23-06-2025, 11:44 PM
The door closed behind Ramlal with a soft click that echoed in Devika's chest like a forbidden drumbeat. She pressed her back against the wall, her breath coming in shallow gasps, the night saree clinging to her damp skin. The conversation they'd just had—the barely disguised innuendos, the hungry looks, the promise of more—it sent waves of heat through her body that had nothing to do with the summer air. What had gotten into her? This new Devika was a stranger, reckless and hungry, pushing boundaries she'd never even approached before.
"Mangoes," she whispered to herself, a delirious laugh escaping her lips. "I actually told him he could taste my mangoes." Her hand drifted to her breast, cupping it through the thin fabric of her blouse. The nipple hardened against her palm, sending a jolt of pleasure down her spine.
She moved to the window, watching Ramlal return to his post at the security desk. Even from this distance, she could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The knowledge that she had affected him so deeply filled her with an intoxicating sense of power.
Her mind drifted back to the laboratory, to Vishnu's tall frame in front of her as she'd guided his hands on the burette. She had pressed herself against him, her chest touching his back, her lips close to his ear. The memory was vivid—the heat of his body, the slight tremor in his hands as he struggled to maintain composure, the catch in his breath when she'd whispered instructions.
"You need to control the flow rate," she had told him, her voice soft and intimate. "Too much pressure, and you'll overshoot."
In that moment, she had been the one in control, the one with power. Now, alone in her apartment, Devika found herself craving the opposite—to be the one touched, guided, pressed against. The thought of large hands encircling her waist, of a body pressing against her back, sent a liquid heat pooling between her thighs.
"I've gone mad," she murmured, turning away from the window. But had she? Or was this simply the natural progression of a woman reclaiming herself after betrayal? Anand had taken her dignity, had made her feel invisible and worthless. These new encounters—with Seenu, with her students, with Ramlal—they made her feel seen, desired, powerful.
She traced the bare skin of her arms, marveling at how something as simple as exposed flesh could transform her in the eyes of men. The sleeveless blouse had been such a small rebellion, yet it had changed everything. What other small rebellions might she permit herself? What other boundaries might she cross?
Her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn't eaten since lunch. The thought of food triggered another idea—a pretext to call Ramlal back, to continue what they'd started. It was dangerous, she knew. The suggestive conversation had been one thing, but inviting him back for a second time on the same night? That was deliberate, planned, impossible to explain away as mere loneliness or confusion.
"Aloo paratha," she said aloud, the idea taking shape. It was innocent enough—she was hungry, she wanted to try local food, she needed help making it. But beneath that innocence lay her true intention: to feel what Vishnu had felt in the laboratory, to experience hands guiding hers, a body pressed against her back.
Devika picked up the intercom, her fingers hovering over the button. Was she really going to do this? Cross yet another line? The memory of Ramlal's eyes—dark with desire, yet respectful, almost reverent—decided her. She pressed the button.
"Hello? Security desk?" Her voice sounded steadier than she felt.
"Yes, madam?" Ramlal's voice came through, a hint of surprise evident even through the crackling connection.
"I'm sorry to bother you again, Ramlal, but I was wondering... do you know how to make aloo paratha?"
A pause. "Yes, madam, I know. Why do you ask?"
"I'm quite hungry, and I've been wanting to try authentic aloo paratha." She twisted the cord of the intercom around her finger. "I have potatoes and flour, but I've never made it before. Would it be possible for you to help me?"
Another pause, longer this time. "Madam, I... I'm not sure if that would be appropriate. I'm on duty, and—"
"No one will come at this hour," she interrupted, her voice dropping to a softer register. "And I'm really very hungry. I'd be so grateful for your help."
She could almost hear him thinking, weighing duty against desire, propriety against opportunity. Finally, his voice came through again, lower than before.
"If you're sure no one will mind, madam, then I can come up and show you how to make it."
"Thank you," she breathed. "I appreciate it very much."
She released the button and smoothed her hands over her night saree. Should she change? Put on something more appropriate? But the thought was fleeting—she knew exactly what she was doing, what message her current attire sent. The sleeveless blouse, the sheer saree that clung to her curves—this was a deliberate choice, a silent invitation.
A few minutes later, a knock at her door. She opened it to find Ramlal standing there again, his expression a mixture of nervousness and barely concealed excitement. He had straightened his uniform, combed his hair—small preparations that told her he understood the unspoken promise of her invitation.
"Thank you for coming," she said, stepping back to let him in. "I'm really quite hungry."
"Yes, madam." He nodded, his eyes taking in her unchanged attire, lingering on the exposed skin of her arms, the curve of her waist visible through the thin fabric. "Aloo paratha is very famous here. Good choice."
"I've heard it's delicious." She closed the door behind him, acutely aware of the soft click of the latch, the private bubble it created around them. "I have potatoes, but I'm not sure what else we need."
"Onions, green chilies, coriander," he listed, moving toward the kitchen with careful steps. "And wheat flour for the dough."
"I'll show you what I have," she said, walking ahead of him into the kitchen, conscious of how her saree swayed with each step, how his eyes would be following the movement.
The kitchen was small, intimate—a space designed for one person, not two. They would have to stand close together, bodies brushing as they moved around. The thought sent another wave of heat through her body.
"I have potatoes here," she said, opening the small basket where she kept them. "And onions. I'm not sure about green chilies."
"This will do," Ramlal said, rolling up his sleeves. "Now, for the flour?"
"I don't have wheat flour," she admitted. "Only maida—all-purpose flour. Will that work?"
He considered this, nodding slowly. "Yes, but it needs more kneading. Maida dough must be worked longer to get the right texture."
"I don't mind waiting," she said, her voice soft with suggestion. "Some things are worth the extra effort."
Their eyes met, and the air between them seemed to thicken, charged with unspoken intentions. Ramlal's hands—large, strong, calloused from work—rested on the counter between them. Devika imagined those hands on her waist, guiding her movements as she had guided Vishnu's.
"Shall we begin?" she asked, her heart racing with anticipation of what was to come.
The kitchen filled with the gentle scbang of knife against potato skin as Devika followed Ramlal's instructions. Their elbows occasionally brushed in the narrow space, each contact sending ripples of awareness through her body. He stood beside her at the counter, close enough that she could smell the faint musk of his skin mingling with the starch of his uniform, close enough to feel the heat radiating from him like a banked fire waiting to be stoked.
"Peel them thinly," Ramlal instructed, his voice carrying a new tone of authority now that they were engaged in a task he knew well. "And then cut some onions—not too fine, just rough pieces."
"Like this?" Devika asked, holding up a half-peeled potato.
"Yes, perfect." His eyes lingered on her fingers, wet with potato juice, before returning to his own work—mixing spices in a small bowl. "Have you really never made paratha before?"
"Never," she admitted. "In Kerala, we make different breads. Appam, pathiri..." She trailed off as his arm reached across her to grab the salt, his chest momentarily pressing against her shoulder.
They worked in silence for a few minutes, the air between them thick with unspoken intentions. Ramlal mashed the boiled potatoes with practiced efficiency while Devika chopped onions, blinking away tears that had nothing to do with her racing thoughts.
"Now we need the flour," he said eventually, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel. "Where do you keep it?"
"Here." She reached for a container on an upper shelf, aware of how the movement stretched her blouse across her chest, how it exposed the curve of her waist as her saree shifted.
Ramlal's eyes followed the movement, his hands stilling momentarily before he took the container from her. "This is maida," he confirmed, opening it to examine the white powder inside. "Not wheat flour."
"Will it still work?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.
"Yes, but as I said, it needs more kneading." He measured out a portion onto the counter, creating a well in the center for water. "Maida dough must be worked longer to develop properly. It requires..." he paused, choosing his words, "strong hands."
The way he said it—"strong hands"—carried a weight of suggestion that made her breath catch. This was her moment, the opportunity she'd been waiting for.
"I'll knead it," she volunteered, stepping toward the counter.
"Have you done this before?" he asked, stepping aside to let her approach the mound of flour.
"No, but I want to learn." She positioned herself before the counter, adding water to the well he'd created. "I want to practice."
She began working the water into the flour, her movements hesitant and inefficient. The dough remained lumpy, refusing to come together under her inexperienced hands. She let her frustration show, sighing dramatically.
"It's not working," she said, looking over her shoulder at him. "I think I need those strong hands you mentioned."
Ramlal took a half-step forward, then hesitated. "I can do it for you, if you like. You can watch and learn for next time."
"No," she said quickly. "I want to do it myself, but... perhaps you could guide me? Show me the proper technique?"
He frowned, confusion evident in the furrow of his brow. "Guide you?"
"Yes. Like..." she gestured vaguely with flour-covered hands. "Stand behind me and show me how to use my hands properly. I learn better that way—by doing, not watching."
Understanding dawned in his eyes, followed quickly by disbelief and a flicker of desire. "You want me to...?"
"Yes," she said simply, turning back to the counter. "We don't have much time. I'm already quite hungry."
She heard his swallow, the rustle of fabric as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Then his voice, lower than before: "Madam, it's very hot in here. The humidity... If you don't mind, may I remove my shirt? It would be more comfortable."
The request—so unexpected, yet perfectly aligned with her unspoken desires—sent a thrill through her body. "Of course," she replied without turning. "You don't need my permission for that."
The soft sounds of buttons being undone, fabric sliding against skin, then the gentle thud as his folded shirt was placed on a kitchen stool. Devika kept her eyes on the dough, her hands working aimlessly in the flour, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Then he was behind her, his bare chest radiating heat like a furnace. She felt his hesitation, the careful way he positioned himself—close but not touching, waiting for some final confirmation that this breach of propriety was truly welcome.
"Are you sure about this, madam?" he asked, his breath warm against her ear.
"Yes," she whispered. "I need to practice."
He closed the remaining distance between them, his chest making contact with her upper back, the rough hair tickling her exposed skin where the blouse cut away. His skin was darker than hers, weathered by years of outdoor work, a stark contrast to her golden-brown complexion. She felt him reach around her, hands hovering just above her arms.
"May I?" he asked, his voice tight with restraint.
"Please," she breathed.
His hands descended onto her bare arms, engulfing them completely. His skin was rough against her smoothness, creating a friction that sent goosebumps racing across her body. With gentle pressure, he guided her hands back to the dough.
"Like this," he murmured, his lips close to her ear as he began to move their hands together, working the flour and water into a cohesive mass. "Firm but gentle. Push with your palms, then fold with your fingers."
Devika leaned back slightly, allowing more contact between their bodies. She felt the moment he registered her movement—the slight stiffening of his muscles, the catch in his breath, the infinitesimal tightening of his fingers around hers. As they worked the dough, sweat beaded on her skin, mingling with his where their arms pressed together. The flour stuck to their damp hands, creating a slick, silky texture that somehow made the contact even more intimate.
"Strong hands," she murmured, echoing his earlier words. "You were right."
He made a sound—half groan, half chuckle—and buried his face against her neck, his breath hot against her skin. Their hands continued to move in the dough, but the pretense of cooking was wearing thin. She could feel him hardening against her, his arousal pressing insistently at the small of her back through their clothes.
"Madam," he whispered against her skin, "so soft to knead."
"The dough?" she asked, feigning innocence.
"I mean the maida," he corrected himself, but his meaning was clear as his hips made a subtle, almost involuntary movement against her.
The pressure of his erection against her sent a jolt of pleasure through Devika's body. She felt herself growing wetter, her inner thighs slick with desire. A soft moan escaped her lips, encouraging him.
"Please," she whispered, unsure herself what she was asking for.
Ramlal took it as permission. His hands abandoned the dough, moving to her hips instead, leaving floury prints on the midnight-blue fabric of her saree. "The dough is done," he murmured, his voice thick with desire, "but there's something softer than maida that needs kneading."
His fingers pressed into the flesh of her hips, massaging in slow, deliberate circles. Devika gasped, her head falling back against his shoulder as pleasure radiated from his touch. His hands began to pull at her saree, tugging it lower to expose more of her waist.
"No," she protested weakly, her hands moving to raise the fabric back to its proper place.
But Ramlal was lost in sensation, his control slipping away. His grip tightened, holding the saree in place as he continued to tug it downward. Their hands wrestled briefly over the fabric, but his strength prevailed. Devika's eyes fluttered closed as she felt the cool air on newly exposed skin, felt his rough palms against her bare waist.
"So beautiful," he murmured, his lips finding the sensitive juncture of her neck and shoulder. He drew her skin between his teeth, sucking gently, then with increasing pressure.
"Ah!" she cried out, the sensation shooting straight to her core.
"Sexy Kerala woman," he groaned against her neck, his hips grinding more insistently against her. One hand left her waist, sliding upward toward her breast while the other moved to her navel, his thumb dipping into the small hollow and pressing gently.
The dual sensations—his hand moving toward her breast, his thumb circling her navel—broke through the haze of desire. This was going too far, too fast. She had wanted to experience being touched, being guided, but this was rapidly spiraling beyond her control.
With sudden determination, Devika twisted out of his grasp, stepping quickly to the side. "That's enough," she said, her voice firm despite her racing heart and trembling legs.
Ramlal stood frozen, his chest heaving, flour dusting his bare torso and hands. His eyes were dark with desire, confusion slowly replacing the hunger as her words registered.
"I'm sorry," he stammered, reaching for his shirt. "I shouldn't have—"
"No," she interrupted, smoothing her saree back into place with shaking hands. "Let's just... finish what we started. The parathas. We can eat together before you go."
The abrupt shift from intimacy to ordinary conversation left him disoriented. He nodded mutely, pulling his shirt back on with fumbling fingers.
They finished preparing the meal in silence, the air between them heavy with unfulfilled desire and unspoken words. When the parathas were done—golden brown and fragrant with spices—they sat at her small table and ate without looking at each other.
"The parathas are delicious," she said finally, breaking the silence.
"Thank you," he replied, his voice rough around the edges. "It's a simple recipe."
"Nothing about tonight has been simple," she thought, but kept the observation to herself.
When the meal was finished, Ramlal rose to leave, gathering the last shreds of his professional demeanor. "I should return to my post," he said, not quite meeting her eyes.
"Yes," she agreed, walking him to the door. "Thank you for... the cooking lesson."
He paused at the threshold, finally looking directly at her. Something unresolved lingered in his gaze—desire, confusion, the question of what would happen next time their paths crossed.
"Good night, madam," he said softly, and then he was gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click that seemed to echo the closing of something else—a doorway perhaps, that once opened, could never truly be shut again.
"Mangoes," she whispered to herself, a delirious laugh escaping her lips. "I actually told him he could taste my mangoes." Her hand drifted to her breast, cupping it through the thin fabric of her blouse. The nipple hardened against her palm, sending a jolt of pleasure down her spine.
She moved to the window, watching Ramlal return to his post at the security desk. Even from this distance, she could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The knowledge that she had affected him so deeply filled her with an intoxicating sense of power.
Her mind drifted back to the laboratory, to Vishnu's tall frame in front of her as she'd guided his hands on the burette. She had pressed herself against him, her chest touching his back, her lips close to his ear. The memory was vivid—the heat of his body, the slight tremor in his hands as he struggled to maintain composure, the catch in his breath when she'd whispered instructions.
"You need to control the flow rate," she had told him, her voice soft and intimate. "Too much pressure, and you'll overshoot."
In that moment, she had been the one in control, the one with power. Now, alone in her apartment, Devika found herself craving the opposite—to be the one touched, guided, pressed against. The thought of large hands encircling her waist, of a body pressing against her back, sent a liquid heat pooling between her thighs.
"I've gone mad," she murmured, turning away from the window. But had she? Or was this simply the natural progression of a woman reclaiming herself after betrayal? Anand had taken her dignity, had made her feel invisible and worthless. These new encounters—with Seenu, with her students, with Ramlal—they made her feel seen, desired, powerful.
She traced the bare skin of her arms, marveling at how something as simple as exposed flesh could transform her in the eyes of men. The sleeveless blouse had been such a small rebellion, yet it had changed everything. What other small rebellions might she permit herself? What other boundaries might she cross?
Her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn't eaten since lunch. The thought of food triggered another idea—a pretext to call Ramlal back, to continue what they'd started. It was dangerous, she knew. The suggestive conversation had been one thing, but inviting him back for a second time on the same night? That was deliberate, planned, impossible to explain away as mere loneliness or confusion.
"Aloo paratha," she said aloud, the idea taking shape. It was innocent enough—she was hungry, she wanted to try local food, she needed help making it. But beneath that innocence lay her true intention: to feel what Vishnu had felt in the laboratory, to experience hands guiding hers, a body pressed against her back.
Devika picked up the intercom, her fingers hovering over the button. Was she really going to do this? Cross yet another line? The memory of Ramlal's eyes—dark with desire, yet respectful, almost reverent—decided her. She pressed the button.
"Hello? Security desk?" Her voice sounded steadier than she felt.
"Yes, madam?" Ramlal's voice came through, a hint of surprise evident even through the crackling connection.
"I'm sorry to bother you again, Ramlal, but I was wondering... do you know how to make aloo paratha?"
A pause. "Yes, madam, I know. Why do you ask?"
"I'm quite hungry, and I've been wanting to try authentic aloo paratha." She twisted the cord of the intercom around her finger. "I have potatoes and flour, but I've never made it before. Would it be possible for you to help me?"
Another pause, longer this time. "Madam, I... I'm not sure if that would be appropriate. I'm on duty, and—"
"No one will come at this hour," she interrupted, her voice dropping to a softer register. "And I'm really very hungry. I'd be so grateful for your help."
She could almost hear him thinking, weighing duty against desire, propriety against opportunity. Finally, his voice came through again, lower than before.
"If you're sure no one will mind, madam, then I can come up and show you how to make it."
"Thank you," she breathed. "I appreciate it very much."
She released the button and smoothed her hands over her night saree. Should she change? Put on something more appropriate? But the thought was fleeting—she knew exactly what she was doing, what message her current attire sent. The sleeveless blouse, the sheer saree that clung to her curves—this was a deliberate choice, a silent invitation.
A few minutes later, a knock at her door. She opened it to find Ramlal standing there again, his expression a mixture of nervousness and barely concealed excitement. He had straightened his uniform, combed his hair—small preparations that told her he understood the unspoken promise of her invitation.
"Thank you for coming," she said, stepping back to let him in. "I'm really quite hungry."
"Yes, madam." He nodded, his eyes taking in her unchanged attire, lingering on the exposed skin of her arms, the curve of her waist visible through the thin fabric. "Aloo paratha is very famous here. Good choice."
"I've heard it's delicious." She closed the door behind him, acutely aware of the soft click of the latch, the private bubble it created around them. "I have potatoes, but I'm not sure what else we need."
"Onions, green chilies, coriander," he listed, moving toward the kitchen with careful steps. "And wheat flour for the dough."
"I'll show you what I have," she said, walking ahead of him into the kitchen, conscious of how her saree swayed with each step, how his eyes would be following the movement.
The kitchen was small, intimate—a space designed for one person, not two. They would have to stand close together, bodies brushing as they moved around. The thought sent another wave of heat through her body.
"I have potatoes here," she said, opening the small basket where she kept them. "And onions. I'm not sure about green chilies."
"This will do," Ramlal said, rolling up his sleeves. "Now, for the flour?"
"I don't have wheat flour," she admitted. "Only maida—all-purpose flour. Will that work?"
He considered this, nodding slowly. "Yes, but it needs more kneading. Maida dough must be worked longer to get the right texture."
"I don't mind waiting," she said, her voice soft with suggestion. "Some things are worth the extra effort."
Their eyes met, and the air between them seemed to thicken, charged with unspoken intentions. Ramlal's hands—large, strong, calloused from work—rested on the counter between them. Devika imagined those hands on her waist, guiding her movements as she had guided Vishnu's.
"Shall we begin?" she asked, her heart racing with anticipation of what was to come.
The kitchen filled with the gentle scbang of knife against potato skin as Devika followed Ramlal's instructions. Their elbows occasionally brushed in the narrow space, each contact sending ripples of awareness through her body. He stood beside her at the counter, close enough that she could smell the faint musk of his skin mingling with the starch of his uniform, close enough to feel the heat radiating from him like a banked fire waiting to be stoked.
"Peel them thinly," Ramlal instructed, his voice carrying a new tone of authority now that they were engaged in a task he knew well. "And then cut some onions—not too fine, just rough pieces."
"Like this?" Devika asked, holding up a half-peeled potato.
"Yes, perfect." His eyes lingered on her fingers, wet with potato juice, before returning to his own work—mixing spices in a small bowl. "Have you really never made paratha before?"
"Never," she admitted. "In Kerala, we make different breads. Appam, pathiri..." She trailed off as his arm reached across her to grab the salt, his chest momentarily pressing against her shoulder.
They worked in silence for a few minutes, the air between them thick with unspoken intentions. Ramlal mashed the boiled potatoes with practiced efficiency while Devika chopped onions, blinking away tears that had nothing to do with her racing thoughts.
"Now we need the flour," he said eventually, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel. "Where do you keep it?"
"Here." She reached for a container on an upper shelf, aware of how the movement stretched her blouse across her chest, how it exposed the curve of her waist as her saree shifted.
Ramlal's eyes followed the movement, his hands stilling momentarily before he took the container from her. "This is maida," he confirmed, opening it to examine the white powder inside. "Not wheat flour."
"Will it still work?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.
"Yes, but as I said, it needs more kneading." He measured out a portion onto the counter, creating a well in the center for water. "Maida dough must be worked longer to develop properly. It requires..." he paused, choosing his words, "strong hands."
The way he said it—"strong hands"—carried a weight of suggestion that made her breath catch. This was her moment, the opportunity she'd been waiting for.
"I'll knead it," she volunteered, stepping toward the counter.
"Have you done this before?" he asked, stepping aside to let her approach the mound of flour.
"No, but I want to learn." She positioned herself before the counter, adding water to the well he'd created. "I want to practice."
She began working the water into the flour, her movements hesitant and inefficient. The dough remained lumpy, refusing to come together under her inexperienced hands. She let her frustration show, sighing dramatically.
"It's not working," she said, looking over her shoulder at him. "I think I need those strong hands you mentioned."
Ramlal took a half-step forward, then hesitated. "I can do it for you, if you like. You can watch and learn for next time."
"No," she said quickly. "I want to do it myself, but... perhaps you could guide me? Show me the proper technique?"
He frowned, confusion evident in the furrow of his brow. "Guide you?"
"Yes. Like..." she gestured vaguely with flour-covered hands. "Stand behind me and show me how to use my hands properly. I learn better that way—by doing, not watching."
Understanding dawned in his eyes, followed quickly by disbelief and a flicker of desire. "You want me to...?"
"Yes," she said simply, turning back to the counter. "We don't have much time. I'm already quite hungry."
She heard his swallow, the rustle of fabric as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Then his voice, lower than before: "Madam, it's very hot in here. The humidity... If you don't mind, may I remove my shirt? It would be more comfortable."
The request—so unexpected, yet perfectly aligned with her unspoken desires—sent a thrill through her body. "Of course," she replied without turning. "You don't need my permission for that."
The soft sounds of buttons being undone, fabric sliding against skin, then the gentle thud as his folded shirt was placed on a kitchen stool. Devika kept her eyes on the dough, her hands working aimlessly in the flour, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Then he was behind her, his bare chest radiating heat like a furnace. She felt his hesitation, the careful way he positioned himself—close but not touching, waiting for some final confirmation that this breach of propriety was truly welcome.
"Are you sure about this, madam?" he asked, his breath warm against her ear.
"Yes," she whispered. "I need to practice."
He closed the remaining distance between them, his chest making contact with her upper back, the rough hair tickling her exposed skin where the blouse cut away. His skin was darker than hers, weathered by years of outdoor work, a stark contrast to her golden-brown complexion. She felt him reach around her, hands hovering just above her arms.
"May I?" he asked, his voice tight with restraint.
"Please," she breathed.
His hands descended onto her bare arms, engulfing them completely. His skin was rough against her smoothness, creating a friction that sent goosebumps racing across her body. With gentle pressure, he guided her hands back to the dough.
"Like this," he murmured, his lips close to her ear as he began to move their hands together, working the flour and water into a cohesive mass. "Firm but gentle. Push with your palms, then fold with your fingers."
Devika leaned back slightly, allowing more contact between their bodies. She felt the moment he registered her movement—the slight stiffening of his muscles, the catch in his breath, the infinitesimal tightening of his fingers around hers. As they worked the dough, sweat beaded on her skin, mingling with his where their arms pressed together. The flour stuck to their damp hands, creating a slick, silky texture that somehow made the contact even more intimate.
"Strong hands," she murmured, echoing his earlier words. "You were right."
He made a sound—half groan, half chuckle—and buried his face against her neck, his breath hot against her skin. Their hands continued to move in the dough, but the pretense of cooking was wearing thin. She could feel him hardening against her, his arousal pressing insistently at the small of her back through their clothes.
"Madam," he whispered against her skin, "so soft to knead."
"The dough?" she asked, feigning innocence.
"I mean the maida," he corrected himself, but his meaning was clear as his hips made a subtle, almost involuntary movement against her.
The pressure of his erection against her sent a jolt of pleasure through Devika's body. She felt herself growing wetter, her inner thighs slick with desire. A soft moan escaped her lips, encouraging him.
"Please," she whispered, unsure herself what she was asking for.
Ramlal took it as permission. His hands abandoned the dough, moving to her hips instead, leaving floury prints on the midnight-blue fabric of her saree. "The dough is done," he murmured, his voice thick with desire, "but there's something softer than maida that needs kneading."
His fingers pressed into the flesh of her hips, massaging in slow, deliberate circles. Devika gasped, her head falling back against his shoulder as pleasure radiated from his touch. His hands began to pull at her saree, tugging it lower to expose more of her waist.
"No," she protested weakly, her hands moving to raise the fabric back to its proper place.
But Ramlal was lost in sensation, his control slipping away. His grip tightened, holding the saree in place as he continued to tug it downward. Their hands wrestled briefly over the fabric, but his strength prevailed. Devika's eyes fluttered closed as she felt the cool air on newly exposed skin, felt his rough palms against her bare waist.
"So beautiful," he murmured, his lips finding the sensitive juncture of her neck and shoulder. He drew her skin between his teeth, sucking gently, then with increasing pressure.
"Ah!" she cried out, the sensation shooting straight to her core.
"Sexy Kerala woman," he groaned against her neck, his hips grinding more insistently against her. One hand left her waist, sliding upward toward her breast while the other moved to her navel, his thumb dipping into the small hollow and pressing gently.
The dual sensations—his hand moving toward her breast, his thumb circling her navel—broke through the haze of desire. This was going too far, too fast. She had wanted to experience being touched, being guided, but this was rapidly spiraling beyond her control.
With sudden determination, Devika twisted out of his grasp, stepping quickly to the side. "That's enough," she said, her voice firm despite her racing heart and trembling legs.
Ramlal stood frozen, his chest heaving, flour dusting his bare torso and hands. His eyes were dark with desire, confusion slowly replacing the hunger as her words registered.
"I'm sorry," he stammered, reaching for his shirt. "I shouldn't have—"
"No," she interrupted, smoothing her saree back into place with shaking hands. "Let's just... finish what we started. The parathas. We can eat together before you go."
The abrupt shift from intimacy to ordinary conversation left him disoriented. He nodded mutely, pulling his shirt back on with fumbling fingers.
They finished preparing the meal in silence, the air between them heavy with unfulfilled desire and unspoken words. When the parathas were done—golden brown and fragrant with spices—they sat at her small table and ate without looking at each other.
"The parathas are delicious," she said finally, breaking the silence.
"Thank you," he replied, his voice rough around the edges. "It's a simple recipe."
"Nothing about tonight has been simple," she thought, but kept the observation to herself.
When the meal was finished, Ramlal rose to leave, gathering the last shreds of his professional demeanor. "I should return to my post," he said, not quite meeting her eyes.
"Yes," she agreed, walking him to the door. "Thank you for... the cooking lesson."
He paused at the threshold, finally looking directly at her. Something unresolved lingered in his gaze—desire, confusion, the question of what would happen next time their paths crossed.
"Good night, madam," he said softly, and then he was gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click that seemed to echo the closing of something else—a doorway perhaps, that once opened, could never truly be shut again.
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