It wasn't just voyeurism anymore.
It was obsession.
Aman sat in the car, engine off, hands clenched around the steering wheel. He hadn't driven away. He hadn't even moved.
From the corner of the compound wall, he'd seen Rhea pull Shruti into another kiss, half-naked and lit by the yellow spill of morning light. That kiss—that devouring kiss—had unlocked something deep inside him. Something feral.
But it wasn't jealousy.
It was longing.
And shame.
And rage.
Inside, Shruti had collapsed onto the couch with Rhea straddling her, both of them laughing in breathless whispers, hair tangled, fingers interlocked. Rhea's thighs pressed tight around Shruti's waist, the shirt Aman had once worn now wrapped around her nakedness.
That fucking shirt.
Shruti's head tilted back, moaning—"Uss raat ke baad... main chain se nahi soyi…"
Rhea chuckled darkly, grinding into her. "Toh aaj raat sochna bhi mat. Main tujhe raat bhar jagaye rakhungi…"
Aman gritted his teeth. His hand crept down, again, guilt burning through his chest. He hated it. He loved it. He hated that he loved it.
And he needed to know more.
Because there was something else.
A difference.
Shruti wasn't just experimenting anymore.
She was surrendering.
Inside, Rhea whispered against her lips: "Tera pati tujhe wapas chah raha hai…"
Shruti looked stunned. "Tum... tumne usse baat ki?"
Rhea smirked. "Main sab kuch feel karti hoon. Tera tan bhi, tera guilt bhi. Aur uski aankhon mein… bas ek hi cheez hai. Teri chut. Woh pagal ho raha hai, Shruti."
Shruti's breath hitched. Her thighs tensed under Rhea.
"Kya tu chahti hai... ki woh dekhte rahe?"
Shruti stared into Rhea's dark eyes. Her voice dropped.
"Main chahti hoon ki woh jale. Har ek seeti, har moan, har cheekh se… uski ego jale, uska mard jal jaye..."
Rhea's grin widened. "Toh chilla... chhod mujhe bolne ke liye. Aaj... tu sirf seetiyan bajayegi."
And she sank between Shruti's legs again, as Shruti let out a gasp that shattered whatever boundary had been left in her marriage.
Outside, Aman's fist struck the steering wheel.
But he didn't drive away.
Because a part of him had already crossed the line between man and mirror. Between husband and hidden lover.
Inside the apartment, Rhea moaned softly, licking along Shruti's folds, teasing, pulling breathless curses from her.
"Ohh... teri maa ki... Rhea… abhi abhi... chaat le..."
Shruti gripped the edge of the couch, her body jolting with every tongue stroke.
And in the glass reflection of the living room window—hidden behind the blinds—a shadow trembled.
Aman was watching.
Again.
And this time, Shruti knew it.
She looked directly at the reflection, arched her back, pulled Rhea's head deeper into her, and whispered:
"Dekh lo, Aman... dekhta reh."
Her moans grew louder.
Not because of pleasure.
Because of power.