25-01-2026, 12:23 AM
Part 2:
The motel room smelled of cheap detergent and mildew, the floral wallpaper peeling at the seams like dead skin. A single lamp with a stained shade buzzed on the nightstand, its weak light throwing long, shuddering shadows against the far wall where a muted television played a cricket match to an empty room. Kriti sat on the edge of the bed, the synthetic bedspread scratchy against her palms, her body held in a wire-taut line of dread. The salwar kameez was not hers—a given, gaudy thing of synthetic silk a size too small, the emerald green fabric straining across her breasts and hips, every curve perfectly outlined by the tight clothing.
It had been two hours since she left her house; Shikhar would be asleep by now, alone with the money beneath his phone. She was in this motel in Pune where she was now a regular, a place that belonged to the local land mafia boss. The door opened without a knock, and Hemant Kelkar’s bulk filled the frame, his gold chains glinting dully under the lamp.
He was in his sixties, a thick slab of a man whose bald head shone under the weak light, a greasy fringe of grey hair clinging stubbornly to the sides and back of his skull. A big, mean moustache dominated his upper lip, yellowed at the edges from decades of chewing tobacco and cheap whisky, twitching now as his grin widened at the sight of her. He was dressed in what passed for his uniform: a white shirt strained across his prodigious belly, white pants, and polished black shoes, the crispness of the fabric a stark, cruel joke against the room’s grime.
His work was intimidation. He was the local land mafia’s blunt instrument, a man who made old shopkeepers vanish and construction contracts appear with a few well-placed threats and a ledger of debts. He closed the door with a soft, final click, the lock engaging with a sound like a bone snapping.
“Looking like a real gift tonight,” he grunted, his voice a gravelly rasp.
Kriti’s mind fled the room, hurtling backwards.
It had started six months ago. Hemant had randomly appeared in the pharmacy where she worked, a looming, menacing presence in the sterile aisles. He hadn’t bought anything, just stood there, his eyes crawling over her and the other female staff like thick, cold slugs. Her colleague, an older woman named Leela, had pulled her into the stockroom afterward, her face pale. “That’s Hemant Kelkar,” she’d whispered. “Don’t look at him. Don’t talk to him. Just pray he forgets you.”
But the situation at home was a collapsing mine shaft. Shikhar had just lost another petty job, their fridge was echoingly empty, and the eviction notice was a fresh paper cut on her soul. Desperation was a taste in her mouth, metallic and constant. A week later, she found Hemant outside a paan shop, surrounded by sycophants. She approached him, the words “I need a loan” sticking in her dry throat.
He’d laughed, but he’d given her the money. Fifty thousand rupees in crumpled notes. The interest was predatory, the timeline impossible. When she couldn’t pay, the calls started. Then the men outside the pharmacy. She didn’t want her family—her mother, her sister—to know the depths she’d sunk to. She went to his office to negotiate, a trembling sparrow walking into a vulture’s nest.
Hemant had leaned back in his leather chair, his eyes on her trembling hands. “The debt is gone,” he’d said, flicking ash on the floor. “But you work for me now. Personally. You come when I text. You do what I say. I’ll even pay you a little something for your time. Think of it as a… private arrangement.”
The first feeling was a grief so profound it felt like death. She’d vomited in a filthy public toilet afterward, sobbing silently, scbanging her knuckles against the concrete wall until they bled. She was a pharmacist, a married woman from a good family. This was a midnight chasm from which there was no return. But the weight of the debt was gone. And when she went home to Shikhar’s vacant eyes and the silent, sexless despair of their bed, the chasm began to look like a strange, terrible refuge.
She began visiting him whenever he texted, a simple ‘Come’ with a time and this motel’s address. He would always offer her money afterward, stuffing notes into her purse without looking at her. She hated it at first, each touch a violation that left her scrubbing her skin raw in her bathroom. Shikhar hadn’t touched her with desire in years; his occasional, drunken fumbling was a pitiable thing, over in minutes, leaving her more alone than before.
Hemant was different. He was crude, vile, and took what he wanted with a brutal, athletic selfishness that shocked her body into a traitorous response. The humiliation was part of it—the filthy names he growled in her ear, the way he used her like an object. It was a punishment she felt she deserved, and in that punishment, a twisted thread of pleasure began to pulse. It was real, animal, and obliterating. And on top of that, she got money for it.
He liked to feel her body’s every curve through her clothes first, his thick, ringed hands groping and kneading the straining silk. “Fuck, look at that,” he grunted, his breath hot and sour against her neck as his palms crushed over her breasts, the thin fabric providing no barrier. His other hand slid down, cupping her between her legs through the salwar, his fingers rubbing hard against the seam. “All dressed up just for me, you greedy little bitch.” She closed her eyes, seeing not his rotten grin but the crisp five-hundred rupee note she’d left beneath Shikhar’s silent phone.
His hand, still grinding against her, suddenly shoved her back with a force that stole her breath. She landed on the mattress with a soft whump, the bedsprings shrieking in protest, her legs dangling off the edge. "Stay right there," he commanded, his voice thick with anticipation as he stepped back into the center of the room.
First came the heavy gold watch, its clasp clicking open with a definitive snap that echoed in the quiet. He placed it carefully on the chipped dresser with a soft thud, the gesture oddly reverent. Next, his thick fingers worked the elaborate clasp of the gold chain, the links slithering like a dead, metallic snake from beneath his collar.
He added it to the watch, the gold pooling on the dusty wood. Then, his hands went to his shirt buttons, fingers fumbling slightly in their eagerness. He peeled the white fabric open, revealing a broad, hairy chest and a stomach that spilled over his belt, pale and thick.
The shirt was tossed aside, landing on the floor like a discarded ghost. Kriti watched from the bed, her head propped on a thin pillow, her body still in the emerald silk. She saw the sweat already glistening in the grey hair on his chest, smelled the mix of cheap cologne and raw male exertion that filled the space between them.
He stood there for a moment, his chest heaving, his small eyes fixed on her like she was a meal. "Better," he grunted, his hands going to his belt. The leather slid through the loops with a harsh, whispering sound, a promise of what was to come.
The leather slid through the loops with a harsh, whispering sound, a promise of what was to come. His trousers and shorts followed, kicked into a pile on the stained carpet, leaving him naked and ruddy in the lamplight. He walked and slumped himself on the bed, next to Kriti, the old frame groaning under his weight.
He slowly began to run his hand through Kriti’s hair, his fingers thick and possessive, scratching against her scalp. “Had to break some accountant’s fingers today,” he said conversationally, his voice a low rumble. “Stupid bastard thought he could skim from the East Side project.”
Kriti stared at the water stain on the ceiling, shaped like a distorted continent. “Oh,” she said, the word hollow.
“You?” he asked, his hand still moving, tangling in her dark hair. “How was your shining day of giving people pills?”
“It was fine,” she whispered. The lie was automatic. Her day had been the grey smear of all her days, punctuated by the phantom vibration of his text message in her apron pocket.
“Just fine?” He chuckled, a wet sound in his throat. His hand left her hair and traveled down, his palm rough as it cupped her cheek, turning her face toward him. His breath smelled of onions and paan. “You seem quiet. That husband of yours finally grow a pair?”
She didn’t answer. His thumb rubbed over her lips, pressing against them until they parted. “Open,” he commanded softly.
When she did, he slid his thumb into her mouth, pressing it down on her tongue. She closed her eyes, tasting salt and tobacco. “Suck,” he said. She obeyed, the mechanical motion hollowing her cheeks. He watched her, his small eyes glittering with ownership. “Good girl. You know how to use that mouth.”
He pulled his thumb out with a pop and wiped it on the bedspread. Then his hands were on her, impatient now, grabbing the neckline of her kameez. He didn’t bother with it. He just pulled, hard. The cheap silk tore with a shocking ripping sound, parting to her navel. Cool, musty air hit her skin. Her plain, practical bra was exposed, beige against her skin.
“Fuck, I hate these things,” he grunted, his fingers clumsy on the clasp. It gave way. He peeled the cups down, her breasts falling free, and he groaned appreciatively. His hands were all over them, squeezing and mauling, his calloused palms abrading her nipples until they hardened into painful points. “Perfect tits. Wasted on that drunk fool.”
He bent his head and took one into his mouth, not kissing, but sucking hard, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh. A jolt, electric and unwelcome, shot through her groin. She bit her lip, her fingers curling into the torn silk at her sides. He switched to the other, biting a little, laughing against her skin when she flinched. “You like that, you cheap whore? You get wet for me?”
Kriti’s hand, which had been lying inert on the stained bedspread, slowly rose. Her fingers threaded through the sparse, greasy strands clinging to the back of his skull, then tightened into a stiff claw, her nails biting into his sweaty scalp as he continued sucking her tit, grunting like a beast at a trough. He seemed to enjoy the sharp pressure, his mouth working harder, leaving a slick, bruising mark.
Then he stopped sucking and moved to her face. He pulled back, his moustache wet with her saliva, his breath coming in hot gusts. He began slowly kissing all over her face, messy, wet smears across her closed eyelids, her temples, the hollows of her cheeks—a grotesque pantomime of tenderness that made her stomach twist.
Then he parted her lips and kissed her. It was an invasion, thick and overwhelming. He inserted his tongue in her mouth and both tongues met, his pushing past her teeth, a muscular, probing thing that tasted of stale tobacco and power. She didn’t reciprocate; she let hers lie there, a dead fish in the murky water of his mouth, as his hands groped between her legs, pulling at the drawstring of her salwar.
“You’re dripping,” he growled into her mouth, his words a wet vibration against her tongue. He broke the kiss, a string of saliva connecting them for a second before it snapped. “I can feel it through the cloth, you desperate cunt. But you'll have to wait, I want to enjoy your body first before I put my cock in you."
His fingers dug into the drawstring of her salwar, yanking it loose with a sharp tug. The fabric gaped open. He pushed his hand inside, his palm rough and hot against her bare stomach, sliding lower.
Kriti jerked, a involuntary spasm of revulsion that made her hips lift off the mattress. “Don’t—” The word was out before she could choke it back.
“Don’t?” He paused, his fingers curling in the hair between her legs. His eyes, small and gleaming, locked onto hers. “You telling me not to? After you came begging for that loan? After all the times you’ve spread your legs for this?” He pressed the heel of his hand against her, a blunt, grinding pressure. She was wet—a traitorous, slick fact her body supplied without her consent. He felt it and smirked. “Your cunt’s more honest than you are.”
He withdrew his hand, bringing his fingers to his mouth. He sucked them slowly, obscenely, his tongue curling around each digit. “Salty,” he pronounced. “Like you’ve been crying. You cry for me, Kriti?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He grabbed her hips again, his grip like iron. “Time for a better view.”
In one fluid, brutal motion, he rolled, his weight crushing her for an instant before the world upended. Her flipped her in one swift motion, making her land on top of him.
Air left her lungs in a shocked gasp. She was suddenly sprawled across his broad, hairy torso, her palms slapping against his sweaty chest to brace herself. The room spun—the faded wallpaper, the buzzing lamp, the silent television flashing blue across his gold chains piled on the dresser. His erection, thick and urgent, pressed against her inner thigh through the loose salwar now tangled around her knees.
“There,” he grunted, his hands already moving to her waist, controlling her. “That’s better.” He shifted beneath her, his belly a soft, rising mound. Then he slowly moved her forward, in a way that her breast were positioned on his face.
Kriti had to scramble with her knees to keep balance, the mattress dipping under their combined weight. He pushed her upward, his rough palms sliding from her waist to her ribcage, until she was kneeling over his chest. Her torn kameez hung open, her breasts exposed and swaying slightly. He looked up, his gaze predatory, his rotten grin wide. “Come here,” he breathed, his voice thick.
He slowly let her down so that his face was burried under her breasts.
His hands on her back pressed, insistent and unyielding. Kriti had no choice but to sink down, a slow, controlled collapse. The coarse hair of his chest scratched her inner thighs as she descended. Then her breasts enveloped his face, the soft flesh muffling his features. She felt the immediate, wet heat of his mouth on her nipple, sucking hard, his tongue lashing the peak. His nose dug into her other breast, his breath hot and humid against her skin. The scratch of his moustache was a sharp, unpleasant friction. She could hear his muffled grunts, feel the vibrations against her sensitive skin. Her hands, still braced on his shoulders, clenched. She stared over the top of his bald head, at the water stain on the ceiling, her mind scrambling for detachment. But her body responded—a treacherous, unwelcome pulse of warmth spreading from where his mouth worked, a tightening in her lower belly that felt like shame made physical. He shifted, nuzzling deeper, biting playfully at the tender underside of her breast. “Fucking perfect,” he muttered, his words slurred by her flesh.
The motel room smelled of cheap detergent and mildew, the floral wallpaper peeling at the seams like dead skin. A single lamp with a stained shade buzzed on the nightstand, its weak light throwing long, shuddering shadows against the far wall where a muted television played a cricket match to an empty room. Kriti sat on the edge of the bed, the synthetic bedspread scratchy against her palms, her body held in a wire-taut line of dread. The salwar kameez was not hers—a given, gaudy thing of synthetic silk a size too small, the emerald green fabric straining across her breasts and hips, every curve perfectly outlined by the tight clothing.
It had been two hours since she left her house; Shikhar would be asleep by now, alone with the money beneath his phone. She was in this motel in Pune where she was now a regular, a place that belonged to the local land mafia boss. The door opened without a knock, and Hemant Kelkar’s bulk filled the frame, his gold chains glinting dully under the lamp.
He was in his sixties, a thick slab of a man whose bald head shone under the weak light, a greasy fringe of grey hair clinging stubbornly to the sides and back of his skull. A big, mean moustache dominated his upper lip, yellowed at the edges from decades of chewing tobacco and cheap whisky, twitching now as his grin widened at the sight of her. He was dressed in what passed for his uniform: a white shirt strained across his prodigious belly, white pants, and polished black shoes, the crispness of the fabric a stark, cruel joke against the room’s grime.
His work was intimidation. He was the local land mafia’s blunt instrument, a man who made old shopkeepers vanish and construction contracts appear with a few well-placed threats and a ledger of debts. He closed the door with a soft, final click, the lock engaging with a sound like a bone snapping.
“Looking like a real gift tonight,” he grunted, his voice a gravelly rasp.
Kriti’s mind fled the room, hurtling backwards.
It had started six months ago. Hemant had randomly appeared in the pharmacy where she worked, a looming, menacing presence in the sterile aisles. He hadn’t bought anything, just stood there, his eyes crawling over her and the other female staff like thick, cold slugs. Her colleague, an older woman named Leela, had pulled her into the stockroom afterward, her face pale. “That’s Hemant Kelkar,” she’d whispered. “Don’t look at him. Don’t talk to him. Just pray he forgets you.”
But the situation at home was a collapsing mine shaft. Shikhar had just lost another petty job, their fridge was echoingly empty, and the eviction notice was a fresh paper cut on her soul. Desperation was a taste in her mouth, metallic and constant. A week later, she found Hemant outside a paan shop, surrounded by sycophants. She approached him, the words “I need a loan” sticking in her dry throat.
He’d laughed, but he’d given her the money. Fifty thousand rupees in crumpled notes. The interest was predatory, the timeline impossible. When she couldn’t pay, the calls started. Then the men outside the pharmacy. She didn’t want her family—her mother, her sister—to know the depths she’d sunk to. She went to his office to negotiate, a trembling sparrow walking into a vulture’s nest.
Hemant had leaned back in his leather chair, his eyes on her trembling hands. “The debt is gone,” he’d said, flicking ash on the floor. “But you work for me now. Personally. You come when I text. You do what I say. I’ll even pay you a little something for your time. Think of it as a… private arrangement.”
The first feeling was a grief so profound it felt like death. She’d vomited in a filthy public toilet afterward, sobbing silently, scbanging her knuckles against the concrete wall until they bled. She was a pharmacist, a married woman from a good family. This was a midnight chasm from which there was no return. But the weight of the debt was gone. And when she went home to Shikhar’s vacant eyes and the silent, sexless despair of their bed, the chasm began to look like a strange, terrible refuge.
She began visiting him whenever he texted, a simple ‘Come’ with a time and this motel’s address. He would always offer her money afterward, stuffing notes into her purse without looking at her. She hated it at first, each touch a violation that left her scrubbing her skin raw in her bathroom. Shikhar hadn’t touched her with desire in years; his occasional, drunken fumbling was a pitiable thing, over in minutes, leaving her more alone than before.
Hemant was different. He was crude, vile, and took what he wanted with a brutal, athletic selfishness that shocked her body into a traitorous response. The humiliation was part of it—the filthy names he growled in her ear, the way he used her like an object. It was a punishment she felt she deserved, and in that punishment, a twisted thread of pleasure began to pulse. It was real, animal, and obliterating. And on top of that, she got money for it.
He liked to feel her body’s every curve through her clothes first, his thick, ringed hands groping and kneading the straining silk. “Fuck, look at that,” he grunted, his breath hot and sour against her neck as his palms crushed over her breasts, the thin fabric providing no barrier. His other hand slid down, cupping her between her legs through the salwar, his fingers rubbing hard against the seam. “All dressed up just for me, you greedy little bitch.” She closed her eyes, seeing not his rotten grin but the crisp five-hundred rupee note she’d left beneath Shikhar’s silent phone.
His hand, still grinding against her, suddenly shoved her back with a force that stole her breath. She landed on the mattress with a soft whump, the bedsprings shrieking in protest, her legs dangling off the edge. "Stay right there," he commanded, his voice thick with anticipation as he stepped back into the center of the room.
First came the heavy gold watch, its clasp clicking open with a definitive snap that echoed in the quiet. He placed it carefully on the chipped dresser with a soft thud, the gesture oddly reverent. Next, his thick fingers worked the elaborate clasp of the gold chain, the links slithering like a dead, metallic snake from beneath his collar.
He added it to the watch, the gold pooling on the dusty wood. Then, his hands went to his shirt buttons, fingers fumbling slightly in their eagerness. He peeled the white fabric open, revealing a broad, hairy chest and a stomach that spilled over his belt, pale and thick.
The shirt was tossed aside, landing on the floor like a discarded ghost. Kriti watched from the bed, her head propped on a thin pillow, her body still in the emerald silk. She saw the sweat already glistening in the grey hair on his chest, smelled the mix of cheap cologne and raw male exertion that filled the space between them.
He stood there for a moment, his chest heaving, his small eyes fixed on her like she was a meal. "Better," he grunted, his hands going to his belt. The leather slid through the loops with a harsh, whispering sound, a promise of what was to come.
The leather slid through the loops with a harsh, whispering sound, a promise of what was to come. His trousers and shorts followed, kicked into a pile on the stained carpet, leaving him naked and ruddy in the lamplight. He walked and slumped himself on the bed, next to Kriti, the old frame groaning under his weight.
He slowly began to run his hand through Kriti’s hair, his fingers thick and possessive, scratching against her scalp. “Had to break some accountant’s fingers today,” he said conversationally, his voice a low rumble. “Stupid bastard thought he could skim from the East Side project.”
Kriti stared at the water stain on the ceiling, shaped like a distorted continent. “Oh,” she said, the word hollow.
“You?” he asked, his hand still moving, tangling in her dark hair. “How was your shining day of giving people pills?”
“It was fine,” she whispered. The lie was automatic. Her day had been the grey smear of all her days, punctuated by the phantom vibration of his text message in her apron pocket.
“Just fine?” He chuckled, a wet sound in his throat. His hand left her hair and traveled down, his palm rough as it cupped her cheek, turning her face toward him. His breath smelled of onions and paan. “You seem quiet. That husband of yours finally grow a pair?”
She didn’t answer. His thumb rubbed over her lips, pressing against them until they parted. “Open,” he commanded softly.
When she did, he slid his thumb into her mouth, pressing it down on her tongue. She closed her eyes, tasting salt and tobacco. “Suck,” he said. She obeyed, the mechanical motion hollowing her cheeks. He watched her, his small eyes glittering with ownership. “Good girl. You know how to use that mouth.”
He pulled his thumb out with a pop and wiped it on the bedspread. Then his hands were on her, impatient now, grabbing the neckline of her kameez. He didn’t bother with it. He just pulled, hard. The cheap silk tore with a shocking ripping sound, parting to her navel. Cool, musty air hit her skin. Her plain, practical bra was exposed, beige against her skin.
“Fuck, I hate these things,” he grunted, his fingers clumsy on the clasp. It gave way. He peeled the cups down, her breasts falling free, and he groaned appreciatively. His hands were all over them, squeezing and mauling, his calloused palms abrading her nipples until they hardened into painful points. “Perfect tits. Wasted on that drunk fool.”
He bent his head and took one into his mouth, not kissing, but sucking hard, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh. A jolt, electric and unwelcome, shot through her groin. She bit her lip, her fingers curling into the torn silk at her sides. He switched to the other, biting a little, laughing against her skin when she flinched. “You like that, you cheap whore? You get wet for me?”
Kriti’s hand, which had been lying inert on the stained bedspread, slowly rose. Her fingers threaded through the sparse, greasy strands clinging to the back of his skull, then tightened into a stiff claw, her nails biting into his sweaty scalp as he continued sucking her tit, grunting like a beast at a trough. He seemed to enjoy the sharp pressure, his mouth working harder, leaving a slick, bruising mark.
Then he stopped sucking and moved to her face. He pulled back, his moustache wet with her saliva, his breath coming in hot gusts. He began slowly kissing all over her face, messy, wet smears across her closed eyelids, her temples, the hollows of her cheeks—a grotesque pantomime of tenderness that made her stomach twist.
Then he parted her lips and kissed her. It was an invasion, thick and overwhelming. He inserted his tongue in her mouth and both tongues met, his pushing past her teeth, a muscular, probing thing that tasted of stale tobacco and power. She didn’t reciprocate; she let hers lie there, a dead fish in the murky water of his mouth, as his hands groped between her legs, pulling at the drawstring of her salwar.
“You’re dripping,” he growled into her mouth, his words a wet vibration against her tongue. He broke the kiss, a string of saliva connecting them for a second before it snapped. “I can feel it through the cloth, you desperate cunt. But you'll have to wait, I want to enjoy your body first before I put my cock in you."
His fingers dug into the drawstring of her salwar, yanking it loose with a sharp tug. The fabric gaped open. He pushed his hand inside, his palm rough and hot against her bare stomach, sliding lower.
Kriti jerked, a involuntary spasm of revulsion that made her hips lift off the mattress. “Don’t—” The word was out before she could choke it back.
“Don’t?” He paused, his fingers curling in the hair between her legs. His eyes, small and gleaming, locked onto hers. “You telling me not to? After you came begging for that loan? After all the times you’ve spread your legs for this?” He pressed the heel of his hand against her, a blunt, grinding pressure. She was wet—a traitorous, slick fact her body supplied without her consent. He felt it and smirked. “Your cunt’s more honest than you are.”
He withdrew his hand, bringing his fingers to his mouth. He sucked them slowly, obscenely, his tongue curling around each digit. “Salty,” he pronounced. “Like you’ve been crying. You cry for me, Kriti?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He grabbed her hips again, his grip like iron. “Time for a better view.”
In one fluid, brutal motion, he rolled, his weight crushing her for an instant before the world upended. Her flipped her in one swift motion, making her land on top of him.
Air left her lungs in a shocked gasp. She was suddenly sprawled across his broad, hairy torso, her palms slapping against his sweaty chest to brace herself. The room spun—the faded wallpaper, the buzzing lamp, the silent television flashing blue across his gold chains piled on the dresser. His erection, thick and urgent, pressed against her inner thigh through the loose salwar now tangled around her knees.
“There,” he grunted, his hands already moving to her waist, controlling her. “That’s better.” He shifted beneath her, his belly a soft, rising mound. Then he slowly moved her forward, in a way that her breast were positioned on his face.
Kriti had to scramble with her knees to keep balance, the mattress dipping under their combined weight. He pushed her upward, his rough palms sliding from her waist to her ribcage, until she was kneeling over his chest. Her torn kameez hung open, her breasts exposed and swaying slightly. He looked up, his gaze predatory, his rotten grin wide. “Come here,” he breathed, his voice thick.
He slowly let her down so that his face was burried under her breasts.
His hands on her back pressed, insistent and unyielding. Kriti had no choice but to sink down, a slow, controlled collapse. The coarse hair of his chest scratched her inner thighs as she descended. Then her breasts enveloped his face, the soft flesh muffling his features. She felt the immediate, wet heat of his mouth on her nipple, sucking hard, his tongue lashing the peak. His nose dug into her other breast, his breath hot and humid against her skin. The scratch of his moustache was a sharp, unpleasant friction. She could hear his muffled grunts, feel the vibrations against her sensitive skin. Her hands, still braced on his shoulders, clenched. She stared over the top of his bald head, at the water stain on the ceiling, her mind scrambling for detachment. But her body responded—a treacherous, unwelcome pulse of warmth spreading from where his mouth worked, a tightening in her lower belly that felt like shame made physical. He shifted, nuzzling deeper, biting playfully at the tender underside of her breast. “Fucking perfect,” he muttered, his words slurred by her flesh.
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