The knock came at half past ten.
Suyash was halfway through a forgettable action movie he had chosen for its special effects when the sound of the knock cut through the explosions and gunfire on the screen. He muted the screen and frowned. Visitors at this hour were rare. Jetha sometimes barged in with some manufactured emergency, but even Jetha had limits.
He padded to the door in his pajama bottoms, not bothering with a shirt. Through the peephole, he saw a disheveled figure in a pale pink nightie, one shoulder bare, hair falling across her face: Anjali.
Anjali.
He opened the door.
She stood there like a ghost, her eyes red and swollen. Streaks of mascara ran down her cheeks. A half-empty bottle of wine dangled from her fingers. Her nightie was thin and almost transparent in the fluorescent light of the corridor. It had slipped so far off her shoulder that the curve of her breast was visible; the fabric barely clung to her nipple.
"Suyash," she slurred. Her voice was cracked and raw. "Can I... can I come in?"
He stepped aside without a word.
She stumbled past him, leaving a trail of wine fumes and jasmine perfume. Her bare feet padded across his living room floor. She stopped in the middle of the room and turned to face him, swaying slightly.
"He's cheating on me."
The words fell from her mouth like stones—heavy, jagged, and final.
Suyash slowly closed the door, the lock clicking into place. "Anjali—"
"Taarak." She laughed, a bitter, broken sound. "My perfect husband. My writer. My sanskaari Taarak." She took a long swig from the bottle, wine dribbling down her chin. "He's fucking his co-worker, Priyanka. You know, the one who came to our Diwali party. You remember her? Big tits, tight blouse, always laughing at his stupid jokes?"
Suyash stared at her blankly. A Diwali party? How was he supposed to know who she was talking about? He had only moved into this neighborhood two weeks ago. He didn't know any Priyanka.
"I have photos," Anjali continued, her voice rising to a frantic pitch. "My college friend sent them. They were at a couples' restaurant. Then they went to a hotel. Then..." She trailed off, her face crumpling. "How long, Suyash? How long has he been lying to me? Are the late nights at the office the reason? The 'writing retreats'?"
She didn't expect an answer. She was asking the universe, the gods, and the cruel fate that had turned her marriage into a joke.
Suyash approached her slowly, as one might approach a wounded animal. "Come here."
She fell into his arms without resistance, her body trembling against his. The wine bottle dropped to the floor, spilling its contents onto the rug. Neither of them noticed. Her face pressed into his chest, her tears soaking into his skin. He held her, cradling the back of her head with one hand and wrapping the other around her waist.
The nightie had shifted further. He could feel the heat radiating from her skin through the thin fabric and her belly pressing against his. Her breasts swelled against his ribcage.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice catching in a sob. "I shouldn't... I shouldn't be here. I should hate him. I should leave him. But I'm just... I'm so lonely, Suyash. I've been lonely for years."
"Shh."
"He doesn't touch me anymore. He doesn't look at me. I cook for him. I clean for him. I warm his bed. And he goes out and fucks someone else." Her voice cracked. "Mmmgh... What's wrong with me? Am I not enough?"
Suyash pulled back slightly and cupped her face in his hands. Her eyes were puffy, her nose was red, and her lips were trembling. Even like this—broken, drunk, and a mess—she was beautiful. More beautiful than she had any right to be.
"There's nothing wrong with you," he said quietly. "He's the fool. He's the one who threw away something precious."
Her eyes searched his face for a lie, but found none. She found none.
"Why are you being so nice to me?" she whispered.
"Because you deserve someone who sees you."
The words hung in the air between them. Her breath hitched. Her gaze dropped to his lips, then back to his eyes.
"I'm attracted to you," she admitted, her voice barely audible. "I have been since the day you moved in. Every time I came to your door with food, I hoped you'd... I hoped you'd touch me. I felt so guilty. I'm married. I took vows. But my husband broke his vows first. So why should I care anymore?"
Suyash didn't answer. He didn't need to.
She kissed him.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't tentative. It was desperate and hungry, pouring out a lifetime of loneliness in the press of her lips against his. Her tongue pushed into his mouth, seeking and claiming. She tasted of wine, tears, and something else—something raw and real.
His hands found her waist and pulled her closer. The nightie had completely slipped off one shoulder, baring her breast. He broke the kiss just long enough to look down at her—at her dark nipple peeking in the cool air, at the soft curve of her breast, at the way her chest rose and fell with ragged breaths.
"Are you sure?" he asked, his voice thick.
Instead of answering, she sank to her knees.
His pajama bottoms were loose. She tugged at the waistband, pulling them down along with his boxers. His cock sprang free, already hard and aching. Looking up at him with tear-stained eyes, she revealed a primal hunger that replaced the sorrow. Then, her mouth was on him.
Not just on him—around him.
"Ahhh..." Suyash hissed, his head snapping back.
She took him deep, stretching her lips wide and opening her throat to accommodate his length. Her tongue, longer than he expected and almost prehensile, wrapped around his shaft, curling and uncurling with each movement. It was like nothing he had ever felt before. It was a simultaneous blowjob and tongue-job, her muscle sliding along his underside, flicking at the sensitive ridge, and then wrapping fully around him like a serpent.
Where had a sweet, demure housewife learned to do that? Perhaps years of neglect had led her to explore her desires in ways Taarak never wanted to see.
He didn't ask. He didn't care.
She buried her face in his crotch, pressing her nose against his pubic bone and contracting her throat around the head of his cock. She held still, her breath hot against his skin and her hands gripping his thighs for balance. Then, pulling back with a gasp, she released a string of saliva connecting her lips to his tip before plunging down again.
Deeper.
Faster.
"Mmm-phmm..." she moaned against him, the sound vibrating through his shaft.
Her eyes were closed, tears leaking from the corners, but she was fully focused. She wanted this. She needed this. She wanted to be filled and used. She wanted to forget, if only for a moment, that her husband had chosen someone else.
Suyash's hand tangled in her hair, not to guide her, but to hold her. He let her set the pace. And she set it brutal.
She deep-throated him again and again, her throat working his length and her tongue never stopping its sinuous dance. The wet sounds filled the room: slurping, gagging, and moaning. His hips began to move, thrusting shallowly into her mouth. She took it and welcomed it, moaning around him.
"I'm close," he warned.
She looked up at him with red, fierce eyes and nodded as best she could with her mouth full. Her grip on his thighs tightened until her knuckles turned white.
He came.
Hot spurts flooded her throat. She swallowed repeatedly, not pulling back until every last drop was gone. Then, with her chest heaving and her lips swollen and glistening, she sat back on her heels and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
"Bed," she said. It wasn't a request.
They stumbled to his bedroom, shedding clothes as they went. Her nightie fell to the floor. His pajamas were kicked aside. She was naked underneath, with no bra or panties, just smooth skin, soft curves, and a triangle of dark hair between her thighs.
She pushed him onto the bed. He landed on his back, the mattress bouncing under his weight. She crawled over him, her hair falling around her face like a curtain, and reached for the bedside drawer.
"Condom," she said. "I'm not on birth control. Taarak and I haven't...it's been months since we even tried."
Suyash pointed to the drawer. She pulled it open, found the foil packet, and tore it open with her teeth. Then she took the condom into her mouth, lowered her head, and rolled it onto his penis using only her lips and tongue.
He groaned, his hands gripping the sheets. "God, Anjali..."
She straddled him.
She reached down with one hand to guide him, and then sank onto him slowly at first. Her eyes widened as he stretched and filled her. She had been so focused on his mouth that she had forgotten how long it had been since she had had a man inside her. Months. Maybe longer.
Then she moved.
Her hips rolled, grinding against his pelvis. From the start, she set a punishing rhythm—not the slow, tender lovemaking of a wife, but the desperate, forceful ride of a woman who wanted to feel something other than pain.
"Nnhh... mmm... ahh!" she cried out, tossing her head back.
Five thrusts. Six.
Then she stopped.
Her body went rigid. She pressed her hands against his chest to hold herself up. Her face, already a mess of tears and smeared mascara, contorted, and fresh sobs tore from her throat.
"I can't," she whispered. "I can't. I'm sorry. I thought I could, but I can't. He's my husband. We've been together for fifteen years. And here I am, in your bed. I'm..."
She climbed off him.
The condom slipped off, still rolled onto his penis and glistening with her wetness. She stood there naked and trembling, her thighs slick with arousal. She turned toward the door.
He saw a thin thread of liquid trailing from between her legs as she walked away, catching the dim light and stretching and breaking as she moved. Her juices mixed with his pre-cum and leaked down her inner thigh.
She was halfway to the door when he moved.
Suyash rose from the bed, his cock still hard and the condom still on. He crossed the room in three silent strides and caught her wrist.
"Anjali."
"Let me go. Please. I'm humiliated enough."
He didn't let go. Instead, he turned her around gently but firmly and pressed her against the wall. Her back hit the plaster with a soft thump. Her wide, wet, conflicted eyes stared up at him.
"You're not leaving like this," he said.
"Like what?" Broken? Pathetic? A woman whose husband would rather sleep with his colleague than come home to her?"
"I'm a woman who deserves to be wanted. Truly wanted."
He kissed her.
She resisted for a heartbeat or two. Then she opened her mouth under his and wrapped her arms around his neck. She pulled him against her like a drowning woman clinging to driftwood.
His hand slid down her body and between her legs. She was still wet—soaking, in fact. Her folds parted easily for his fingers, and she moaned into his mouth as he stroked her.
"The condom," she gasped. "It's on the bed..."
"I don't care," he growled.
Raw. He was going to take her without a condom.
She should have stopped him. She was fertile and unprotected, and she was having a breakdown. But she didn't. Instead, she pulled him closer, spreading her legs and tilting her hips forward.
He lifted her up. Her legs wrapped around his waist. Then, he thrust into her—bare skin to bare skin, nothing between them.
"Ah!" she cried out, her head falling back against the wall. "Suyash... oh God... mmmgh!"
He fucked her standing up, driving his hips into hers with a rhythm that was neither gentle nor forgiving. With each thrust, she was pushed against the cool plaster of the wall. Her nails dug into his shoulders. Her heels pressed into his ass, urging him to go deeper and harder.
"You feel that?" he growled against her neck. "Can you feel how much I want you? How much I've always wanted you?"
"Yes... Nnh... Yes... MORE!"
"He's a fool, Anjali. A goddamn fool. Cheating on a wife as perfect as you."
She sobbed and moaned simultaneously, her body trembling on the verge of something enormous. His angry, possessive, and true words pushed her higher than his cock alone could manage.
"He doesn't deserve you. He never did."
"I know," she wept, her voice a mix of pleasure and agony. "I know... ahhh, right there!"
He came.
The condom was gone, so there was nothing to catch it in. He spilled inside her, his hips jerking and his cock pulsing as he filled her with heat. She felt every spasm and twitch, and they sent her over the edge. Her own orgasm crashed through her like a wave. Her inner walls clamped down on him, milking him.
"MMMMGH!" She screamed into his shoulder, her body convulsing.
He kept thrusting.
Even after he came and his cock softened slightly, he kept moving. The sensitivity was almost too much, but he didn't stop. He couldn't. She was shaking, sobbing, and moaning, and he needed to make sure she felt it. Felt him.
Eventually, her legs gave out.
He carried her to the bed, still inside her, and laid her down gently. He pulled out—his cock slick with their combined fluids—and looked down at her. She lay sprawled across the sheets, her hair fanned out, her chest heaving, and her thighs parted.
A trickle of white liquid leaked from her.
He should get a towel. He should clean her up. He should ask if she's okay.
Instead, he climbed over her.
"Again," she whispered desperately.
He positioned himself between her legs. His cock was already hardening again—super soldier serum had its perks. He looked into her eyes, and she nodded and pulled him down.
"No condom this time," she said. "I want to feel all of you. I want to feel what I've been missing."
He pushed inside her.
Missionary. Simple. Intimate.
His forehead pressed against hers. Their breaths mingled. He moved slowly at first, savoring her tight heat and the way her body accepted him completely.
"Mmm... Suyash," she whimpered, her hands clutching his biceps.
"He's an idiot," Suyash said again, his voice low and rough. "Cheating on you. Lying to you. Making you feel like you're not enough."
She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
"You're more than enough," he continued, his thrusts growing harder and faster. "You're everything he didn't deserve."
Her hands cupped his face, her thumbs brushing away the sweat on his brow.
"And I'm going to remind you of that." Every. Time. Time."
She came again, silently this time, her mouth open in a soundless cry and her body arching off the bed. Moments later, he followed, burying himself to the hilt and spilling inside her for the second time.
Afterward, they lay there, tangled together, her head on his chest and his arm around her shoulders. The ceiling fan spun lazily above them.
"I should go home," she murmured.
"Stay."
"I can't. He might call. He might come back early."
"He won't. He's with her. You know he is."
The words hung in the air, harsh and true.
Anjali closed her eyes. A single tear slid down her cheek.
"Just a little longer," she whispered. "Let me pretend just a little longer."
He held her tighter.
Outside, the night stretched on. Somewhere across the city, in a hotel room that smelled of cheap perfume and expensive lies, Taarak Mehta slept beside a woman who was not his wife.
But that was his loss.
Suyash kissed the top of Anjali's head and watched the shadows move across the ceiling.
Tomorrow, she would go home. Tomorrow, she would have to face the wreckage of her marriage. But tonight, she was his. He would make sure she never forgot what it felt like to be truly wanted.