1 hour ago
(This post was last modified: 1 hour ago by SilverArrow. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
The movie’s plot deepened, pulling them both into a comfortable, temporary distraction. For the next twenty minutes, the heavy, suffocating reality of their situation seemed to suspend itself. The whiskey worked its subtle magic, loosening the tight coil in Monica’s chest. They chatted more freely now, their voices kept to a low, intimate murmur, exchanging dry observations about the film’s glaring loopholes and dissecting Deshmukh’s predictable bureaucratic paranoia.
On the screen, the heroine backed away into a dark corridor, the camera panning slowly to reveal the intruder waiting in the blind spot. The ambient soundtrack dropped to a low, thrumming bass.
Ranga took a slow sip of his whiskey. He didn't turn his head when he spoke, his voice quiet, slicing cleanly through the casual atmosphere.
"She has no idea what’s standing right behind her," Ranga murmured. He paused, the ice clinking softly in his tumbler.
"Reminds me of you. When you walked into that site cabin. You had no idea how the afternoon was going to end."
The breath caught in Monica’s throat.
The comfortable illusion shattered instantly. The temperature in the air-conditioned living room seemed to spike, the phantom smell of cement dust and raw sweat suddenly thick in her memory. She lowered the glass slowly, resting it on her knees. She kept her eyes fixed on the television, her heart beginning a frantic, heavy rhythm against her ribs.
She remained completely quiet for a long, agonizing moment.
Finally, she swallowed, forcing her voice to remain steady. "We should both just forget about that, Ranga Saab. It was a mistake."
Ranga didn't argue. He simply gave a slow nod. "Hmm."
..
Silence descended over the sofa. It was no longer the relaxed, tipsy quiet from before; it was thick, charged, and suffocatingly heavy. They sat completely still, staring blankly at the screen as the tense thriller sequence played out in flashes of blue and white light across their faces.
But the dam had been breached. The whiskey that had numbed her earlier was now stripping away her emotional armor, leaving her painfully raw.
When the scene on the TV finally broke its tension, Monica let out a shaky, uneven exhale. She looked down at her hands. The image of Rakesh, pale and shivering under the heavy quilt just down the hallway, crashed into her mind, bringing a crushing, nauseating wave of remorse.
"I shouldn't have done it," Monica whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of a sudden, profound guilt. She shook her head, the sassy edge entirely gone, replaced by a deep, aching vulnerability. "I shouldn't have cheated poor Rakesh to that extent. And I can’t believe I did all that. I can't ever get over the guilt."
Ranga observed her keenly from the corner of his eye. He didn't offer empty comforts or platitudes. He simply watched the way the blue light caught the shameful tear glistening in her dark beautiful eyes. They just looked at the screen blankly, the silence stretching out between them like a taut wire.
Then, Ranga shifted.
"Even I got carried away," he admitted, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. There was no boastfulness in it, just a flat acknowledgment of a raw, ugly truth. "I didn't plan for it to go that far honestly"
Monica slowly nodded, her eyes vacant, lost in the dark replay of that afternoon. She brought the delicate wine glass to her lips, sipping the amber liquid slowly to burn the knot out of her throat.
"It's not only you," she murmured, her voice hollow but resolute. "I am equally guilty for everything, Ranga Anna. I didn't stop you when I could have. So... it's okay."
.
Ranga studied her profile for a long time. His gaze was heavy, dissecting her guilt, reading the subtle, treacherous way her breathing had shallowed just from talking about it.
"Considering how your body reacted..." Ranga started, his tone dropping an octave
Monica’s head snapped toward him, her eyes wide. The sheer audacity of him bringing up her physical surrender—while her husband slept twenty feet away—sent a violent shock of heat straight to her core.
"Let's not talk about that, please," she interrupted sharply, her sassy, defensive armor flaring up instantly. She glared at him, her breasts heaving up and down.
Ranga kept quiet.
The silence stretched for ten unbearable seconds. The heat in Monica’s veins boiled over. She couldn't handle his calm, knowing stare.
"What is your point anyway?!" Monica flared up, a harsh, sassy irritation lacing her hushed voice. "Are you trying to make me feel worse?"
A slow, dark grin spread across Ranga’s face. It wasn't a smile of malice, but a deeply knowing, predatory smirk.
"My point, Monica," he said smoothly, "is that you know exactly how your body reacted. You didn't just endure it. You melted. So it is better you try to forget the moral guilt and accept it for what it was—just physical needs we all have. Biology. Nothing more. For both of us!"
Monica stared at him, her lips parted, her breathing shallow and fast. She slowly shook her head, an overwhelming sense of shame washing over her, mixing fatally with the dark, heavy arousal his words had just sparked in her belly.
"And that’s the most horrible feeling I got henceforth," she whispered, She looked down at the carpet, her fingers gripping the stem of the glass like a lifeline. "I just submitted myself to you... fuck... we ended up together for two... two whole hours."
The words hung in the air, thick and devastating. Two hours. Two hours of raw, unhinged anal sex. Two hours of her screaming his name in a dusty cabin.
The movie played on, the muted gunshots and dramatic music completely ignored. The emotion within the dim living room had heated up to a suffocating, electrifying degree. The space between them on the sofa felt suddenly incredibly small, the forbidden erotic tension pulling at Monica with a gravity she was terrified she could no longer resist.
..
The low hum of the air conditioner seemed to amplify the suffocating, heavy tension settling over the sofa.
"It doesn't make you a bad woman, Monica," Ranga said, his voice a smooth, dark drawl that vibrated with dangerous persuasion. He swirled the whiskey in his glass, not breaking eye contact. "You didn't plan it. It was biology. Pure, raw physical friction. Your husband couldn't give you what your body demanded that day, and I was there. Don't dress it up in morality. It was just release."
Monica took a sharp, defensive sip from her wine glass, her dark eyes flashing with a mix of deep-seated guilt and sassy defiance.
"Save the philosophy for your goondas, Ranga Saab," she snapped back, though the alcohol made her words slur just a fraction. "You can call it biology all you want. I still have to look at my husband’s face every morning. I'm an adulterous wife, yes that’s what I have become"
.
She shifted uncomfortably, the heat in her veins making the air feel too thick.
"I need ice," Monica announced abruptly, her voice crisp. She looked at his half-empty tumbler. "Do you want ice?"
Ranga’s eyes tracked the subtle, nervous flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat. He gave a slow, deliberate nod. "Yes."
Monica stood up, smoothing the front of her kurti and walked toward the open kitchen. The tiles were cold beneath her bare feet.
She didn't hear his footsteps behind.
When she turned around, an ice tray in her hands, Ranga was already standing inside the narrow confines of the kitchen. His massive frame blocked the exit entirely, casting a long, heavy shadow under the harsh white fluorescent light.
Monica’s breath hitched, but she forced a sassy sigh. "Did you really have to follow me? I am perfectly capable of carrying two cubes of ice to the living room."
Ranga didn't move. He leaned his hip against the granite counter, his dark eyes raking over her with ruthless, calculated precision.
"Tell me something, Monica," Ranga began, ignoring her completely. His voice was low, carrying a cold-blooded edge. "What exactly are you getting from him?"
Monica froze, the ice tray suddenly feeling incredibly heavy. "Excuse me?"
"Rakesh," Ranga clarified, stepping one inch closer. "What does he actually give you? You run the side business. You handle the municipal bribes. You manage the house. And when the pressure gets slightly too high, what does he do?
He collapses. He lies in that bed, shivering, waiting for his wife to nurse him."
"He has a 104-degree fever, you bastard," Monica hissed, her composure fracturing into sharp, genuine anger. She slammed the ice tray onto the counter. "He is sick. Stop talking about my husband in my own house."
"He's weak," Ranga countered, his voice dropping into a brutal, undeniable whisper. He took another step, cornering her against the refrigerator. "He’s a coward, Monica. A wimp. He can't protect you, and he certainly does not fuck you the way you love Monica!! That’s why you broke apart so easily in that cabin."
"Shut up," Monica breathed, her chest heaving violently. She tried to push past him, her pride demanding she throw him out, but her limbs felt heavy, drugged by the whiskey and the sheer, overwhelming proximity of his huge body.
"You don't know anything about my marriage. Move out of my way, Ranga."
"I know exactly how your marriage feels," Ranga murmured, his chest now brushing against hers, trapping her completely. "It feels like starvation."
Before Monica could fire back another sharp retort, Ranga’s large hand shot out, gripping the back of her neck with terrifying, absolute authority.
"Ranga—" Monica gasped, her eyes widening in sudden panic.
He slammed her back against the hard, cold metal of the refrigerator. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs and started kissing her really hard.
"Not again, Ranga... Not again!" she yelled, in a sharp, frantic whisper, terrified of waking Rakesh up. She pushed her hands against his solid chest, "Stop—"
Ranga was relentless. He didn't care about her sleeping husband. He didn't care about her guilt. He twisted his fingers into her hair, forcing her head back, exposing the long, elegant column of her throat, and started kissing her like an animal
It wasn't a romantic kiss. It was a violent, punishing collision of lips and whiskey.
Monica whimpered, keeping her lips clamped shut in a final, desperate act of resistance. But Ranga’s grip was iron. He dragged his open mouth roughly over hers, and when she refused to yield, his teeth bore down sharply on her bottom lip.
A sharp, electric jolt of pain shot through Monica. She gasped, her mouth opening involuntarily, and Ranga instantly invaded her lips. His tongue thrust deep inside her mouth, tasting of aged scotch, dominance, and dark, depraved intent.
The pain of the bite acted like a switch, short-circuiting every logical, moral synapse left in Monica’s brain. The suffocating guilt over Rakesh sleeping just twenty feet away twisted violently into something else—a sick, shameful, adrenaline-fueled thrill.
Her resistance shattered completely.
The hands that had been pushing against his chest suddenly curled inward, her perfectly manicured nails digging fiercely into the fabric of his shirt. A guttural, filthy sound vibrated in the back of Monica’s throat. She kissed him back with the same aggressive, animalistic hunger if not more, her tongue tangling frantically with his.
Ranga let out a low growl of approval. His hands dropped to her waist, lifting her effortlessly off the floor. Monica didn't fight it; she wrapped her legs tight around his hips, her back grinding against the cold steel of the fridge. They devoured each other in the dim kitchen light, the kiss turning utterly depraved—sloppy, wet, and bruising, fueled by two weeks of repressed guilt and the intoxicating, deeply taboo reality that her husband was just down the hall.
Ranga broke the kiss abruptly, pulling his mouth away just far enough to let the cold kitchen air rush between them. A thick, wet string of saliva connected their swollen lips for a fraction of a second before snapping.
Monica gasped violently, her chest heaving against his solid frame. The sudden absence of his mouth hit her like a bucket of ice water, snapping her momentarily out of the dark, whiskey-soaked haze. Her eyes went wide with sheer terror as the reality of the scene crashed back into her brain.
"Are you out of your fucking mind?" Monica hissed in a frantic, breathless whisper, her hands coming up to push frantically against his chest. “ Rakesh is just there... he will see everything if he wakes up even a bit!"
Ranga didn't step back. His massive hands tightened around her waist, his dark eyes burning with a cold, relentless fire as he stared down at her flushed, terrified face.
"Then I suggest let’s wake him up and show how much fun we both having," Ranga murmured.
"I said let me go," Monica breathed, her sassy edge cracking into genuine, panicked desperation. She twisted her shoulders, trying to slide off the refrigerator. "If he wakes up... and see us, my marriage is over!!!"
"He won't do anything" Ranga stated with absolute, terrifying certainty.
Instead of letting her go, Ranga’s hands gripped her hips with bruising force. In one fluid, brutal motion, he pulled her away from the fridge, and slammed her back onto the cold black granite of the kitchen slab.
The movement was too fast, too violent. As Monica’s lower back hit the counter, her flailing elbow clipped the edge of the stainless steel dish rack.
A heavy steel plate and two steel bowls went flying over the edge. They hit the tiled floor with a series of sharp, deafening, metallic crashes that echoed like gunshots in the dead silence of the apartment.
Monica froze completely. Her heart stopped beating.
The sheer, terrifying thrill of nearly being caught—of doing something so deeply filthy in the very heart of her domestic life—acted like a lethal aphrodisiac. A hot, wet rush flooded Monica’s cunt, pooling heavily between her thighs.
Ranga leaned over her, caging her on the slab with both arms, completely unbothered by the noise. He looked at the hallway, then back down at her wide, trembling eyes, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face.
"See?" Ranga whispered, his breath hot against her ear. "He is completely useless. A bomb could go off in his own house and he wouldn't wake up to protect you"
"You... you bastard..." Monica whimpered, a ragged, dirty sound that had absolutely no polish left in it.
Ranga crashed his mouth down onto hers again, far more violently than before.
This time, there was no resistance left in Monica to break. The psychological dam completely shattered. She let out a muffled, guttural moan into his mouth, her hands flying up not to push him away, but to desperately grip the thick hair at the back of his neck as they kissed and kissed. She pulled his face deeper against hers, opening her mouth wide, inviting the invasion.
Ranga’s tongue thrust into her mouth with ruthless, dominating rhythm, mimicking the brutal pace he had used in the site cabin. Monica answered with equal ferocity. She sucked on his tongue, whimpering shamelessly into the kiss, her body arching off the cold granite slab to grind her aching cunt against the hard, heavy bulge pressing into her thighs.
On the screen, the heroine backed away into a dark corridor, the camera panning slowly to reveal the intruder waiting in the blind spot. The ambient soundtrack dropped to a low, thrumming bass.
Ranga took a slow sip of his whiskey. He didn't turn his head when he spoke, his voice quiet, slicing cleanly through the casual atmosphere.
"She has no idea what’s standing right behind her," Ranga murmured. He paused, the ice clinking softly in his tumbler.
"Reminds me of you. When you walked into that site cabin. You had no idea how the afternoon was going to end."
The breath caught in Monica’s throat.
The comfortable illusion shattered instantly. The temperature in the air-conditioned living room seemed to spike, the phantom smell of cement dust and raw sweat suddenly thick in her memory. She lowered the glass slowly, resting it on her knees. She kept her eyes fixed on the television, her heart beginning a frantic, heavy rhythm against her ribs.
She remained completely quiet for a long, agonizing moment.
Finally, she swallowed, forcing her voice to remain steady. "We should both just forget about that, Ranga Saab. It was a mistake."
Ranga didn't argue. He simply gave a slow nod. "Hmm."
..
Silence descended over the sofa. It was no longer the relaxed, tipsy quiet from before; it was thick, charged, and suffocatingly heavy. They sat completely still, staring blankly at the screen as the tense thriller sequence played out in flashes of blue and white light across their faces.
But the dam had been breached. The whiskey that had numbed her earlier was now stripping away her emotional armor, leaving her painfully raw.
When the scene on the TV finally broke its tension, Monica let out a shaky, uneven exhale. She looked down at her hands. The image of Rakesh, pale and shivering under the heavy quilt just down the hallway, crashed into her mind, bringing a crushing, nauseating wave of remorse.
"I shouldn't have done it," Monica whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of a sudden, profound guilt. She shook her head, the sassy edge entirely gone, replaced by a deep, aching vulnerability. "I shouldn't have cheated poor Rakesh to that extent. And I can’t believe I did all that. I can't ever get over the guilt."
Ranga observed her keenly from the corner of his eye. He didn't offer empty comforts or platitudes. He simply watched the way the blue light caught the shameful tear glistening in her dark beautiful eyes. They just looked at the screen blankly, the silence stretching out between them like a taut wire.
Then, Ranga shifted.
"Even I got carried away," he admitted, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. There was no boastfulness in it, just a flat acknowledgment of a raw, ugly truth. "I didn't plan for it to go that far honestly"
Monica slowly nodded, her eyes vacant, lost in the dark replay of that afternoon. She brought the delicate wine glass to her lips, sipping the amber liquid slowly to burn the knot out of her throat.
"It's not only you," she murmured, her voice hollow but resolute. "I am equally guilty for everything, Ranga Anna. I didn't stop you when I could have. So... it's okay."
.
Ranga studied her profile for a long time. His gaze was heavy, dissecting her guilt, reading the subtle, treacherous way her breathing had shallowed just from talking about it.
"Considering how your body reacted..." Ranga started, his tone dropping an octave
Monica’s head snapped toward him, her eyes wide. The sheer audacity of him bringing up her physical surrender—while her husband slept twenty feet away—sent a violent shock of heat straight to her core.
"Let's not talk about that, please," she interrupted sharply, her sassy, defensive armor flaring up instantly. She glared at him, her breasts heaving up and down.
Ranga kept quiet.
The silence stretched for ten unbearable seconds. The heat in Monica’s veins boiled over. She couldn't handle his calm, knowing stare.
"What is your point anyway?!" Monica flared up, a harsh, sassy irritation lacing her hushed voice. "Are you trying to make me feel worse?"
A slow, dark grin spread across Ranga’s face. It wasn't a smile of malice, but a deeply knowing, predatory smirk.
"My point, Monica," he said smoothly, "is that you know exactly how your body reacted. You didn't just endure it. You melted. So it is better you try to forget the moral guilt and accept it for what it was—just physical needs we all have. Biology. Nothing more. For both of us!"
Monica stared at him, her lips parted, her breathing shallow and fast. She slowly shook her head, an overwhelming sense of shame washing over her, mixing fatally with the dark, heavy arousal his words had just sparked in her belly.
"And that’s the most horrible feeling I got henceforth," she whispered, She looked down at the carpet, her fingers gripping the stem of the glass like a lifeline. "I just submitted myself to you... fuck... we ended up together for two... two whole hours."
The words hung in the air, thick and devastating. Two hours. Two hours of raw, unhinged anal sex. Two hours of her screaming his name in a dusty cabin.
The movie played on, the muted gunshots and dramatic music completely ignored. The emotion within the dim living room had heated up to a suffocating, electrifying degree. The space between them on the sofa felt suddenly incredibly small, the forbidden erotic tension pulling at Monica with a gravity she was terrified she could no longer resist.
..
The low hum of the air conditioner seemed to amplify the suffocating, heavy tension settling over the sofa.
"It doesn't make you a bad woman, Monica," Ranga said, his voice a smooth, dark drawl that vibrated with dangerous persuasion. He swirled the whiskey in his glass, not breaking eye contact. "You didn't plan it. It was biology. Pure, raw physical friction. Your husband couldn't give you what your body demanded that day, and I was there. Don't dress it up in morality. It was just release."
Monica took a sharp, defensive sip from her wine glass, her dark eyes flashing with a mix of deep-seated guilt and sassy defiance.
"Save the philosophy for your goondas, Ranga Saab," she snapped back, though the alcohol made her words slur just a fraction. "You can call it biology all you want. I still have to look at my husband’s face every morning. I'm an adulterous wife, yes that’s what I have become"
.
She shifted uncomfortably, the heat in her veins making the air feel too thick.
"I need ice," Monica announced abruptly, her voice crisp. She looked at his half-empty tumbler. "Do you want ice?"
Ranga’s eyes tracked the subtle, nervous flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat. He gave a slow, deliberate nod. "Yes."
Monica stood up, smoothing the front of her kurti and walked toward the open kitchen. The tiles were cold beneath her bare feet.
She didn't hear his footsteps behind.
When she turned around, an ice tray in her hands, Ranga was already standing inside the narrow confines of the kitchen. His massive frame blocked the exit entirely, casting a long, heavy shadow under the harsh white fluorescent light.
Monica’s breath hitched, but she forced a sassy sigh. "Did you really have to follow me? I am perfectly capable of carrying two cubes of ice to the living room."
Ranga didn't move. He leaned his hip against the granite counter, his dark eyes raking over her with ruthless, calculated precision.
"Tell me something, Monica," Ranga began, ignoring her completely. His voice was low, carrying a cold-blooded edge. "What exactly are you getting from him?"
Monica froze, the ice tray suddenly feeling incredibly heavy. "Excuse me?"
"Rakesh," Ranga clarified, stepping one inch closer. "What does he actually give you? You run the side business. You handle the municipal bribes. You manage the house. And when the pressure gets slightly too high, what does he do?
He collapses. He lies in that bed, shivering, waiting for his wife to nurse him."
"He has a 104-degree fever, you bastard," Monica hissed, her composure fracturing into sharp, genuine anger. She slammed the ice tray onto the counter. "He is sick. Stop talking about my husband in my own house."
"He's weak," Ranga countered, his voice dropping into a brutal, undeniable whisper. He took another step, cornering her against the refrigerator. "He’s a coward, Monica. A wimp. He can't protect you, and he certainly does not fuck you the way you love Monica!! That’s why you broke apart so easily in that cabin."
"Shut up," Monica breathed, her chest heaving violently. She tried to push past him, her pride demanding she throw him out, but her limbs felt heavy, drugged by the whiskey and the sheer, overwhelming proximity of his huge body.
"You don't know anything about my marriage. Move out of my way, Ranga."
"I know exactly how your marriage feels," Ranga murmured, his chest now brushing against hers, trapping her completely. "It feels like starvation."
Before Monica could fire back another sharp retort, Ranga’s large hand shot out, gripping the back of her neck with terrifying, absolute authority.
"Ranga—" Monica gasped, her eyes widening in sudden panic.
He slammed her back against the hard, cold metal of the refrigerator. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs and started kissing her really hard.
"Not again, Ranga... Not again!" she yelled, in a sharp, frantic whisper, terrified of waking Rakesh up. She pushed her hands against his solid chest, "Stop—"
Ranga was relentless. He didn't care about her sleeping husband. He didn't care about her guilt. He twisted his fingers into her hair, forcing her head back, exposing the long, elegant column of her throat, and started kissing her like an animal
It wasn't a romantic kiss. It was a violent, punishing collision of lips and whiskey.
Monica whimpered, keeping her lips clamped shut in a final, desperate act of resistance. But Ranga’s grip was iron. He dragged his open mouth roughly over hers, and when she refused to yield, his teeth bore down sharply on her bottom lip.
A sharp, electric jolt of pain shot through Monica. She gasped, her mouth opening involuntarily, and Ranga instantly invaded her lips. His tongue thrust deep inside her mouth, tasting of aged scotch, dominance, and dark, depraved intent.
The pain of the bite acted like a switch, short-circuiting every logical, moral synapse left in Monica’s brain. The suffocating guilt over Rakesh sleeping just twenty feet away twisted violently into something else—a sick, shameful, adrenaline-fueled thrill.
Her resistance shattered completely.
The hands that had been pushing against his chest suddenly curled inward, her perfectly manicured nails digging fiercely into the fabric of his shirt. A guttural, filthy sound vibrated in the back of Monica’s throat. She kissed him back with the same aggressive, animalistic hunger if not more, her tongue tangling frantically with his.
Ranga let out a low growl of approval. His hands dropped to her waist, lifting her effortlessly off the floor. Monica didn't fight it; she wrapped her legs tight around his hips, her back grinding against the cold steel of the fridge. They devoured each other in the dim kitchen light, the kiss turning utterly depraved—sloppy, wet, and bruising, fueled by two weeks of repressed guilt and the intoxicating, deeply taboo reality that her husband was just down the hall.
Ranga broke the kiss abruptly, pulling his mouth away just far enough to let the cold kitchen air rush between them. A thick, wet string of saliva connected their swollen lips for a fraction of a second before snapping.
Monica gasped violently, her chest heaving against his solid frame. The sudden absence of his mouth hit her like a bucket of ice water, snapping her momentarily out of the dark, whiskey-soaked haze. Her eyes went wide with sheer terror as the reality of the scene crashed back into her brain.
"Are you out of your fucking mind?" Monica hissed in a frantic, breathless whisper, her hands coming up to push frantically against his chest. “ Rakesh is just there... he will see everything if he wakes up even a bit!"
Ranga didn't step back. His massive hands tightened around her waist, his dark eyes burning with a cold, relentless fire as he stared down at her flushed, terrified face.
"Then I suggest let’s wake him up and show how much fun we both having," Ranga murmured.
"I said let me go," Monica breathed, her sassy edge cracking into genuine, panicked desperation. She twisted her shoulders, trying to slide off the refrigerator. "If he wakes up... and see us, my marriage is over!!!"
"He won't do anything" Ranga stated with absolute, terrifying certainty.
Instead of letting her go, Ranga’s hands gripped her hips with bruising force. In one fluid, brutal motion, he pulled her away from the fridge, and slammed her back onto the cold black granite of the kitchen slab.
The movement was too fast, too violent. As Monica’s lower back hit the counter, her flailing elbow clipped the edge of the stainless steel dish rack.
A heavy steel plate and two steel bowls went flying over the edge. They hit the tiled floor with a series of sharp, deafening, metallic crashes that echoed like gunshots in the dead silence of the apartment.
Monica froze completely. Her heart stopped beating.
The sheer, terrifying thrill of nearly being caught—of doing something so deeply filthy in the very heart of her domestic life—acted like a lethal aphrodisiac. A hot, wet rush flooded Monica’s cunt, pooling heavily between her thighs.
Ranga leaned over her, caging her on the slab with both arms, completely unbothered by the noise. He looked at the hallway, then back down at her wide, trembling eyes, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face.
"See?" Ranga whispered, his breath hot against her ear. "He is completely useless. A bomb could go off in his own house and he wouldn't wake up to protect you"
"You... you bastard..." Monica whimpered, a ragged, dirty sound that had absolutely no polish left in it.
Ranga crashed his mouth down onto hers again, far more violently than before.
This time, there was no resistance left in Monica to break. The psychological dam completely shattered. She let out a muffled, guttural moan into his mouth, her hands flying up not to push him away, but to desperately grip the thick hair at the back of his neck as they kissed and kissed. She pulled his face deeper against hers, opening her mouth wide, inviting the invasion.
Ranga’s tongue thrust into her mouth with ruthless, dominating rhythm, mimicking the brutal pace he had used in the site cabin. Monica answered with equal ferocity. She sucked on his tongue, whimpering shamelessly into the kiss, her body arching off the cold granite slab to grind her aching cunt against the hard, heavy bulge pressing into her thighs.
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