The email came on a Tuesday.

Shreya had just stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped around her damp body, hair dripping onto the marble floor. Her phone buzzed. She expected a promotion offer, maybe another spam notification.

But the subject line made her freeze.

"Appointment as Assistant Professor – English, B.J.B. Autonomous College."

She read it once. Then again. Hands trembling. Lips parting.

She screamed.

Sagar, still shaving in the bathroom, rushed out, razor in hand, half his face covered in foam. “What happened?!”

She showed him the screen.

He blinked.

Then grinned.

He didn’t say anything—just pulled her into a wet, tight hug, his fingers sliding down her slick back, towel falling unnoticed between them.

“You did it,” he whispered against her shoulder. “You really fucking did it.”

That night, they celebrated. Not with wine. Not with friends. Just the two of them, under soft lights and rumpled sheets.

But it wasn’t soft that night.

It wasn’t slow.

There was something in Shreya—a spark, a fire, a declaration.

She pushed Sagar onto the bed, climbed on top of him, her breasts bare, hair wild and dripping down her back. Her hips moved with purpose, grinding against his thigh, teasing him hard.

“No more waiting,” she said, biting his lower lip. “I want to be taken by my husband tonight. Not comforted. Claimed.”

Sagar’s eyes darkened.

He flipped her over, grabbing her wrists, pinning them above her head.

“You sure you’re ready for that, Professor?”

She smirked. “Make me forget my own name.”

He did.

Their bodies collided, rough and hungry. Her legs wrapped around him, pulling him deeper. He fucked her like he had something to prove—like her success turned him on beyond logic. She screamed into the pillow, nails raking down his back.

They didn’t speak much after. Just held each other, their bodies humming.

Shreya stared at the ceiling, heart full.

She had arrived.

Not just in her career.

But in herself.

***