Her saree clung to every curve like liquid fire, I thought, even before our eyes met under the ceiling fan’s lazy whirl.
The room felt warm—enough that a thin sheen of perspiration dusted her collarbones, and tiny beads gathered at the nape of her neck. She lay beside me, crimson silk pooling across the sheets, the edge of the pallu brushing my chest. Our fingers found each other, fingertips grazing, as we stared into one another’s eyes—no words needed.
“Too warm tonight?” I murmured, trailing my thumb along the line of her jaw. The rustle of fabric answered me.
She tilted her head back, lips parted, and the soft glow of streetlamps beyond the curtain painted her skin in gold. “Just enough,” she whispered, voice husky. “Heat reminds me we’re alive.”
I shifted, pressing my palm into the calf of her leg, feeling the warmth radiate through the thin cotton of her saree. With slow deliberation, I lifted the pallu off her shoulder. Beneath, the fabric revealed more—her bare arm, the curve of her waist. A shiver ran through her as my fingers grazed the exposed skin.
She arched into my touch, breath hitching. “Don’t stop,” she breathed, and I obeyed—my lips finding her collarbone, then drifting down toward the swell of her breast, pausing just at the edge of the scarlet blouse. I tasted the salt of her skin, my tongue flicking over the sensitive dip between collarbone and heart.
Her hands tangled in my hair, tugging me closer. I felt the heat of her breath on my lips as I pressed a slow kiss against her chest, trailing upward to her throat, then to her lips. That kiss was both gentle and demanding—hungry, urgent—her saree slipping off one shoulder as we lost ourselves in the heat of each other.
Outside, the night air pressed against the window, but inside, the room pulsed with our feverish rhythm—two bodies tangled, lips brushing, hearts racing. And as the fan continued its gentle spin, we remained there, caught between burning desire and the daylight waiting beyond midnight.
