I know how that sounds, and I’ve spent 3 days trying to find a version of this story where I come out looking decent, so I’ll skip the excuses and tell it straight. Rohan has been my best friend since Class 9, and last year he married Simran, whom I’ve known for 6 years and whom I’ve been quietly circling since roughly the second of them. Diwali this year was at their apartment in Dwarka, 20 people, a card table in the living room, and rum flowing steadily enough that by 11:30 p.m. Rohan was asleep on the balcony daybed with a paper plate balanced on his chest.
Simran stood in the kitchen in a deep green silk saree with a gold border, bangles stacked on both wrists, her hair coming loose from the pin after hours of hosting, and she looked at me over the rim of her glass the way she’d looked at me a few times before, when I’d pretended not to notice. “Help me carry the dishes,” she said, and I followed her into the kitchen, where the last of the guests’ laughter drifted in from the hall. She set her glass down, turned around, and leaned against the counter with her arms crossed under her chest.
I’m 33 and I’ve been married for 14 months, and he fell asleep at his own Diwali party,” she said, her voice flat and tired. “Tell me I’m not imagining the way you look at me. I told her I wasn’t going to lie to her, and she stepped close enough that I could smell the rum and the jasmine in her hair. “Good,” she whispered, and then she kissed me, her hand fisted in my shirt, her bangles chiming against my ribs. We broke apart when someone’s chair scraped in the hall, and she pressed a key card into my palm, the spare for her empty flat 2 floors down, and said, “Midnight. If you don’t come, I’ll pretend this never happened.”
I came at 11:58. She opened the door in the same saree, the Pallu already slipping off her shoulder, and shut it behind me with a hand flat against my chest. “Rohan took 2 of the sleeping pills his doctor gave him, so he’s out till morning,” she said, which settled the question of nerves for both of us. She backed toward the sofa, pulling me by the collar, and when her knees hit the cushion she sat down, looked up at me, and said, “Take it off me, slowly, I want to remember it.” I unwound the saree in long turns, the silk sliding off her hips and gathering around her feet, until she sat in a black blouse and a petticoat tied low on her waist.
I knelt between her knees, pushed the petticoat up her thighs, and found she wasn’t wearing anything underneath, and she was so wet that she shone in the lamplight. When my tongue touched her she let out a long shaky moan and grabbed the back of my head, her thighs trembling against my ears. “God, yes, right there, I’ve thought about this since your birthday,” she gasped, and I kept my mouth on her, two fingers curling inside her, until she came with a cry she smothered against her own wrist.
She pulled me up, undid my belt with unsteady hands, and took my cock out, stroking me slowly while she watched my face. “No condom in the flat, and I’ve got the injection, so it’s up to you,” she said. I told her I had one in my wallet, and she laughed softly, kissed me, and rolled it on herself, her fingers slow and sure. Then she pushed me back onto the sofa and climbed onto my lap, sinking down in a single smooth slide that made us both swear. She rode me with her hands on my shoulders, bangles ringing with every roll of her hips, her blouse hooks undone so I could bury my face between her breasts.
“Harder, S, I’m not going to break,” she panted, and I gripped her ass, pulling her down onto me with a force that rattled the coffee table. After about 10 minutes I stood, carried her to the bed in the next room, and laid her on her back, her legs over my shoulders, driving into her with deep, steady strokes while she clawed my back and whispered “don’t stop” in a voice I’d never heard her use. She came twice before I did, clenching around me so hard that I lost my rhythm, and when I finally followed her I buried my face in her neck and shook through it, groaning her name against her skin.
We lay tangled in the sheets for a long while, her head on my chest, the fireworks outside fading to occasional pops. “This can’t happen again,” she said finally, and then she kissed my shoulder and added, “or it can happen exactly once more.” At 4:30 a.m. I walked back upstairs and found Rohan still asleep on the balcony, plate on his chest, and I stood there for a full minute listening to him snore before I let myself out. He called the next afternoon to thank me for helping with the party. “You’re the best, bhai,” he said, “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” and I stared at the wall for 20 minutes after the line went dead.
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