The imprint was faint, a pale circle around the base of her ring finger, like a ghost of gold.
Priya stared at it in the mirror of Arjun's bathroom, steam curling around her naked body. She'd taken the ring off last night—slowly, deliberately—while he watched from the bed. No words. Just the soft clink of metal on the nightstand and the way his cock had twitched against his thigh, already hard again.
Now, Sunday morning, the apartment smelled of coffee and sex. She'd lost count of how many times he'd had her—slow on the kitchen counter at 2 AM, her legs wrapped around his waist as he fed her bites of mango between thrusts; harder in the hallway at dawn, her back against the wall, tits bouncing with every snap of his hips. Her pussy was swollen, tender, *ruined* in the best way. And still, when she shifted her weight, fresh slick coated her thighs.
Arjun appeared in the doorway behind her, barefoot, wearing only gray sweatpants that did nothing to hide the thick line of his erection. His eyes locked on the faint ring-mark.
"Still there," he murmured, stepping close. He wrapped his arms around her from behind, hands sliding up to cup her heavy breasts. His thumbs brushed her nipples—still sensitive, still begging. "I like it."
Priya's breath hitched. "You like that I'm married?"
"I like that you *were*." He nipped her earlobe. "And now you're mine."
His possessiveness should have scared her. Instead, heat pooled low in her belly. She turned in his arms, pressing her soft curves to his hard planes. "Show me."
He did.
---
He carried her back to bed—sheets still rumpled, rose petals crushed and fragrant. Laid her down like an offering. This time, he didn't rush. He kissed every inch of her—collarbone, the slope of her breast, the silver stretch marks on her belly like roads he wanted to memorize. When he reached her pussy, he spread her open with reverent fingers.
"Look at you," he breathed. "Still dripping for me. Still *mine*."
He licked her slow—long, lazy strokes that had her hips rolling, hands fisting the sheets. He avoided her clit at first, teasing the outer lips, dipping inside to taste where he'd come so many times. Only when she was babbling—*please, Sir, please*—did he suck her clit into his mouth, gentle pulses that sent her over the edge in seconds. She came with a broken cry, thighs clamping around his head, pussy gushing onto his tongue.
He didn't stop. Kept licking, softer now, until she was trembling through the aftershocks. Then he crawled up her body, cock dragging through her slick folds.
"Hands above your head," he ordered.
She obeyed instantly. He reached for the silk ties again—not binding, just looping them loosely around her wrists and the headboard. A reminder. A promise.
He entered her in one slow, deep thrust. No resistance—just wet, welcoming heat. Her pussy fluttered around him, still sensitive, still *hungry*. He set a punishingly slow pace—pulling out until only the head kissed her entrance, then sinking back in until she felt him in her throat.
"Tell me," he growled, hips rolling. "Who do you belong to?"
"You," she gasped. "Only you—*Sir*—"
He rewarded her with a harder thrust, grinding against her clit. Her tits bounced with each stroke, nipples grazing his chest. He bent to suck one, then the other, teeth grazing just enough to make her arch.
"Gonna fuck this married pussy until you forget his name," he rasped.
She was already there. Rajesh was a distant echo—work trips, cold beds, duty. This—*Arjun*—was fire. Was *home*.
He flipped her onto her stomach, pulling her hips up until she was on her knees, face pressed to the mattress. The angle was devastating—his cock nudging her G-spot with every thrust, balls slapping her clit. One hand slid under her to rub tight circles; the other tangled in her hair, not pulling, just *holding*.
"Come for me again, baby. Soak my cock."
She did—*hard*. Her pussy clamped down, a flood of slick coating his balls, dripping down her thighs. He fucked her through it, relentless, until she was sobbing into the pillow.
Only then did he let go—thrusting deep, hips stuttering, and coming with a guttural roar. Thick, hot pulses filled her, overflowing, leaking out around his cock. He stayed buried, plugging her full, kissing the back of her neck.
---
Later, showered and dressed in one of his shirts—buttons straining over her breasts—they sat on the balcony. The city sprawled below, indifferent. Priya sipped chai; Arjun traced the faint ring-mark on her finger with his thumb.
"You're not going back," he said. Not a question.
She looked at him—really looked. The sharp jaw, the dark eyes that saw *her*, not the wife, not the mother, but *Priya*. The woman who'd been starving.
"No," she whispered. "I'm not."
He kissed the imprint, then her palm, then her mouth—slow, filthy, full of promise.
---
Monday morning, she walked into her house like a stranger. Rajesh was in the kitchen, bleary-eyed, tie askew. The kids were at school. He looked up, startled.
"Where the hell have you been?"
Priya set her overnight bag down. Took a breath. "I want a divorce."
He blinked. "What?"
"I'm done pretending." She slipped the wedding ring from her pocket—where she'd carried it like a secret—and placed it on the counter. "I met someone. Someone who sees me."
Rajesh opened his mouth. Closed it. The silence stretched, thick with years of neglect.
Priya turned to leave. At the door, she paused. "I'll pick up the kids Friday. We'll figure out custody."
She didn't look back.
---
That night, Arjun opened his door to find her on the threshold—bag in hand, eyes bright with tears and something fiercer.
"I left it," she said simply. "The ring. The life. All of it."
He pulled her inside, kissed her until she was breathless. Then he carried her to the bedroom, laid her down, and made love to her like a man staking claim.
Slow. Deep. Worshipful.
When she came—shattering around him, pussy milking his cock—he whispered against her lips:
"Welcome home, Priya."