not to do wild things? Kids are just beside us, we are not alone anymore, my Lord."

She teased, frozen lips still hovering over hers—chest rising fast.

Then pulled back just enough to look at her.

Firelight danced in his eyes. A smirk tugged at his mouth.

"Not alone," he whispered, "but not entirely innocent either."

His hand slid up her thigh again—slow, teasing—fingers grazing the soft cotton of her petticoat.

"Besides... I never said we'd be quiet."

A beat.

"You did."

And then—he kissed her neck, slow and deep... letting his breath warm her skin as he murmured:

"Let them sleep through a mother's moan... if they must."

His fingers found the edge of fabric... and slipped beneath.

"Shameless, you are". She hit his chest.

He laughed, catching her by the wrist and pinning her back against the sheets. His body was a hard, dark shape in the firelight—legs on either side of hers, pinning her to the mattress.

"You love it when I'm shameless."

His other hand found her cheek, tilting her face up—mouth hovering just above hers.

"In fact..." he whispered, "I think you love it when I make you scream."

"But I can't scream right now, you understand."

He knew it. He knew all too well, and yet... his body thrummed with heat between hers.

"I know."

The words were a quiet admission against her mouth.

"And yet..."

He pressed a kiss against her jaw.

"You can still whimper... and moan for me, yes?" he smiled—a slow, lazy smile—and ran a finger along her jawline, tracing the shape of her mouth.

"Good.

Then I'll make sure they sleep through it all."

His thumb traced her bottom lip.

"Open."

He pulled her saree up to her midriff. Her bottom was bare, wet, and clenching. Her blouse was open. He looked down at her—her body bare and open in the firelight... soft and shaking with need. And he wanted her. More than anything. More than life. More than freedom. More than anything, he had been or would ever be.

She tasted like fire in his hands.

He bent down, kissing her bare stomach.

"Keep your eyes on me," he murmured. "And don't scream unless I tell you to."

She trembled, barely able to breathe—watching him as he kissed down her stomach... across her hip... along the soft skin of her inner thigh.

His fingers were still and steady against her hip. But his mouth... his mouth was a dangerous thing. Soft. Warm. Open. His chin was roughened by stubble. His breath was hot with promise.

He took her other thigh in one hand. Pressed it gently but firmly apart.

He freed himself from clothes—thick, hard, aching—his manhood springing free against his belly in the dim firelight.

A low breath left him as he gripped the base—once—just to steady himself.

Then he looked down at her.

Eyes dark.

Voice rough.

"You're mine."

Not a question.

Not a plea.

A truth.

And before she could answer—he shifted between her legs...

and pressed the tip of him against her wet heat...

teasing slow across her clit... once... twice...

"Tell me you want it," he growled, "before I ruin you quietly in this bed."

She pulled him down—hard—her fingers twisting in his hair, her mouth crashing against his.

No words.

Just need.

And he gave in.

Their lips met—hot, desperate—as she guided him where she wanted him most.

He broke the kiss only to breathe into her ear:

"Quiet... for our sons."

Then—

He pushed inside. Slow. Full. Deep.

A shared gasp. Her nails were biting into his back. His forehead pressed to her shoulder to muffle the sound of how much he needed this... needed her.

And still...

They moved like rebels in moonlight—stolen moments and soft moans and bodies remembering how to love without borders.

One thrust.

Then another.

Slow.

Deep.

Silent but for hushed breaths and the creak of wood beneath them.

Outside, the sea whispered against the shore.

Inside—their children slept peacefully...

Unknowing...

Untroubled...

While love burned fiercely between their parents—

wild, forbidden,

and finally free. She bites his shoulder so as not to scream. His breath hitched as her teeth sank into the muscle of his shoulder—soft at first, then harder—as he thrust deeper, relentless.

A low groan rumbled in his chest—trapped between clenched teeth.

Good.

Let her bite.

Let her mark him.

Let the world know whose he was.

She trembled beneath him—close... so close—and he felt it in every pulse between them. Her body clenched around him like fire closing in, and still he moved—slow, deep strokes meant to draw out every second, every gasp she fought to silence.

"Come on..." he whispered against her neck, "let go... I've got you."

And when the wave broke—

She did scream into his skin.

Muffled.

Fierce.

Herself.

And above her—he followed silently—

burying his own cry in the crook of her neck...

their bodies tangled like roots...

two souls who fled an empire...

now remade—in love,

in war,

in stolen nights by the sea.

The sun had just begun to rise—soft pink fingers stretching across the sky—when she slipped from bed.

Her body moved slowly.

Tender.

A quiet ache between her thighs reminded her of the night before—the heat, the hush, his hands on her like he'd never let go.

She bathed in silence—washing by the small courtyard well, water cool against warm skin. Then prayer: folded cloth on stone, forehead to earth, lips whispering gratitude not just to gods... but to him. To this life. To freedom.

By dawn's full light, fire crackled under the pot.

Rice porridge is simmering.

Spiced tea steamed.

And Conrad stumbled in first—hair wild—crying, "Maa! I'm hungry!"

"Wait," she smiled, tapping his nose, "food comes when patience does."

Theodore entered last—barefoot and half-awake—the mark on his shoulder still faintly red from her teeth.

He paused at the doorway... watching her stir chai with one hand while lifting Dev into a high seat with another.

Their eyes met across steam and sunlight—

And he said nothing.

Just smiled.

For all they'd lost...

This was worth every step of exile.

"By the way, when are we leaving?" she asked.

He stepped closer, poured himself a cup of chai—sweet, strong—before answering.

"We leave in two weeks."

She paused mid-stir.

"I've written to Mother. Told her we're coming—but not that I'm bringing you both with the boys. Let them wonder." A faint smirk. "Let them see what their son chose."

He took a slow sip.

"Not as Lord Norman returning in shame... but as Theodore. A father. A husband."

His eyes softened.

"And when they meet Dev... and Conrad..."

"...they'll have no choice but to accept the India I now carry home with me."

Then he reached out—tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

"You ready for London's rain, my queen?"

She smiled into her spoon.

"As long as you're shivering beside me... yes. Oh, and also, you will always be My Lord Norman."

She smirked. He stilled—chai cup halfway to his lips.

Then slowly, deliberately, set it down.

His eyes—dark, warm, full of fire—locked onto hers.

"You say that like it's a curse."

Stepping closer—he caught her wrist mid-stir, the spoon clattering against the pot.

"But I think... You say it like a prayer."

A low smirk tugged at his mouth.

"Go on. Say it again."

And when she whispered—"My Lord Norman"—with that same teasing fire—

—he pulled her flush against him, one hand at her nape, the other splayed low on her back,

"Yours. Always. Even in London's frost... even in exile... even if they strip my name again..."

"I'll always be yours."

"

Ok enough now go get bathed," He chuckled—low, warm, against her lips.

"Say please."

She huffed—a sound that didn't quite have the edge she wanted. She was smiling. He knew she was.

"Fine." She leaned up and pressed her mouth softly to his. "Please."

"Her laughter was his defeat... and his reward."

They've lost everything — and still, they have each other. 🖤