There was no curtain to part this time. No pause for breath, no moral to grasp at, no metaphor to dilute the rawness. The room pulsed with her memory, with the scent of bodies no longer trying to hide.
Asha's back arched as she came out of sleep—not gently, not gradually, but like someone thrown into a reality where the skin still remembered what the mind dared not replay. The heat between her thighs had not subsided.
There were bruises on her hips, where his grip had sunk so deep it felt like an imprint of need. Not violence—claim. Not pain—a reminder. She didn't reach to cover them. She touched them, lingered, traced them with her fingertips as if they were verses on her body.
The bed beside her was empty. Not cold. Just recently vacated.
She rose without shame. Nude. Alive in the most dangerous way. When she walked, it wasn't a movement—it was an aftershock.
Downstairs, Ravi was leaning against the kitchen counter, shirtless, nursing a mug of coffee. But there was nothing casual in the way his eyes found her as she walked in. Nothing polite.
They stared at each other like they hadn't just been inside each other, hadn't already screamed and moaned each other's names into the mattress. Like the hunger had reset. Started over. Doubled.
"I didn't sleep," he said, voice low, still hoarse. "You wrecked me."
"I wasn't trying to be gentle."
"Good. Don't ever be."
She moved to him slowly, her breasts swaying with the rhythm of her steps, and he dropped the mug on the counter with a clink that didn't even matter anymore. She pressed her hand to his chest—his heartbeat was frantic, like a man still inside the moment.
"I want to know what you remember," she whispered. "Of last night. Every second."
His eyes darkened. He leaned into her ear.
"I remember your thighs wrapped around my face. I remember your moans shaking against my tongue. I remember how your fingers clawed at the sheets when I said your name." He paused, just enough to make her body burn. "I remember how you begged when I slowed down… just to watch you fall apart."
Her breath hitched. Not out of fear. From recognition. From being seen like that. As a woman not handled, not seduced—but met. Matched.
She leaned in, pressed her lips to his, and it wasn't a kiss. It was a drag. A slow inhale of him. Her hand snaked downward, already gripping his need.
He growled.
And in the next breath, she was bent over the counter.
No words. No permissions. No questions. Just the absolute certainty that her body was asking for this again.
"Asha…"
Her name, when he said it like that, was a spark and a wound.
His palm spread across her back, his other hand gripping her hair as he entered her in one long, merciless thrust.
"Aaah… ahh… fuck..."
Her moan, low and guttural, echoed like a vow through the kitchen walls.
The counter creaked. Her body jolted with every movement. There was no rhythm—just impact. Raw, urgent. Like trying to fuck the memory out of last night and burn it fresh again.
"Harder…" she hissed.
He obeyed. God, he obeyed like she was the only commandment left in the world.
Her breasts flattened against the cold marble. Her eyes closed.
She didn't want to be anywhere else.
Not in control. Not above it. Just broken open by this man who knew how to read her breath like language.
When it ended, they were both shaking.
He didn't leave her. He held her. Kissed her shoulder. Whispered things not even she could remember.
Later, they sat across from each other on the living room floor. Not talking. Just watching.
"Do you ever wonder," he asked, "if this is too much?"
"Too much what?"
"This. Us. Whatever the fuck this is."
She smiled. Not soft. Not sweet. Sharp. "No. I only wonder what took us so long to stop pretending it wasn't inevitable."
He laughed, and the laugh sounded like surrender.
She stood, walked to him, knelt in front of him. Naked again. Eyes locked to his. She unbuttoned his pants, slid them down slowly. He was already hard.
She smiled, and lowered herself.
This time, she moaned first. Just the suck of breath around him.
"Mmm… ahhh…" Her mouth wrapped around him like confession, like hunger, like war.
"Fuck, Asha…" His fingers tangled in her hair.
She sucked him slow, deliberately, pulling back with a pop and a smile that dared him to survive her.
"I want to hear you moan too," she said, licking her lips.
And he did. He did as she sucked him deeper, her throat humming with every stroke, every inch she claimed. His body bucked against the floor, helpless.
They didn't say I love you.
They said ahhh, mmmh, fuck, and more.
And somewhere in that mess of sounds and shadows, was the only truth they'd ever really believed.