The Bengaluru sun had dipped low by late afternoon, painting the penthouse suite in deep amber and rose hues that filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows like a final, lingering caress. Hours had blurred into one long, indulgent haze since Swati had first whispered her request to erase Anurag’s ghosts. The king-sized bed was a battlefield of rumpled white sheets, scattered pillows, and the faint scent of their mingled releases—musky, sweet, unmistakably theirs. Empty condom wrappers lay discarded on the nightstand like spent promises, and a half-empty bottle of single malt stood sentinel beside two untouched glasses of water. Swati lay sprawled across Anurag’s chest, her naked body draped over his like a living blanket, skin still flushed and dewy from their last round. Her long black hair spilled across his shoulder in wild tangles, glasses fogged and abandoned on the pillow beside them. At twenty-three, she had never felt so thoroughly claimed, so beautifully wrecked—every inch of her sore in the most exquisite way: pussy swollen and tender, thighs sticky with the evidence of how many times she had come for him, nipples peaked and sensitive from his mouth.