Previously in Chapters 1 & 2
Tanvi and Shaurya’s life in Seattle appears warm and loving, but beneath the comfort of marriage, Tanvi is quietly unraveling. Despite Shaurya’s affection and adventurous spirit, a restless ache grows inside her—an ache that only sharpens with the arrival of Reid, her intense new coworker. What begins as innocent curiosity turns quickly into obsession, as Reid’s presence awakens desires Tanvi can’t suppress. She finds herself dressing for his attention, craving his gaze, and carrying a mounting guilt that even Shaurya’s love can’t quiet.
The boundaries between loyalty and temptation blur as Tanvi and Reid’s chemistry escalates. Their secret encounters—charged glances, lingering touches, and finally, a forbidden climax—leave Tanvi both sated and hollow. She gives in to temptation, letting Reid cross lines she once believed were unbreakable, and in doing so, upends everything she thought she knew about herself and her marriage.
Now, caught between the comfort of Shaurya’s arms and the raw thrill of Reid’s attention, Tanvi must reckon with a dangerous truth: her hunger for more has become impossible to hide. Every secret brings her closer to the edge—where pleasure, guilt, and the risk of losing everything become impossible to untangle.
__________
Chapter 3
Seattle woke with rain, a pale drizzle washing the night’s sins from streets and sidewalks. I watched it bead and trickle down the glass, each drop leaving a streak as if the city was trying to cleanse itself—but no amount of water could scrub away the memory of last night, or the phantom sensation of Reid’s fingers buried deep inside me, the raw ache between my thighs he’d left behind. Even a scalding shower hadn’t managed to purge him from my skin; instead, every gentle touch from Shaurya that morning—his warm palm on the small of my back, his lips on my forehead—felt like both a balm and a silent accusation.
He sensed my unease. Maybe he always did, on some level. He moved quietly through the apartment, making coffee, humming under his breath, shooting me those careful glances—part concern, part devotion, the kind that made the weight of my guilt even heavier. I lingered by the window, arms wrapped around myself, watching the silver lines of rain as if there were answers somewhere out in the city beyond the glass.
My mind kept looping through last night in the car: hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles went white, thighs pressed together, pussy still throbbing with the aftershocks of forbidden pleasure as I drove home through near-empty streets. I was more full of someone else than I’d ever been of myself.
I didn’t mean to speak, but the words tumbled out brittle and raw: “Let’s go away. Just us, this weekend.”
Shaurya looked up from his mug, startled. “Now?”
I nodded, turning to face him fully, hugging my arms tighter. “Now. I just… I want to get away. With you. No one else.”
He watched me for a moment, searching my face for cracks. Then he set his mug down and crossed the small kitchen in three strides, thumb brushing my cheek. “Is something wrong?”
A flash of panic shot through me, but I smoothed it down, forced a smile, pressed my palm over his hand. “No, nothing’s wrong. I just miss us.” My voice softened. “Remember when we’d just take off in Bangalore, driving out of the city late at night, eating street food, blasting playlists, yelling at traffic, talking until the sun came up? I want to feel that again.”
He softened in front of me, memory and affection brightening his face. “You’re serious? Spontaneous Tanvi is back?”
I nodded, working to keep my tone light. “I’ll even let you pick the music—as long as you let me eat all your fries at the first stop.”
He laughed, the deep, easy sound that used to make me feel like nothing in the world could hurt me. “Deal. Where are we going?”
“Leavenworth,” I said, surprising even myself with the certainty. “Let’s just go somewhere cold. Trees, fire, privacy. No plans. Just… us.”
He pulled me in and squeezed my waist, pressing his lips into my hair. “God, I love you when you’re like this.”
The words cut unexpectedly deep, and I just smiled, letting him believe in the girl I was pretending to be. My stomach fluttered—nerves, excitement, guilt all tangled together.
We packed quickly: sweaters, jeans, old scarves, the good snacks, my favorite perfume and lipstick, Shaurya’s battered leather jacket. He moved around the apartment with an energy I hadn’t seen in weeks, sneaking glances at me as if afraid I’d vanish if he looked away. Every now and then I’d catch him, and for a moment the air would crackle with something old and electric. I let myself lean into it, almost convincing myself this trip could be a reset, a purge, a homecoming.
The rain thinned to a mist as we hauled bags down to the car, the world outside grey and soft, wet leaves plastered to the sidewalk, the scent of rain-soaked earth rising with each breath. Shaurya opened my door with a little flourish—“My lady”—and I rolled my eyes, but let him.
He started the engine, Arijit Singh’s voice bubbling from the speakers. “Agar Tum Saath Ho” played first, then “Khairiyat.” The city blurred past in shades of green and slate, the world outside the windshield soft and unhurried.
“You know,” he said, glancing over at me with that familiar smirk, “I was going to spend the day reorganizing my desk. So you’ve saved me from death by Excel spreadsheet.”
I scoffed, letting my own smile surface. “No one believes you’re organized except for your porn folder.”
He barked a laugh, eyes creasing at the corners. “I have layers, woman. You should explore them more often.”
His hand found my thigh, thumb rubbing lazy circles just above my knee, each pass drifting a little higher as the miles slipped by. The air between us filled with the low hum of the car, the rain’s gentle patter, the pulse of music—something familiar and yet charged with an undercurrent neither of us quite named.
We fell into an easy silence for a while. The city gave way to suburbs, then tall pines, roadside diners, the occasional gas station. Shaurya squeezed my thigh, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of my skirt, tracing the bare skin with the kind of casual intimacy that made my breath hitch.
“I’ve missed this,” he said quietly, his voice almost lost under the rain. “Just us. No calls, no deadlines, no family stuff. You’re always… somewhere else lately.”
That pang again—guilt like a knife. I forced a little laugh. “Yeah, well. No distractions this weekend. Just us and your questionable taste in music.”
He shot me a look, mouth curving. “That’s a low blow, considering you once made me listen to Arijit’s entire discography on a twelve-hour bus ride.”
“I regret nothing,” I said, grinning, but his gaze stayed on me a little longer, searching, almost worried.
He let his hand wander higher, fingers splaying across my inner thigh. “Are you okay, Tanvi? Really? You seem… I don’t know. Far away.”
I turned, pressed a kiss to his shoulder, inhaled his scent—soap, cologne, something warm and deeply familiar. “I’m better now. I just needed to get out of my own head. Get away from the city, from all of it. Be with you.”
He nodded, voice gentle. “Good. You know you can talk to me about anything, right? Always.”
I nodded too quickly, throat tight, feeling the lie lodge somewhere deep. I wanted to say everything and nothing. But the words withered before they ever reached my lips.
So instead, I let my fingers trail up his thigh, brushing over the zipper of his jeans, feeling the growing hardness beneath. “Remember that fantasy list you made?”
He choked, eyes darting from the road to my face. “Yeah. Of course. I thought you’d thrown it out after you called me a perv.”
I smirked, dragging my nails lightly over his cock through his jeans, enjoying the way his breath stuttered. “I never forgot. I just wasn’t ready. But maybe I am now.”
His grip tightened on the wheel, his free hand pressing my thigh harder. “Tanvi…”
I dropped my voice, eyes locked on his profile. “This weekend, I want to be yours. Really yours. No limits. No holding back.”
He shot me a look, and the heat in it sent a pulse straight to my clit. “Are you serious?”
“Absolutely.” I squeezed his cock gently through the denim. “I want you to have everything you ever dreamed of.”
He reached for my hand, entwining our fingers, squeezing hard. “Fuck, Tanvi. You’re going to kill me.”
I laughed for real then—sharp, bright, reckless. “Promise me you won’t back out.”
He grinned, wild and young and stupidly in love. “No chance.”
But as the miles wound on, the trees blurring past, my mind kept drifting—back to last night, to the ache between my thighs that even Shaurya’s presence couldn’t touch, to the shadows of another man’s hands. Shame mingled with excitement, hunger tangled with guilt, the promise of the weekend stretching out before us like a road I wasn’t sure I deserved to travel.
Outside, the sky was just beginning to lighten, the mist breaking open over mountains and pines. I rolled down the window a crack, breathing in the scent of wet earth and forest. Beside me, Shaurya hummed along with the music, his hand warm and heavy on my thigh, his eyes bright with anticipation and hope.
And for a moment, I let myself pretend I was still the woman he thought I was—clean, whole, untouched by anything but his love. Just for the drive, just until the rain stopped, I let myself believe it could be enough.
——
The cabin was almost too perfect—one of fifteen or so scattered along a winding gravel lane, each tucked behind groves of pine and cedar. The place was part of a boutique resort: not isolated, but secluded enough that every cabin felt like its own private world. Little wooden signs—Birchwood 11, Maple 8, Pinecrest 3—peeked from the ferns. In the distance, the faint laughter of other couples drifted through the trees. At dusk, you could hear a golf cart rolling along the path, headlights bouncing over puddles as staff delivered room service, firewood, or bottles of wine to whoever ordered them.
Our cabin was near the curve at the far end—a bit more private, but not invisible. Through the window, I could see the soft golden glow of lights from nearby cabins, the occasional shadow of someone passing in front of drawn curtains, laughter or music audible when the wind shifted. Farther up the hill, a string of fairy lights led to the main lodge—a rustic chalet with a tiny lobby, a bar, and the promise of 24-hour room service for “whatever you crave.” A card on our kitchen counter listed the number to text for breakfast in bed, snacks, extra blankets, or even late-night champagne.
The world outside was wet and lush—moss climbing the trees, the scent of woodsmoke and rain thick on the air, every surface slick and shining. Our own porch was set back from the path and bordered by rhododendron and wild blueberry bushes. A pair of Adirondack chairs stood under the eaves, overlooking the slope and the secret lives of our neighbors.
Inside, the cabin was an invitation to both comfort and sin: the open-plan living room was a low-lit den of wood, fire, and warmth. The fireplace dominated one wall, piled high with seasoned logs and circled by a deep leather sofa, a rocking chair, and a battered trunk turned coffee table. The kitchen gleamed with granite countertops, copper pans, and a welcome basket crammed with snacks, honey, and wine. A row of windows overlooked the forest, their sills lined with wildflowers in little glass jars.
Plaid curtains framed the French doors to the deck. There was a small dining nook with mismatched chairs, a credenza stacked with board games and travel books, and an old rug faded soft by years of bare feet and spilled wine. The bedroom was just beyond an open archway: queen bed, heavy with a patchwork quilt and a mound of feather pillows, nightstands cluttered with paperbacks and a handwritten note: Text for anything. No checkout time. Make yourself at home. —Leah, Front Desk.
The bathroom held a clawfoot tub, white tile, and a rainwater showerhead. If you stood at the tiny window you could glimpse another cabin—just close enough to feel exposed if the lights were on.
But all of this faded as the door closed behind us, the outside world shrinking away. The air was scented with cedar and lavender, woodsmoke and the faint mineral tang of rain. The quiet inside was deep, the only sounds the fire’s crackle and the soft tap of rain on glass.
I didn’t let myself hesitate. I stood on the Persian rug—worn, but soft under my feet—and met Shaurya’s eyes. He was setting down bags, humming a tune, but the moment he turned and saw me, his smile faltered.
Wordlessly, I began to undress, the ritual slow and deliberate. My coat fell first, landing in a heap by the armchair. I unbuttoned my blouse one by one, letting each inch of skin appear, my breath growing shallower as the fabric slid from my shoulders and down my arms. My nipples tightened instantly, the cool air and the heat of Shaurya’s gaze combining into a delicious ache. I draped the blouse over the sofa, my chest bare, breasts swelling and falling with each breath.
I reached for the zipper of my skirt, holding his gaze as I slid it down my hips. The skirt dropped to the floor, leaving me naked—completely and shamelessly—in the center of that golden pool of firelight. My breasts were full, nipples dark and stiff, my belly soft with the faintest line of tension above my smooth, bare mound. My pussy was already slick, and as I stood there, thighs parted just slightly, I felt the shameful evidence of my need.
Shaurya’s breath hitched. His eyes roamed hungrily over every inch of me. For a moment, he didn’t move—he just stared, chest rising and falling faster, mouth parted.
“You… you meant it?” His voice was ragged, all the disbelief and hunger I’d hoped for and dreaded.
I nodded, chin lifted, hands at my sides. “Every word. You wanted me naked all weekend. I’m yours, Shaurya. However you want me.”
Something changed in his eyes then—a mix of reverence and pure, unfiltered lust. He crossed the room in three steps, his hands trembling as he reached out. He cupped my breasts, rough palms warm and reverent, thumbs brushing over my nipples in slow, deliberate circles until I moaned softly, back arching. He bent his head and took one nipple between his lips, sucking, teeth grazing, his tongue flicking the tip until it felt almost painfully sensitive. My fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, my breath coming in little gasps.
“God, Tanvi…” he breathed, voice low and raw. “You’re fucking perfect.”
He kissed down the line of my sternum, his hands gripping my hips, then slid his palms over my ass, squeezing hard, pulling me against him so I could feel the heavy bulge straining in his jeans. I ground against him, my pussy slick and throbbing, my clit swollen and aching for more.
“Let me look at you,” he whispered, stepping back to take me in—the wild mess of my hair, the flush spreading over my chest, the swollen pink lips of my pussy, shining wet in the firelight. The window behind me reflected the scene: the fire’s gold, my bare skin, the storm outside making it all feel forbidden.
I saw movement out on the path—a golf cart zipping by, its lights sweeping over the porch. I knew they couldn’t see inside, but the possibility made my heart pound, made my nipples harden even more. I let my legs fall farther apart, holding Shaurya’s gaze, daring him to look at every inch.
He took out his phone, his voice uncertain but hungry. “Can I take your picture? Please? I want to remember this—every second.”
“Yes,” I said, surprising myself with how much I wanted it. “Anywhere you want. Anything.”
He snapped a few shots as I stood by the window, rain streaking down the glass behind me, my body a pale outline against the night. He moved closer, framing my breasts, my nipples standing out dark and stiff. He had me kneel by the fire, legs open, my pussy glistening as I arched my back, hair tumbling down, the flames painting gold onto my thighs.
“Open for me,” he whispered, and I did, spreading my legs wider, showing him everything. I felt filthy, powerful, exposed in a way that made my clit throb, my pussy drip down my thighs.
He knelt in front of me, phone forgotten, and slid his hands up my calves, then over my knees, then to my inner thighs. His fingers found my slickness, stroking up and down my swollen slit, circling my clit with slow, expert pressure. I gasped, my hands gripping the rug, head falling back as pleasure built quickly.
“You’re so wet, Tanvi,” he murmured, voice dark with awe and want. “You want this, don’t you? You want everyone to see you like this—naked, desperate, dripping for me.”
“Yes,” I whimpered, not caring how shameful it sounded. “I want you, Shaurya. I want you to fuck me. Please…”
He teased me, rubbing my clit with his thumb, sliding two fingers inside me—curling and fucking me slowly, watching my face twist in pleasure and need. My breasts bounced with every motion, nipples tingling, the cold air and fire’s heat clashing on my skin.
He took more photos as I writhed under his touch, the camera’s click making it all feel dirtier, more real. “You’re art, Tanvi,” he whispered. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
Finally, he pushed me onto my back, lifting my legs onto his shoulders, spreading me wide on the rug in front of the fire. He knelt and licked a slow, hot line from my dripping pussy up to my clit, tongue swirling, sucking, then plunging inside me. I cried out, hips bucking, hands clawing at his hair, needing more, needing everything.
He fucked me with his tongue and fingers, moaning as I flooded his mouth. When I came, it was sharp and violent, my pussy clenching around his fingers, my thighs shaking, my breath shattering in the quiet cabin.
When he finally knelt up, face slick with my arousal, he stripped out of his jeans, cock hard and thick and desperate for me. He rolled me onto my hands and knees, entering me from behind, grabbing my hips, slamming into me hard enough to make the sofa scoot forward. My tits swung, nipples brushing the rug, my clit rubbing the soft wool as he fucked me deep and fast.
Outside, the wind rattled the windows, the rain beat down, but inside, the only sounds were my moans, his grunts, the slap of skin and the crackle of fire. It felt like we were the only people on earth—but the thought of neighbors, staff, even strangers just a wall away made every thrust hotter, every sound riskier.
When he finally came, it was with a hoarse cry, his cock pulsing deep inside me. We collapsed together on the rug, sweat cooling on our skin, bodies tangled, the fire dying down, the world silent except for our ragged breathing.
He kissed my shoulder, pulling me against his chest, his voice soft and stunned. “You’re everything, Tanvi. Everything.”
I wanted to believe it. I wanted it to be true. But even as I curled into his warmth, I watched the shadows flicker on the ceiling, felt the eyes of the world just outside, and knew that no matter how much I gave him, there were places inside me still marked by shame, still haunted by someone else’s hands.
But for tonight, with the fire burning low, the taste of wine and smoke in the air, the sound of distant laughter and rain, I let him believe the illusion. I let myself belong to him, naked and raw, if only for a few precious hours.
——
Evening had barely settled—mist curling through the pines, the lights of other cabins flickering through the damp. The resort’s little main street glowed under fairy lights and old lanterns, rain-slick stones shining beneath our feet. I chose my outfit with trembling hands: not the silk blouse I’d worn earlier, but something much more dangerous—a cropped black bralette that was more suggestion than coverage, two thin triangles of fabric that barely held my boobs in place, nipples threatening the edge of exposure with every movement. Over it, a light beige coat—short, thigh-length, designed for style not warmth, cut wide at the lapels so my deep cleavage was visible with every step. When I moved, the coat swung open to reveal nothing beneath—no panties, no bra strap, not even a pretense of modesty. My skin felt fevered and prickling, half from the cold, half from the wrongness of it.
I hesitated on the cabin porch, hugging the coat around myself as a golf cart zipped by, the young staffer giving me a polite nod, eyes flickering briefly down my body. I felt his gaze slide over my bare thighs—he could have seen everything, if the coat had shifted another inch. That thrill, sharp as a blade, made my pussy clench with shameful anticipation, but threaded through it was an ache: anxiety, humiliation, a desperate wish for someone—anyone—to see what I’d become.
Shaurya noticed. He swallowed, staring at my outfit, his voice rough. “Tanvi… You’re not seriously going to…?”
I forced a laugh, though my cheeks burned with something that was not just arousal. “Isn’t this what you wanted?” I teased, trying for bold but hearing the shake in my own voice. “It was on your list, wasn’t it?” I let him think it was all for him—my sacrifice, my penance, my need to be owned by his wishes, not my own broken hunger.
We followed the lantern-lit path to the café. It was a glass-walled space perched over a gentle slope, half the tables on an open terrace under a canopy, the others just inside, clustered by a massive stone fireplace. The air was heavy with the scent of coffee, cinnamon, woodsmoke, and wet earth. Fairy lights twisted through rafters above. There were five or six tables occupied, most with couples, a few with friends: a young man and woman hunched over wine and dessert near the railing; a group of three laughing softly over a cheese board just one table away; a solitary woman reading by the fire, her chair angled to face the window, and an older couple close to the terrace doors.
We were seated by a window near the edge of the terrace—half-exposed, half-sheltered, the table just large enough for two, pressed close enough that our knees brushed beneath. The chairs were wrought iron, cool against the backs of my thighs, the round table draped with a white cloth, barely reaching my knees.
As I sat, the coat gaped open. My bralette barely covered my boobs; one nipple was nearly visible, a dark shadow peeking from the thin edge of fabric. When I crossed my legs, the coat fell further open, exposing the soft, pale skin of my thighs, the bare line where panties should have been. I felt raw, shivering, the cold air sneaking beneath the hem and brushing the lips of my pussy—already wet, already swollen. There was a sour, almost metallic note to my arousal—a fear I couldn’t swallow. I caught myself scanning the reflections in the window, half-hoping to see someone looking.
Shaurya’s eyes widened. “Tanvi… you’re really…? You’re not wearing anything?”
I met his gaze, my voice barely a whisper, each word scraping against the back of my throat. “Nothing. This is your wish, right?” I let the coat fall open just a little more, the edges gaping wide enough that if anyone cared to look, they’d see everything—the shadow between my thighs, the faint glisten on my lips, the soft curve of my breast nearly slipping out of the useless bralette. I felt exposed in ways that had nothing to do with skin.
He flushed deep, glanced nervously at the nearby tables, then back at me—his arousal warring with embarrassment and disbelief. “Tanvi, fuck… What if someone sees you?”
My heart beat so fast it hurt. I leaned forward, elbows on the table, pushing my boobs together, deepening my cleavage so the bralette rode even lower, barely hiding my nipples. “Maybe I want them to,” I whispered, eyes burning into his. “Maybe I want every person here to know that I’m yours. That I’m dripping wet. That if you wanted to, you could bend me over this table right now and fuck me until I screamed your name.” The words felt raw, reckless. My voice was trembling with a strange kind of hope—that someone would call me out, force me to confront the filth I couldn’t wash away.
He nearly choked on his breath, glancing wildly at the young couple nearby. The woman looked over for just a second, her gaze snagging on the deep line of my breasts before darting away, cheeks pink. The young man, bolder, kept glancing back, eyes dropping to my thighs as my coat slipped farther up, exposing bare skin all the way to my hip. On the other side, the group of three laughed, one of them looking straight at me as she refilled her wine glass, her gaze lingering long enough that I felt heat flush up my neck and into my cheeks.
My whole body felt caught between humiliation and arousal, every nerve-ending screaming for punishment, for discovery, for someone to look a little too long and confirm just how filthy I really was.
Just as the server—a young woman with a pixie cut, tattoos on her wrists, her eyes bright and careful—approached, I did something I barely believed. With trembling hands under the table, I unclasped the bralette, tugging it out from beneath my coat. My breasts fell free, nipples hard and dark, almost fully exposed except for the wide lapels of the coat. I handed the useless scrap of cloth to Shaurya under the table, my hand shaking as he tucked it silently into his jacket pocket.
The server did a double take at my chest, blinking, before she smiled too widely and took our order. My nipples, hard as glass, strained at the lapels, barely concealed. I could feel cold air brush them as I shifted, the brush of fabric only heightening my sensitivity. Shame and anticipation warred in my chest.
“Can we get a bottle of your house red?” I said, forcing my voice to steady. “And the mushroom risotto for me.”
Shaurya barely managed to order, his eyes glued to my exposed chest, his hand now finding my thigh under the table, dragging his fingers lightly over my bare skin until they reached my slick, open pussy.
As the server recited specials, Shaurya’s hand slid higher, his fingertips parting my folds, finding my clit and circling it with slow, tormenting pressure. I bit my lip hard, fighting a moan. The woman at the next table looked over again, her eyes widening before she quickly turned away—this time, I knew she’d seen everything. The risk, the humiliation, sent a hot, electric shudder through me.
“Tanvi…” Shaurya hissed, voice low, “You’re soaked.” He slid two fingers inside me, slow and deep, curling them so I jerked in my seat. I squeezed his wrist under the table, willing him to go harder, deeper.
The server set down the wine with a little too much care, her eyes flicking to my breasts, my face, and then Shaurya’s hand vanishing beneath the white cloth. I prayed she would say something—anything—to stop me, to save me from myself. But she only smiled, polite, and left us alone in our depravity.
“Please…” I whispered, pressing my forehead to my hand as Shaurya pumped his fingers in and out, thumb circling my clit. My body was hot, trembling, thighs slick and spread obscenely under the table. “Don’t stop. Please, Shaurya, I need—”
He sped up, his hand ruthless, his eyes locked to my face as he watched me unravel. My nipple slipped out fully from the coat, visible to anyone who looked. The trio of women at the next table had gone silent, two of them glancing over, their expressions curious, knowing. My orgasm built with desperate speed, the humiliation and shame sharpening it until it hurt.
When I came, it was all I could do not to cry out—my teeth digging into my fist, my pussy spasming around Shaurya’s fingers, thighs shaking so hard the chair rattled beneath me. The slick, hot gush of my release soaked his hand and dripped down my thighs, the tablecloth hiding nothing from the world except the physical act.
After, I sagged back in my chair, the coat falling fully open, both breasts bare, nipples flushed and wet, my chest rising and falling with each trembling breath. Shaurya’s hand found mine under the table and squeezed, reverence and awe in his eyes. “You’re fucking unbelievable,” he whispered.
But inside, I was hollow. Trembling. I felt raw and ruined, wanting nothing more than for someone to judge me, to punish me, to see me and call out the darkness I was trying so hard to drown in.
Around us, plates clattered, laughter echoed, glasses clinked. Maybe one or two people knew what we’d done. Maybe more. No one said a word.
And I was left—still wanting, still aching, still desperate to be seen, to be punished, to be made whole again by something more powerful than my own shame.
——
Leavenworth woke softly, wrapped in silver mist that threaded itself delicately through the branches of evergreens, whispering secrets only the mountains could truly understand. Inside our cabin, the embers had cooled overnight into pale ashes, the warmth that once filled this small haven replaced now by a silence that felt unnaturally heavy.
I opened my eyes slowly, consciousness returning like the tide—gentle at first, then fierce with memory. Shaurya’s breathing was even, peaceful beside me. I watched him for a heartbeat, guilt twisting inside my chest. He looked so innocent asleep, unburdened by the torment that gripped me.
Last night had been reckless, a desperate bid to erase memories of another man’s touch, to drown out Reid’s lingering voice beneath Shaurya’s hands and mouth. Instead, every shameless act had etched the guilt deeper, making the ache sharper, the shame heavier. Yet, beneath it all simmered something darker—desire, unquenched, dangerous in its hunger.
I rose quietly, my bare feet sinking into the cool rug. The soft, floral scent of Shaurya’s cologne still clung to my skin, a gentle accusation reminding me of who I was supposed to belong to. I slipped silently past him, my body still naked, honoring our dangerous pact. Outside, the morning was barely awake; the sun a hesitant glow, lighting the curtains with a hazy golden hue.
The shower was scalding, a vain attempt to rinse away last night’s sins—the café, the exposure, the delicious shame of strangers’ eyes upon my bare flesh. But the water couldn’t erase how my body still throbbed, couldn’t wash away the stain of wanting it again. I stood beneath the spray until my skin was flushed red, until the heat forced reality to blur at its edges, but the core of my shame remained untouched.
When I stepped back into the bedroom, the air chilled my damp skin, making me shiver, nipples tightening in immediate protest. Shaurya hummed faintly from somewhere beyond the half-open door—still wrapped in yesterday’s ease, oblivious to how fragile our world had become. I took a deep breath, towel twisted on my head, and walked toward the main room, my body bare, skin prickling from the cold and the memory of hands.
The morning splintered apart when I entered the main room.
He wasn’t alone.
A young man stood beside the dining table, arranging silverware and plates around a breakfast spread—carafe of coffee, pale pastries dusted in sugar, sliced fruit glistening beneath the morning light. His uniform—crisp white shirt, black apron—marked him unmistakably as resort staff. He turned at the sound of my bare feet on the floorboards and for a split, brutal second, I forgot myself—arms swinging loosely at my sides, skin still flushed and damp from the shower, breasts full and bare, nipples stiff and dark from the cold. My pussy was still swollen, lips parted, a lingering ache throbbing deep inside from the night before.
His eyes widened in shock—then embarrassment—his blush blooming quick and fierce, spreading over his cheeks and down his neck. For a heartbeat, he couldn’t look away. His gaze swept from my heavy, glistening breasts, nipples jutting proudly into the air, to my stomach, hips, the wild tumble of hair over my shoulders, the soft shadow between my parted thighs. For one mortifying instant I felt everything: my tits exposed, my pussy on full display, the faint purple marks Shaurya had left along my collarbones and inner thighs—every inch of me naked, vulnerable, and unmistakably fucked.
Panic hit a split-second late. I lunged for modesty, clamping my left arm across my breasts, pushing them up so my nipples barely hid behind my forearm. My right hand darted down, palm cupping desperately over my pussy, fingers trembling as I tried to shield the wet, swollen lips and the sensitive, exposed hood of my clit. But the gesture was laughable, covering almost nothing. I could feel the air swirl over the parts of me I couldn’t conceal, the cold prickling at my areolas, my pussy still throbbing, still slick.
He stammered, tray rattling in his hands. “Sorry—ma’am—I—” The words tumbled out in panic. His gaze jerked away, but not before flickering down my naked body a second time—this look softer, hungrier, unmistakably appreciative of what was forbidden. A hot, involuntary jolt of shameful arousal shot through me, even as I burned with humiliation.
Yesterday, I had courted the thrill of being seen—deliberately spreading my thighs in the café, inviting eyes and silent judgment. But this was different. This was raw. Unprepared. Real.
He vanished quickly through the door, the latch clicking with painful finality.
Shaurya had stood across the room, coffee mug halfway to his mouth, frozen. He watched me now with an unreadable gaze—something between amusement, pride, and a darker edge that looked dangerously close to possession.
“Shaurya,” I began softly, voice wavering with embarrassment and something far deeper. His name felt foreign on my tongue, thickened by secrets.
He set down his coffee, eyes glinting, mouth curving into a small, enigmatic smile. “Well, Tanvi, seems our little game just got real.”
The words cut clean through me. My cheeks burned, my throat tightened, yet something inside me twisted sharply—not just shame, but an aching kind of relief. He moved slowly, deliberately toward me, every step an echo in my chest. I felt utterly exposed—emotionally raw, as if my nakedness now encompassed more than skin.
Yesterday had been a whisper of danger, a playful dance at the edge of discovery. Today the edge had collapsed beneath my feet, plunging me into reality’s deep, merciless waters.
Shaurya’s fingers curled around my wrist, the touch gentle yet bruising in its quiet authority. He tugged me closer, gaze locked onto mine, eyes unreadable depths of hunger and something akin to warning. My pulse fluttered, brittle under his grip.
“Look at you,” he murmured, voice a rough caress. His eyes dipped slowly, deliberately down the curve of my throat, settling on my breasts where my nipples stood painfully erect. His thumb grazed over one, and I gasped involuntarily. “Already so fucking hard just from being seen.”
“I didn’t mean—” My voice trailed off, the protest weak, dissolving like smoke beneath his gaze.
“Oh, didn’t you?” Shaurya’s fingers tightened on my breast, thumb circling my nipple roughly, pulling another sharp gasp from me. “You were dripping wet yesterday, spreading your legs wide enough for half the café to see how needy you are. You loved it. Being watched, being wanted. You wanted someone else to see what’s mine.”
His other hand moved lower, sliding possessively down my stomach, lingering over the tender bruises he’d left the night before. I shuddered as memories flooded back: the exposure at dinner, his hand beneath the table, the pleasure so sharp it bordered on agony.
His fingers reached the apex of my thighs, sliding boldly between them. My knees trembled as he parted my folds roughly, exploring the slick, undeniable evidence of my arousal. “Fuck, Tanvi,” he growled, voice strained with both lust and accusation. “You’re drenched.”
“Shaurya, please—”
“You’ve been begging for it,” he interrupted, fingers moving expertly over my clit, forcing pleasure from my reluctant body. “Acting out, showing everyone what a filthy little exhibitionist you are.” His voice softened, dangerously gentle as he leaned in, lips brushing my ear. “But you forgot something. You belong to me. Every part of you—every ache, every moan, every inch that aches for attention.”
My breath shuddered out, my protest dying beneath the fierce possession of his words, my body betraying me again, hips tilting into his touch, hungry despite myself.
“You wanted punishment, didn’t you?” he whispered, his grip on my jaw tightening until I had no choice but to look into his eyes, depthless and burning. “I’ve watched you since yesterday, Tanvi. Wanting eyes on you, letting me finger you in public, needing to be caught, needing to feel the shame. Tell me that isn’t true.”
The ache twisted inside me, unbearable, beautiful in its cruelty. My vision blurred, my breath fractured. I was exposed again, entirely—but this time not just physically. My very soul stood bare, trembling in front of him, marked by secrets I could never tell.
“I—” My voice broke softly, a confession cut short by shame and something darker: relief, desperation, surrender. “I don’t know what I need anymore.”
Shaurya’s thumb brushed softly across my lips, tenderness slipping into the tension between us. “Yes, you do,” he murmured. “You need someone strong enough to remind you who you are.”
He pressed his forehead against mine, voice raw with a quiet desperation. “You act out, Tanvi, you get reminded. You crave it, even if you can’t say it.”
For a moment, the silence between us was everything. But in that space, I realized the terrifying truth: nothing he could do would ever fully save me from what I’d already become.
Shaurya lingered close, searching my face. I started to turn away, but his hand stopped me with a gentle tug, pulling me closer. His eyes were guarded, unreadable, yet the ache behind them was unmistakable.
“Shaurya—” My voice broke softly, apology trapped in my throat.
He shook his head, silencing me. His thumb traced my bottom lip—slow, careful, as if he needed the gesture to steady himself. “I don’t get it, Tanvi. Yesterday in the café, today with that guy—you keep wanting eyes on you, anyone but mine.”
His words stung, true and gentle at once. My throat tightened. “It wasn’t on purpose this time. I didn’t know—”
His hand moved to my hair, fingers threading gently through the damp strands, pulling my gaze up. “That’s the point. You didn’t have to try. You just… liked it.”
My cheeks burned, shame twisting deep in my chest. “I’m sorry.”
Shaurya sighed, thumb brushing my cheek. “Sorry isn’t what I need, Tanvi.” He paused, the words heavy. “I need to know you’re still mine. Only mine.”
I reached out, fingers trembling, touching his chest. The warmth of his skin grounded me. “I am yours,” I whispered, voice tight with honesty. “Only yours.”
He studied me, searching for something in my face. Something finally shifted—a quiet resolve. “Then remind yourself of that.”
He guided me slowly toward the couch. It was careful, deliberate—not forceful, but firm. My heart raced as he sat, drawing me across his lap. My breath quickened, embarrassment mingling sharply with anticipation. My face pressed into the worn leather cushions, the scent—woodsmoke and cedar—filling my senses, grounding me.
Shaurya’s palm settled gently on my bare back, rubbing slowly along the curve of my spine, a tender prelude. He didn’t rush. Each second stretched, heavy with meaning. Finally, his hand slid lower, fingers brushing gently across my hips before cupping my ass, warm and firm.
His voice was soft yet serious. “If you need to feel seen, Tanvi, then let me be the one seeing you. Let it be me.”
Then his palm lifted and landed sharply—a careful, unhurried slap that sent a hot, electric jolt through my skin. My body jolted, not just from surprise but from the blunt, living sting of his hand against my bare ass. The sensation lingered, a flush blooming outward, every nerve ending along my cheeks prickling with heat that seemed to settle low in my belly.
He didn’t rush. His hand lingered, soothing the sting with gentle circles, his palm firm over the fresh warmth. “Do you understand?” he asked, voice quiet but edged with gravity. My pulse fluttered, my skin almost feverish where he touched me.
“Yes,” I breathed, voice thin and urgent, heart skipping as his hand drifted lower, tracing down to the curve of my thigh. He eased my legs apart, cool air ghosting over my pussy—already wet, open, aching for more. Embarrassment warred with need, the exposure making my breath stutter.
Another slap landed, this one sharper, echoing softly in the quiet cabin. The sting doubled, the heat flaring deeper and more insistent across my ass. My breathing grew ragged, my body hypersensitive, my skin flushed, every inch tingling. My clit throbbed, and I knew he could see just how wet I was.
“You wanted to feel something,” he murmured, his hand drifting along the inside of my thigh, just barely grazing the slick lips of my pussy, making me shudder. “So feel this—feel me.”
His palm lifted and landed again, a little harder, right at the top of my thigh—his fingers catching the edge of my pussy, making me gasp, hips pressing unconsciously into the cushions. He kept a steady, controlled rhythm: slapping, then caressing, then slapping again, each one real enough to sting, every caress a promise that he was still here, still watching, still present.
Between each strike, his fingers would trace over the places he’d just marked, rubbing softly, almost reverently, making sure I never forgot who was touching me, who I was open for. His hand lingered on my pussy, thumb flicking over my clit—just enough to tease, to make me whimper and strain for more, then pulling away, leaving me wanting, not quite satisfied.
Each slap was deliberate, intimate, never cruel—real enough to make me burn with shame and want, careful enough to make me feel seen, owned, safe. By the end, my ass was hot and tingling, the skin alive and tender, the ache a private, pulsing reminder with every shift of my hips.
He paused, voice raw with vulnerability. “Tell me again. Tell me you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” I whispered, the ache real, needing him to believe me.
His fingers brushed softly between my thighs, gentle yet firm, exploring slowly. He exhaled slowly when he found the wetness—my own body betraying how much I needed this.
“You’re wet,” he murmured quietly, almost thoughtful. “Is it really just for me?”
My breath shook, cheeks flaming. “Only for you,” I promised softly, sincerity trembling through my words. “Always.”
He landed another steady, intimate slap, this time closer to the apex of my thighs. The sensation was startling, deeply sensitive, an unexpected jolt of warmth shooting through me. I couldn’t help the quiet, muffled moan that escaped.
“That’s good,” he whispered, a hint of relief coloring his voice. His fingers dipped again, briefly pressing gently against my clit, circling just enough to tease before pulling away—denying me the fullness of pleasure I craved.
He continued—spanking carefully, rhythmically, alternating sharp, stinging slaps with slow, lingering caresses that traced the burning heat across my ass. Sometimes his fingers drifted lower, sliding between my thighs just enough to tease my swollen, slick pussy, making me gasp with the sudden contrast.
Satisfied, he nodded once, and his palm delivered the final careful strokes, leaving me softly gasping—my ass burning, skin flushed deep with an ache that radiated hot and insistent through my body. Each slap echoed between my legs, a raw, sensual sting that sent shudders all the way to the swollen lips of my pussy, every nerve ending alive with shame and need. His marks weren’t just on my skin; they lived inside me now—branding his claim quietly but irrevocably into the soft flesh of my thighs, the exposed, throbbing mouth of my cunt, even the trembling walls of my vagina that still ached to be filled. When he finally stopped, his hand drifted over my stinging ass and down between my legs, tracing slow, possessive circles that teased the slick, open heat of my pussy—fingertips lingering, as if he could mold the ruins of my body back into something that belonged only to him.
Finally, he eased me upward, pulling me close with strong, unyielding arms, cradling my trembling body against the steady heat of his chest. Pressed intimately to him, I felt the comforting beat of his heart, a quiet yet fierce rhythm whispering secrets of vulnerability and need beneath the surface of his strength. My cheek rested softly against his skin, and I inhaled deeply—taking in his scent, letting it fill my lungs and quiet the tremors that still rippled softly through my body.
I clung to him tighter, desperate for the solidity of his embrace, fingers splayed against his chest as if I could somehow anchor myself to him. His palm moved slowly down my spine, tracing each delicate vertebra with aching tenderness, until I shivered and pressed even closer, needing the reassurance of his touch like air.
As we sat entwined, sunlight creeping through the cabin’s curtains, I found no peace in the morning’s gentle warmth. Instead, each caress reminded me sharply of the truth lurking beneath our fragile moment: I belonged to him in every way he could touch, yet the darkest corners of my soul—marked by secrets, stained by another’s hands—were places he had yet to discover. Even now, safe and raw within the intimacy of his embrace, I wondered how long I could hide the truths etched deep within me.
I tilted my head upward, brushing my lips softly against his collarbone—a quiet apology, a desperate promise—before settling back against his warmth, silently hoping my secrets wouldn’t destroy the very man who believed he held all of me.