The door hadn't even latched behind Shruti when she heard the shower running. Rhea's here already? Her breath caught in her throat as she stepped into the dim apartment, the scent of sandalwood soap wafting faintly from the bathroom.
But it wasn't just that.
There was another presence. A heat. A silence that wasn't solitude.
Aman was on the sofa, shirt unbuttoned, a drink untouched beside him. His eyes flicked up from the floor to meet hers — and didn't move. They stayed there. Locked. Alive.
"Tum... ghar pe ho?" Shruti's voice cracked.
"Main kab gaya tha?" His voice was low. A rasp. Tired or dangerous — she couldn't tell.
There was a long moment.
The water in the bathroom turned off. Shruti's heart leapt — Rhea. Naked, unaware, stepping into a house where the curtains had been ripped off every boundary.
Aman stood slowly.
"She's in there, isn't she?" he said. No question mark. Just fact. A quiet thunder rolling toward a storm.
Shruti nodded, a pulse of shame and excitement thudding in her chest. "She doesn't know you're here."
A slow, cruel smile touched Aman's lips. "Let her find out."
Shruti turned sharply. "Aman—"
But he was already moving. Past her. Toward the bathroom. Shruti froze in place as the door opened and steam rushed out like a panting breath.
And there she was.
Rhea.
Wrapped in only a towel, hair wet and dripping down her bare collarbone, her back to the door, humming softly.
She turned — and gasped.
"Aman?!"
Shruti rushed in, words bubbling up. "I didn't know he was—"
But Aman's eyes were not on Shruti anymore. They were on Rhea. Only Rhea. Tracing the line of her hip where the towel dipped, the sheen of droplets on her chest, the way her nipples pressed faintly through the wet cotton.
"I'm sorry," Rhea muttered, backing up — but not covering herself further.
"Don't be," Aman said softly.
The silence that followed was thick. Unspeakable.
Shruti's chest rose and fell as she watched her husband stare at her lover, and her lover not look away.
Rhea broke the stillness with a whisper. "Shruti... should I leave?"
But Shruti's voice came out hoarse. Wanting. "No."
"Stay."
The word curled into the room like smoke. Shruti had said it — but it felt like it came from her bones, not her throat.
Rhea looked between them. Shruti's eyes dark with something dangerous. Aman's lips parted slightly.
She didn't leave.
She let the towel fall.
Thud.
It hit the floor like a detonated secret.
Aman exhaled, a breath full of disbelief and fire.
And then Shruti crossed the room.
The air was thick with tension — the kind that doesn't beg permission, only surrender. Her lips crashed into Rhea's, their bodies molding together, moans escaping as if from years of hunger.
"Uhhh... Shruti..." Rhea gasped as Shruti's hands pressed against her slick back, pushing her toward the edge of the bathroom sink. "Ohhh... fuck... haan..."
Behind them, Aman didn't move. He only watched. Breath shallow. Jeans tightening. His wife's bare ass clenched beneath her short kurta as she bent forward to taste Rhea's breasts — her tongue slow, worshipping, pulling whimpers from Rhea's mouth.
"Chhod mat... please..." Rhea whimpered, fingers tangling in Shruti's hair.
And Shruti whispered back in Hindi, her voice soaked in lust, "Main tujhe chhodungi toh saans lena bhool jayegi, Rhea..."
Rhea let out a low, guttural moan, thighs tightening, body trembling.
Shruti's eyes flicked toward Aman. And held.
It wasn't shame.
It was an invitation.
Watch me.
And he did.
As Shruti fell to her knees and spread Rhea's legs. As her tongue slipped between trembling thighs and Rhea gasped with a sharp, "Haaaan... ohhh meri chut!" as the wetness gushed down her inner thighs.
Shruti moaned into her. "Uff... kya swaad hai, Rhea..."
Aman's chest heaved. His hand drifted down — shameless, slow. He unzipped his pants and wrapped his hand around his hardness, stroking slowly, breathing raggedly as he watched his wife devour her friend.
And all three of them knew — they had crossed something.
Something irreversible.
"Ohhh fuck... Shruti... meri chut jal rahi hai..." Rhea gasped, her legs shaking as she gripped the counter.
Shruti pulled back, lips wet, and looked at Aman.
His mouth parted. His hand still moving.
And then she said it.
In Urdu, low and filthy.
"Dekh rahe ho, Aman? Teri biwi kaise uski chut chaat rahi hai? Pasand aa raha hai na?"
Aman groaned. A raw sound.
And Rhea collapsed onto the counter, shivering, as Shruti kissed her again — deeply, hungrily — while Aman stood behind them, stroking himself to the rhythm of betrayal, lust, and something darker.
The air never cooled that night.
And when the lights finally went off, no one slept.
Not in that house.
Not after that.