Between Tongues and Taboos- Part 2
My back hit the wall just outside the living room. The hallway light flickered low, shadows dancing across our tangled limbs. My breath caught in my throat as one of them pressed against me—his accent thick, voice gruff against my ear.
“Never seen anyone move like that in a bloody dress,” he growled, lifting the hem all the way up now. “You’re fuckin’ unreal.”
I smirked, pulling him closer by the collar. “You Irish boys always talk this much?”
The other one came up behind me, warm and solid, hands already sliding beneath my dress. “You’ve got no idea what we talk about when you're not around,” he murmured, pressing his mouth to my shoulder. “Your hips, your lips, the way you speak Urdu like it’s a fucking spell...”
Hearing that word—*Urdu*—in his mouth, so foreign and thick with his accent, made something snap inside me. I reached back, tangling my fingers in his hair. “Say something else,” I demanded.
He groaned against my skin. “*Zaroor... meri jaan.*”
I nearly gasped. The accent was off, broken, but hearing my language in that filthy context? My legs almost gave out.
“Good girl,” the one in front of me grinned, watching me melt. “You like when we speak your language?”
I didn’t answer with words. I grabbed the front of his jeans, yanked him forward, and sank to my knees. The carpet scratched under my skin, but I didn’t care. I wanted to taste every part of them. Wanted to leave them shaking and breathless the way they'd left me.
The one behind me didn’t stay still—his hands were under my shalwar now, tugging them down slowly, reverently, like he was unwrapping something sacred.
“You ever been touched like this before?” he whispered, fingers sliding between my legs. “Like a *goddess*?”
I moaned. “Like a sinner.”
They laughed—low, dark, dirty.
“You can be both,” the one in front of me said, sliding his hand into my hair. “Tonight, you *will* be.”
Their mouths were everywhere. One behind me, licking a trail along my spine. The other guiding me with both hands, groaning as I took him in deeper. They smelled like sweat and cologne and beer and something raw and male that made my head spin.
And the whole time… *he* was watching.
I could feel his gaze from across the room. I looked up, and there he was—leaning against the wall, dark eyes fixed on me like I was a feast he was letting his friends sample first.
He was stroking himself lazily, eyes heavy, proud. Possessive.
In Urdu, he growled, *“Tum sirf meri ho.”*
You are only mine.
That did something to me. I moaned around the one in my mouth, hips grinding back into the other’s touch. They didn’t understand his words—but I did. And they didn’t need a translation. The message was clear in the way he looked at me, in the way they moved with permission, not ownership.
I belonged to him—but tonight, he was letting me *play.* And I was going to make every second count.
“Never seen anyone move like that in a bloody dress,” he growled, lifting the hem all the way up now. “You’re fuckin’ unreal.”
I smirked, pulling him closer by the collar. “You Irish boys always talk this much?”
The other one came up behind me, warm and solid, hands already sliding beneath my dress. “You’ve got no idea what we talk about when you're not around,” he murmured, pressing his mouth to my shoulder. “Your hips, your lips, the way you speak Urdu like it’s a fucking spell...”
Hearing that word—*Urdu*—in his mouth, so foreign and thick with his accent, made something snap inside me. I reached back, tangling my fingers in his hair. “Say something else,” I demanded.
He groaned against my skin. “*Zaroor... meri jaan.*”
I nearly gasped. The accent was off, broken, but hearing my language in that filthy context? My legs almost gave out.
“Good girl,” the one in front of me grinned, watching me melt. “You like when we speak your language?”
I didn’t answer with words. I grabbed the front of his jeans, yanked him forward, and sank to my knees. The carpet scratched under my skin, but I didn’t care. I wanted to taste every part of them. Wanted to leave them shaking and breathless the way they'd left me.
The one behind me didn’t stay still—his hands were under my shalwar now, tugging them down slowly, reverently, like he was unwrapping something sacred.
“You ever been touched like this before?” he whispered, fingers sliding between my legs. “Like a *goddess*?”
I moaned. “Like a sinner.”
They laughed—low, dark, dirty.
“You can be both,” the one in front of me said, sliding his hand into my hair. “Tonight, you *will* be.”
Their mouths were everywhere. One behind me, licking a trail along my spine. The other guiding me with both hands, groaning as I took him in deeper. They smelled like sweat and cologne and beer and something raw and male that made my head spin.
And the whole time… *he* was watching.
I could feel his gaze from across the room. I looked up, and there he was—leaning against the wall, dark eyes fixed on me like I was a feast he was letting his friends sample first.
He was stroking himself lazily, eyes heavy, proud. Possessive.
In Urdu, he growled, *“Tum sirf meri ho.”*
You are only mine.
That did something to me. I moaned around the one in my mouth, hips grinding back into the other’s touch. They didn’t understand his words—but I did. And they didn’t need a translation. The message was clear in the way he looked at me, in the way they moved with permission, not ownership.
I belonged to him—but tonight, he was letting me *play.* And I was going to make every second count.
2 月 前
