My finger lingering over the worn-out, rust-stained calling bell. I hesitated a little. The plastic casing was cracked, as if it too had weathered a storm or two. With a deep breath, I finally pressed it.
“Who’s there?”
A muffled voice floated from inside, tired and impatient.
Seconds ticked by—ten, fifteen, twenty—and just when I thought she wouldn’t answer, the lock clicked. The door creaked open.
She stood in the doorway.
Ayesha.
Her brows furrowed, eyes scanning me with an initial flicker of irritation—until recognition struck her. Her face changed like a curtain lifting after a long intermission.
“Oh! It’s you!” Her voice softened, touched by something unspoken. “Come in… please, come in.”
She stepped aside, the light behind her casting a warm, golden halo around her slightly unkempt hair. I stepped in, trying not to look too awkward.
The flat was modest, silent, and dimly lit—like a home that had forgotten laughter. She gestured toward the old beige sofa. I sat. The cushions sank beneath me, releasing a faint scent of jasmine and old books.
“Tea?” she asked, already moving toward the kitchen without waiting for an answer.
“Only if you’re making it for yourself,” I replied.
A half-smile touched her lips, but she didn’t look back.
I let my eyes wander—framed photos on the shelf, a schoolbag in one corner, probably her daughter’s, and a wall calendar still stuck on the previous month.
“She’s in the hostel,” Ayesha’s voice came from the kitchen.
“I know,” I said, gently.
Moments later, she returned with two steaming cups. She handed me one and sat across from me, legs folded, her eyes searching mine.
“So… what brings you here? At this hour?”
Her voice wasn’t suspicious. Just curious. Maybe even… hopeful?
“So… what brings you here? At this hour?”
Her voice wasn’t accusing—just curious. Maybe even… inviting.
I let my eyes linger on her for a moment. Ayesha.
She stood there in a loosely draped saree, the soft cotton clinging gently to her curves. Her blouse sat light on her shoulders, and beneath it… nothing. It wasn’t hard to notice—the shape of her breasts hinted through the fabric, slightly slackened with time, but still undeniably feminine.
Her face had that familiar spark—mischief dancing quietly in her eyes. The way she looked at me… it wasn’t innocent. It never was. Not at the office, not now.
She didn’t flirt with everyone. Only me.
And I could never ignore it.
Maybe it was the loneliness, maybe the memories of touch long forgotten. Or maybe it was because I had been there when no one else was. Whatever it was, it created a quiet pull between us—unspoken, but alive.
“You’ve fought with your wife again, haven’t you?” she asked with a half-smile, her voice teasing.
I gave a faint nod.
She chuckled. “Otherwise, why would you think of me at this hour?”
Her eyes held mine for a heartbeat longer before she turned toward the kitchen, her saree swaying gently with her movement.
“Stay tonight,” she said over her shoulder. “I’ll cook for you. It gets boring to cook just for myself every night.”
She paused near the doorway, then glanced back.
“Will you stay? Or will madam wife haunt your dreams tonight?”
I smiled, the answer already on my tongue.
“I’ll stay,” I said softly. “Why would I miss her… when you are here?”
She looked at me with a playful smile—teasing, almost childlike.
My answer had pleased her. I could see it in her eyes, the way they softened, flickered with something unspoken. For a moment, her lips parted as if to say something more… but she stopped herself. Maybe it was shyness. Maybe something else.
I sipped my tea slowly, letting the warmth slide down my throat, the silence between us thick with quiet tension.
Ayesha had gone into the kitchen again, and hadn’t returned yet. The flat felt still, the kind of stillness that makes every sound more intimate.
My cup was empty. I stood up quietly and walked toward the kitchen, the ceramic cool in my hand.
She stood by the counter, lost in her task—chopping vegetables, her focus completely on the rhythm of her hands.
Her saree had slipped slightly, dangerously, away from her chest. The loose pallu hung to one side, and for a moment, her soft belly was exposed in the warm kitchen light. Smooth. Vulnerable. Real.
I paused—watching her without meaning to.
Her back was half-turned, her posture relaxed, unaware. There was something deeply feminine in the way she moved—graceful, yet unguarded.
I cleared my throat gently.
She turned sharply, startled. Her eyes met mine, then instinctively flicked downward to her exposed skin. With a sudden flush of modesty, she adjusted her saree—pulling the fabric over her chest and tucking it tighter around her waist.
I said nothing. Just held up the cup.
“Where should I keep this?”
She pointed silently toward the basin, not meeting my eyes.
I placed the cup down, careful not to let my fingers brush against hers.
But the silence between us now carried a different weight. A heat.
Not loud, not rushed—but slow, building, impossible to ignore.
I stepped closer, slowly, until I was right behind her. Close enough for my breath to touch the bare curve of her neck.
She froze. The rhythm of her hands slowed. Her breathing grew heavier—soft, uneven.
I leaned in slightly, just enough for her to feel me without making contact. The heat between us thickened.
"You know… when you're silent like this, you're even more beautiful," I whispered, my voice low and steady.
She didn’t respond. She just put the knife down gently on the cutting board, her fingers trembling ever so slightly.
I reached forward, letting my hand rest lightly on the small of her waist. The warmth of her skin beneath the loosened saree was soft… delicate.
She flinched—but didn’t move away. Instead, her hand came over mine, holding it… not to stop me, just to feel me.
Her body was tense, waiting.
"You know… I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” I murmured, as my fingers slid lower, tracing the smooth curve of her belly.
Her breath hitched.
Her chest was rising and falling in a slow, heavy rhythm.
“I used to think you were just the quiet one at the office… polite, reserved,” she whispered, her voice barely a breath.
“But tonight… you feel different.”
My fingers circled around her navel, slowly, deliberately.
She leaned back ever so slightly, her head brushing against my shoulder.
“You’re not going to run tonight, are you?” I asked softly.
She didn’t answer me. She didn’t need to.
Her silence said everything.
I felt her back soften against me—no longer tense, but surrendering. Her body spoke a language her lips didn’t. Warm. Receptive. Aching quietly for touch.
I leaned in just a little more, letting my chest brush her back. My hand, still resting on her stomach, slid upward—slowly—feeling every breath she took, every tiny tremble beneath her skin. She wasn’t just letting me touch her now… she was melting into it.
Her head tilted slightly to the side, exposing her neck without even realizing it. That small, bare space between her ear and shoulder—vulnerable, inviting.
I lowered my lips to that spot. Didn’t kiss. Just let my breath linger there.
She shivered.
“I’ve seen this side of you in glimpses,” I whispered. “That softness… that fire underneath.”
Her hand tightened over mine, but she still didn’t stop me. Her fingers intertwined with mine now, resting flat over her stomach.
"You always watched me like you knew," she said suddenly, her voice low, uneven. “Like you were waiting for the right moment.”
I smiled. “Maybe I was.”
Her saree had slipped slightly again. I could see the curve of her shoulder now… bare, glowing under the kitchen light. The room was quiet except for our breaths, mingling in the space between closeness and collapse.
She turned slightly, just enough for her eyes to meet mine.
And in that look—half fire, half fear—I saw everything.
Desire. Hunger. And a fragile trust she was giving only to me.
She opened her mouth to say something, but no words came.
So I leaned in, closing that last sliver of space between us.
My lips brushed against her neck—softly at first, barely a kiss. Just a lingering touch that made her inhale sharply, as though she’d been holding her breath for too long.
She turned toward me fully now, her eyes searching mine.
There was heat there—undeniable—but also something gentler. A question. A permission.
I cupped her face, my thumb grazing her cheekbone.
She closed her eyes as if the moment itself was too much, too long awaited.
Our lips met—tentative at first, like tasting a forbidden thought. Then deeper. Slower. Her mouth opened to mine, warm and welcoming. She tasted like chai and cinnamon… and something uniquely hers.
Her fingers found my shirt, clutching the fabric as if anchoring herself to the moment. I held her waist, drawing her closer, feeling the softness of her body press against mine.
The kitchen—so ordinary, so quiet just moments ago—now felt like another world. The chopping board, the knife, the forgotten vegetables—all faded into the background.
She pulled back slightly, her forehead resting against mine.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” she whispered, her voice breathless.
I smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
“It already is.”
My hands moved over the curves of her waist, exploring slowly, reverently. I kissed her again—this time with more hunger, more need. Her hands slid up around my neck, pulling me closer, tighter, as if she wanted to disappear into me.
The pallu of her saree slipped again. This time, she didn’t fix it.
My lips found her shoulder, trailing kisses along the bare skin. She gasped, almost inaudibly, her hands gripping the back of my neck.
“Bedroom,” she whispered. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a surrender.
I didn’t say a word. Just took her hand, and followed.
Her hand in mine was warm, almost trembling—but steady.
She led me through the quiet hallway, into the dimly lit bedroom. The curtains were drawn, and the soft amber glow from a streetlamp outside painted her room in shadows and gold.
She turned to face me as the door clicked shut behind us.
There was no more hesitation now. No more “should we?”
Only “we already are.”
I stepped closer, slowly, savoring the seconds before contact. Her eyes didn’t leave mine. She was still breathing heavy, lips parted—waiting.
I reached for the edge of her saree and began to unwrap it gently, the fabric slipping through my fingers like water. She watched me silently, her chest rising and falling, her body slowly being revealed under the fading layers.
There was no rush. No urgency. Just a deep, aching desire to see—really see—the woman who had been hidden behind smiles, sarcasm, and everyday clothes.
When she stood before me in nothing but her skin, she didn’t cover herself.
She didn’t need to.
She was beautiful. Not just in the curve of her waist or the fullness of her breasts. But in her courage to be open… to let me see her hunger, her softness, her fire.
I reached out, letting my hands trace the shape of her. From the dip of her collarbone, to the smooth line of her stomach, to the hollow of her waist where my fingers fit like a memory.
She gasped again as I kissed her shoulder, then her throat, then lower… her skin warm beneath my lips, her hands tangled in my hair, pulling me deeper into her body, her breath.
She guided me to the bed, her back hitting the sheets with a soft thud. I climbed over her slowly, our skin touching everywhere. Heat against heat. No barriers now.
She wrapped her legs around my waist, pulling me closer. Her voice a whisper, breathless—
“I need to feel you…”
“You will,” I murmured, and then I was inside her.
The world dissolved.
There was no more kitchen. No office. No past.
Only sweat. Skin. Fingers. Moans muffled against necks. Bodies moving together in rhythm—first slow, like a secret being whispered, then faster, like a storm building inside both of us.
She gasped my name. Once. Twice. Her voice shaking with each wave.
I kissed her lips to catch it.
We crashed together—loud, raw, beautiful. And then the stillness.
She lay under me, chest rising, arms still clinging tight.
Neither of us said a word.
Because everything had already been said—
In touch.
In breath.
In the way our bodies refused to let go.
