Adultery A SOUTH INDIAN WIFE'S -Unspoken Flames

[thirddemodreamer]

Morning sunlight pierced the curtains, spilling gold over the bed—their final day. They rose at 7:00, exchanging a silent nod, the gap lingering. In the suite’s bathroom, they refreshed—cool tiles underfoot, hot water easing them into a new start. Vanitha wore a grey churidar with a black blazer, hair in a neat bun—professional resolve on her face. Angith donned a white shirt and black suit, a mix of nerves and excitement in his eyes. They grabbed their bags, boarded separate cars for meetings—sharing a faint smile through the windows before diverging.

The meeting filled a grand conference room—polished tables, screens, coffee scent. Vanitha presented clearly, answering firmly; Angith handled clients confidently, sealing deals. Afterward, they exchanged a professional smile—nothing more. Vanitha returned to the hotel first, shutting the door, breathing deeply. She washed her face, slipping into a soft green saree—its fabric hugged her, revealing her waist, hair loose with a jasmine flower.
Packing, she folded clothes, tucked in her laptop, and placed a gift box for the kids on top. Angith returned—fatigue on his face, but his eyes lit up seeing her in the saree. "You look great, Vanitha," he said softly, refreshing and changing into a blue shirt and black jeans. He packed—folding shirts, stowing a notebook. Vanitha chatted with her kids on the phone—"Amma, when are you coming? We miss you!" they asked. She smiled, "Tonight, I’ve got gifts for my darlings," she replied fondly. Lounging on the sofa, her saree slipped, baring her waist and navel—Angith noticed, gazing briefly, a faint smile curling his lips.
Sensing his stare, phone in hand, she shot him a playful smirk, "Enough, Angith? Stop it!"—a teasing warning, mischief and restraint in her eyes. He laughed, "Okay, okay," raising his hands, resuming packing—their understanding held. They finished, glancing at the room—the bed, sofa, TV stirring memories. "Shall we go?" she asked. He paused, "One sec, Vanitha," stepping closer, voice gentle, "One last kiss? Please?"—longing and hesitation in his eyes.
She wavered, "Angith, is this right?"—her mind wrestled, but seeing his earnest plea, she relented, "Okay, the last." He drew her close, hands on her waist—their lips met in a deep French kiss. His tongue parted hers, dancing slowly—his breath warmed her face, hers brushed his neck, igniting heat. Her hands grazed his chest, clutching his shirt—their bodies pressed, the kiss a final memory. The room’s phone rang—"Madam, your vehicle’s here," reception said. They parted slowly, sharing a faint smile—their breaths steadied.
They slung their bags over their shoulders, left for the airport—seated apart on the plane, Vanitha by the window, Angith in a middle row. As it took off, they closed their eyes, lost in thought—Vanitha recalling their first meeting, sofa moments, his kisses, guilt whispering, Why did I do this? as she pictured her kids, dozing with regret. Angith remembered her in the saree, her touch, their last kiss—A mistake, but unforgettable, he mused, guilt mingling with confusion, resting against his seat. The plane carried them back to their lives—heavy hearts sinking into sleep.
At the airport, they grabbed their luggage, parted in separate cars—Vanitha in a white sedan toward home, gazing out, smiling faintly at seeing her kids, though her heart weighed heavy. Angith in a black SUV to his place, leaning back, muttering, "It’s over,"—mixed emotions swirling. As the cars diverged, a permanent divide settled—their hearts thudded with weight, returning to their lives, leaving those days as a fleeting dream.