The room wasn't quiet anymore.
Not after the third slap of wet skin against wet skin, not after her voice—that voice—cut through the air like the edge of a broken promise. Somewhere between a cry and a war cry, somewhere between surrender and defiance.
"Ahh…"
Not a whisper.Not a moan meant to disappear.But a claim.
She arched backward into him, hips colliding with such force it sounded like a protest. And perhaps it was. A protest of all the years they had denied this, denied each other, buried themselves in roles they had long outgrown.
Wife.Husband.Friend.Lover.Enemy.None of those names fit anymore.
In the half-light of the apartment, she looked nothing like the woman who had walked in here with her blouse buttoned to the throat. The saree had long since pooled to the floor like regret. Her blouse was undone, clinging only at the shoulders like it was ashamed to let go, her hair a wild tangle of sweat and rebellion. His jeans were halfway down his thighs. His hands—bigger now, harder—were digging into her waist with the kind of desperation that only comes from losing someone and finally getting a second chance to sin properly.
"You don't get to tell me to stop," she whispered.
"I didn't say stop," he said, his voice like thunder in molasses.
"Then fucking prove it."
He did.
She gasped as he grabbed her by the thighs and lifted her onto the dining table. The cold wood met her burning skin, and she whimpered—no, moaned, that same ritualistic sound that had become a part of their rhythm now.
"Aahhh…"
Longer this time. Richer. Like something sacred being defiled with purpose.
Her legs wrapped around him instinctively, pulling him deeper, harder, until the table itself shook beneath them. The candles flickered. The night held its breath.
Every moan now had memory.Every gasp had a history.Every time she clenched around him, it felt like she was trying to hold onto all the broken versions of herself and finally give them a voice.
"Do you remember the first time?" she asked, her breath catching.
He thrust into her so deep she shouted.
"Yes."
Her nails clawed down his back. Her teeth sank into his shoulder. The pain was beautiful.
"Aaah… aaahh... please...don't stop…"
He didn't. Couldn't. Wouldn't.
She was on top now. Dominating. Her hair sticking to her temples, her hips grinding into his like a dance of fury. She wasn't asking anymore. She was demanding. Not for love. Not for understanding.
For completion.
"Faster," she hissed. "Harder. I need to feel what we've been running from."
Her voice cracked. Her hands gripped the edges of the chair he was sitting on, and she bounced with precision, not grace—power. Her moans rose with each thrust, and by the time she screamed, it wasn't a sound. It was a goddamn invocation.
"Mmmnnhaaahh—haaahhh—aaaaah!"
She collapsed into him, shaking, his name spilling from her lips not like a whisper but a warning.
He wasn't safe with her.And she wasn't innocent anymore.
They lay on the floor after.Naked. Sweating.Breathing like they had just survived something.
Because maybe they had.
"Why did we wait so long?" she asked.
"Because we thought we were good people."
She laughed, bitter and soft.
"And now?"
He turned to her, tracing the sweat between her breasts.
"Now we know the truth."
She nodded.
"No one is innocent."