[SilverArrow]

Ranga’s mouth left her breast with a wet, audible pop. Cool air rushed over the spit-slick skin; the nipple tightened further in the sudden absence of heat. Monica’s chest rose and fell hard. The soft flesh still carried the imprint of his fingers and the darker marks his sucking had left. She pushed up on her elbows at once, the mattress dipping under the shift of her weight.

“That’s enough. Get off me. We’re done.”

He did not move away. The heat of his body stayed close. One hand remained braced beside her shoulder, the other already sliding down the curve of her waist. His fingers found the elastic of the damp black panties and hooked under it on both sides. The cotton was warmer than the rest of her skin where it had been pressed against her, and slightly sticky.

Monica’s eyes widened. She grabbed at his wrists; her nails scbangd lightly over the backs of his hands.

“Don’t you dare. Ranga— I’m serious. Leave them on.”

He began to pull. The motion was slow enough that she felt every centimetre. The elastic stretched, then released with a soft snap against her hipbones. Cool air touched the newly exposed skin of her lower belly. The thin fabric peeled away from the soft mound beneath, clinging for a second to the damp hair before giving way. Monica twisted and tried to close her thighs. The inner surfaces brushed together, slick. He pushed one knee between them; the rough fabric of his still-on trousers scbangd the sensitive skin of her inner thigh as he kept the legs apart and continued the downward drag.

“Stop— you’re making this worse than it needs to be—”

“Lift.”

“No.”

He pulled harder. The panties stretched tight across the widest part of her thighs, the damp crotch turning inside-out for a moment and releasing a faint, intimate scent of her arousal into the small space between them. Monica’s face burned. She turned her head toward the pillow, jaw locked, but he did not rush. He worked the fabric down past her knees— the soft scbang of cotton against skin, the quiet rustle as it gathered— then over her calves. When the panties finally cleared her ankles he held them up between two fingers. The dark, obvious wetness in the centre was impossible to miss. He let them drop to the floor with a soft sound.

Monica was completely naked. The air of the bedroom felt cooler against every newly exposed inch. She immediately tried to cover herself— one arm banding across her breasts so the soft weight pressed against her own forearm, the other hand pressing between her legs. Ranga caught both wrists. His grip was warm and dry. He pressed them lightly into the mattress above her head; the sheets were cool under her knuckles. She was held open under his gaze.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said, voice tight with humiliation and the residual heat still pulsing between her legs. “You’ve made your point. Let go.”

He released her wrists only long enough to stand. The mattress shifted as his weight left it. Monica scrambled to sit up; her bare breasts swayed with the sudden movement and she crossed one arm over them again. Ranga’s hands went to his own trousers. The metal of the button clicked. The zipper rasped down. He pushed the fabric over his hips and stepped out; the trousers hit the floor with a heavier sound than her panties had made. His cock rose thick and heavily erect, the head already flushed dark and shining with a thin bead of moisture at the tip. The shaft looked rigid, veined, the skin stretched tight. In the low light it seemed almost blunt with readiness.

Monica’s eyes dropped to it despite herself. The size of it registered in a single hot pulse low in her belly before she forced her gaze back to his face.

“Put that away,” she said, the bold edge still present even as her voice roughened. “We’re not going any further. You’ve already stripped me. That’s enough for one night.”

Ranga stood fully naked across from her, making no move to cover himself. The air between them carried the faint mixed scent of her wetness and the warmer, cleaner smell of his skin. His gaze travelled over her body without hurry— the marked, spit-shined breasts, the soft indent of her waist, the bare mound still glistening faintly where the panties had been.

“You’re still talking,” he said, voice low. “But you’re the one who’s fully naked first. And you’re still wet.”

Monica held his eyes, chin lifted. Completely exposed on the edge of the bed, the cool air and his open stare both registering on every inch of bare skin, while he stood over her with his cock hard and waiting. The thin robe and the black panties lay discarded on the floor. The door stayed closed. And the slow, degrading completion of her stripping left the air between them stretched tight, unfinished, and thick with everything that had not yet happened.