The message sat on Arjun's phone like a live wire, humming with possibility.
*Hey, it's Priya. That coffee was good. Maybe we grab one sometime?*
He let it breathe for an hour—long enough to make her wonder, short enough to keep the heat alive. Then he typed back, casual but deliberate.
**Arjun:**
*Tomorrow. 7 PM. There's a place called The Lantern on 17th Cross. Quiet corner booth. I'll save you a seat.*
Three dots danced. Vanished. Danced again.
**Priya:**
*I finish at 6. I'll… try.*
No emoji. No exclamation. Just the soft tremor of a woman stepping over a line she'd drawn years ago.
---
The Lantern was all warm amber light and low jazz, the kind of place where conversations melted into the woodwork. Arjun arrived early, claimed the corner booth, and ordered a single malt—neat, two fingers. He wore a charcoal shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, the fabric pulling tight across his chest every time he breathed. His cock lay heavy against his thigh, half-interested already. Anticipation was its own kind of foreplay.
Priya slipped in at 7:12, cheeks flushed from the evening heat and something deeper. She'd changed out of her uniform into a simple navy kurti that clung to her breasts like it had been stitched for sin. The neckline dipped just low enough to reveal the upper swell of creamy flesh, a faint lace edge peeking beneath. Her leggings—black, second-skin—outlined every lush curve of her hips and the generous heart-shape of her ass. A thin gold chain circled one ankle. Married. Mother. And still, *fuck*, the way she moved made Arjun's mouth water.
She spotted him and hesitated, fingers twisting the strap of her handbag. He stood—slow, deliberate—and the booth's shadow carved his frame into something dangerous and inviting.
"Thought you might stand me up," he said, voice low.
"I almost did," she admitted. A nervous laugh. "Three times."
He pulled out her chair. When she sat, the kurti stretched across her chest; her nipples—dark, thick—pressed visibly against the cotton. No bra. *Jesus.*
They ordered—chai for her, another whiskey for him. Small talk drifted over the table like smoke: her husband's sales trips, the kids' tuition, the way the coffee shop's AC never quite worked. Arjun listened, nodding, but his eyes traced the bead of sweat sliding from her collarbone into the valley between her breasts. He imagined licking it away.
Half an hour in, the pretense thinned.
"You're staring," she murmured, not quite scolding.
"Can't help it." He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "You're fucking gorgeous, Priya."
Her breath hitched. The chai cup trembled in her hand. "I'm… I haven't—" She swallowed. "Not in years."
"Not what?"
"Felt *wanted*." The confession slipped out raw, surprised at itself.
Arjun's fingers brushed hers across the table—light, testing. She didn't pull away. Heat flared between their knuckles.
"I want," he said simply. "Every inch of you."
Her pupils blown wide, she stared at their joined hands. "I can't just—"
"You're not just anything." His thumb traced the inside of her wrist, feeling her pulse hammer. "Tell me to stop and I will. But if you stay…"
She stayed.
---
They left the café separately—ten minutes apart, like criminals. Arjun texted her his address. A sleek high-rise in Koramangala, 14th floor, city lights glittering below like spilled diamonds.
Priya arrived breathless, hair slightly mussed from the auto ride. The elevator ride was silent torture; she stood two feet away, clutching her purse like a shield. Arjun watched the numbers climb, every floor tightening the coil in his gut.
Inside the apartment, he didn't pounce. Not yet. He poured her a glass of red—something velvety from Nashik—and led her to the couch. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the skyline; the room smelled faintly of sandalwood and his cologne.
They talked. Or tried. Words frayed into long looks, small touches—his knee brushing hers, her fingers grazing his forearm when she laughed. The wine loosened her shoulders; the kurti slipped off one, revealing the strap of a wine-colored bra that barely contained her.
Arjun set his glass down. "Stand up."
She did, swaying slightly. He circled her slowly, predator and worshipper both. From behind, he gathered her hair, exposing the nape of her neck, and pressed a single open-mouthed kiss there. She shivered.
"Tell me what you want," he whispered against her skin.
Priya's voice cracked. "I don't… I don't know how to say it."
"Try."
Her hands found the hem of her kurti. She pulled it over her head in one trembling motion. The bra—lace, deep burgundy—cradled breasts so heavy they spilled over the cups, nipples straining. A soft belly, faint silver stretch marks like secret constellations. Real. *Perfect.*
Arjun groaned, low in his throat. "Fuck, Priya."
He stepped close, cupping her through the lace. She was warm, plush, her nipples pebbling instantly under his thumbs. He kneaded gently, learning her weight, the way she arched when he rolled the peaks between his fingers. A soft whimper escaped her.
"More," she breathed.
He unhooked the bra with one hand. It fell away, and her breasts—*God*—swung free, full and pendulous, dark areolas wide and textured. He bent, taking one nipple into his mouth, sucking slow and deep. Priya's fingers speared into his hair, holding him there as her knees buckled.
Arjun walked her backward until her thighs hit the couch. He knelt, peeling her leggings down inch by inch. Black lace panties—already soaked—clung to her mound. He could see the outline of her lips, puffy and slick. The scent of her arousal hit him like a drug.
"Spread for me, baby."
She did, trembling. He hooked the panties aside and *fuck*—her pussy was drenched, folds glistening, clit swollen and peeking from its hood. A neat trim of dark curls framed it all. He blew gently across the wet heat; she jolted.
"Arjun—"
He licked her in one long, flat stroke from entrance to clit. She cried out, hips bucking. He pinned her thighs open with his forearms and feasted—slow, filthy laps, circling her clit, dipping inside to taste her nectar. She was sweet-salty, flooding his tongue. He could do this for hours; his cock throbbed painfully against his zipper, but he denied it. This was about *her*.
Priya's hands scrabbled at the couch cushions. "I'm—oh God, I'm close—"
He sucked her clit hard, flicking with the tip of his tongue. She shattered, thighs clamping around his head, pussy pulsing against his mouth as she came with a broken sob. He lapped her through it, gentling only when she whimpered from overstimulation.
When he finally stood, his chin glistened. Priya stared, dazed, then reached for his belt with shaking fingers.
"Your turn," she whispered.
Arjun caught her wrists. "Not yet. I want to *ruin* you slow."
He lifted her—effortlessly—and carried her to the bedroom. The city lights painted silver across the bed. He laid her down, stripped himself with deliberate calm. Shirt first, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the trail of dark hair leading south. Then jeans. His cock sprang free—thick, veined, a solid nine inches curving slightly upward, the head flushed and slick with precum.
Priya's eyes went wide. "That's… that's not going to fit."
He crawled over her, settling between her thighs. "We'll make it fit. Nice and slow."
He rubbed the head along her slit, coating himself in her wetness. She was still pulsing from her orgasm, entrance fluttering. He notched at her opening and pushed—just the head. She gasped, nails digging into his shoulders.
"Relax, baby. Breathe."
Inch by inch, he fed her his cock. She was *tight*, velvet heat gripping him like a fist. When he was halfway in, he paused, letting her adjust, grinding slow circles against her clit with his pubic bone. Her legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his ass, urging him deeper.
"More," she moaned.
He gave it—steady, relentless—until he bottomed out, balls snug against her. They both groaned. He stayed buried, letting her feel every throb, every vein.
Then he moved.
Slow, deep strokes—pulling almost all the way out, sliding back in until she felt him in her throat. Her tits bounced with each thrust, nipples grazing his chest. He captured one in his mouth again, sucking in time with his hips. Priya's head thrashed on the pillow, another orgasm building fast.
"Arjun—*fuck*—don't stop—"
He didn't. Couldn't. His stamina was a curse and a gift; he fucked her through the second climax, then a third, her pussy gushing around him, soaking the sheets. Only when she was limp, babbling nonsense, did he let himself chase his own edge.
"Gonna fill you up," he growled against her neck.
"Yes—*please*—"
He thrust deep, hips stuttering, and came with a guttural roar—thick ropes painting her insides, pulsing for what felt like minutes. She milked him dry, inner walls fluttering around his spent cock.
They stayed locked together, sweat-slick and panting. Arjun kissed her slow—lazy, filthy drags of tongue—until she sighed into his mouth.
After a while, he pulled out gently. A trickle of their combined release leaked from her swollen pussy. He traced it with a finger, pushing it back inside. She shivered.
"Stay the night," he murmured.
Priya hesitated, then nodded. "Just… tonight."
He smiled against her breast. *For now.*