#rizwan

You loved your husband. 

You really did.

But you loved your kitchen more.

So you weren't to be blamed when you stopped dead in your tracks like a deer caught in the headlights. 

There, in the heart of your sanctuary, was Rizwan. 

He was languidly strolling around the island, a mountain of a man looking entirely out of place among the delicate spice jars. He wore nothing but his low-slung sweatpants and your favorite floral apron, which looked comedically small against his frame. 

The strings were strained to their limit across his back. He was built like a truck, all corded muscle and raw power, now domesticating himself for your sake.

You stood in the doorway, groggily rubbing at your eyes, the crust of a restless sleep still clinging to your lashes. You had spent the entire night curled on the sofa, waiting for the heavy thrum of his car or the distinctive click of his boots on the hardwood but the dawn had come before he did. 

He hadn't managed to make it home yesterday, swallowed once more by the concrete labyrinth of Lyari. These days, the shadows under his eyes were heavy, like bruises of the soul and his gaze often held a distant, hollowed-out quality that made your chest ache.

You were intimately aware of the sort of man you had married, a man whose hands were as capable of crushing bone as they were of cradling your face. 

Rizwan lived in a world of jagged edges and blood debts. It always made your heart clench when he finally returned, his clothes speckled with dark iron, his shoulders set with an ancient, rigid weariness. His beard and hair, usually so meticulously kept, would be in disarray, beckoning for your fingers to soothe away the violence of his day.

Despite the carnage he navigated, Rizwan carried a quiet, simmering guilt for his absence. He never articulated it, men like him didn't deal in apologies but he showed it through a relentless, almost desperate need for proximity. 

Whenever he was within the four walls of your home, he became a giant, prowling bear, shadowing your every move. If you were in the kitchen, he was leaning against the counter, if you were in the garden, he was watching from the porch. 

He didn't just want to be with you, needed to be of you, as if your presence was the only thing keeping him tethered to his humanity.

If you were trying to fold laundry, he won't be far behind. He would come up behind you, his large, scarred hands sliding around your waist to pull you flush against the hard heat of his chest. He would simply bury his face in the crook of your neck, his rough beard grazing your skin as he inhaled your scent like a man drowning and finding oxygen. He would stay there for a few minutes, his weight grounding you, his silence speaking volumes of the horrors he had seen.

Then there were the nights, where he would return after a particularly brutal week, his jaw squared and eyes bloodshot. You would find yourself sitting on the edge of the bed, and without a word, he would drop to his knees between your thighs, resting his heavy head against your chest. 

He would never ask for words of comfort, but as would run your fingers through his tangled hair, you always felt the tension slowly bleed out of his massive frame. He listened to the steady rhythm of your heart as if it were a prayer, his hands gripping your hips with a possessive strength that whispered, don't let me go back out there yet.

Even during the rare moments of normalcy, his touch was an anchor. You recalled a morning when you were focused on a book, and he had practically hauled you into his lap while he sat at the dining table. 

He had rested his chin on your shoulder, his heavy arms wrapping around you like iron bands, occasionally pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your temple. He moved with a territorial grace, ensuring that some part of him was always in contact with some part of you, marking you as his sanctuary in a world that demanded he be a soldier.

Now, as he stood in the kitchen, the sight of him in that apron was enough to break the somber spell of your thoughts. You couldn't help but marvel at the sheer masculinity he projected even in such a setting. 

He looked like a god descended into a mortal's pantry. 

His biceps, thick and corded like heavy rope, flexed with every movement of the wooden spoon and the expanse of his back was a landscape of shifting muscle and old scars that told stories of a life lived in the shadows of Lyari.

Yet, as much as your husband looked like a divine vision, a cold prickle of apprehension washed over you. In the two years of your marriage, you had seen him handle intricate weaponry with the grace of a surgeon and navigate the lethal politics of the mafia with chilling efficiency but you couldn't actually recall ever seeing him set foot in the kitchen for anything more than a glass of water. 

The thought of your pristine sanctuary ending up as a charred ruin was a very real concern. You watched his massive hands, which were more accustomed to the grip of a pistol than the handle of a pot and had alarm bells ringing.

Rizwan seemed to feel the weight of your stare. He looked up, his dark eyes softening the moment they landed on you. The far away, haunted look he often carried back from the streets of Karachi vanished completely, replaced by a warmth that was reserved solely for you. 

"Uth gayi aap, shehzaadi?" he asked, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. 

Even though he said this teasingly, there was a heavy undercurrent of guilt in his tone, a silent apology for the nights he spent away and the blood that often stained his path back to you.

As he placed a heavy pot on the stove with a definitive thud, you made your way toward him, drawn into his gravitational pull like a moth to a flame. You reached out, pulling him into a tight hug, your chest resting against the hard, expansive plane of his own. The dusting of dark hair on his chest tickled your cheeks slightly and the scent of him wrapped around you like a familiar blanket. It was the scent of safety, of home, and of a man who would burn the world to keep you warm.

His massive arm went around your waist instantly, his palm a scorching brand against the small of your back as he pulled you flush against him. You looked up, tilting your head back to meet his gaze and placed a soft, lingering kiss on his squared chin. The stubble grazed your lips, a rugged reminder of the night he'd spent awake. 

"Subha subha hi kaam par lag gaye, aaram pharmao aaj toh," you murmured, your voice thick with a deceptive sweetness. You decided to use this tactic because you didn't have the heart to tell your husband that you didn't exactly trust his culinary skills. You were trying to save your kitchen under the guise of concern for his rest.

Rizwan's lips quirked into a rare, genuine smile that reached his eyes, crinkling the corners. 

"Aaj tum aaram pharmao," he countered, his voice dropping into that velvety, possessive register. "Mien kaha kabhi madad karta hu tumhari. Tum baitho, aaj nashta mien bnauga." 

He spoke with a quiet authority but it was laced with a desperate need to provide for you, to be more than just the second in command to a mafia king.

You arched a skeptical brow, your hands sliding up to rest on his broad shoulders. "Tumhe khana banana atta hai?" you challenged, a playful smirk dancing on your lips. 

Rizwan let out a dark, rich chuckle that rumbled through his chest and into yours. "Begum jaan, tumhare aane se pehle mien khud hi khana banata tha," he said, leaning down to nudge his nose against yours. The contrast between his lethal reputation and this tender moment was a dizzying intoxication you never grew tired of.

You couldn't help but let out a soft giggle, the sound bright in the quiet morning air. "Sadi gali sabji ko khana nahi kehte, Rizwan!" you teased, thinking of the utilitarian, probably tasteless meals a bachelor in his position would have survived on. 

"Tumne mere haath ka khana kabhi khaya hai?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave. When you shook your head with a grin, he simply tapped your chin. "Toh phir? Sabar karo. Aaj tumhara shohar apni mallika ki khidmat karega."

He turned back to the counter to start prepping again, his movements surprisingly methodical for a man of his size. He had decided on daal and rice, simple, comforting, and apparently his specialty.

You didn't retreat to the dining table as instructed. You hovered about. You followed him around the kitchen like a silent shadow, pretending to look for a cloth or a glass but really, you were discreetly adjusting the flame, nudging the salt cellar closer to his hand and ensuring the lentils were properly rinsed. 

You were a guardian of your domain, unwilling to let his earnest efforts go to waste or result in a soggy mess. Every time he reached for a knife, you were there to ensure it was the right one. Every time he went to add water, you subtly checked the measurements. 

You were trying to be invisible but Rizwan was a man trained to notice every shift in the air, every footfall in the dark. He let you continue your discreet monitoring for a few minutes, his jaw set in a silent smirk as he felt your presence dancing around him.

Eventually, the farce reached its limit. As you reached past him to subtly turn down the heat on the simmering pot, his hand shot out like a strike from a predator. His fingers wrapped around your wrist and he pulled you into his space. 

You let out a small yelp of surprise that quickly dissolved into a giggle as he hoisted you into the air. With one effortless movement, he placed you onto the kitchen counter, your legs dangling and your heart hammering against your ribs.

"Maine kya kaha tha?" he rasped, stepping between your knees so that your thighs were forced to cradle his waist. He leaned in, his face inches from yours, his presence an immovable wall of heat and authority. The apron strings strained across his back as he boxed you in with his arms, his hands resting on the marble on either side of your hips. 

"Hilna matt yaha se," he commanded, his dark eyes locking onto yours.

You could only nod, your fingers curling into the edge of the marble, as he turned back to the stove without breaking the physical contact of his body against your knees.

You observed him quietly for a while, your chin resting in your palm. From this vantage point, the transformation was mesmerizing. The man who had likely spent the last forty eight hours deciding the fates of men in the back alleys of Lyari was now focused entirely on the tempering of spices. The harsh morning sun hit the side of his face, highlighting the sharp, aristocratic bridge of his nose and the dense, dark thicket of his beard.

You sat perched on the island, dangling your legs. The oversized jersey of his that you had claimed as your own felt soft against your skin but as you leaned forward to reach for the salt shaker near the stovetop, the hem hiked up dangerously high. The fabric bunched at your hips, inadvertently putting the delicate pink lace of your panties on full display against the pale skin of your inner thighs. You weren't trying to be a distraction, you truly just wanted to ensure the daal didn't catch at the bottom of the pot. 

Yet, as your arm extended, the jersey shifted further and you felt the cool kitchen air hit the sensitised skin of your lap, leaving you entirely vulnerable to his gaze.

Rizwan's hand, which had been steady on the wooden spoon, faltered for a fraction of a second. His dark, midnight eyes inadvertently trailed over the curve of your leg, tracking the way the pink lace cut across your hips. He tried to maintain his focus, his jaw setting in that familiar line of disciplined restraint but the visual was too potent.

With a low, gravelly exhale, Rizwan reached over and turned the burner to a low simmer, the clicking of the knob sounding like a starting pistol in the quiet room. He turned toward you, his massive frame eclipsing the warm light of the overhead pendants. He moved into your personal space, coming to stand, once again directly between your dangling legs, his large, veiny hands slamming onto the marble counter on either side of your hips.

"Kya?" you whispered, your voice a fractured thread of sound as you looked up at him. You tried to maintain a mask of innocence but the way your heart was hammering against your ribs betrayed you. 

"Tumhe pta hai tum kya kar rahi ho, jaan?" he rasped, his voice dropping into that velvety, secret register that always made your knees feel weak. He leaned in closer, his chest inches from yours, the warmth radiating from his bare skin acting as a furnace. You could see the slight flare of his nostrils and the way his pupils had dilated until his eyes were almost entirely black.

Your hands moved instinctively, rising to rest around his neck, your fingers automatically playing with the short, dark hair at the nape of his neck. The texture was coarse, a grounding reality in the haze of desire.

"Ek toh mien tumhare madad kar rahi hu!" you countered, a playful, defiant spark returning to your eyes despite the heat.

Rizwan leaned down further, his face a mere breath away from yours, a teasing, wicked smile tugging at the corners of his lips. His hands left the counter and came to rest on your mid-thighs, his palms scorching against your skin. 

With a slow, deliberate pressure, he spread your legs further apart, forcing you to open up for him. His thumbs began to trail along the sensitive inner part of your thighs, tracing the path toward the pink lace that was now the only thing standing between him and his prize.

"Kaise? By distracting me," he murmured, his breath hot against your lips. 

He didn't wait for a rebuttal. His fingers shifted, sliding upward until the calloused pads brushed against the outer curve of your core, moving right through the thin, damp cover of your lace panties. You let out a sharp, ragged gasp, your back arching as the friction sent a jolt of pure electricity straight to your clit. 

He was a master of your body, knowing exactly how to apply the pressure that would shatter your resolve.

He brought his fingers against the fabric again, pressing firmly onto the drenched cloth. You felt the warmth of your own arousal being pushed back against you, the lace acting as an abrasive, delicious irritant. You closed your eyes, a stifled moan escaping your throat as you gripped his shoulders. Rizwan's smirk deepened, his focus entirely narrowed down to the way you were unraveling in his arms. 

"Haven't even touched you yet, and you're already so sensitive?" he taunted softly.

You couldn't bring yourself to say anything, the words were lost in the delirium he was creating. Rizwan began peppering small, burning kisses along your jawline, his stubble grazing your skin in a way that felt both rugged and worshipful. His hand shifted then, his fingers hooking into the edge of the pink lace and sliding the fabric aside. When his bare hand finally made contact with your weeping, swollen pussy, you let out a loud, unrestrained moan, your head tossing back as you finally called out his name.

He didn't rush. 

Rizwan was a man of calculated power and he took his time savoring the way your breath hitched as he finally made his move. Slowly, with an agonising deliberation that made your vision flicker, he slid two long, thick fingers into your cunt. 

The sensation was staggering, a slow motion invasion that felt as though he were claiming every internal inch of you for his own. You felt the sheer girth of his fingers stretching you, the calloused texture of his skin a delicious friction against your velvet soft walls. He pushed deeper, creating a delicious pressure that forced a broken sob from your throat.

His mouth finally captured yours in a kiss that was less of a greeting and more of a conquest, consuming you whole. His lips were hot and demanding, his tongue searching yours with a hungry, desperate energy that mirrored the movement of his fingers. It tasted of the shared heat of the kitchen and the raw tide of your desire. He used his mouth to stifle your moans, drinking in the sounds of your surrender as his tongue tangled with yours in a frantic, rhythmic dance.

All the while, those two fingers were beginning a relentless, mechanical pump. They moved in and out with a punishing consistency, the internal friction creating a white hot delirium that centered entirely in your lap. You could feel every ridge of his knuckles, the way his hand felt massive and unyielding as it worked within you. Your internal walls were pulsing, instinctively milking his fingers, trying to draw him deeper as the ache in your core blossomed into a full scale riot.

When he finally broke the kiss, his mouth didn't go far, migrating instead to the sensitive column of your neck where he began to leave a trail of burning, possessive marks. You were gasping for air, your head tossing back against the cabinet doors, your fingers tangling in the dark hair at the nape of his neck. In a desperate attempt to regain some semblance of reality, you managed to choke out. 

"Rizwan...the...the food." Your voice was a mere thread of sound, trembling with the force of the pleasure he was inflicting.

He nipped at the cord of your neck, his teeth grazing the skin in a way that made your toes curl into the cold marble. "I have decided to have my breakfast first," he rasped against your skin, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that resonated through your entire body. He punctuated the statement by curling his fingers upward, finding the specific, sensitive ridge inside you that sent a lightning bolt of pure electricity straight to your brain.

His fingers slowly and eventually picked up pace, the rhythmic slapping of his hand against your thighs becoming a symphony of carnal intent. He was a blur of motion now, his arm bunched with muscle as he drove into you with an obsessive, starving energy. You were withering under him, your body bucking against the counter, your heels digging into his lower back to pull him closer. The friction of your lace panties, which he had only moved to the side, added a secondary, abrasive heat to the encounter that was pushing you toward a terminal velocity of sensation.

You were nearing the edge, your breathing becoming a series of short, high pitched whimpers. The tension in your lower stomach was a coiled spring, ready to snap at the slightest provocation. 

You felt the first sparks of a climax beginning to ignite, the internal pressure becoming almost too much to bear. "Baby... stop... please," you whined, your hands scrabbling for purchase on his broad shoulders. 

"I want to...I want to..." you trailed off, your voice a fractured thread of sound. 

The desperation in your tone was naked, a raw admission of how thoroughly he had dismantled your defenses. You were perched on the edge of the island, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, pulling him into the cradle of your thighs as if you could force the union you so craved. The jersey you wore was hiked up to your chest, leaving you entirely exposed to the amber glow of the kitchen lights and the burning intensity of his gaze.

Rizwan slowed the movement of his fingers to a torturous, tectonic crawl, his lips grazing the sensitive skin behind your ear.

"I want to what?" he asked, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that sent a fresh wave of heat straight to your core. He knew exactly what you were pleading for but he wanted to hear the surrender in your voice.

You whined in response, a sound of pure frustration that vibrated in your throat. You buried your face in his shoulder, your teeth grazing the skin there in a playful, desperate nip. 

"Rizwan!" you cried out, your name for him sounding like a prayer and a protest all at once. You knew he was playing with you, wielding his self-control like a weapon and the knowledge only made the ache between your legs more pronounced.

Rizwan chuckled, the sound rumbling against your neck, his thumb applying a sudden, sharp pressure to your clit that made your hips buck instinctively. 

"Use your words, sweetheart," he whispered, his breath a humid caress against your skin. "I can't read your mind." He was relentless, his hands steady on your hips, pinning you to the marble while his fingers continued their slow, rhythmic taunt inside you.

You let out a long, shaky sigh, your resolve finally snapping under the weight of his gaze. You couldn't fight him anymore, not when every cell in your body was screaming for him. You leaned back, your eyes fluttering shut as you mumbled the words into the small space between your faces. "I want to...I want to cum on your dick." You felt the heat rise to your cheeks but you didn't look away, your fingers tightening in his dark hair.

The moment the words left your lips, Rizwan stilled his fingers deep inside of you. He kept them perfectly, agonizingly still, the sudden cessation of movement driving you into a frenzy of unfulfilled need. The fullness of him still inside you was an exquisite torture, a physical reminder of the power he held over your body. You felt the internal stretch, the weight of him anchored within you, while the lack of motion made the itch for release become a blinding roar in your ears.

"What? I didn't hear you?" Rizwan teased, his voice devoid of any actual confusion. He was looking at you with a wicked, triumphant glint in his eyes, his jaw set in a line of quiet satisfaction. He knew he had you exactly where he wanted you, captured, exposed and entirely dependent on him for the pleasure you sought.

"I will kill you!" you hissed, though there was no bite in the threat. You were heaving for air, your chest rising and falling in frantic bursts, your body trembling with the effort of holding back the climax that was teasing the edges of your consciousness.

He laughed then, genuine sound that was both beautiful and terrifying

"You know how it goes," Rizwan whispered, his voice like velvet over gravel. He leaned in until his nose brushed yours, his gaze unyielding. "First my fingers, then my mouth." He chose that moment to curl his fingers inside you with a sudden, sharp intensity, hitting your G-spot with such precision that your vision literally went blank for a second. You let out a strangled cry, your body going rigid as the pleasure peaked and plateaued. "And if you behave," he added with a wicked smirk, "then you can cum around my dick."

He started pumping his fingers again, even faster than before, his hand a piston of raw, will. You were lost to it now, the world reduced to the feeling of his skin and the sound of your own frantic pulse. In a surge of desperate need, you reached out and pulled him in for another kiss. This time, you were the aggressor, your tongue searching his mouth with a frantic energy as you felt the final wave of your climax beginning to crest.

The orgasm hit you with the force of a physical blow. You shattered against his hand, your body arching off the counter as a series of rapid-fire, electric spasms tore through you. You were sobbing into his mouth, your internal walls milking his fingers with a pulsing desperation that seemed to last an eternity. You were doused in the sensation, a map of his hunger and your own surrender, as he held you through the storm, his own breathing coming in heavy, jagged thuds.

Rizwan finally withdrew his fingers, the wet, sliding sound of his departure echoing in the quiet kitchen. He held your gaze as he brought his hand up to his face. 

Slowly, deliberately, he licked your cum from his fingers, one by one, making eye contact with you the entire time. It was a silent, possessive display of dominance that made your heart skip a beat. Your legs were still trembling from the force of the release he had just forced from you.

He leaned back in, his mouth finding yours once more but this time the kiss was different. He made you taste yourself on his tongue, the sweet, salty flavour of your own desire being shared between you.

You pulled him even closer, your arms wrapping around his neck as if you were trying to fuse your skin to his. The smell of the simmering lentils was still there, a domestic ghost in a room that had become a temple of carnal devotion.

Rizwan's hands settled on your hips, his thumbs stroking the marks he had left on your inner thighs. He looked at you with a look of such raw, unadulterated love and possessiveness that it made your eyes sting. 

You looked at the pot on the stove, then back at the man who had just dismantled your entire reality with two fingers and a smirk.

If this was how his cooking endeavours were always going to end, you should probably ask him to cook more often.

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