An Unexpected Intimacy with My Cousin at the Wedding

It was a warm evening in Malappuram, Kerala when our family gathered for my elder cousin’s wedding. The house was full — cousins from abroad, aunties exchanging wedding gossip, laughter echoing from every room. I was 20 then, fresh out of college, caught between the excitement of family functions and the exhaustion of endless wedding rituals.

That’s when I saw Amaan bhai again — my cousin from Dubai, five years older than me, and someone I hadn’t met since childhood.

He wasn’t the same boy I remembered. He had matured. His lean body now carried strength, and his beard — carefully shaped — gave him a certain gravity. But it was his eyes that unsettled me the most. Deep. Curious. Lingering longer than they should.

The haldi was held on the second day — a blend of yellow cloth, floral decorations, and turmeric paste being playfully rubbed on the groom. I had worn a mustard-colored anarkali, with my black hijab pinned neatly, outlining my oval face. The fabric of my anarkali clung to my curves, accentuating my waist and hips, while the hijab framed my face, highlighting my dark, almond-shaped eyes and full lips.

As I stood with the other cousins near the rose petals, laughing and tossing turmeric, I caught Amaan bhai watching me. Not just a glance — a gaze. A respectful but lingering pause that followed the curve of my cheek, the soft fullness beneath my scarf, the way my dupatta draped around my waist and hips, hugging the contours of my body.

I turned away, embarrassed… and strangely warm.

Later, he passed by and said softly, “You look like poetry today.”

That night, the cousins gathered for a light dance performance. I wasn’t prepared — but they pulled me in. I danced in the open courtyard, surrounded by fairy lights and distant drumming. My hijab swayed as I moved, and the cloth hugged my body more than I intended, outlining every curve and movement. I could feel the heat of his gaze on me, and it made my skin tingle with anticipation.

My dance was a mix of traditional and modern moves, and I could see the desire in his eyes as I moved my hips and spun around, my hijab flowing behind me. After the performance, as I wiped the sweat from my brow, he whispered while passing, “You shouldn’t look this beautiful. It’s dangerous.”

The electricity flickered off around midnight. Most people had gone to sleep. I stepped out to get some fresh air, wrapping my shawl tight around my body, feeling the cool night air on my skin. I didn't expect to find Amaan near the upstairs balcony. Alone. The moonlight kissed the side of his face, and when he looked up at me, something shifted.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.

“No,” I replied, my voice barely a whisper.

He leaned against the wall, his eyes never leaving mine. I stood beside him, feeling the heat radiating from his body. The air was thick with tension and unspoken words.

“You’ve grown into someone I never saw coming,” he said, his voice low and husky.

“You’re still my cousin,” I murmured, unsure whether to pull away or stay.

 “Only by name… Tell me honestly — didn’t you feel what I felt today?”

I looked into his eyes, and all my answers trembled in my throat. He stepped closer, his hand gently brushing mine. I didn’t move. His touch sent shivers down my spine, and I could feel my heart racing in my chest.

“We shouldn’t,” I whispered.

“Then stop me,” he said softly, his breath hot on my ear.

His fingers slowly lifted my chin. In that pause between fear and surrender, his lips met mine. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t wrong. It felt… inevitable. His lips were soft but firm, exploring mine with a hunger that matched my own. I parted my lips, inviting him in, and his tongue danced with mine, sending waves of pleasure through my body.

He held me with a gentleness that sent chills down my body. His arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me into the safety of his chest, where I could hear his heartbeat racing like mine. That night, we didn’t go too far. Just kisses. Touches. Long, lingering moments. But it was the beginning.

It was the last day before he left for Dubai. The house was nearly empty in the afternoon. Everyone had gone to the market. Only I was home — and he came back early under the excuse of forgetting his charger.

He found me alone in the room folding clothes. The room was hot, and I had taken off my hijab, my long, wavy hair falling loose around my shoulders. I was wearing a simple cotton kurta and leggings, but the way the fabric clung to my body made me feel exposed and vulnerable.

“This is our last day,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. “Will you pretend none of it happened?”

I couldn’t answer. I didn’t want to lie. He walked toward me slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. His fingers grazed my sleeve, sliding up my arm, resting lightly on my scarf. He didn’t pull it — but waited, giving me the chance to stop him.

I nodded slightly, giving him the permission he sought. He undid my hijab with trembling fingers, revealing my flushed face, my long hair tucked beneath. He whispered my name like a prayer, his voice filled with reverence and desire.

What followed was a surrender neither of us planned. On that quiet bed in the spare guest room, with sunlight slipping through sheer curtains, he kissed every part of me like it was sacred. He started with my lips, his kisses soft and gentle, then moved to my neck, his tongue tracing a path down to my collarbone. I arched my back, pressing my body against his, feeling the hardness of his desire.

His hands explored my body, tracing the curves of my waist, the swell of my hips, the softness of my breasts. He took his time, savoring every inch of me, his touch light and feather-like, sending shivers of pleasure through my body. I moaned softly, my body aching with need, as he slowly undressed me, his eyes never leaving mine.

When I was finally bare before him, he took a moment to admire my body, his eyes filled with wonder and desire. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion. “Like a work of art.”

He started to undress, his movements quick and efficient, and I couldn’t help but admire his body — the defined muscles of his chest, the ripples of his abs, the V-line that disappeared beneath his pants. I reached out, tracing the lines of his body, feeling the warmth of his skin, the hardness of his muscles.

He lay down beside me, his body pressing against mine, and I could feel the heat of his desire, the hardness of his erection pressing against my thigh. He kissed me again, his tongue exploring my mouth, his hands roaming my body, sending waves of pleasure through me.

I reached down, wrapping my hand around his length, feeling him pulse in my hand. He groaned, his body trembling with need, and I started to stroke him, my movements slow and deliberate, matching the rhythm of his breathing.

He rolled on top of me, his body covering mine, and I could feel the weight of him, the hardness of his desire pressing against my entrance. He looked into my eyes, seeking permission, and I nodded, my body aching with need.

He entered me slowly, inch by inch, filling me completely, stretching me, completing me. I moaned, my body arching to meet his, my nails digging into his back, urging him on. He started to move, his hips thrusting against mine, his body sliding in and out of me, our breaths coming in sync, our hearts beating as one.

The room was filled with the sounds of our lovemaking — the slap of skin against skin, the moans of pleasure, the whispers of love and desire. He moved faster, his body slamming into mine, his breath coming in ragged gasps, and I could feel the pressure building inside me, the coiling of pleasure in my core.

I wrapped my legs around his waist, urging him deeper, and he obliged, his body pounding into mine, his hands gripping my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh. I could feel the orgasm building, the waves of pleasure crashing over me, and I cried out, my body convulsing, my inner muscles clenching around him, milking him for all he was worth.

He groaned, his body tensing, and I could feel him pulsing inside me, his hot seed spilling into me, filling me completely. He collapsed on top of me, his body slick with sweat, his breath coming in ragged gasps, and I wrapped my arms around him, holding him close, feeling his heartbeat against my chest.

When it was over, I lay on his chest, feeling both exposed and protected, my body sated and content. He stroked my hair, his fingers tracing patterns on my back, and I could feel the love and tenderness in his touch.

He left the next day. No promises. No confessions. But before he boarded the taxi, he turned to me one last time and said:

“In another life… we’d be more than this.”

I smiled, holding back tears.

“In this life, we had this moment. And that’s enough.

As I watched him drive away, I knew that this experience would stay with me forever, a secret memory of passion and desire, a testament to the power of love and lust. I touched myself that night, my fingers tracing the paths he had taken, my body responding to the memories, my orgasm a sweet release of the tension that had built up inside me. I knew that I would never forget this night, this man, this love. And as I drifted off to sleep, a small smile played on my lips, a secret just for me.