Erotic Encounters
The air in the old colonial bungalow felt heavier after midnight, thick with the kind of humidity that makes cotton cling and skin glisten even when you're perfectly still. The ceiling fan turned lazily, doing little more than stir the scent of jasmine from the garden and the faint, private musk that had started to gather between them.
She had kicked off her sandals an hour ago. He still wore his shirt — open now, sleeves rolled, the third button long gone. Neither of them had said the word “bedroom” out loud. They didn’t need to. The conversation had already migrated to fingers tracing collarbones, to the slow drag of a thumbnail along the inside of a wrist, to the way her breath hitched when his knee nudged between hers on the wicker sofa.
“You’re staring,” she murmured, voice low, amused.
“At your mouth,” he admitted without apology. “Specifically at the way you keep biting the corner of it when you think I’m not looking.”
She let her lip slide free of her teeth, deliberate. “And now?”
“Now I’m thinking about what it would feel like if you did that… lower.”
A small, dangerous smile curled. She shifted, straddling his thighs in one smooth motion, the thin cotton of her kurti riding up just enough to show the dark edge of lace beneath. His hands found her hips instantly — not grabbing, not yet, just resting there with the kind of pressure that promised he knew exactly how much force it would take to make her arch.
She leaned in until their mouths were barely a rumour apart.
“Tell me what you want,” she whispered against his lips, “and you only get one sentence.”
His thumbs pressed into the soft hollows above her hipbones.
“I want to feel your teeth on my throat while you ride my fingers until you soak my wrist… and then I want you to come so hard you forget how to keep quiet.”
She exhaled a shaky laugh that turned into a moan halfway through because he’d already slipped two fingers beneath the lace, not pushing inside, just stroking the slick seam of her with maddening patience.
“Then earn it,” she said, voice fraying.
She sank down onto his hand at the same moment he surged up to meet her mouth.
No more sentences after that.
Just the wet sound of kissing that had turned obscene, the creak of old wicker protesting under shifting weight, the soft torn noise her kurti made when he finally gave up being careful and yanked it over her head. Just his teeth finding the pulse under her jaw, her nails scoring lines down his back that would sting in the shower tomorrow morning, the increasingly desperate roll of her hips chasing the curl of his fingers until her thighs started to shake and her curses turned into broken gasps of his name.
When she came it wasn’t graceful.
It was head thrown back, mouth open on a silent scream that broke into sound only when he pressed his palm hard against her clit and refused to let the pleasure crest and fade. She clenched around his fingers so tightly he groaned against her throat, hips jerking upward in helpless reflex, the front of his trousers already dark and ruined.
Afterward she stayed draped over him, both of them breathing like they’d been running.
She nosed along his jaw, still trembling faintly.
“Your turn,” she whispered, reaching down between them.
He caught her wrist — gentle, but firm.
“Later,” he said, voice gravel. “I want to taste you first… and I want to take my time.”
She shivered again, already half-gone at the thought.
The fan kept turning, indifferent.
The night was nowhere near finished.
She had kicked off her sandals an hour ago. He still wore his shirt — open now, sleeves rolled, the third button long gone. Neither of them had said the word “bedroom” out loud. They didn’t need to. The conversation had already migrated to fingers tracing collarbones, to the slow drag of a thumbnail along the inside of a wrist, to the way her breath hitched when his knee nudged between hers on the wicker sofa.
“You’re staring,” she murmured, voice low, amused.
“At your mouth,” he admitted without apology. “Specifically at the way you keep biting the corner of it when you think I’m not looking.”
She let her lip slide free of her teeth, deliberate. “And now?”
“Now I’m thinking about what it would feel like if you did that… lower.”
A small, dangerous smile curled. She shifted, straddling his thighs in one smooth motion, the thin cotton of her kurti riding up just enough to show the dark edge of lace beneath. His hands found her hips instantly — not grabbing, not yet, just resting there with the kind of pressure that promised he knew exactly how much force it would take to make her arch.
She leaned in until their mouths were barely a rumour apart.
“Tell me what you want,” she whispered against his lips, “and you only get one sentence.”
His thumbs pressed into the soft hollows above her hipbones.
“I want to feel your teeth on my throat while you ride my fingers until you soak my wrist… and then I want you to come so hard you forget how to keep quiet.”
She exhaled a shaky laugh that turned into a moan halfway through because he’d already slipped two fingers beneath the lace, not pushing inside, just stroking the slick seam of her with maddening patience.
“Then earn it,” she said, voice fraying.
She sank down onto his hand at the same moment he surged up to meet her mouth.
No more sentences after that.
Just the wet sound of kissing that had turned obscene, the creak of old wicker protesting under shifting weight, the soft torn noise her kurti made when he finally gave up being careful and yanked it over her head. Just his teeth finding the pulse under her jaw, her nails scoring lines down his back that would sting in the shower tomorrow morning, the increasingly desperate roll of her hips chasing the curl of his fingers until her thighs started to shake and her curses turned into broken gasps of his name.
When she came it wasn’t graceful.
It was head thrown back, mouth open on a silent scream that broke into sound only when he pressed his palm hard against her clit and refused to let the pleasure crest and fade. She clenched around his fingers so tightly he groaned against her throat, hips jerking upward in helpless reflex, the front of his trousers already dark and ruined.
Afterward she stayed draped over him, both of them breathing like they’d been running.
She nosed along his jaw, still trembling faintly.
“Your turn,” she whispered, reaching down between them.
He caught her wrist — gentle, but firm.
“Later,” he said, voice gravel. “I want to taste you first… and I want to take my time.”
She shivered again, already half-gone at the thought.
The fan kept turning, indifferent.
The night was nowhere near finished.
56-60, M