Illicit Agreements (Akshaye Khanna & OC)
One shot (for now heheh <3)
WARNING: This story contained mature themes. Read at your discretion.
Shadows of night cloaked Mumbai, yet the city's pulse beat defiant beneath the haze. In a penthouse ablaze with Dhurandhar's haunting title track, the party swirled like a fever dream, glasses clinking, laughter fracturing the air. Amid this restless revelry, two silhouettes teetered on destiny's edge, their paths destined to twist into an unbreakable knot, hearts ensnared beyond escape.
Akshaye Khanna glided into his film's victory soiree, the screen numbers a whisper of the legend he'd always foreseen. Dhurandhar wasn't mere cinema; it carved eternities into the silver screen, and his quiet pride hummed like a hidden current.
His evening mapped simple, drift through the crowd, nurse a drink or two, vanish into the night.
Unravelled by nothing.
Until she emerged from the throng, a phantom in crimson sequins, the gown tracing her form like liquid fire, stirring shadows in a man's soul that words dared not name. Her champagne flute gleamed as she laughed, wild and unbound, a siren call slicing through the din. Akshaye's gaze tangled with hers across the haze, time bending, pulling him under.
The hours dissolved; home became a forgotten echo. He haunted the bar's edge, eyes tracing her sway on the dance floor, where lights danced like secrets fleeing revelation.
Then, chaos in human form, Arjun Rampal, his unlikely ally forged in recent script skirmishes, stumbled close, whiskey breath warm with mischief. "Akshayeeee mere bhai!!!"
"Why do I not see a drink in your hand?" Arjun asked as he took a sip of his whiskey.
"I have to drive back soon, so I'm limiting my intake," Akshaye replied, his eyes still on the woman in the red dress.
Even through the whiskey haze, Arjun's eyes followed. A chuckle escaped. "That is Ayra. Advocate Ayra Sardesai. Brilliant woman and an even brilliant lawyer."
That had Akshaye's attention. "You know her?"
"Know her? I invited her. Well, me, Ranveer, Danish, Aditya, Yami and Maddy."
Akshaye's brows furrowed as he saw her whispering something in Danish's ears, both giggling. "You all know her?"
"Yeah, we have been friends for the past twelve years. Although her connection with the others is unknown to me." Arjun replied as he excused himself to fill up his glass.
"Huhh? So, everybody knows her except me, I suppose." He muttered to himself,
As the night went on, the music amped up. Akshaye turned to the bartender for champagne when her voice startled him.
"It's rude to stare Mr Khanna."
A smile popped on his face. He had a hunch as to who it was. "My apologies."
"If you wanted to talk, just.....approach," she said, taking a sip of her newly refilled drink.
"And how does one approach a gorgeous woman such as you?" he asked.
"Shouldn't the charming Akshaye Khanna already know about it?"
"I don't remember ever meeting someone like you, Ms Sardesai."
"We have done our homework, I see."
He shook his head, chuckling. "Arjun told me briefly about you, well as briefly as he could given his state." They both turned their heads, only to see him being assisted by Ranveer to a nearby couch. They let out a sigh.
"Congratulations on the success of the film Mr Khanna." Ayra said, sipping her drink, slowly.
"Thank you and please, call me Akshaye."
They stood side by side at the bar now, the space between them shrinking without either acknowledging it. The music softened momentarily, replaced by laughter and clinking glasses, yet there was a strange quiet where they stood, as if the rest of the party had learned better than to intrude.
"So," Ayra said, swirling the champagne in her glass, "is this the part where you tell me how overwhelming fame has become?"
Akshaye smiled, slow and deliberate. "Only if this is the part where you pretend you're impressed."
She tilted her head, studying him openly now. "I don't pretend."
"That sounds dangerous."
"It usually is," she replied, eyes glinting.
He took a sip from his glass, then looked at her properly, no longer making an effort to be discreet. "You don't seem like someone who enjoys parties like this."
"And yet here I am," she said. "You don't strike me as someone who enjoys them either."
"Touché."
Their shoulders brushed, accidental in theory, intentional in practice. Neither moved away.
"Advocate Sardesai," he said lightly, "what brings you to a room full of people who enjoy pretending they're more important than they are?"
"Observation," she answered without missing a beat. "People are far more honest when they think they're untouchable."
"And what have you observed about me?"
She turned toward him fully now. "That you're far more aware of me than you'd like to admit."
He laughed under his breath. "That obvious?"
"You stopped pretending ten minutes ago."
"Well," he said, leaning in slightly, "you walked over and accused me of staring. Hard to recover from that."
Her gaze flicked briefly to his lips, then back to his eyes. "You could always make up for it."
"Oh?" His voice dropped a notch. "How would you suggest I do that?"
She stepped closer, close enough that he could catch the faint trace of her perfume, something warm and unsettling. "By staring properly," she said. "Not like a man afraid of what he wants."
That did it.
Any pretence of restraint slipped away. Akshaye's eyes lingered openly now, unhurried, unapologetic. When he looked back at her face, there was no attempt to soften the honesty in his expression.
"You're trouble," he said.
Ayra smiled, slow and knowing. "You say that like it's a revelation."
"I usually avoid trouble."
"And yet," she said, gesturing between them, "you haven't moved."
"Neither have you."
"Maybe," she murmured, "I like men who don't look away."
"Maybe," he replied, stepping closer still, "I like women who notice."
The air between them thickened, charged with something neither bothered to name. The music swelled again, but it hardly mattered.
She leaned in just enough to be heard over it. "Careful, Akshaye. This is the part where subtlety dies."
His smile was unrestrained now. "I was wondering when you'd let it."
She raised her glass in a mock toast. "To honesty, then."
He clinked his glass against hers. "And to not pretending we're immune."
They drank, eyes locked, the flirtation no longer coy, no longer cautious, but fully, deliberately alive.
The party's haze pressed closer, bodies orbiting like distant stars, oblivious to the gravity pulling these two inward. Ayra set her glass down first, the faint clink a signal, her fingers lingering on the stem as if reluctant to break the spell.
"You know," she said, voice dropping to that intimate lilt, "Arjun warned me about you. Said you're the quiet type who surprises everyone."
Akshaye arched a brow, amusement flickering. "And what did you say back?"
"Told him I've handled worse surprises." She shrugged, but her eyes held his, daring.
He leaned against the bar, the wood cool under his elbow, mirroring her ease. "Worse than a guy who can't stop staring?"
"Worse than admitting you like what you see." Her laugh was soft, conspiratorial, cutting through the bass thrum.
A shadow crossed the bar, Danish weaving by with a nod, but Ayra waved him off with a grin, reclaiming the bubble they'd carved. Akshaye felt the shift, the night tilting toward something irrevocable.
"Alright, trouble," he said, setting his own glass aside. "Dance floor's calling. Or are you all talk?"
She glanced at the swirling crowd, then back, challenge lighting her features. "Only if you promise not to step on my toes, film star."
"No promises." He offered his hand, palm up, the gesture simple yet loaded.
The music shifted, the bass deepening, the lights dimming into something warmer, slower, dangerous.
Ayra set her glass down first.
Akshaye noticed immediately.
"Running away?" he asked.
She smiled over her shoulder. "Following my instincts."
She stepped onto the dance floor without waiting for him. That alone felt like a challenge.
He followed.
At first, there was distance, deliberate and teasing. She moved with ease, unbothered, her body attuned to the rhythm rather than to him. Akshaye watched, amused, intrigued, resisting the urge to close the space too quickly.
"You always observe before participating?" she asked, turning toward him mid-beat.
"I like to know what I'm walking into."
"That sounds like fear," she replied smoothly.
"It sounds like strategy."
She laughed, low and brief. "Men like you always think restraint makes you superior."
"And women like you assume provocation equals power."
She stepped closer, just enough for the argument to shift from playful to personal. "It does, when it works."
His hand hovered near her waist, not touching, a question rather than a claim. "And when it doesn't?"
"Then," she said, eyes lifting to meet his, "it exposes weakness."
He placed his hand on her waist then, firm, unapologetic. "Careful. You're assuming I'm the one being tested."
Her breath hitched, barely, but she recovered fast. "Are you saying you're immune?"
"No," he said honestly, pulling her closer so the space between them vanished, "I'm saying I know exactly what you're doing."
"And yet," she murmured, resting her hand against his chest, fingers splayed over a steady heartbeat, "you're still here."
"Because you're interesting," he replied. "Not just distracting."
"Most men stop at distracting."
"I'm not most men."
The music surged, their bodies moving together now, no longer circling, no longer cautious. Her back brushed his chest as she turned, his hand settling at her hip with unmistakable intent. Words softened, voices dropped.
"This," she said quietly, "is exactly why I avoid actors."
"And what is....this?" he asked.
"Cockiness."
"And this," he replied near her ear, "is why I don't chase lawyers."
"And what is....this?" she asked this time.
"Stubborness."
She laughed, breath warm against his jaw. "Liar."
"Selective truth," he corrected.
She turned in his arms, faces inches apart now, the flirtation no longer disguised as banter. "Tell me something honest, Akshaye."
He didn't hesitate. "I haven't listened to the music once since you walked in."
Her gaze lingered on his mouth. "Good," she said. "Because neither have I."
For a moment, the world narrowed to movement, breath, the dangerous pleasure of two sharp minds refusing to yield.
This was no longer subtle.
And neither of them wanted it to be.
The rhythm coiled tighter, Mumbai's nocturnal hum fading to a distant pulse as their orbit collapsed. Ayra's fingers traced the line of his jaw, deliberate, igniting embers long banked. Akshaye's hand slid upward, threading into her hair, tilting her face to his with a hunger that brooked no denial.
Their lips met, not tentative, but a collision of wills, fierce and consuming, tongues entwining in a duel as old as desire itself.
She pressed into him, her body yielding and commanding in equal measure, nails grazing his neck as the kiss deepened, raw and unrelenting. Heat bloomed where they touched, her curves moulding to his frame, his thigh slipping between hers amid the sway, friction sparking like live wire beneath silk and sequins. Breath mingled in gasps, the air thick with the musk of arousal, her perfume now laced with the primal scent of want.
He broke away first, only to claim her throat, lips and teeth mapping the vulnerable hollows, drawing a shuddering moan that vibrated against his mouth. "Akshaye," she whispered, half-protest, half-invitation, her hands fisting his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer.
No words sufficed, their bodies spoke in urgent cadence, his palms roaming the elegant arch of her back, hers unravelling his restraint with deft urgency. The dance floor blurred into irrelevance, shadows enveloping them as passion surged unbound, a tempest of flesh and fire where sophistication dissolved into exquisite surrender.
The kiss lingered, evolving from frenzy to a smouldering anchor, their foreheads pressed together amid ragged breaths. Ayra's fingers loosened in his shirt, tracing idle patterns on his chest, while Akshaye's hand cupped her nape, thumb stroking the pulse leaping there. The party's clamour seeped back, a rude intruder, but neither stirred, cocooned in the afterglow's haze, where vulnerability gleamed like polished obsidian.
"You," she murmured against his skin, voice husky, "are more trouble than Arjun let on."
He chuckled low, lips brushing her temple. "And you're a verdict I didn't see coming."
She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, that lawyer's glint resurfacing amid the flush. "Verdict's pending. Jury's... intrigued."
"High praise." His hand slid to hers, interlacing fingers with quiet possession. "This party's suffocating. Walk with me?"
Ayra glanced at the swirling crowd, friends lost in revelry, then nodded, a secretive smile curving her lips. "Lead the way, film star. But no disappearing acts."
They slipped through the throng like smoke, his arm low on her waist, guiding her past oblivious faces. The penthouse terrace beckoned beyond glass doors, Mumbai's skyline a jagged silhouette under the moon's indifferent gaze. Cool night air rushed in as they emerged, the door clicking shut behind them, muffling the bass to a distant throb.
She leaned against the railing, crimson gown catching starlight, exhaling as if shedding the night's weight. Akshaye flanked her, close enough for warmth to bridge the breeze. Below, the city sprawled endless, neon veins pulsing with secrets, mirroring the enigma unfolding between them.
"Truth?" he said, gaze tracing her profile. "I planned to leave hours ago. Alone."
"And now?" She turned, elbow brushing his ribs.
"Now?" His fingers ghosted her arm, reigniting embers. "Staying feels inevitable."
Ayra stepped into him, hands framing his face, pulling him into another kiss, slower this time, exploratory, laced with the promise of uncharted depths. Tongues danced languidly, bodies aligning with instinctive grace, her sigh lost in his mouth as his hands roamed the satin curve of her hips. Heat reignited, urgent yet unhurried, the terrace railing digging into her back as he pressed forward, thigh nudging hers apart once more.
She broke free with a gasp, eyes dark pools. "Here? With half of Bollywood inside?"
"Let them wonder." His voice was gravel, lips trailing her collarbone, teeth grazing just enough to elicit a shiver.
Her laugh was breathy, fingers tangling in his hair. "Reckless."
"With you? Worth it."
Passion flared anew, raw, consuming, her leg hooking his hip, his palm sliding beneath the gown's hem to caress silken thigh. They moved as one, a symphony of hushed moans and seeking touches, the city's restless hum their only witness. Restraint frayed, her nails raked his shoulders, his mouth devouring hers with possessive fervour, bodies grinding in exquisite torment until release hovered, tantalizingly close.
A distant cheer from inside pierced the veil, reality intruding. Ayra stilled, forehead to his, both breathing fire. "Not here," she whispered, reluctant command. "Not like this."
Akshaye nodded, composure cracking into a grin. "Your place or mine?"
"Mine," she decided, eyes gleaming with wicked intent. "Closer. And private."
************
Hand in hand, they melted into Mumbai's velvet night, the city a conspirator in their haste, taxis blurring past, streetlights casting fleeting halos on stolen glances. Ayra's apartment loomed in Bandra's shadowed embrace, a sleek haven perched above the chaos, doors yielding to their urgency like a lover's sigh.
No sooner had the lock clicked than clothes became casualties, her crimson gown pooling at her feet in a whisper of sequins, his shirt wrenched free, buttons scattering like forgotten stars.
Naked now, save for the raw hunger glazing their skin, they collided against the hallway wall, bodies slamming with primal force, her legs wrapping his waist in vice-like need. Akshaye's mouth ravaged hers, tongues warring in slick, savage thrusts, while his hands gripped her ass, kneading the firm flesh, spreading her wide as he ground his rigid cock against her dripping core. She moaned into him, feral and unashamed, nails carving crimson trails down his back, urging him deeper into the frenzy.
"Fuck, baby," he growled against her throat, teeth sinking into the pulse there, sucking hard enough to bruise. "You're soaked for me."
"Shut up and take me," she hissed, voice a blade of lust, one hand holding on to his shoulders, the other guiding his throbbing length to her entrance. No preamble, no mercy, he surged inside her in one brutal stroke, burying to the hilt in her tight, velvet heat. She cried out, walls clenching around him like a fist, hips bucking to meet the invasion, every inch of him stretching her to exquisite ruin.
He pinned her harder, pounding relentlessly, the wet slap of flesh echoing through the dim corridor, raw, animalistic rhythm building as sweat slicked their joined forms. Her breasts bounced with each savage thrust, nipples peaking and begging. He latched onto one, sucking greedily, tongue lashing the sensitive bud while his fingers dug into her thigh, angling her for deeper penetration. Pleasure coiled viciously in her core, coiling tighter with every grind against that hidden ridge inside her.
"Harder," she demanded, legs trembling, heels digging into his ass to pull him impossibly closer. "Ruin me, Akshaye."
He obliged, flipping her mid-thrust to face the wall, one hand bracing her palms above her head, the other snaking between her thighs to circle her swollen clit with ruthless precision. His cock plunged anew, ferociously, balls slapping her ass as he fucked her like a man possessed, grunts mingling with her keening gasps, the air thick with the musk of their debauchery. She shattered first, orgasm ripping through her in convulsive waves, cunt spasming around him, milking him with greedy pulses as she screamed his name, body arching in ecstatic surrender.
He followed seconds later, burying deep with a guttural roar, hot seed erupting in thick spurts, flooding her depths as tremors wracked him. They slumped together, panting, slick and spent, his forehead to her shoulder, lips trailing lazy kisses over bite-marked skin.
But satiation was fleeting.
Desire reignited like embers fanned to inferno. He scooped her up, carrying her to the bed, sheets cool against fevered flesh, where she shoved him down, straddling his hips with predatory grace. Her mouth descended, lips wrapping his still-hard cock, sucking with voracious hunger, tongue swirling the salty remnants of their union while her fingers teased his balls, rolling them with wicked intent. He groaned, hips jerking, fisting the sheets as she deep-throated him, gagging softly yet unrelenting, eyes locked on his in triumphant filth.
"Your turn," he rasped, hauling her up to straddle his face. Tongues delved into her soaked folds, lapping voraciously at her essence, her clit sucked between lips, teeth grazing just enough to spark lightning, until she ground against him, chasing another crest, thighs quaking around his head. They crested together again, her juices flooding his mouth as he spilt down her throat in the next breath, a symphony of muffled cries and shuddering release.
**********
Dawn's first blush filtered through half-drawn blinds, painting Ayra's bedroom in soft golds and muted greys, Mumbai stirring beyond the windows with its eternal, restless hum. Sheets tangled like lovers' promises around their naked forms, bodies still radiating the night's residual heat. Akshaye stirred first, eyes tracing the elegant sprawl of her beside him, dark hair fanned across the pillow, lips parted in sleep, faint bruises blooming like secret signatures along her throat and collarbone.
He shifted closer, propped on an elbow, unable to resist the temptation of her skin, smooth, marked by their fervor, a map of surrender. His fingers ghosted her hip, light as memory, stirring her awake.
Ayra's lashes fluttered, then parted, those sharp eyes meeting his with a languid smile that held no regrets, only sated mischief.
"Morning,filmstar," she murmured, voice husky from cries long faded, stretching like a cat in sunlight, arching into his touch without shame.
Akshaye's grin was slow, possessive. "Morning Trouble. You look well-ravaged. My doing?"
She laughed softly, rolling toward him, one leg draping his thigh in casual intimacy. "Guilty as charged. Coffee or replay?"
"Tempting." His hand slid up her back, pulling her flush against him, morning arousal evident in the hardening press between them. Their lips met leisurely, tongues lazy, exploratory, rekindling embers without urgency, her nails grazing his chest in teasing trails.
Yet she eased back, propping her chin on his shoulder, gaze turning thoughtful amid the warmth. "Last night was... reckless. Arjun's going to gloat for weeks."
"Let him." He brushed a lock from her face, thumb lingering on her lower lip. "Worth every headline."
Ayra's expression flickered, lawyer's caution surfacing through the haze. "Headlines? This stays between us. My world's not scripted."
"Fair." He nodded, respect threading the desire. "No scripts. Just this."
She studied him a beat longer, then closed the gap, sealing it with a deeper kiss, passion simmering, not boiling, hands roaming rediscovered terrain. They lingered thus, bodies entwining in unhurried exploration, his mouth charting the valley between her breasts, her fingers coaxing his length to full, throbbing life. She mounted him slowly, sinking down with a shared gasp, hips rolling in sensual cadence, intimate, profound, the morning light gilding their union in reverent glow.
Climax built like a tide, cresting in synchronized shudders, her name a reverence on his lips, his a mantra on hers. Afterward, they lay spent, limbs interlaced, breaths syncing to the city's distant pulse, vulnerability exposed, connection forged beyond the night's raunchy blaze.
"Breakfast?" she whispered finally, tracing his jaw.
************
Two days had slipped by since the party's fevered haze, champagne flutes clinking like conspirators, sequins scattering under urgent hands, reckless confessions traded in the dark, and intimacy that burned hot, fierce, and free of tomorrow's chains.
Mumbai thrummed on, indifferent, its relentless pulse mirroring the quiet ache Ayra carried beneath her tailored blazer, a secret bruise blooming where Akshaye's teeth had marked her skin.
She strode halfway down the law firm's polished corridor, briefcase swinging lightly under one arm, heels clicking authority against marble, when her phone vibrated, a sharp, insistent buzz slicing through the hum of distant printers and murmured consultations.
Unknown number.
She thumbed it open without breaking stride, voice crisp as a courtroom objection.
"Yes?"
A pause lingered on the line, not hesitant, but weighted, deliberate, like a director framing his next shot. Then, that voice, low and amused, uncoiled through the speaker.
"You always sound like you're interrogating someone."
Ayra halted mid-step, the world narrowing to that timbre she hadn't shaken. A slow, inevitable smile curved her lips, heat flickering low in her belly. "And you sound like someone who shouldn't have my number."
A soft chuckle rippled back, relaxed, unguarded, the sound of a man sprawled in morning light somewhere luxurious, sheets still rumpled, entirely at ease with the distance he'd just breached. "That was going to be my opener."
She resumed her pace, slipping into her corner office and nudging the door shut with her hip, sealing out the firm's sterile buzz.
The space gleamed minimalist, glass desk, leather chair, floor-to-ceiling windows framing Mumbai's sprawl like a living judgment. She dropped into her seat, briefcase thudding softly beside her. "So tell me, Mr. Khanna. Where'd you get it?"
"Begged for it." His tone dipped playful, unrepentant.
She arched a brow at the empty air. "You don't strike me as the begging type."
"Desperate times call for desperate measures Trouble." A rustle filtered through, pages turning, perhaps a script in hand. "Arjun held out like a vault. Made me swear I wouldn't be an idiot."
"And yet," she drawled, flipping open a case file she wasn't reading, eyes drifting instead to the city skyline igniting in gold, "here we are."
"Worth it," he fired back, instant and sure.
Ayra leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, the silk of her blouse whispering against skin still sensitized from memory. "So, what's this call, Akshaye? Courtesy ping? Morning-after regrets? Nostalgia after forty-eight hours?"
"Nostalgia that quick would be tragic." Another shift, fabric on leather, him settling deeper. "I was reading."
"Ah." Her laugh was dry, teasing. "This is where you pretend to be profound."
"Careful," he warned, velvet over steel. "I've got a proposal."
That snared her fully, pen pausing mid-tap. She straightened, pulse quickening like the first gavel fall. "As long as it's not marriage, proceed."
He laughed outright now, rich and unguarded, the sound curling through her like smoke. "God, no. I don't do marriages."
"Good," she replied evenly, gaze steady on her reflection in the glass, poised, unflinching. "Neither do I."
Silence bloomed, electric, appraising, not awkward, but alive with mutual reconnaissance. He broke it first, voice dropping measured, deliberate. "I don't do relationships either. No expectations. No future blueprints. No families, no kids, no compromising over burnt toast."
Ayra's eyes flicked to her wall of framed degrees, testaments to battles won solo, then beyond to the Arabian Sea's distant glitter. "You're naming every reason I sleep like the dead."
"Perfect," he murmured, satisfaction threading the word. "We're synced."
"On what?"
"A pact." His pitch sharpened, clear as contract ink. "An arrangement. Clean lines. No strings, no claims. We collide when the hunger hits. We vanish when it fades. No autopsies, no alibis."
She drummed her pen once, twice, considering, though the verdict was etched since his voice registered, a done deal sealed in sequined afterglow. "And if one of us fractures the code?"
"We won't." Simple. Absolute. "That's the beauty."
Her smile sharpened, predatory. "Cocky."
"Honest."
"It's a dangerous brew."
"Proved its worth two nights back."
She laughed low, rising to pace the office's length, phone pressed to her ear like a lifeline, heels sinking into plush carpet. "You know this is a spectacularly bad idea."
"I'm betting on the spectacle."
Pause again, charged as foreplay. Mumbai's haze thickened outside, mirroring the pull coiling in her veins.
"Fine," she conceded, voice cool fire. "No claims. No collars. No illusions of forever."
"Deal." Relief edged his tone, warm. "I don't want illusions with you. Just truth."
Her grip tightened on the phone, knuckles paling. "Then what do you crave?"
"You." Unhesitating. Raw. "Tonight. My place, yours, hell, a hotel if you want neutral turf."
She drifted to the window, palm pressing cool glass, city lights winking conspiratorial below. "Fast mover."
"You rode the speed last time."
Smile slow, lethal. "Text me the address."
Triumph laced his reply, a grin audible. "Knew you'd bite."
The line went dead. Ayra lingered, phone throbbing warm against her palm, fully conscious this was no romance, no folly, no fragile hope. Pure agency, hers, his, theirs, raw and intoxicating as contraband wine, promising collisions that would scar deliciously deep.
