Back in India, Virat and Ishani's life mirrored California's sun-drenched intimacy, the penthouse a fortress of reclaimed passion where he poured every ounce of care into her, his mafia shadows lurking but subdued, his behavior a constant echo of their exile—morning kisses on her belly, hands splaying the swell in possessive worship, fingers circling the warm curve through her one-piece in slow, sensual strokes that sent shivers racing to her clit, her pussy clenching wet and aching as slickness gathered between her thighs, the pregnancy amplifying the illicit heat until she moaned soft, body arching into his touch, nipples peaking hard against the fabric. At 24, eight months pregnant, her body was a masterpiece of erotic fullness—breasts heavy and milk-tender, nipples perpetually darkened and sensitive, rasping against clothes in constant tease that kept her core in low throb; belly pronounced and rounded, shifting with each breath, the skin taut and glowing under his palms, her thighs softer, ass plumper, every movement a sensual sway that made her feel desired and powerful, the mangalsutra glinting between her heaving swells like a mark of his claim, chooda clinking on her wrists with each embrace, sindoor a vivid slash in her parting that he reapplied with his thumb, the red powder smearing in sensual drag that made her lips part in gasp.