The Bengaluru morning had stretched lazily into late morning, the penthouse suite bathed in warm, honeyed light that made every bead of sweat on their skin glisten like liquid gold. Swati was still pinned beneath Anurag, her legs wrapped loosely around his waist, his cock softening but still nestled deep inside her slick, fluttering heat. The condom was warm and full between them, her pussy tender and pulsing from the force of her last orgasm—the one that had ripped through her while he confessed the raw wreckage Priya had left behind. Her glasses sat askew on her nose, fogged and crooked; her long black hair was a wild tangle across the pillow. She looked thoroughly ruined, cheeks flushed scarlet, lips swollen and parted on shallow breaths.

Anurag’s question hung in the air like smoke—*do you want me to keep talking about the past? Or do you want me to show you exactly how I plan to erase every trace of it from my body with yours?*—and Swati’s doe eyes locked on his, wide and shining with something new: not just shyness anymore, but a quiet, trembling hunger that made her hips twitch around him instinctively.