The house was quieter than usual that evening. The scent of lavender from Rhea's skin still clung to the bed sheets, mingled with something unmistakably more primal — Shruti's moans, still echoing in the walls, still vibrating somewhere in the fibers of the room.
Aman stood outside their bedroom door. His suitcase leaned silently against the wall, his shirt half-unbuttoned. He hadn't meant to come home early. But somewhere between the guilt and the intrigue, he had boarded the earlier flight from Delhi. No one knew. Not even Shruti.
He had reached just in time to hear.
"Aahhh... Rhea... aur... zyada... please..."
The syllables weren't whispered. They were torn out. A gasping, filthy hymn of desire. Shruti's voice. Raw. Unapologetic. Not for him.
He hadn't knocked.
He hadn't barged in.
He had simply stood, just beyond the door, as the sounds unfolded into their slow, rhythmic crescendo — soft whimpers swelling into full-throated moans, one after the other.
"Chhod mat... andar daal do sab kuch..."
Aman's hand gripped the wooden doorframe. His breath came slow, strangled. He should have been angry. Enraged. But instead...
His cock stirred against the tight press of his pants.
He leaned in closer. The soft creak of the bed, the wet slap of skin on skin, the vulgar wet sounds of mouths feasting — it was no accident. No misunderstanding. It was Shruti and someone else. No — Shruti and Rhea.
Rhea. The dusky, sharp-eyed woman who always laughed a little too long at Shruti's jokes. The one who touched her shoulder, her wrist, her lower back, like it meant something.
"Aahhh... Rhea... meri choot... tod do mujhe..."
He bit down on his lip.
He wanted to be disgusted. But instead, his hand slid down, trembling fingers grazing the waistband of his pants.
Inside, Rhea knelt between Shruti's parted thighs, her tongue slow, wicked, pushing deep, circling harder. Shruti's fingers clenched the bedsheets, her hips rolling uncontrollably. Her legs trembled. Her cries were music.
"Haan... haan, Rhea... maar daala mujhe... itni gehri chaat..."
Rhea's breath was hot against her folds. "Tu rokti kyun hai apne aap ko, Shruti? Apne pati se zyada tujhe meri zubaan yaad rehti hai na?"
Shruti didn't answer with words.
Only another moan, dragged up from the bottom of her belly — "Aaaaaahhhhhh... Rhea... saali... tujhe chhod nahi sakti..."
Outside, Aman's knees buckled slightly.
Later, he walked in.
Rhea was gone. The room smelled like her.
Shruti, wrapped in a towel, stared at him with wide eyes.
"Aman?" Her voice cracked.
He dropped the suitcase. Said nothing.
She braced for fury.
But instead — he walked over. Sat beside her. Quiet. Then turned to her with eyes unreadable and asked, "Tum uske saath... kitni der se ho?"
Shruti froze.
"Aman, mujhe samjhaane do—"
"Don't. Just... tell me the truth."
She swallowed. "Six months."
He nodded slowly. No shouting. No chaos.
Instead — "And... tum dono kya karti ho?"
Shruti blinked. "Kya matlab?"
Aman's voice dipped lower. "Har cheez. Batao mujhe. Detail mein."
Silence.
Then she whispered, "Main uski zubaan ki deewani hoon. Aur jab woh mujhe chaat-ti hai... main ro padti hoon kabhi kabhi."
Aman's breath hitched. "Aur tum... use kaise chuhti ho?"
Shruti locked eyes with him. Something shifted.
And then — she leaned forward, her fingers grazing his thigh.
"Tum dekhna chahte ho?"
The game had changed.
From betrayal to performance.
From jealousy to complicity.
And Aman? He didn't know if he was walking toward salvation or ruin.
All he knew was — he wanted more.