No words.
He stepped in, eyes dark, shirt clinging to his body from the mist outside. She met him in the center of the room—not with a greeting, but with her palm against his chest, steady, warm, claiming space.
Amit followed minutes later.
He paused at the door, gaze flicking between them. Then it softened. He understood.
The moment had come.
No games.
No doubt.
Kalpana reached for the door and closed it behind him. The soft click of the lock was not final. It was an opening.
She turned to face them both, bare feet pressed into the floor as though grounding herself before a storm. “If you stay,” she said, voice low, smoky, “you stay as men. Not boys. Not students. Not anyone’s son. Men who touch without trembling. Men who look without guilt.”
Avinash stepped closer, his fingers brushing the edge of her saree. “We’ve already burned for you.”
Amit’s voice was deeper. “We want to burn with you.”
She didn’t smile.
She bloomed.
With trembling fingers, she pulled at the knot at her waist. The saree unraveled slowly, falling like liquid to the floor. Beneath it, she wore nothing but the softest cotton blouse, unhooked halfway, and a thin pair of crimson lace panties—delicate, soaked through from more than the rain.
Avinash stepped behind her, hands sliding up her sides, fingers reverent. He kissed the back of her neck—once, slowly—and she exhaled a sound that was half sigh, half moan. Amit came to her front, his hands on her waist, thumbs sliding beneath the lace.
“Touch me,” she whispered. “Not like a secret. Like I’m yours.”
Their mouths were on her in an instant—Amit’s lips at her collarbone, warm and slow; Avinash’s tongue tracing the curve of her shoulder. Their hands worshipped her skin, learned her shape with reverence—touching her like a prayer, not a conquest.
She arched against them, one hand threading into Avinash’s curls as the other gripped Amit’s wrist, guiding him lower. He obeyed, fingers teasing past the lace, brushing through damp curls to where her heat pulsed, waiting.
She gasped, a sound that filled the room like incense.
Amit slid one finger inside—slow, deep—and she tilted her head back, pressing into Avinash’s chest as he kissed the edge of her jaw.
Avinash’s hands cupped her breasts through the blouse, thumbs grazing nipples already taut and aching. “You’re soaked,” he whispered.
“Not from the rain,” she replied, voice hoarse, deliciously unashamed.
Amit dropped to his knees before her, pulling her panties down with worshipful hands. He kissed the inside of her thigh, then higher, his tongue tasting the ache he had only imagined until now.
Kalpana cried out—one hand clenching Avinash’s wrist, the other twisting into Amit’s hair as his tongue explored her, slow, deep, devastating.
Her legs trembled. Her breath came in desperate waves.
Avinash turned her face toward him and kissed her—finally, completely. Mouths colliding with fire and softness, his tongue dancing with hers, his hand still kneading her breast as her entire body began to writhe under Amit’s mouth.