Tip Tip Barsa Paani
Taglist: @seongjeholic , @desi-brownie , @iwannalickghostup , @nooriyat , @girlonfloralcrack , @peonies7002 , @geometric-circle , @ashnotashkechum , @yalawyerji , @maraudersbitchesassemble , @severusthings , @obesssed
Pairing: Hamza x Reader (Rehman Dakaits Daughter)
NOTE: MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT! This content is intended for audiences 18+ only!
A/N: Okay.. heh. I mentioned once before I had this idea that I'm an old school Bollywood lover, and this song is just ugh. It's so sexy! Listen to it while reading this or don't whatever- I had a blast writing this, enjoy!<3
Warnings: HEIGHT DIFFERENCE, heavy tension, suggestive themes, teasing, Reader is simping hard, forbidden love, annoyed!Hamza, public sex, oral (f. recieving) sex on a bike in the rain, WET IN MORE THAN ONE WAY~ unprotected sex, creampie
The Mall was a world away from the dust-choked alleys of Lyari, but for you- the daughter of Rehman Dakait, the air felt just as heavy, all the time. It fucking annoyed you-
Always with a bigass silent Bodyguard by your side, never feeling like you ever had actual free-time... until your Father hired Hamza a few months ago.. damn. He was way too fine to not enjoy being under his protection.
You moved through the high-end boutiques with grace, your silk dupatta trailing behind you like a whisper.
Behind you, always exactly three paces back, was Hamza. He didn't look like a shopper. He looked like a storm held in check by a black shirt.
Hamza was your father’s most trusted blade—the "right hand" who had survived more street wars than you had seen birthdays.
He was older, his face etched with a rugged, stoic handsomeness that spoke of secrets and scars. To the world, he was a ghost; to you, he was the only man you had thought about for the last few months..
"Hamza, look at this!" you said, pausing in front of a storefront. You picked up a deep emerald shawl, the fabric catching the light. turned, draping it over your shoulder, and stepped closer to him—close enough to smell the faint, intoxicating scent of sandalwood and tobacco that clung to him. "Do you think the color suits me? Or is it too much?"
Hamza’s eyes didn't flicker. He scanned the perimeter of the mall first, his gaze sharp and professional, before finally settling on you. He didn't look at the shawl. He looked through you.
"It’s fine," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated in your chest.
"Just 'fine'?" You stepped even closer, your hand intentionally brushing his forearm. The muscle beneath his sleeve was like granite.
You felt a spark jump from your skin to his, but he didn't flinch. "You’re supposed to be my protector. That includes protecting me from making a fashion mistake, doesn't it?"
You leaned in, tilting your head so your hair brushed his shoulder, your voice dropping to a teasing lilt. "Is it that you don't like the color, Hamza? Or are you just afraid to look at me for more than a second?"
"I am here to ensure you return to your father in one piece," he replied, his tone as cold and distant "The color of your clothes is irrelevant to that mission."
You sighed, a sharp huff of frustration, and turned away. Spending the next hour being a terror—trying on shoes you didn't want, making the shopkeepers scramble, and constantly darting into his personal space.
You would "accidentally" stumble, so he had to catch your elbow, or ask him to hold your bags just so you could watch the way his knuckles whitened.
But he was a vault. No matter how much you flirted, no matter how much you pushed his buttons or used the status as the Dakait’s daughter to tease him, he remained a statue of duty.
The Disappointment .. it was driving you insane.
By the time you exited the mall, the sun had been swallowed by a bruise-colored sky. The humidity of Karachi was thick, pressing down on the city like a wet blanket.
you felt a hollow ache in your chest. As the daughter of the most powerful man in Lyari; men usually tripped over themselves to catch your eye. But Hamza... Hamza acted as if you were a chore. A high-stakes, annoying, dangerous chore..
As you reach the parking lot, the air is so thick you can almost taste the salt from the Arabian Sea-
Hamza’s motorbike wasnt parked far, He swings a leg over it with a rugged grace that makes your heart hammer against your ribs. He looks so effortless, so dangerously masculine in this moment- and those thighs-
"Get on," he commands. "The weather is turning."
Ah fuck- he interrupted your thoughts again.
"Let it turn," you mutter, almost pouty, crossing your arms. "I’m in no rush to get back to the cage."
"On. Now." It’s the voice he uses with the soldiers in the street. It’s a command, and despite your pride, it sends a shiver of thrill down your spine.
You climb on behind him. The bike is narrow, forcing your thighs to bracket his. Just as you settle, the clouds finally rupture.
It isn't a rain; it’s a deluge. Within seconds, your silk outfit is translucent, clinging to your curves like a second skin.
The cool rain hits your warm skin, but the only thing you can feel is the heat radiating from Hamza’s back.
"Hold on," he growls over the sudden roar of the storm.
You don't hesitate. You wrap your arms around his thick middle, lacing your fingers together over his stomach. You press your chest firmly against his back, feeling the hard ridges of his muscles.
It makes you chuckle softly, being close like this never disappointed in making you blush.
You can feel his heart beating—not the slow, steady rhythm you got used to these last months, he seemed to be a bit more nervous.
As the bike roars to life and tears through the rain-slicked streets of Lyari, the world disappears. There is only the spray of water, the vibration of the engine between your legs, and the man in your arms.
The wind whips your hair into his face, and you feel him tilt his head back, inhaling the scent of your damp curls.
He doesn't pull away. Instead, he reaches one hand down, covering your joined hands with his own, his thumb grazing your knuckles.
The rain is pouring, the streets are flooding, and for the first time, you aren't the daughter of a king—and he isn't a servant. You’re just two people caught in a storm that’s been brewing for years.. ah thats at least what you imagined in your pretty head.
The rain isn't just falling anymore; it’s a physical weight, a torrential curtain that turns the neon lights of the Lyari outskirts into blurred smears of color.
The streets are transforming into rivers, the black asphalt slick and treacherous. Hamza’s bike skids slightly as he maneuvers around a stalled rickshaw, and you feel his thigh muscles tighten like iron under your grip.
He pulls the bike over beneath the crumbling overhang of an old, colonial-style warehouse—a skeletal relic of a different era. The engine dies with a final, throaty growl, leaving only the deafening roar of the monsoon hitting the corrugated metal roof above.
"We wait here," Hamza says, his voice cutting through the water. He dismounts, his black shirt now a second skin, mapped perfectly over the broad expanse of his shoulders and the hard lines of his back.
You slide off the seat, your legs feeling heavy and electric. Your silk tunic is ruined, soaked through and clinging to every curve of your body, turning transparent under the flickering streetlamps.
You see his eyes dart to you—really look at you—and for a split second, the mask doesn't just crack; it shatters.
His pupils blow wide, his breath hitching in the back of his throat as he takes in the sight of you, drenched and defiant.
But then, the iron shutters go back up. He looks away, his jaw working as he stares out at the rain.
"I’ll call your father.. We need a car. The bike won't make it through the flood."
"No," you say, a mischievous heat rising in your chest despite the chill of the rain. "No phone calls, Hamza~"
Before he can grab your arm, you turn and run. Not toward the street, but deeper into the shadows of the abandoned building.
"Stop!" he barks, his boots thudding on the concrete as he pursues you.
The interior of the building is vast, filled with the scent of damp Earth and aged wood. High above, the roof leaks, sending thick pillars of water crashing down into the center of the floor. It’s a rhythmic, heavy sound—tip, tip, tip—echoing like a heartbeat against the stone.
You stop in the center of one of those watery pillars. The rain here is cleaner, cooler. You tilt your head back, letting the water wash over your face, laughing as you spin in a slow circle.
"You’re going to get sick," Hamza’s voice growls from the shadows.
He’s standing just at the edge of the light, watching you. His hands are clenched at his sides, his knuckles white.
"Is that what you’re worried about, Hamza?" You step toward him, your wet feet silent on the floor. "Or are you worried that if you stay in the dark with me for too long, you’ll forget whose man you are?"
You can see the way his law tightens at your words- his mask of disinterest slipping more and more..
You run your hands through your soaked hair, pushing it back from your face, letting your fingers trail down your neck, over your collarbones, stopping just above the swell of your breasts where the silk is most translucent.
You hum, the melody low and sultry, barely audible over the loud storm..
He takes a step forward, drawn in like a moth to a flame he knows will consume him.
"Enough," he rasps, but his voice lacks its usual steel. It’s thick with a hunger he’s spent years starving..
"Make me stop then~" you challenge. You move closer, the space between you vanishing until you can feel the heat radiating off his body, fighting the cold of your wet clothes...then again you slip away with a chuckle, disappearing behind a pillar.
The challenge hangs in the air, thick and suffocating like the humidity of the monsoon. You see the muscles in his jaw ripple, his eyes darkening into twin pits of obsidian.
For a second, you think he’s going to lung—but instead, you let out a low, melodic chuckle that echoes off the high, rusted rafters.
You duck behind a stack of rotting wooden crates, your breath coming in shallow hitches. The cold rain on your skin is a sharp contrast to the fire burning in your belly. You peek through a gap in the wood.
You see him. He’s standing in a shaft of moonlight that has pierced through a hole in the roof. His wet shirt is plastered to his torso..making your imagination run wild~
"You’re playing a dangerous game," Hamza’s voice rings out, closer than you expected. It’s no longer the voice of a servant. It’s deep, territorial, and vibrating with a raw edge of desire. "You think because you are Rehman’s daughter, you are safe from me? Do you think I don’t have a breaking point?"
You move again, slipping behind a rusted iron boiler, your heart drumming a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
"I think you’ve been hiding behind that 'Right Hand' title for too long," you whisper-shout, teasing him. "I think you’re terrified that if you touch me, you won’t be able to stop. And you hate not being in control, don't you, Hamza?"
You hear a low, dangerous sound—half-growl, half-laugh—that sends a shiver straight down your spine.
"I have spent so long watching you," he says, his voice now directly behind the crates you just vacated. "Keeping my hands at my sides while you walked past me. Smelling your perfume on the upholstery of the car and wanting to burn the world down just to have one minute alone with you.."
The honesty in his voice makes your knees weak. This isn't just flirting anymore; this is the truth of a man who has been living in a self-imposed purgatory.
You try to move to the next set of pillars, but your wet foot slips on a patch of oil-slicked concrete. You gasp, your hand reaching out to steady yourself, and in that split second of vulnerability, the shadow moves.
Before you can even regain your balance, a massive, warm hand clamps around your waist.
You let out a small, startled cry as you are jerked backward. Your back hits his chest with a dull thud, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. His other arm snakes around your front, pinning your arms to your sides in a crushing embrace.
He’s a wall of heat. The cold rain dripping from your hair is instantly sizzled away by the sheer temperature of his skin.
He spins you around in his grip, his movements blurringly fast, and slams you back against the cold stone of a support pillar.
His hands move to your wrists, pinning them above your head against the stone. He’s hovering inches from your face, his chest heaving as he fights for air. The smell of him is intoxicating—
"Caught you," he rasps.
The silence that follows is louder than the thunder outside. You look up at him, your chest rising and falling against his, the wet fabric of your clothes offering no barrier between your skin and his. His eyes are scanning your face, searching for fear, but all he finds is the same desperate hunger that’s consuming him.
"Now what, Hamza?" you whisper, your voice trembling. "Are you going to take me home? Are you going to tell my father I was being difficult?"
His grip on your wrists tightens, not enough to hurt, but enough to show you exactly how much power he’s holding back. He leans down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, his beard grazing your sensitive skin..
The silence following your question is heavy, vibrating with the residual energy of the storm outside. You’re pinned between the cold, unyielding stone of the pillar and the furnace-like heat of Hamza’s body.
You can feel the sharp intake of his breath, the way his lungs expand against your chest, and the frantic, heavy thud of his heart—a rhythm that finally matches your own.
"I should.." he sahs his voice dropping to a register so low it’s almost a growl.
His eyes drop to your lips, then lower, tracing the path of the rainwater as it trickles down your throat and disappears into the soaked silk of your tunic.
His hand moves with agonizing slowness as he reaches for your dupatta, which is draped haphazardly over your shoulder, heavy and darkened by the rain.
He doesn't just take it off; he uncurls it from you like he’s peeling back a layer of your soul. His knuckles brush the sensitive skin of your collarbone, and the contact sends a jolt of electricity through you that makes your breath hitch..
He tosses the wet silk aside, and it hits the floor with a soft, sodden thwack that sounds like a gavel coming down.
"Instead," he whispers, leaning in until his lips are a mere hair’s breadth from yours, "I stop being your father’s dog.. And you stop being a tease.."
He doesn't wait for you to answer. He lunges, his mouth crashing onto yours with a desperate, starving ferocity.
Its a deep, hungry kiss, gentle- yet full of emotion and starving hunger..
It tastes of the metallic tang of the rain, and the raw, unrefined passion of a man who has died a thousand deaths in the silence of his duty.
You let out a muffled moan, your hands flying to his chest, grabbing fistfuls of his damp shirt to pull him even closer, if that’s even possible.
He groans deep in his throat, a sound of pure, unbridled surrender. One of his hands slides up to cup the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your wet hair, tilting your face to deepen the kiss.
His tongue slides against yours, claiming you with a territorial hunger that makes your knees turn to water.
He moves his hands down, gripping your waist with a strength that should be frightening, but it only makes you feel more alive than you ever have.
He hauls you upward, and you instinctively wrap your legs around his hips, your wet thighs gripping the rough denim of his trousers.
The friction is a revelation. He backs you harder against the pillar, his mouth moving from your lips to the sensitive curve of your neck.
He bites softly at the junction where your shoulder meets your throat, and you cry out, the sound lost in the roar of the thunder.
"You’re mine," he growls against your skin, his voice possessive and raw. "Not your Father's daughter. Not a prize to be protected. Mine."
“Mine”—it isn’t a question. It’s a claim, a flag planted in the middle of a war zone.
Your head falls back against the cold stone, a jagged breath escaping your lips. The word anchors you. For years you’ve been a pawn, a princess, a target, or a daughter. But under the weight of Hamza’s hands, you feel like a woman for the first time in your life.
"Haan.." You gasp, your fingers digging so hard into the muscles of his shoulders that your nails leave crescent moons in the damp fabric.
The sound seemed to shatter the last of Hamza’s iron-clad restraint. He groaned, a low, guttural sound that started deep in his chest and vibrated against your lips.
This wasn’t the stoic protector anymore; this was a man who had been burning alive in silence for months, and you were the only cool water in sight.
He pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours, his breath coming in jagged, hot puffs. His eyes, usually so controlled and vacant, were dark—almost black with a raw, predatory hunger.
"You have no idea," he rasped, his voice sounding like gravel grinding together, "what you’ve been doing to me. If your father saw me right now, he’d have my head on a stake."
"Then let him," you whispered, your voice a sultry challenge. You reached down, grabbing the hem of your soaked silk tunic and pulling it slowly over your head.
The wet fabric clung to your skin, resisting, making every inch of the reveal an agonizingly slow tease. When it finally fell to the dirt floor, you stood before him in nothing but your lace underwear, your skin shimmering with droplets of rain and sweat.
Hamza’s gaze traveled down your body with the weight of a physical touch. You saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard. The discipline that defined his life was crumbling in real-time.
"The ground is filth," he muttered, his eyes snapping back to yours, filled with a sudden, dark resolve.
He stepped away from you, the loss of his heat making you shiver for a fraction of a second.
He strode out into the torrential downpour, his silhouette a dark shadow against the grey curtain of the storm. For a moment, you thought he might have regained his senses, but then you heard the heavy kick of his motorcycle’s engine.
He didn't ride away. He backed the heavy machine into the shelter of the building, the headlight cutting a sharp, yellow beam through the shadows. He kicked the kickstand down, the bike leaning slightly, its leather seat wide and still warm from the engine’s heat.
He turned toward you, water streaming down his face, his shirt now completely translucent. He didn't say a word.
He simply reached out, his large, calloused hand wrapping around the back of your neck, and pulled you toward the bike.
Lifting you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he sat you back against the leather seat of the motorcycle. The contrast was electric—the cool dampness of the air against your skin and the radiating heat of the bike’s engine between your thighs.
Hamza stepped between your knees, his hands sliding up your thighs, his palms rough and hot. He leaned in, his lips grazing the sensitive skin of your neck, just below the ear.
"I've spent every night imagining this," he confessed, his teeth nipping at your collarbone, sending a jolt of pure fire through your nerves. "Watching you walk through that house... watching you look at me like you knew exactly what I was thinking."
"I did know," you whimpered, your head falling back, exposing the long line of your throat to him. "I wanted you to stop being so perfect. I wanted you to break."
"Congratulations," he growled against your skin. "You broke me Shona.."
You let out a soft, triumphant laugh that was more of a breathy purr, your head falling back against the handlebars.
"Only took me so many months," you teased, your eyes fluttering open to find him watching you with a terrifying, singular focus.
"I was starting to think you were made of stone, Hamza. I was starting to think you didn't have a pulse."
To prove your point, you slid your hand down his chest, feeling the frantic, heavy thud of his heart against his ribs. It was racing—wild and untamed.
"I have a pulse," he muttered, his large hands settling on your waist, his thumbs digging into the soft dip of your hips. "You just spent ninety days trying to stop it."
"Is that what you call it?" You arched your back slightly, the movement intentional, watching the way his pupils blown out until his irises were just thin rings of amber. You reached out, your damp fingertips tracing the line of his jaw through his beard, then lower, flicking the top button of his soaked shirt. "I thought I was being very subtle."
Hamza let out a dry, humorless huff, his hands tightening on your hips.
"Subtle? You wore that red dress to the gala and spent the entire night standing in my line of sight, sipping champagne and looking at me over the rim of the glass. I had to grip my holster so hard I thought I’d snap the leather."
"And here I thought you were just being extra vigilant," you whispered, leaning forward until your lips brushed the shell of his ear. You nipped the lobe, hearing his breath hitch. "You're a very good actor, Hamza. But you're a terrible liar."
Little did you know how right you were..
His response was to hoist you higher onto the leather seat of the bike. The cold metal of the frame contrasted sharply with the searing heat of his palms.
He moved with a sudden, rough grace, his hands sliding from your waist to the backs of your thighs, spreading them wide so he could step even closer.
"I'm not acting now, Shona" he rasped.
He moved his hand to the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your wet hair, pulling just enough to force you to look at him.
His gaze dropped to your mouth, then lower, to where your lace bra was translucent and clinging to you.
"Tell me to stop," he challenged, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. "Tell me you want your bodyguard back. Tell me you want the man who stands at the door and says 'Yes, Miss' and 'No, Miss'."
You reached down, your fingers catching the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward to reveal the ridged muscles of his stomach, the dark hair that disappeared into the waistband of his trousers.
You didn't tell him to stop. Instead, you leaned in, trailing your tongue along the pulse point in his neck.
"That man was sooo boring," you murmured against his skin, feeling the shudder go through him. "I want the man who’s looking at me like he wants to devour me. I want the man who’s currently wondering if the bike can hold our weight." You hummed.
Hamza’s grip on your hair tightened, his knuckles grazing your scalp. A dark, predatory smile flickered on his lips—the first real expression of emotion you’d seen from him that wasn't duty-bound.
"The bike can hold," he promised, his voice dropping an octave, becoming something raw and purely carnal. "The question is.. can you?"
He didn't wait for an answer.
He leaned down, his mouth crashing onto yours again, with hungry authority.
You met him move for move, your hands roaming over his back, feeling every scar and every muscle of the man you had finally, successfully, pushed over the damn edge.
The storm outside was loud, but as your legs wrapped around his waist and pulled him flush against you, the only thing you could hear was the sound of his heavy breathing and the silent, shattering end of his restraint.
You sat perched on the black leather of the bike, the yellow beam of the headlight casting long, flickering shadows against the brick walls.
You were down to your lace underwear—a delicate, white set that looked almost glowing in the dim light, the fabric soaked through and clinging to your skin in a way that left nothing to the imagination.
Hamza didn't move. He stood between your knees, his hands hovering just inches from your hips, his chest heaving as if he’d just run a marathon. For a man who lived his life by a code of absolute observation, he was suddenly, violently expressive.
His eyes traveled over you with a slow, agonizing reverence. He tracked the way the rainwater rolled down the curve of your throat, pooling in the hollow of your collarbone before disappearing into the scalloped edge of the lace.
When his gaze finally settled on your breasts, he made a sound—a low, pained growl. The thin lace was no match for the cold air; your nipples were peaked, straining against the fabric, and the sight seemed to physically wound him.
"You are..." he started, his voice cracking, "pure ruin."
He finally reached out, his large, calloused thumbs hooking into the top edge of the lace bra. He didn't pull it away immediately. He let his knuckles brush against the soft swell of your skin, the friction of his rough hands sending sparks through your nerves.
He watched your face, watching your eyes flutter shut as he slowly, methodically peeled the lace back.
The cool air hit your damp skin, making you shiver, but the heat of his gaze was almost heavy enough to touch- As the fabric fell away, your tits were fully bared to him, shimmering in the rain.
Hamza let out a shaky breath, his hands trembling—a sight that made your heart hammer against your ribs. To see the legendary, unflappable Hamza shaken to his core by the sight of your tits was the ultimate satisfaction.
"Look at you," he whispered, his palms finally coming up to cup your tits, his thumbs grazing them with a gentleness that made you whine low in your throat. "I’ve spent months wondering if you were real. If any woman could actually be this perfect."
You arched into his touch, your fingers tangling in his wet hair, but as he lowered his head to taste the skin he’d just uncovered, a spark of playful defiance flared in you.
You weren't just going to let him have his way while he stayed armored in his clothes.
It wasn't enough. Fuck-
As his mouth grazed your nipple, you suddenly shifted. You planted one bare, damp foot firmly against the center of his chest—right over his heart—and pushed.
Hamza stumbled back a step, startled, his eyes snapping up to yours. He looked like a man who had been jolted out of a trance.
"Unfair, Hamza," you said, your voice dripping with honeyed mischief. You leaned back on your elbows against the handlebars, your chest thrust forward, legs spread as you kept your foot pressed against his firm pectoral muscle.
"I’m sitting here shivering in the rain, completely exposed, and you’re still dressed like you’re about to go on a patrol."
You flexed your toes, digging them into the damp fabric of his shirt, feeling the hard ridges of muscle beneath.
"Take it off. All of it. I want to see exactly what I’ve been trying to get my hands on all these months."
A dark, slow smirk finally spread across Hamza’s face— "Impatience doesn't suit a lady of your station," he teased, though his hands were already moving to his belt.
"I’ve never been much of a lady," you countered, your eyes dropping to his hands.
He didn't take his eyes off you as he unbuckled his tactical belt, letting it drop to the floor with a heavy, metallic clank.
Next came the shirt. He ripped the buttons open with a lack of care that made your breath hitch, the fabric fluttering to the ground to reveal a torso that looked like it had been sculpted out of dark marble.
He was covered in scars—thin white lines across his ribs, a jagged mark near his shoulder—each one a testament to the violence of the world he lived in.
"Satisfied?" he asked, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble as he moved to his trousers.
"Not even close," you whispered.
As he shed the rest of his clothes, the air in the outpost seemed to vanish.
He was massive, all over..his body all muscle and raw power- his cock already hard just from banter and playing around.
He stepped back into the space between your legs, his skin radiating a heat that rivaled the bike's engine.
He didn't wait for your permission this time. He grabbed your ankle, sliding your foot off his chest and draping your leg over his shoulder. He leaned in close, his nose brushing against yours, his scent—rain, tobacco, and pure man—overwhelming your senses.
"You're really something, Shona.." he rasped, his hand sliding up your inner thigh to the last remnant of your lace. "You got me on my knees for you..needy..dont expect me to be gentle~"
You reached out, your hands sliding over his slick, muscular shoulders, pulling him down toward you. "I didn't ask for gentle, Hamza. I asked for you."
He reached out, a single finger tracing the petal-soft skin of your inner thigh, moving upward until he reached your pussy.
He groaned at the contact, his thumb grazing your clit through the white lace with a deliberate, heavy pressure that made your hips buck off the leather.
"You're soaking," he muttered, his eyes fixed on the way you reacted to him. "And it’s not because of the storm..You’ve been wanting this as long as I have, haven’t you?"
"Stop talking, Hamza," you pleaded, your head falling back against the handlebars, your breath hitching into a jagged moan. "Just... please."
"I've spent a hundred nights standing outside your door, listening to you move around," he whispered, leaning in until his breath was hot against your wet skin. "Wondering if you were thinking about me while you touched yourself. Wondering if you were this fucking wet for me.. if those sounds you made were for me to hear only.."
He kneeled down suddenly, leaned forward, pushing the fabric that was still covering your soeaking wet Pussy aside- His tongue darting out to taste you.
The sensation was electric—the roughness of his tongue against your hypersensitive skin sent a jolt through you that made your toes curl. You cried out, your fingers finding his hair, pulling him closer, desperate for the pleasure.
He was relentless.. a starved man.
He used his mouth and tongue with a calculated precision, slowly pressing his flat tongue against you, parting your folds as he licked up and down all the way from your enterance to your clit and back, nudging his nose against your clit while his tongue teasingly pushed into your pussy. He was finding every nerve ending, every hidden spark, until you were sobbing his name into the rafters.
"Hamza, please... I can't—".
Your moans echoed through the empty, dark building, it was a symphony of gasps and pleas, music to his ears.
He didn't just want to taste you. He wanted to devour you, show you just how weak you had made him.
Once he couldn't bare it anymore, he stood up abruptly, his eyes burning with a dark, triumphant fire.
He didn't give you a second to recover. He grabbed your waist, lifting you slightly so he could easily pull down your lace panties.
"You're so wet for me, it's going to be a sin.." he growled against your lips.
He guided his hard, throbbing cock to your entrance, the tip of him thick and scorching hot. Then, he pushed inside.
Fuck...
He paused there for a heartbeat, savoring the way you stretched around him, the sheer friction of the contact making both of you tremble.
"You want this?" he demanded, his voice a rough command. "Tell me you want your bodyguard to ruin you."
"Haan-," you gasped, your nails drawing blood on his shoulders. "Ruin me, Hamza. Do it now."
He lunged forward, a single, deep thrust that buried him inside your clenching, tight Pussy.
The sensation was overwhelming—a perfect, sliding fit made possible by the rain and your own desperate need. You let out a broken scream, your legs locking around his waist to pull him even deeper.
"Hamza- oh fuck-" "You're fine, Baby, you're taking it perfectly for me..good girl"
He praised you, resting again to let you get used to his size and thickness filling you up.
This time, it was you leaning in for a kiss, maybe to calm your nerves- your beating heart that was basically jumping out of your chest. He gave you the time you needed, but once you whispered a soft "..Move.." to him, he grabbed your thighs and snapped his hips against yours.
The friction was incredible—the wetness of the rain and your own arousal making every slide of his body feel like liquid fire.
He didn't pace himself. He couldn't. The months of standing guard, of watching you from the shadows with a stoic face while his blood boiled, exploded into a rhythm that was deep, hungry, pushing your limits. His cock twitched inside you, causing you to clench even more around him.
"You're a mess," he groaned into the crook of your neck, his teeth nipping at the sensitive cord of your throat. "Look at what you’ve done to me. I’m fucking drowning in you.."
His hands were shoved underneath your thighs, hooking them even wider and pulling you against him until there wasn't a whisper of air between your skin. Pounding inside you.
Every time he slammed forward, the motorcycle rocked on its kickstand, the metal groaning in protest, but you barely felt the cold steel. All you felt was him fucking you, hard, deep and with an intensity that made you see stars.
You were a wreck beneath him. Your hair was a wild, damp tangle across your face, your skin flushed a deep, bruised pink, and your voice had long since gone hoarse from crying out.
You reached back, your hands blindly grasping at the handlebars of the bike, your knuckles white as you used the machine to push back against him, your hips meeting his frantic energy with a desperation of your own.
"Harder, Hamza... don't you dare stop," you gasped, your eyes rolling back.
He let out a low, guttural roar, He was relentless, his muscles ripping under his skin as he drove you toward the edge. The sound of the rain hitting the tin roof above was a deafening, chaotic symphony, but it paled in comparison to the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin and the hitching, desperate sounds of your shared breath. You looked so lewd, so fucking desperate for him-
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his face a mask of pure, tortured ecstasy. He saw the way your lips were parted, the way your chest heaved, and the way your eyes were fixed on him with a terrifying devotion.
"I’m going to ruin you for anyone else," he hissed, his fingers digging into the leather seat beside your hips. "After tonight, you’ll never be able to look at me without remembering exactly how the shape of my cock fills you out perfectly.."
He hit a spot deep inside you that made your entire body go rigid. A white-hot spark ignited in your core, spreading outward until your nerves were screaming.
,,Yes!- Yes! Ahh!-"
His hands, massive and scarred, slid under your hips and shifted you with an easy, terrifying strength
. He turned you slightly sideways on the leather seat, forcing you to lean back against the heavy metal of the bike’s handlebars. He hiked one of your legs up high, draping it over his broad shoulder so that you were pinned open, completely vulnerable to the the raw hunger in his eyes.
"Hold on," he commanded, his voice a dark, jagged thread of sound.
You reached back, your fingers white-knuckled as you gripped the cold chrome of the bike's frame for leverage. The position was deep—agonizingly, fucking deep.
When he lunged back into your Pussy from this new angle, the breath was punched out of your lungs. It wasn't just a physical act anymore; it was an assault on your senses.
The vibration of his growls, the rhythmic creak of the motorcycle’s suspension, and the stinging cold of the rain spray hitting your heated skin created a sensory overload that pushed you to the brink.
"Hamza... please," you sobbed, your head thrashing against the seat, tears of pleasure forming in your eyes.
He was a man possessed. He watched every flinch of your muscles, every tremor of your thighs, his jaw locked so tight the bone looked ready to snap. He pounded into you with a relentless, driving force, his sweat mingling with the rainwater dripping from the roof until you were both slick, shimmering, and lost to the heat.
The tip-tip of the rain on the corrugated metal seemed to speed up, matching the frantic pace of his hips. You felt the pressure building in your lower stomach, a coiled spring of tension that was becoming unbearable. Every time he fucked his thick cock into your tight, needy Pussy, you felt how you got closer to cumming.
"Look at me," he rasped, his hand coming up to cup your jaw, forcing your clouded eyes to meet his. He wanted you to see the man who was breaking every vow he’d ever made. "Stay with me."
You wrapped your free arm around his neck, pulling him down until your sweat-slicked chests collided. The friction of the movement, the heat of his skin, and the sheer power of his finish finally sent you over the edge.
,,OH FUCK!- AAHH!-"
Your vision fractured into white light as your muscles clamped around him in a violent, rhythmic pulsing. You came, you came so fucking hard you forgot how to breathe for a second.
You screamed his name, the sound lost to a sudden, deafening crack of thunder that shook the very ground.
Hamza let out a low, primal roar of his own, The tightening of your Pussy around his cock enough to make him lose his mind. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as he pounded into you, slower, but much more harder and deeper, until he came. He fucked his cum into you-his entire frame shuddering as the last of his iron discipline was washed away by the storm.
For a long minute, he kept thrusting, as if he couldn't get enough of being inside you.
The only sound was the dying rumble of the thunder and the ragged, synchronized gasping of two people who had just crossed a point of no return..
Hamza remained buried in the crook of your neck for a long time, his heavy weight a grounding presence as your heart slowly returned to a normal rhythm.
When he finally pulled back, he didn’t immediately reach for his clothes. Instead, he stayed between your legs, his large hands lingering on your waist with a gentleness that felt entirely new—and entirely dangerous.
You looked up at him, your vision still slightly hazy. A wide, breathless smile spread across your face—a look of pure, unadulterated joy that felt strangely out of place in such a gritty setting. You reached up, your damp palms cupping his face, your thumbs tracing the hard line of his cheekbones.
"Hamza," you whispered, your voice bubbling with a sweet, naive excitement. "That was... I never felt so good before- i knew you were the one for me~."
His expression flickered—a flash of shadow passing over his dark eyes. "You shouldn't say things like that, Shona" he muttered, though he didn't pull away. He leaned into your touch almost unconsciously, like a man starved for affection. "The world we live in... it doesn't allow for me to be the one for you.."
"I don't care," you countered, your eyes bright and defiant. You leaned forward, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips—a stark contrast to the bruising hunger of moments ago. "I don't care what my father thinks. I don't care about the deals or the politics. I’m the daughter of Rehman Dakait, and if I want you, I’m going to have you. He can’t stop us. My Father always praises you, my Mother loves you! Hamza hes never going to say no to me..!"
Hamza felt a cold chill run down his spine that had nothing to do with the damp air. He looked at your face—so full of hope, so convinced that love could somehow shield you from the blood and iron of your father's world..and his hidden mission.
He knew his mission had just become an impossible knot. He wasn't just a spy anymore; he was a traitor to his mission- falling for the Daughter of one of his biggest Targets..how much she would hate him if she only knew..
He should have been cold. He should have told you this was a mistake. But as you tucked your head under his chin and sighed with a contented, sweet smile, his resolve crumbled.
He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest with a fierce, protective ache. He buried his face in your wet hair, inhaling the scent of rain and silk.
"You’re going to be the death of me," he murmured into your hair, his voice breaking with a sudden, devastating softness.
"Then at least you'll die happy," you teased, nipping at his shoulder.
He didn't laugh, but he tightened his grip, his eyes staring out into the dark, receding rain. He was in deep—far deeper than he ever intended—and as he looked at your joyful, trusting face, he knew he would burn the whole city down before he let anyone take this away from you..
THE END.
