Shreya stood frozen, the sound of the rain outside mingling with the deafening thud of her heartbeat.

Pawan’s hand, rough and weathered with age, hovered at the small of her back — so close that she could feel the faint tremor in his fingers. Or was it hers?

"You should change, bitiya," he murmured again, though his voice had lost all its earlier firmness. It was thick now. Heavy with something else.

Still, she didn’t move.

Instead, her eyes dropped to his hand — that silent invitation.

Her body burned, yet she shivered.

"I’ll help you... if you want," he said, almost too softly.

A bolt of guilt flashed through her, but it was drowned by something even stronger — a wicked, molten curiosity she couldn't suppress.

Without thinking, without planning, she shifted — just slightly — closer.

That was all he needed.

Pawan’s hand, once hesitant, now found her waist with the lightest, most reverent pressure. His fingers caressed the wet cotton clinging to her, tracing the delicate curve of her hip.

Shreya gasped — not out of fear, but from the sudden shock of pleasure that sparked at his touch.

"You’re so beautiful," he breathed, almost to himself.

Her saree clung tighter as she swayed slightly toward him. Her body, traitorous, sought his warmth, his strength, the forbidden thrill coursing between them.

"Baba..." she whispered again, her voice trembling.

"Hush," he said, gently. "Just... let me look at you."

He gathered the loose end of her saree, his fingers skilled but trembling slightly. As he peeled the wet fabric away from her shoulder, Shreya closed her eyes, shame and desire colliding inside her.

Her blouse was soaked through, nearly transparent now, revealing the delicate swell of her breasts underneath.

Pawan's breath caught audibly.

For a moment, he simply stared — as if memorizing the sight. Worshipping it.

Slowly, reverently, he raised his hand to trace the line of her collarbone with his thumb, drawing a shiver from her lips.

She clutched the folds of her saree with trembling fingers, but made no move to cover herself fully.

He leaned closer, the scent of his aftershave — old, masculine, familiar — filling her senses.

Then, with a daring born of need, he placed a single, tender kiss at the base of her neck.

Shreya’s knees nearly buckled.

"Baba... what are we doing?" she whimpered, her voice thick with confusion and craving.

"We're doing what we shouldn’t," he whispered against her skin. "But what we both want."

Before she could think, before she could protest, his mouth found her throat again, kissing, tasting, claiming her inch by forbidden inch.

Her hands, once frozen, now clutched at his kurta, pulling him closer — silently begging for more.

She should have stopped him.

She should have run.

Instead, she surrendered to the wrongness, to the thrill, to the terrifying, exquisite pleasure of being desired so fiercely.

As his hands slid lower, exploring with agonizing slowness, Shreya knew her life had just shifted forever.

The dutiful wife, the aspiring lecturer — all of it drowned beneath the forbidden tide rising within her.

And there,

in the heart of the storm, Shreya let herself be devoured.

***