I shouldn’t have gone. That’s what I kept telling myself even while I was standing outside his building in Koramangala, phone in one hand, the other gripping the strap of my bag so tight my fingers hurt. Twenty-three years old, still living with my parents in Jayanagar, still answering my mother’s calls every night before ten, and here I was at eleven-thirty on a Thursday because Arjun had sent one message: Parents are in Mysore. Door’s unlocked if you want to stop being careful for once.
I had read it four times on the auto ride. My heart had been doing something stupid the whole way. We had been talking for three months—late-night calls after my shift at the content company ended, long walks near Cubbon Park when I could invent an excuse, one kiss in his car outside a café in Indiranagar that had left me wet and furious with myself all the way home. I had never done more than that. Not with him. Not with anyone.
The lift smelled like someone’s leftover biryani. On the sixth floor his door was open just a crack. I pushed it and stepped inside. Arjun was in the kitchen in a white t-shirt and black shorts, barefoot, pouring water into two glasses. He looked up when he heard me and didn’t smile. He just watched me the way he had been watching me for weeks—like he already knew I was going to come and was only waiting to see how long it would take me to admit it.
“You came,” he said.
“You left the door open.”
He handed me a glass. Our fingers touched. I drank because my mouth was dry and because I didn’t know what else to do with my hands. The flat was quiet. Somewhere below, traffic still moved on 80 Feet Road. Arjun put his glass down, stepped closer, and kissed me without asking. It wasn’t careful. His mouth was hot and he tasted like the mint he always chewed. I opened for him because I had already decided, somewhere between the auto and the lift, that I was done thinking.
His hands went under my kurti and pushed it up. I let him take it off. The bra followed. Cool air hit my skin and then his mouth was on my breast, sucking hard enough that I gasped and grabbed his hair. He walked me backward until my legs hit the edge of the sofa. I sat. Arjun dropped to his knees between them, pushed my jeans and panties down in one rough movement, and spread me open with his thumbs.
The first lick made my whole body jerk. He did it again, slow and flat, then closed his mouth over my clit and sucked while two fingers pushed inside me. I was so wet it was embarrassing. He curled his fingers and kept licking, steady and filthy, until the pressure snapped and I came with a sharp cry, thighs shaking around his head, one hand clamped over my own mouth because the windows were open.
He stood up, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and pulled his shorts down. His cock was thick, already hard, the head dark and wet. I stared. I had felt him through clothes before. I had never seen him like this.
“Bedroom,” he said, voice low. “Or right here. Your choice.”
“Bedroom.”
He took my hand and pulled me up. In his room the only light was from the street outside. He pushed me onto the bed, rolled a condom on while I watched, and climbed over me. The head of his cock pressed against me. I was still throbbing from the orgasm. My legs opened without me telling them to.
“It’s going to hurt,” he said against my mouth. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”
“Don’t stop.”
He pushed in. The stretch burned. I dug my nails into his shoulders and made a sound I didn’t recognise. He held still, breathing hard, kissing my neck until the worst of it eased. Then he pushed deeper. Halfway in I gasped. He was thick and I was tight and every inch felt impossible.
“Fuck, Ananya,” he muttered. “You’re squeezing me so hard.”
I wrapped my legs around his waist. “More. All of it. Please.”
He sank the rest of the way in one long thrust. I cried out. He was buried inside me, stretching me open until I could feel him everywhere. For a second neither of us moved. Then he pulled almost all the way out and drove back in, hard. The bed hit the wall. I saw stars.
“Like that?” he asked.
“Yes. Harder. Don’t be gentle.”
He fucked me in deep, rough strokes, one hand braced beside my head, the other between us rubbing my clit. Every thrust knocked a sound out of me. I could hear how wet I was, the slick noise of his cock moving in and out, the low grunts he made when I clenched. The second orgasm hit fast and mean. I came with a loud moan, pulsing around him, legs locked tight, nails dragging down his back.
He didn’t stop. He pulled out, flipped me onto my stomach, and dragged my hips up. I barely had time to breathe before he pushed back inside from behind. The new angle made him feel even bigger. He gripped my hips and started fucking me hard, skin slapping skin, one hand reaching under to keep rubbing my clit. I buried my face in the pillow and came a third time, shaking so hard my arms gave out and I collapsed onto the bed with him still inside me.
Arjun pulled out, ripped the condom off, and stroked himself twice before coming across my lower back in thick, hot stripes. He collapsed beside me, both of us panting. My whole body felt used. Between my legs I was sore and still throbbing and so wet I could feel it on my thighs.
We lay there for a minute. Then Arjun got up, came back with a warm cloth, and cleaned me carefully. When he lay down again he pulled me against his chest. His hand slid down my stomach and between my legs, fingers gentle now, just touching.
“You okay?” he asked against my hair.
“Yeah. More than okay.”
His fingers kept moving, slow circles over my clit. I was sensitive but I didn’t want him to stop. He noticed. He rolled me onto my back, kissed his way down my body, and settled between my thighs again. This time he ate me slowly, licking me open, sucking my clit until I was writhing and saying his name like I had forgotten every other word. When he pushed two fingers inside and curled them just right I came again, softer, thighs trembling around his head, one hand in his hair holding him there.
He didn’t give me long. He rolled on another condom, lay back, and pulled me on top of him.
“Ride me,” he said. “I want to watch your face.”
I straddled him, reached between us, and guided him back inside. I sank down slowly, taking him inch by inch until I was sitting fully on him. The stretch was still intense but the pain had turned into a deep, full ache that felt good when I moved. I started rocking, then lifting and dropping, finding a rhythm. Arjun’s hands stayed on my hips, guiding but not forcing. Every time I came down he thrust up to meet me.
“Look at you,” he said, voice rough. “Fucking yourself on my cock. So fucking beautiful.”
I braced my hands on his chest and rode him harder. My breasts bounced. He sat up suddenly, wrapped his arms around me, and sucked one nipple into his mouth while I kept moving. The angle changed. He hit deeper. My fourth orgasm crashed over me without warning. I clenched hard around him, crying out, and Arjun groaned and came with me, hips jerking up as he filled the condom.
We stayed like that, me still on top of him, his cock softening inside me, both of us sweaty and shaking. Outside the window the city kept moving—distant horns, someone’s music, the low hum of the AC. My phone was somewhere in the living room. My mother would have called by now. She would call again. I should get up, check the time, invent a story about traffic or Nisha’s house or a late meeting.
Instead I stayed where I was. Arjun’s hands moved slowly up and down my back. I could feel the ache between my legs every time I shifted, the proof of what we had just done. I was sore. I was tired. I was no longer a virgin. And for the first time in months the thought of going home felt less important than the feeling of his heartbeat under my palm and the quiet way he said my name when he kissed the side of my neck.
“Stay,” he said.
I closed my eyes and nodded against his shoulder. The night was still long. And I was not ready to leave the warmth of his body or the slow, steady throb that reminded me, with every small movement, exactly how completely I had stopped being careful.