Demo Smut
It was well past 2:30 a.m.
Mumbai was wrapped in a soft, steady drizzle, the kind that makes the city feel like it’s whispering secrets.
Surya stumbled through the grand doors of the mansion, completely drunk, eyes bloodshot, shirt half-tucked, the sharp smell of expensive whiskey clinging to his skin like a second shadow , he went and sat on the sofa
From the kitchen walked in Sanchi, carrying a late-night dinner on a silver tray.
Tonight she had dressed like she was waging war on his indifference.
A sheer crimson net saree clung to her body like mist; so transparent that the milky skin of her flat stomach glowed under the chandelier.
The blouse was sleeveless, completely backless, with a plunging neckline so daring that more than half of her full, round breasts spilled out, barely contained.
Only a thin string tied at her waist held the pleats together, leaving her deep navel on shameless display.
She bent forward to place the tray on the dining table.
The pallu slipped.
In that single, careless second, everything she had hidden for a year was suddenly bare.
Surya rose from the sofa like a man possessed.
His steps were unsteady, but his gaze was razor-sharp, locked on her.
For the first time in twelve months of a cold, arranged marriage, he was truly seeing his wife, not as the quiet girl his family had brought home, but as a woman. Flesh, fire, and forbidden desire.
He moved behind her without a sound.
Sanchi didn’t even realize until two large, burning-hot hands clamped around her tiny waist.
“S… Surya-ji…?” Her voice trembled, half fear, half prayer.
He said nothing.
Instead he buried his face in the curve of her neck, inhaling her like a drug. Her floral perfume mixed with the raw bite of his whiskey created something lethal.
Then his lips found her skin, soft, deliberate kisses along her nape.
Sanchi’s breath hitched.
One whole year. Three hundred and sixty-five nights of sleeping in separate rooms, of polite “good mornings” and “good nights,” and now, finally, her husband was touching her.
“Surya-ji… you’ve been drinking, haven’t you…?” she whispered, barely audible.
His only reply was to yank her harder against him, crushing her naked back to his chest.
His mouth traveled upward, teeth grazing the shell of her ear, nipping lightly.
Her hands shook so badly she almost dropped the tray. She set it down with a clatter and tried to turn, but he held her pinned from behind, possessive, unyielding.
He cupped her face, spun her around, and claimed her mouth.
Sanchi had never been kissed properly before.
She simply pressed her lips to his, frozen.
Surya smiled against her mouth, sucked gently on her lower lip, then pushed his tongue inside, deep, wet, hungry.
Warning mature content ⚠️
Part - 1
Book Name - My Husband Fucks Me When He Is Drunk.
Trop - Arrange marriage , Hate to love , Smut erotic
Language - Hinglish And English / both language available in PDF , first Hinglish then when you scroll down you get in English language.
Total Words - 4381
Important Notice
I will release the story part wise , available in two language , The eBook will always be paid, so don't request to make it free. 🙏🙂↔️
And you will get all the other information in the PDF.
I already write all my books for very less money, please do not ask me to do it for free. I charge based on the word, and that too is less than other authors. 🥺
Link 🖇️ is here
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