Fucking My Father-in-Law: Cuckold Husband & FIL DIL Taboo Novel – 3

First Look at My Father-in-Law: Tall, Bald, Huge

The plane touched the ground with a hard little bump.

Simran opened her eyes. Rohan was still holding her hand. His palm was wet.

“We are here,” he said.

Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose International Airport was bright and busy. The air outside the glass felt heavier than Bangalore. Warmer. Thicker. As if the city itself had a body.

They collected their bags and walked toward the exit.

A man in a clean white shirt stood near the railing. He held a small board.

ROHAN ROY

Behind him waited a big black SUV. It was polished. It did not look like the car of a “simple” man.

Rohan stopped walking.

“That is for us?” Simran asked.

“I think so.”

The driver lowered the board and nodded. “Sir. Madam. Please. The car is ready.”

No extra talk. He took the heavy bags as if they weighed nothing and put them in the back. The door of the SUV closed with a rich, expensive sound.

Rohan sat stiff in the back seat. Simran watched the city move past the window. Wide roads. Old houses hiding behind new glass buildings. Ponds. Trams in the distance. A river somewhere she could not see yet, only smell, faint and deep.

“You said he was a simple businessman,” she whispered.

Rohan looked at the leather seats. “That is what I thought. I never came here as a grown man. I never asked.”

The car turned off the main road and entered a quieter street. Trees. High walls. A steel gate that opened before the driver even honked, as if the house had been waiting.

The house was not simple.

It was large and white, with dark windows and a porch that looked like it had been standing there longer than Rohan had been alive. A short flight of stone steps. Plants in heavy pots. The kind of place that did not need to explain itself.

Simran felt her stomach drop.

The driver opened her door. She stepped out in her travel clothes and suddenly hated how small her suitcase looked on the clean stone.

The heavy wooden front door opened.

Debashish Roy stood in the frame.

Rohan had said simple.
Rohan had said businessman.
Rohan had not prepared her for this.

The man in the doorway was tall enough that Simran’s first thought was door. He filled it. Broad shoulders under a perfectly ironed cream shirt. Sleeves rolled once, not twice, showing thick forearms. A wide chest. A stomach that was not soft in a lazy way, but solid, like a wall. He was bald, the scalp clean and strong in the porch light. His jaw was heavy. His mouth was set. His eyes were dark and sharp and already finished looking at both of them before they had finished looking at him.

He was immaculate. Even at this hour. Even at home.

Simran felt incredibly small. Her own body, which she knew was beautiful in the Bangalore flat, felt like a young girl’s body next to him. She hated that thought. She also could not stop it.

Something low in her belly tightened. Not fear only. A heat she did not want to name. The size of his hands. The way the shirt sat on his chest. The calm power of a man who did not rush for anyone.

She looked away too late. He had already seen her see him.

“Rohan,” Debashish said.

The voice was deep. It went into the porch like a command that did not need to raise itself.

“Father.” Rohan’s voice came out thinner than it had on the plane.

Debashish’s eyes moved to her.

“Simran.”

He said her name correctly. That should have felt kind. It felt like being counted.

“Come in,” he said. “The flight was long.”

He did not hug Rohan. He did not touch Simran. He stepped aside. The house opened behind him: a high hall, dark wood, a staircase that turned like a quiet animal. A woman in a simple cotton dress waited at the side. A younger man in uniform stood ready for the bags.

“Take their things to the guest room on the first floor,” Debashish told the staff. Not loud. Not rude. People moved at once.

Rohan bent to pick up a small bag. Debashish did not stop him. He only watched, and Rohan looked, for one second, like a boy trying to be useful in a house that already had enough men.

“You must be tired,” Debashish said. “Wash. Then we eat. Nothing late. You need sleep.”

“Thank you,” Simran said.

He nodded once. His eyes dropped, very briefly, to her face, her mouth, the line of her neck above her collar, and then they were polite again. The look lasted less than a breath. Her skin still felt it.

---

The guest room was large. Too large.

A wide bed. White sheets. A window onto the garden. Their two suitcases looked lost at the foot of the bed, like they had come to the wrong wedding.

Simran washed her face. In the mirror she looked flushed. She told herself it was the heat.

They went down when a staff member called them.

Dinner was in a long room. The table could have held ten people. There were three plates.

Fish. Rice. Soft vegetables. A bowl of sweet yogurt at the end. All of it placed without noise.

Painfully quiet.

Rohan sat too straight. He kept glancing at his father and then at his own hands. Debashish ate with calm manners. He did not rush. He did not fill the silence with kind talk.

“How was the flight?” he asked.

“Good,” Rohan said. “On time.”

“The car was fine?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Your company office. Which side of the city?”

Rohan told him. Debashish listened with those sharp eyes and asked one more question, then another. Intelligent. Direct. Not unkind. Not warm. The questions made Rohan sit even straighter, as if he were in an interview he had not dressed for.

Then Debashish looked at Simran.

“You left your work.”

It was not a question, but she answered anyway.

“Yes. I will look again. After we settle.”

“Settle here first,” he said. “The house is large. You will not be in anyone’s way.”

Rohan gave a small, grateful smile that did not reach his eyes. “We will take our own flat soon. This is only for some time.”

Debashish wiped his mouth with a napkin.

“Eat,” he said. “Then sleep. Tomorrow we talk about keys and rooms and what you need.”

He stood. He was even taller when he stood. The chair looked suddenly like a child’s chair.

“Good night.”

He left them with the quiet and the leftover food and the feeling that the house had rules even when no one spoke them.

---

Upstairs, Simran unzipped the suitcase on the guest bed.

Rohan sat on the edge of the mattress and took off his shoes like a visitor. His shoulders looked narrow under the lamp. His wrists looked thin. She loved those wrists. She had kissed them for years. Tonight, against her will, her mind put another pair of arms beside them. Thicker. Darker. Veined. The memory of the man downstairs standing in the door.

She folded her clothes too carefully.

“He is not what I told you,” Rohan said at last. His voice was small. “I didn’t lie. I didn’t know.”

“I know.”

“He looks at people like he already finished the sentence.”

Simran closed the cupboard.

Rohan lay back and stared at the high ceiling. In this room he did not look like a husband who had burned butter chicken and ordered the right bread. He looked like a boy who had come home to a father he could not measure.

Simran sat beside him. She touched his hair.

Downstairs, a door closed. Heavy. Sure.

She saw it again without wanting to: the bald head in the porch light, the broad chest, the way the shirt pulled across his shoulders when he turned, the calm power in his hands when he pointed at the bags. A heat moved through her, low and secret and wrong. She caught it. She held it. She did not give it a name.

“He is only a man,” she whispered, for both of them.

Rohan turned his face into her palm.

“He doesn’t feel like only a man,” he said.

Simran looked at her husband. Soft mouth. Tired eyes. The familiar, dear, smaller shape of him on a bed that was too wide.

And she thought, very quietly, of the man downstairs.

She switched off the lamp.

In the dark, she held Rohan the way she always held him.

Her body, for the first time in five years, was listening to a different door.