“I dreamed of this,” he whispered. “So many times.”
“And now?” she asked.
“I’m afraid it will burn me.”
She stepped closer, body pressed to his.
“Then burn,” she said.
Both of them never imagined that they, a mother and a son would ever talk like this.
The kiss was slow at first.
Mouths brushing, testing, trembling.
Then deeper.
Tongues tasting, teeth grazing, breath catching.
She climbed into his arms, legs wrapping around his waist as he carried her to the bed, laying her down like something sacred.
He took his time.
His mouth moved over her body like worship—each kiss lower, softer, hungrier.
She arched under him, gasping when he took her nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it until it hardened against his lips. It was different when he was a toddler and used to suck those same nipples, yes it was different.
Her fingers twisted in his hair.
Her thighs parted instinctively.
When his mouth reached her hips, she whispered his name—not in command, but in plea.
“Please…”
He slipped between her legs, kissed the inside of her thigh slowly, then higher, tasting the wet heat waiting for him. He could not belive that this was the same pussy which pushed him 24 years old into this world and now he is kissing, licking the same pussy and his dick is hard to fuck it.
She cried out as his tongue flicked over her, teasing, circling, then plunging.
Her hips bucked.
Her voice broke.
And still, he didn’t stop.
Not until she shattered, moaning, clutching the sheets, calling for something only he could give.
When he rose above her, she pulled him in with both hands, guiding him to where she needed him most.
“Now Son,” she whispered.
He entered her slowly—inch by aching inch—until he was buried inside, and they both exhaled like they’d been holding their breath for a lifetime.
They moved together, slow at first.
Then faster.
Bodies slapping in rhythm. Breath growing ragged. Her legs wrapped around his back. Her nails digging into his skin.
She moaned his name.
Again.
Again.
He bent to kiss her throat, her breast, her mouth—moving faster, deeper, harder, until her second climax ripped through her like lightning.
And then he followed, thrusting into her one last time, groaning against her skin as he spilled deep inside her.
They lay there in silence after.
Bodies tangled.
Hearts loud.
Mouths pressed together in soft, stunned awe.
And in the dark, as the storm cracked outside and the candle finally flickered out, Kalpana whispered one thing:
“I don’t know what this means.”
And Vivek replied, “It doesn’t matter. I’m not leaving.”
Chapter XXXIV: Until the Morning Burns
Time stopped.
They didn’t leave the bed. Not for water. Not for light. Not for anything.
The storm raged outside, but in that room, a different storm had taken hold—one made of skin, breath, fire, and the shuddering collapse of every wall that had stood between them.
They touched each other like cartographers, tracing the topography of desire.
Slowly. Then fiercely.
Again. Then again.
Kalpana had never been this undone.
Her body responded to him like it knew him before thought.