The City of Lights had always promised romance, but for Shubman Gill and Ishan Kishan, it delivered something far more primal.

They had flown into Paris on a whim after the IPL season wrapped. A private jet, a luxury suite at the Shangri-La with views of the Eiffel Tower, and no handlers breathing down their necks. Just two Indian cricketers, best mates on the surface, escaping the endless scrutiny back home. Shubman, tall and lean with that sharp jawline and those intense eyes that made fans lose their minds, had suggested the trip. Ishan, shorter but powerfully built, with his mischievous smile and that thick, muscular ass that filled out every pair of trousers, had agreed instantly. “Yaar, we deserve this,” Ishan had laughed, punching Shubman’s shoulder.

The first two days were innocent enough—strolling along the Seine at dusk, sharing buttery croissants and strong espresso in tiny cafés, posing for stupid selfies in front of Notre-Dame. But the tension had been building for months. Stolen glances in the dressing room. Lingering touches during celebration hugs. The way Ishan’s eyes would drop to Shubman’s crotch when he thought no one was watching. Paris stripped away the pretense.

On the third night, they found themselves in a dimly lit jazz bar in Montmartre. Red velvet booths, saxophone wailing low and dirty. They’d both had a few glasses of wine—enough to loosen tongues but not enough to blame later.

“You’ve been staring at me all evening,” Shubman said, his voice low as he leaned across the small table. His knee brushed Ishan’s under the cloth.

Ishan swallowed, his cheeks flushing. “Have I? Maybe I like what I see, bro.

”Shubman’s lips curved into a slow, predatory smile. He’d always been the more dominant one on the field—calm, calculated, relentless. Tonight, that same energy shifted. He reached under the table and let his fingers trace up Ishan’s thigh, firm and possessive. “You’ve been teasing me for fucking months, Ishan. Those tight pants you wear during training. Bending over in the nets like you want my cock buried in that fat ass of yours.”

Ishan’s breath hitched. His cock twitched hard in his jeans. “Shubman… here?”

“No one knows us here,” Shubman murmured, leaning in until his lips brushed Ishan’s ear. “And even if they did, I don’t give a shit. I’ve wanted to wreck you since that night we shared a room in Australia. You were jerking off in the bathroom thinking I was asleep, moaning my name like a desperate little slut.”

Ishan’s face burned, but his cock throbbed painfully. He didn’t deny it. Couldn’t. The seduction was working—Shubman’s deep, confident voice, the way he took control without asking, the raw hunger in his eyes. It made Ishan’s knees weak.

They barely made it back to the hotel.

The elevator ride was torture. As soon as the doors closed, Shubman shoved Ishan against the mirrored wall, crushing their mouths together in a bruising kiss. Tongues slid hot and wet, teeth nipping. Shubman’s big hand gripped Ishan’s ass, squeezing the firm muscle hard enough to leave marks.

“Fuck, you taste good,” Shubman growled, grinding his hard bulge against Ishan’s. “Been dreaming about this mouth wrapped around my dick.”

Inside the suite, clothes came off in a frenzy. Shubman pushed Ishan onto the king-sized bed, the lights of Paris twinkling through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Ishan lay there, naked, cock leaking against his abs, chest heaving.

Shubman stood over him, stroking his own thick, veiny cock. It was long—nearly nine inches—and girthy, the head already slick with precum. “Look at you. My pretty teammate, spread out like a whore for me.”

He climbed on top, pinning Ishan’s wrists above his head with one hand. Their bodies pressed together, skin hot, cocks sliding against each other in messy, desperate friction. Shubman kissed him again, deeper this time, devouring. Then he moved lower, sucking bruises into Ishan’s neck, collarbone, nipples—biting and licking until Ishan was whimpering.

“Please… Shubman…”

“Please what?” Shubman’s voice was dark, amused. He licked a stripe down Ishan’s abs, then swallowed his cock in one smooth motion.

“Fuuuuck!” Ishan’s hips bucked. Shubman’s mouth was heaven—hot, wet, relentless. He sucked hard, tongue swirling around the head, taking him to the back of his throat without gagging. One hand cupped Ishan’s balls, rolling them, while a finger teased his tight hole.

Shubman pulled off with a wet pop, strings of saliva connecting his lips to Ishan’s glistening cock. “You’re going to take my cock tonight, baby. Every inch. Gonna fuck you so deep you’ll feel me for days.”

He flipped Ishan onto his stomach like he weighed nothing, yanking his hips up so that perfect, round ass was presented. Shubman spread the cheeks, spitting directly onto the pink, virgin-tight hole.

“Such a pretty little cunt,” he muttered, rubbing his thumb over it. Then he dove in with his tongue.

Ishan cried out, pushing back against Shubman’s face. The sensation was filthy and overwhelming—Shubman eating him out like a starving man, tongue fucking into him, lips sucking, growling filthy praises. “Tastes so fucking good. Been wanting to tongue-fuck my wicketkeeper’s hole for so long.”

He added a finger, then two, scissoring and stretching while he kept licking. Ishan was moaning like a pornstar, drooling onto the sheets, cock leaking steadily.

When Shubman finally pulled back, he slicked his massive cock with lube from the bedside drawer (always prepared) and pressed the fat head against Ishan’s entrance.

“Breathe, baby,” he whispered, but his voice was strained with lust.

He pushed in slowly at first, inch by thick inch, groaning at the tight heat. “Fuck, you’re gripping me so good. Such a greedy hole.”

Ishan whimpered, tears of overwhelming pleasure stinging his eyes. The stretch burned so perfectly. When Shubman bottomed out, balls-deep, he stayed there, grinding deep, letting Ishan adjust.

Then he started moving.

Long, powerful strokes—pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, hips snapping. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room, mixed with their grunts and moans. Shubman fucked like he batted—elegant control mixed with raw power. He gripped Ishan’s hips hard enough to bruise, pounding that prostate with every thrust.

“Take it, Ishan. Take my fucking cock like the cockslut you are,” Shubman snarled, leaning over to bite Ishan’s shoulder. One hand reached around to jerk Ishan’s dripping cock in time with his thrusts.

Ishan came first, screaming Shubman’s name as thick ropes of cum painted the sheets. His hole clenched violently around Shubman’s cock.

Shubman didn’t stop. He fucked Ishan through his orgasm, chasing his own. Flipping him onto his back, he hooked Ishan’s legs over his shoulders and drove in even deeper, face-to-face now. Their eyes locked—raw, passionate, something deeper than just lust shining through.

“I’m gonna fill you up,” Shubman panted, sweat dripping from his brow onto Ishan’s chest. “Gonna breed this ass.”

With a guttural moan, he buried himself to the hilt and came hard, pulse after pulse of hot cum flooding Ishan’s insides. He kept thrusting through it, pushing his seed deeper, marking his claim.

They collapsed together, tangled and breathing hard. Shubman didn’t pull out immediately. He stayed buried inside, kissing Ishan softly now—tender, reverent.

“Mine,” he whispered against Ishan’s lips.

Ishan smiled, exhausted and glowing. “Yours. Always was.”

The rest of the week in Paris blurred into a haze of romance and raw sex.

They made love against the balcony railing at 2 a.m., Shubman fucking Ishan from behind while the Eiffel Tower sparkled in the distance. Ishan on his knees in the lavish marble shower, throat-fucking himself on Shubman’s cock until his voice was hoarse. Slow, sensual grinding in the huge bathtub, water sloshing everywhere as they kissed like they’d never get enough.

One afternoon in the Louvre, surrounded by masterpieces, Shubman whispered filthy promises in Ishan’s ear until the smaller man was hard and leaking in his pants. They barely made it back to a private car before Ishan was riding Shubman’s cock in the backseat, curtains drawn, moaning into his neck.

By the time they flew home, both carried marks under their clothes—bite marks, hickeys, the constant ache in Ishan’s ass that made him shift in his seat with secret pleasure. Their friendship had transformed into something deeper, hotter, all-consuming.

Love in Paris. Filthy, passionate, and utterly theirs.