Suyash woke to the familiar hum of the AC and a throbbing pain that wasn't in his head.
He lay still for a moment, staring at the yellowing plaster above and replaying last night's disaster on a mental loop. Babita's body pressed against his. Her hand. That whisper.
"I can't take it anymore. I have a plug inside me. Right now. I've been wearing it all evening, thinking of you. Please."
He groaned and threw an arm over his eyes.
The plug. Of all the things he'd imagined Babita Iyer hiding under those translucent saris, a butt plug hadn't made the top ten. Yet, the way she said it—breathless and desperate with blown-wide pupils—nearly undid every ounce of his self-control.
He would have taken her right there on the kitchen counter. He would have bent her over the sink. He would have—
"Jethalal! What brings you here at this hour?"
Babita's voice, suddenly bright and innocent, cut through the haze like a bucket of ice water. Suyash spun around, his heart slamming against his ribs and his erection pressing painfully against his zipper.
And there he was: Jethalal Gada stood in the open doorway, his mouth already forming the words, "I need sugar—" before freezing mid-sentence.
Because Babita's nightie was still transparent. It still clung to every curve. It was doing absolutely nothing to hide the fact that she wasn't wearing anything underneath except, apparently, a plug. Suyash could see its outline through the sheer fabric when she turned slightly.
Jetha's eyes nearly rolled out of his head.
Suyash had never moved faster in his life. He stepped in front of Babita—partly to shield her and partly to hide the tent in his pants—and said the first thing that came to mind:
"I'm fixing the fridge."
The fridge.
Jetha blinked, slowly shifting his gaze from Babita's barely concealed body to Suyash's flushed face and finally to the refrigerator, which was humming along perfectly.
"The fridge," Jetha repeated.
"Yes, it was making a noise." Suyash grabbed a random screwdriver from Babita's kitchen drawer. He wasn't sure if it was a screwdriver; it looked more like a corkscrew. He waved it vaguely. "All fixed now."
Babita, to her credit, played along beautifully. She pulled her nightie's pallu—such as it was—across her chest. This made things worse because the fabric was so thin that it only added a translucent layer over her nipples. "Suyash beta is so helpful," she said, her voice honeyed. "Always coming to fix things for me."
Jetha's eye twitched. "Always?"
"Iyer is never home, you know." She sighed dramatically. "A woman needs a man around for... repairs."
She purred the word "repairs," making Suyash's knees weak.
Jetha stood there for another agonizing minute, his gaze bouncing between them like a pinball. Then, without another word, he turned and walked out, muttering something under his breath about "bloody convenient fridge noises."
Suyash waited until Jetha's footsteps faded, then turned to Babita.
She was already grinning.
"Your face," she whispered, stepping close again. "You should have seen your face! 'I'm fixing the fridge.'" She laughed low and throaty. "You're adorable when you panic."
"You're insane," he hissed back, but he was smiling, too. "He could have seen—"
"He didn't see anything." She pressed a finger to his lips. "And whatever he did see, he'll convince himself was a dream by morning. Jethalal's imagination is his own worst enemy."
Then she kissed him again, softly this time, and whispered, "Tomorrow. My flat. No interruptions. I'll text you."
Now, sunlight streamed through his balcony window, and Suyash's phone buzzed on the nightstand.
He didn't need to look.
Babita: Noon. Don't be late. Wear something easy to remove. 👌👈
He stared at the message for a long moment, his body already responding. Then he typed back: "No plug this time?"
Her response came in seconds: "Maybe. Come find out."
Suyash laughed despite himself and tossed the phone aside. He had four hours to kill and a raging hard-on to manage. Not to mention, the lingering paranoia that Jethalal was camped outside Babita's door with binoculars.
He needed a shower. A cold one. Very, very cold.
The Gokuldham compound was deceptively peaceful at eleven in the morning. The children were in school. The men were at work—or, in Jetha's case, supposedly at his electronics shop. However, Suyash wouldn't put it past Jetha to skip work for the sake of surveillance. The women moved about their apartments, visible through open windows and balconies, in various states of undress that would have given Bhide a heart attack.
Suyash stepped out of his apartment wearing jeans and a plain white T-shirt. Nothing fancy. It was easy to remove, just as Babita had requested.
He took three steps toward the staircase before he heard a voice call out, "Suyash!"
"Suyash!"
He turned around. Madhavi was coming up the stairs from the floor below, holding a steel container. She was wearing a green sari today, the pallu modestly draped over her shoulder. However, the blouse underneath was cut so low that the sides of her breasts were visible with every step. She'd started dressing differently since their affair began. More color. More fabric removed.
"Madhavi ji," he said, forcing a smile. "Good morning."
"Good morning, good morning." She reached him, slightly out of breath, and thrust the container into his hands. "I made extra poha for breakfast. Bhide had already left, and I thought—"
She paused, her dark eyes scanning his face. "Are you going somewhere?"
"Just out. For a walk."
Her gaze dropped to his jeans. She noticed the slight bulge he couldn't hide. When she looked back up, there was a knowing look in her eyes—not exactly hurt, but close.
"Ah," she said softly. "Babita?"
Suyash opened his mouth to deny it, then closed it. Madhavi wasn't stupid. None of them were. They had all figured out—or at least strongly suspected—that they weren't the only ones. The unspoken agreement was simple: Don't ask. Don't tell. Don't cause drama.
"I'll come by tonight," he said instead. "After Bhide sleeps."
Madhavi's expression softened. She stepped closer, close enough that her sari brushed against his arm, and lowered her voice. "You don't have to manage us like a schedule, Suyash. I know what I am to you. What we are." She lightly touched his chest, her fingers lingering over his heartbeat. "Just...don't forget me. That's all I ask."
"Never," he said, and he meant it.
She smiled, took the poha container back—he'd forgotten he was holding it—and disappeared into her apartment. The door clicked shut.
Suyash exhaled and continued toward Babita's.
He reached her door at 11:58 a.m. Two minutes early. He was about to knock when the door swung open on its own.
Babita stood in the doorway wearing a silk robe with the belt tied loosely enough that the fabric gaped open from her collarbone to her navel. She was wearing nothing underneath. Nothing at all.
Her hair was down, cascading over her shoulders in dark waves. Her lips were glossed. Her eyes were already half-lidded.
"You're early," she said.
"You're not wearing anything."
"I'm wearing a robe." She pulled him inside and closed the door. "For now."
The apartment smelled of sandalwood and something sweeter—jasmine, perhaps, or the perfume she'd started wearing after he'd complimented it. The curtains were drawn and the room was dim. The only light came from the kitchen, where a kettle was still steaming.
"I made chai," she said, leading him toward the living room. "But it can wait."
She turned to face him and the belt of her robe came undone. The silk parted.
Suyash's breath caught.
Without question, Babita Iyer was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. He had known that since his first morning on the balcony. But seeing her like this—standing completely naked in her living room, offering her body to him without pretense or hesitation—was something else entirely.
Her breasts were full and heavy with dark, erect nipples. Her waist curved in and her hips flared out. Between her legs—
"Like what you see?" she asked in a low, teasing voice.
He couldn't speak. He nodded.
She stepped closer, close enough that her breasts brushed against his chest through his T-shirt. Her hand found his belt and unbuckled it with practiced ease. "I've been waiting for this," she murmured against his ear. "Thinking about it. Touching myself, thinking about it."
"Babita—"
"No more interruptions." She unzipped his jeans. "No more Jethalal. No more Iyer. Just you, me, and this." Her hand slid inside his boxers and wrapped around him. He had to bite his lip to keep from groaning.
"The plug," he managed. "Was that—"
"Real." She squeezed gently, and his hips jerked forward. "I wore it for two hours yesterday. Every time I sat down or walked, I thought of you. What you'd do to me. How you'd feel inside me." She pulled her hand out and pushed his jeans down instead. "Now, stop talking."
She kissed him.
It wasn't like the kiss in the kitchen last night—desperate, hurried, and interrupted. This was slow. Deliberate. Her tongue traced his lower lip, then slipped inside. She tasted of chai and something darker. Her hands roamed his back and pulled his T-shirt up; her nails scraped lightly over his skin.
He pulled away just long enough to yank the shirt over his head. Then he was on her, kissing her neck, collarbone, and breast. She moaned—a soft, breathy sound—and arched into him.
"The bedroom," she gasped. "Now."
He lifted her more easily than he'd expected; his super-soldier strength was subtle but real. She wrapped her legs around his waist. Her wetness pressed against his stomach as he carried her down the hallway, through a door, and onto a bed that smelled of her perfume.
She pulled him down on top of her, and then there was no more talking.
An hour later, Suyash lay on his back, staring at the ceiling fan in Iyer's bedroom while Babita traced lazy patterns on his chest with her fingernail.
They lay in silence for a while. The afternoon sun had shifted; the room was darker now, and the shadows were longer. Somewhere outside, a bird called out—maybe a koel or a particularly vocal pigeon.
"I'm not going to ask you to stop seeing the others," Babita said eventually.
Suyash turned his head to look at her. "No?"
"No." She propped herself up on one elbow, her hair falling over her face. "I'm not stupid. I know about Madhavi. I suspect Anjali?"
"You Knows?!" he said.
"I know." She traced his collarbone. "But I want you to know something. I was here first. I invited you first. I kissed you first. The rest of them—she shrugged—"they're borrowing what's mine."
"Possessive much?"
"Extremely." She smiled, but there was steel behind it. "Don't forget that."
He pulled her down and kissed her forehead. "I won't."
He left her apartment at two p.m., his body pleasantly exhausted and his mind already running through the rest of the day's logistics: Madhavi tonight. Anjali would probably be tomorrow. Komal had been sending increasingly suggestive texts about "helping her organize her closet."
The harem was growing.
He was halfway down the stairs when he heard footsteps behind him.
"Suyash."
He turned around. Jethalal stood on the landing below with his arms crossed and an unreadable expression on his face.
"Jetha bhai," Suyash said smoothly. "Shouldn't you be at the shop?"
"I took a half-day." Jethalal climbed the remaining steps until they were face-to-face. He smelled of sweat, cheap cologne, and something else—maybe determination. Or jealousy. "I need to ask you something."
"Ask."
Jetha's jaw tightened. "Are you sleeping with Babita?"
The question hung in the air between them. Suyash could have lied. He could have deflected. He could have pulled out his phone and pretended to take a call.
But something in Jetha's eyes—not just jealousy, but also pain—made him hesitate.
"Jetha bhai," he said carefully. "What would it change if I said yes?"
Jetha blinked, clearly not expecting that response. "I—I don't know. I just—I've been in love with her for years. Years. She never even looked at me. Then you show up, and suddenly—" He gestured vaguely. Happy. Smiling. Wearing transparent clothes everywhere."
"She's always worn transparent clothes," Suyash pointed out.
"Not like this." Jetha's voice cracked. "She's wearing them for you."
Suyash studied him for a long moment. The man was hurting. Genuinely, deeply hurting. No amount of comedy, slapstick, or "Jetha falls off a ladder" moments could mask that.
"I'm not going to lie to you," Suyash finally said. "But I'm also not going to give you details. It's not my story to tell." He placed a hand on Jetha's shoulder. "What I will say is this: Babita made her own choices. She chose what she wanted. And what she wanted—" He paused, choosing his words carefully. "—wasn't about you. It was about her. Her needs. Her desires. You can't compete with that because you were never in the race."
Jetha's face crumpled. For a moment, Suyash thought he was going to cry.
Then, Jetha laughed—a bitter, broken sound. "You know, I really wanted to hate you."
"I know."
"Maybe I still do. A little."
"That's fair."
They stood in the stairwell, feeling the afternoon heat press down on them and hearing the sounds of society filtering up from below. Somewhere, a woman sang. Somewhere else, a pressure cooker whistled. Life went on.
"Just... take care of her," Jetha finally said. "If you're doing what I think you're doing, take care of her. She deserves that much."
"I will."
Jetha nodded, turned, and walked back down the stairs. He didn't look back.
Suyash watched him go, then continued on to his apartment. His phone buzzed again.
Babita: Jetha just walked past my door. Looked like he'd been crying. What did you say to him?"
He typed back: "The truth." More or less."
Her response: "You're a good man, Suyash. Now come back tonight. I want round two."
He smiled and put the phone in his pocket.
His harem was growing. The secrets were multiplying. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Bhide was probably delivering another lecture on loose character and moral decay.
But, in that moment, with the sun on his face and the memory of Babita's body still warm on his skin, Suyash felt something he hadn't felt in a long time:
Contentment.
He opened his apartment door, stepped inside, and closed it behind him.
The AC hummed to life.