#"arjun

Mumbai

Aradhya's heels clicked softly against the polished concrete floor as her friends hauled her through the nightclub's entrance, the humid night air of Mumbai clinging to her skin like a reluctant lover. The bass from inside throbbed faintly, a distant pulse that made her temples ache after a twelve-hour day buried in spreadsheets and client calls. She smoothed the hem of her cocktail mini dress, the fabric whispering against her thighs—sparkling in crimson red with its deep neckline that dipped just low enough to hint at the curve of her breasts beneath. 'Ara, seriously, it feels like you're heading to a board meeting, not a party, ease the stress', Priya teased, her sequined top catching the neon glow from the sign overhead. Aradhya managed a half-smile, her dark eyes scanning the line of eager faces ahead. 'I'm here, aren't I? That's victory enough.' "Go change your mood". "Fiinnneee"

Inside, the club enveloped them like a living beast—strobe lights slicing through the haze of dry ice, casting erratic shadows on sweat-slicked walls painted in deep crimson and electric blue. Bodies undulated in clusters, laughter and shouts blending into the relentless rhythm pouring from hidden speakers. Aradhya clutched her clutch tighter, weaving through the throng with Priya's arm looped through hers. The air smelled of perfume, spilled cocktails, and something sharper—anticipation. They claimed a spot near the bar, the cool marble counter a brief respite. 'Two cosmos, please,' Priya ordered, then turned to Aradhya with a grin. 'Loosen up. This is Arjun Rampal DJing tonight. The man just slayed as Major Iqbal in Dhurandhar. Box office gold!'

Aradhya nodded absently, stirring her drink with the tiny straw. She knew the film—the blockbuster that had India buzzing for months. And Rampal? The actor in his fifties, all brooding intensity, typecast as the villain who made your pulse race for all the wrong reasons. Ra.One's cold antagonist, Om Shanti Om's enigmatic schemer. Handsome, sure, in that weathered, commanding way, but not her vibe. She preferred her distractions uncomplicated, like the quiet efficiency of her finance world. 'He's talented,' she conceded, sipping the tart liquid that burned sweetly down her throat. 'But I'm not here for the show.'

The lights dipped lower, plunging the room into a velvet darkness broken only by flickering LEDs along the bar. A hush fell, then the announcer's voice crackled over the system, amplified and gravelly: 'Mumbai, are you ready to feel the fire? Straight from the sets of India's biggest hit, Dhurandhar, give it up for the legend himself—Arjun Rampal!' The eruption was immediate—screams piercing the air, phones hoisted high like offerings, flashes popping in a staccato rhythm that mimicked gunfire. Aradhya felt the vibration in her chest as Priya yanked her forward. 'Front row! Come on, Ara, don't be a buzzkill!'

She resisted for a heartbeat, her sensible side screaming to stay put, but the crowd's momentum carried her. Step by reluctant step, they pushed toward the stage, the press of warm bodies forcing her closer—strangers' elbows brushing her arms, the scent of cologne and excitement thick around her. The stage loomed, elevated and bathed in a spotlight that cut through the fog like a blade. And there he was: Arjun Rampal, stepping up with the grace of a panther, his tall frame—over six feet—clad in a black button-down shirt rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle from years of on-screen action. His hair, streaked with silver at the temples, was tousled just so, and his jawline, sharp and shadowed by a day's stubble, caught the light as he adjusted the headphones around his neck.

At fifty-something, he exuded a maturity that the younger crowd chased but couldn't touch—eyes dark and piercing, scanning the sea of faces with a mix of amusement and detachment. Aradhya found herself at the edge of the front row, the metal barrier cool under her palms. The music started slow, a low hum building like a storm on the horizon. His hands moved over the turntables—deliberate, precise—fingers tapping keys, sliders gliding with a rhythm that synced to the club's heartbeat. The bass dropped gradually, layer by layer, pulling the crowd in. People around her jumped, arms flailing, voices hoarse with adulation. 'Arjun! Arjun!' they chanted, cameras clicking endlessly.

But Aradhya stood still, her body swaying only faintly, a subtle shift of hips to the encroaching beat. She watched him work, the strobe lights painting his face in flashes—blue on his high cheekbones, red across his full lips curved in concentration. Not shouting, not snapping photos; just observing, her gin and tonic forgotten in her hand as the ice melted. It was mesmerizing, this shift from silver screen to live wire. The age difference hit her then—her twenties, poised and ambitious; his fifties, etched with stories she could only imagine. Yet there was no barrier in the way his presence filled the space, commanding without effort.

Minutes stretched, the set unfolding in languid waves. A particularly deep track rolled in, the subwoofers rumbling through her soles, up her legs, settling low in her belly. That's when his eyes found hers. Sweeping the front row amid the frenzy, they paused—locked. The world narrowed: the shouting faded to a dull roar, the lights blurred at the edges. Arjun's gaze held, intense, unblinking, as if he'd isolated her from the chaos. Aradhya's breath caught, her lips parting slightly. She wasn't cheering, wasn't frenzied; just there, a quiet smile blooming slow on her face, her body moving in a gentle undulation to the rhythm that now felt personal, intimate.

He saw it—the poise, the subtle allure in her dark eyes framed by long lashes, the way her dress clung to the swell of her hips as she shifted. Something flickered in his expression, a spark behind the cool facade. Aradhya felt it too, a warmth uncoiling in her core. For the first time, she truly saw him: not the villain, but the man—handsome in his seasoned vitality, the lines around his eyes speaking of depths, his broad shoulders rolling with each beat he coaxed from the decks. The eye contact lingered, heavy, charged, until he broke it with a slow nod, returning to his mix. But the air between them hummed, altered.

The set wound down eventually, the final drop eliciting a thunderous roar. Applause crashed like waves as Arjun removed his headphones, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. The spotlight followed him down the steps, through the parting crowd, to the VIP lounge—a roped-off enclave of plush leather booths and dim amber lighting. Aradhya exhaled, her friends buzzing around her like fireflies. 'That was insane! Did you see him look at us?' Priya gushed, fanning herself. 'Let's get a drink and maybe... approach? Autographs? Selfies?'

Aradhya hesitated, the intensity of that gaze still tingling on her skin. 'Priya, I'm not—' But the words died as her friend pulled her along again, toward the bar where Arjun had settled. He leaned against the counter, a glass of whiskey in hand, the golden liquid catching the low lights. A small group formed quickly—women in shimmering outfits, giggling and bold. 'Mr. Rampal, that was amazing!' one said, thrusting a napkin forward. 'Can I get your autograph? And a pic?'

He smiled, that signature smirk playing on his lips—charming, a touch guarded. 'Of course. What's your name?' His voice was deep, resonant, carrying over the residual hum of the music. He signed with a silver pen, his handwriting bold and looping, then posed for the selfie, arm extended for the camera. Another girl stepped up. 'I'm a huge fan from Ra.One. You were so intense!'

'Arjun, sign this for me?' He obliged, chatting lightly. 'Glad you enjoyed it. What's next for you tonight?' The interactions flowed, easy and practiced, but Aradhya hung back with her group, letting Priya take the lead. She observed from the periphery, her sharp eyes noting the way his shirt clung to his chest from the heat, the subtle flex of his biceps as he handed back the napkin.

Priya nudged her forward during a lull. 'Come on, Ara, say hi.' Aradhya stepped closer, the group's energy pulling her in. Arjun's eyes lifted, scanning the new faces, and landed on her again. Recognition dawned, slow and deliberate, that same intensity from the stage reigniting. The other girls chattered on, but he zeroed in. 'And you?' he asked, his tone warmer, directed solely at her. The question hung, expectant.

She met his gaze, her heart thudding a slow, heavy beat. 'Me?'

He nodded, swirling his whiskey, the ice clinking softly. 'Aur aapka naam?.'

A flush crept up her neck, but she held steady, her voice even. 'I am Aradhya.'

'Aradhya,' he repeated, tasting the name, his dark eyes tracing her face—the full lips, the elegant line of her neck. 'Hmmm. Aapko autograph nahi chahiye? Or are you above all that?'

She hesitated, glancing at Priya's encouraging nod, the group's expectant stares. The air between them thickened, the club's din fading. 'Ji... ummm...' Her fingers toyed with the edge of her glass, the cool condensation grounding her. Then, softly, 'Yes.'

His smirk deepened, a glint of understanding in his eyes—as if he'd peeled back her corporate armor and glimpsed the curiosity beneath. 'No trouble at all.' He took a fresh coaster from the bartender, pen poised. 'What do you do, Aradhya?'

'Finance,' she replied, watching his hand move—strong, steady strokes forming her name below his signature. 'Corporate world. Numbers, deals. Not exactly club material.'

He chuckled, low and rich, handing it over. Their fingers brushed—his warm, hers cooler—and the contact sparked, lingering as she pulled back slowly. 'Numbers can be thrilling. Risk, reward. Sounds like my kind of game.' His gaze dropped briefly to her lips, then back up. 'Selfie? For the group?'

Priya jumped in. 'Yes! Group shot!' The others crowded, phones out. Arjun shifted closer, his presence enveloping— the faint scent of his cologne, woody and spiced, mixing with the whiskey on his breath. For the photo, he draped an arm around Aradhya's waist, his hand settling firm on her hip, thumb grazing the fabric over her skin. She stiffened at first, then relaxed into it, the heat of his body seeping through, solid and unyielding. 'Smile,' he murmured near her ear, his voice a rumble that sent a shiver down her spine.

The flash went off, capturing the moment—the group's joy, but between them, something heavier. As they pulled apart, his hand trailed away reluctantly, fingertips skimming her side. 'Enjoy the night, Aradhya,' he said, eyes locking once more, promising more than words.

She nodded, pulse racing, the coaster warm in her palm.' The group dispersed, chattering excitedly, but Aradhya lingered a second, watching him turn back to his drink, the club's lights playing over his profile. The night, once obligatory, now pulsed with unspoken intensity—a slow burn igniting.

Aradhya's fingers tightened around the coaster, the ink still fresh and slightly damp under her thumb as she traced the loops of her name beside his bold signature. The club's ambient glow cast elongated shadows across the VIP bar, turning the amber liquid in Arjun's glass into molten gold that he lifted slowly to his lips. He took a measured sip, his Adam's apple shifting under the taut skin of his throat, eyes flicking back toward her for a fraction of a second—long enough to send a fresh ripple through her veins. She turned away then, pulled by Priya's insistent tug on her elbow, the sequins on her friend's top scraping lightly against Aradhya's arm like tiny sparks.

'Oh my god, Ara, did you feel that? His hand on you?' Priya's voice was a breathless whisper, her eyes wide and sparkling under the pulsing LEDs overhead. They wove back into the main floor, the crowd parting sluggishly around them, bodies still swaying to the residual beats from a substitute DJ who had taken over. The air grew thicker here, laced with the sharp tang of sweat and citrus from crushed limes in abandoned drinks. Aradhya nodded vaguely, her cheeks warming as she slipped the coaster into her clutch. 'It was just a photo, Priya. Don't read into it.'

But she did. Every step away from the bar felt like stretching a taut wire, the tension humming in her limbs. She glanced over her shoulder, catching a glimpse of Arjun amid the lingering admirers—his broad back to her now, shoulders rolling as he laughed at something a woman in a red halter dress said, her hand resting possessively on his forearm. The sight twisted something low in Aradhya's stomach, not jealousy exactly, but a sharp awareness of her own detachment, her dress suddenly feeling too fitted, too revealing in the humid press of strangers.

They found a high-top table near the edge of the dance floor, its surface sticky from spilled shots, surrounded by a cluster of Priya's acquaintances from work—three women in their late twenties, giggling over neon cocktails that glowed under blacklights. 'Sit, sit!' one called, sliding over a stool. Aradhya perched on the edge, crossing her legs, the hem of her sheath dress riding up just enough to expose a sliver of thigh. She ordered another drink—a simple gin on the rocks—to steady the flutter in her chest, the ice clinking as the bartender slid it across the scarred wood.

Priya leaned in close, her breath warm against Aradhya's ear over the thumping bass. 'You were totally flirting back there. The way he said your name? Like he wanted to devour it. And that touch—girl, his fingers lingered.' The group erupted in laughter, one friend fanning herself dramatically. 'Arjun Rampal? In his fifties and still hotter than half these boys here. What's his secret? Experience? That silver fox vibe?'

Aradhya sipped her gin, the cool bite grounding her as she watched the ice melt into fractals against the glass. 'He's... intense. But it's nothing. Just a celebrity thing.' Her voice came out steadier than she felt, but inside, the memory replayed: his thumb grazing her hip, the solid heat of his palm through the thin fabric, pressing just firm enough to imprint. She shifted on the stool, thighs pressing together against the unfamiliar ache building there.

The bass thrummed through the floor as Aradhya excused herself from Priya and the girls, murmuring something about freshening up. The bathroom corridor was a welcome relief from the pulsing chaos of the main floor—dimmer lights, cooler air, the muffled thump of music reduced to a heartbeat in the distance.

She pushed open the door to the women's restroom and leaned over the sink, meeting her own eyes in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed, lips still tingling from that moment at the bar when Arjun's gaze had locked onto hers like he could see straight through her. She splashed cold water on her face, patting it dry with a paper towel, adjusting the strap of her dress that had slipped slightly down her shoulder.

Get it together, Aradhya. He's a movie star. You're just a girl from the crowd.

She took a breath, smoothed her dress over her hips, and stepped back out into the corridor.

The collision happened in a heartbeat.

She rounded the corner just as he stepped out of the men's section—tall, solid, impossibly present—and their bodies met in a tangle of surprise. Her heel caught on nothing, momentum sending her backward, arms flailing—

And his hand shot out, catching her waist, pulling her flush against him.

Her breasts pressed flat against the hard plane of his chest. The heat of him radiated through her thin dress, through the silk of his shirt. Her hands landed instinctively on his shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric as she looked up—

Into those eyes. Dark, intense, burning under the dim hallway lights.

"Careful," he said, voice low, a rumble that she felt in her ribs.

"I—I'm sorry," she breathed, her heart slamming against her sternum. "I didn't see you there."

She tried to stand straight, to create distance, but his hand remained firm on her waist, fingers pressing into the curve of her hip. His head tilted slightly, a ghost of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

"Like the way you pretended not to see me before? During the autographs?"

Her eyes widened. "What? No—that's not what I meant to do—"

"It felt like that." His voice was calm, teasing, but his gaze was relentless.

"No, no, I'm really sorry." The words tumbled out, rushed, desperate to explain. "I just—I don't do this often. It was my first time taking an autograph. I didn't know what to say. I froze. I didn't mean to seem rude—"

"Oh, really?" He stepped closer.

She stepped back. One step. Two.

Her spine hit the wall.

His hand came up, palm flat against the surface beside her head, caging her in. The other hand settled on her waist again, thumb tracing a slow, deliberate circle over the fabric of her dress.

"I was just joking," he murmured, but his eyes said everything else.

His face was inches from hers now. She could smell him—something woody and warm, mixed with the faint trace of whiskey. Her breath hitched. Her lips parted, a soft, unconscious invitation.

"I..." she started.

"You..." he echoed, his gaze dropping to her mouth.

"Umm..."

He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, his voice dropping to a husk that sent a shiver straight down her spine.

"What are you trying to say, Aradhya?"

The way he said her name—slow, deliberate, like he was tasting every syllable—made her eyes roll back. Her chest heaved, breasts rising and falling against the straining fabric of her dress. He noticed. Of course he noticed. His gaze dragged down, lingering on the swell of her cleavage, the way her nipples had hardened beneath the thin material.

His fingers found the strap of her dress, tugging it down just an inch, teasing the curve of her shoulder. The touch was featherlight, maddening.

And then he leaned in.

His mouth pressed against her neck—wet, open, hungry. A low groan escaped his throat as his lips dragged across her skin, teeth grazing, tongue soothing. Her knees buckled. Her head fell back against the wall, a soft whimper escaping her lips.

He caught her easily, lifting her as if she weighed nothing, carrying her around the corner, past the edge of the building where the security lights faded into darkness.

Trees crowded the boundary—thick, unruly, creating a pocket of shadow hidden from the club's glow. He pushed her against the rough brick wall, harder now, the playfulness gone from his eyes replaced by something ravenous.

His mouth was on her neck again, trailing down to her collarbone, to the swell of her breasts. His hands roamed—over her hips, her thighs, her waist, gripping, claiming, leaving trails of fire wherever they touched.

"Arjun..." she moaned, her fingers threading through his salt-and-pepper hair.

He stopped.

Pulled back.

Looked directly into her eyes.

"What is it?" he asked, voice rough, breath uneven. His gaze searched hers, asking a question he wouldn't put into words.

Before she could answer, his eyes dropped to her lips. And he crashed into her.

The kiss was devastating. His mouth slanted over hers, demanding, consuming. His tongue swept against her lower lip, coaxing her open, plunging deep. She moaned into his mouth, her hands clutching at his shirt, pulling him closer, needing more.

His hand slid down her body, tracing the inside of her thigh, pushing her legs apart. His fingers found her through the thin fabric of her panties—damp, soaked, aching for him.

He groaned against her mouth.

"Fuck, Aradhya."

His lips abandoned hers, trailing down her throat, her chest, until his mouth closed over her nipple through the fabric of her dress. He bit down—just enough pressure to make her gasp—sucking hard, tongue circling the stiff peak. His other hand worked her other breast, pinching, rolling, tugging until she was arching into him, desperate.

His fingers slipped under her panties, finding her slick and swollen. He circled her clit slowly, deliberately, watching her face as she fell apart.

"Please—" she gasped.

He lifted her. Her legs wrapped around his waist, back pressed against the wall, and he pushed two fingers inside her in one smooth motion.

She screamed.

He caught it with his mouth, swallowing the sound, kissing her through the shock. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark, wild, fixed on hers as he added a third finger. Her eyes went wide, a sharp cry building in her throat—

He bit her lower lip, tugging, silencing her.

"Fuck, you're so tight," he growled.

He pumped his fingers slowly, then faster, curling them inside her, hitting that spot that made her see stars. Her nails dug into his shoulders, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

When he withdrew his fingers, she whimpered at the emptiness.

But then she felt it—the thick press of his cock against her entrance, the head pushing through her slick folds. He paused, looking at her.

"Ready?"

She nodded, barely able to speak.

He pushed inside her in one long, slow thrust.

"Oh god—" The words tore from her throat as he filled her completely, stretching her, claiming her.

His hand clamped over her mouth just as another scream threatened to escape. His hips drew back and slammed forward, setting a rhythm that was brutal and perfect. Her breasts bounced with every thrust, and he watched them, mesmerized, before leaning down to take one in his mouth again.

He fucked her against that wall like he was starving for her. His pace was relentless, his grip bruising, his groans muffled against her skin. She felt the coil building in her belly, tightening, spiraling—

"Ahhhh, Arjun"

His eyes dark, bore into her.

"Fuck" he moaned.

His pace increased, hitting that one spot again and again as she became high on ecstacy.

"Fuck, I am close" she begged him to keep thrusting in.

"Ahhhhhhhh" she screamed in his mouth as he kissed her to shush her.

Her orgasm shattered through her, a scream swallowed by his palm, her body clenching around him, pulling him deeper.

His own release followed moments later, a guttural moan against her neck as he spilled inside her, his hips stuttering, his grip on her waist tightening.

He lowered her slowly, her legs trembling, feet barely touching the ground. He rested his forehead against hers, breathing hard, eyes closed.

When he opened them, the intensity had softened into something warmer. He kissed her—soft, sweet, a stark contrast to everything that had just happened.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured against her lips.

She looked down, a flush creeping up her cheeks.

He tilted her chin up with his finger. "Go on a date with me tomorrow evening."

Her eyes widened. "Umm—"

"Dinner. Tomorrow. You and me." His thumb traced her jawline. "I want to get to know you."

"Um... okay. Yes." She smiled.

He smiled—a real smile, warm and boyish—and helped her straighten her dress, smoothing the straps back into place, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. He kissed her once more, lingering, before pulling away.

"I'll text you," he said, giving her his phone to add her phone number before disappearing around the corner.

Aradhya stood there, back against the wall, heart pounding, body aching, mind reeling.

What the fuck just happened.

"Aradhya!"

Priya's voice cut through the fog of noise. She scrambled to compose herself, smoothing her dress, patting her hair, walking toward the parking lot where her friends were waiting.

"There you are! Where were you?" Priya asked, eyes narrowing.

"Just the washroom." Aradhya's voice came out breathier than she intended.

"Are you okay? You look a little flushed."

"I'm fine. Yes. Totally fine."

She turned to glance back at the club entrance—

And there he was. Leaning against the doorway, phone in hand, a smirk spreading across his face as their eyes met.

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