Chapter 18: Culinary Distractions
The balcony tiles had been hosed down, the evidence of their morning communion washed away into the drain with the fallen jasmine blossoms. The sun had climbed, blazed its arc, and now bled orange and purple across the Bangalore skyline, staining the high-rise windows with fire. Inside the apartment, the air shifted from the humid outdoors to a dry, spice-laden warmth.
The kitchen was Priya’s cathedral, and tonight she was both priestess and sacrifice.
She stood before the broad granite island, her back to the doorway, bathed in the buttery glow of the pendant lights. A classical Punjabi melody, soft and yearning, drifted from a small radio on the windowsill, its notes weaving through the sizzle of cumin seeds hitting hot oil. The aroma was layered, profound: the earthy punch of turmeric, the sweet pungency of frying onions, the sharp, green scent of freshly chopped coriander.
She wore an apron. Only an apron. It was a simple, functional thing of blue-checked cotton, tied neatly at the neck and waist. The straps bisected the smooth expanse of her back, framing the delicate knobs of her spine before disappearing under the fabric. The apron’s hem brushed the tops of her thighs, leaving the long, elegant line of her legs bare. From behind, she was a study in contrasts: domestic, utilitarian fabric from the waist up, naked vulnerability from the waist down. The glorious, full curves of her rear were fully exposed, each cheek a perfect, heavy globe that caught the warm light and shadow in a way that made Rohan’s breath hitch in the doorway.
He had showered, the steam barely erasing the memory of her from his skin. He wore only loose cotton pajama pants, the drawstring knot sitting low on his hips. The sight of her, so casually, profoundly naked beneath the domestic symbol, sent a fresh, deep pulse of desire through him, more complex than the morning’s raw fury. This was a different hunger. A slow, possessive, appreciative one.
He moved into the room, his bare feet silent on the cool tile. She was engrossed, her body swaying slightly with the rhythm of the music as she stirred a pot of onions and ginger paste, watching them turn a perfect golden brown. She hadn’t heard him.
He came right up behind her, his front not yet touching her, letting her feel the heat of his presence. Her stirring hand slowed. A slight, knowing tilt of her head.
“The onions need to be just this color,” she said, her voice a low, conversational murmur. “Not pale, not burned. This precise shade of amber. It’s the foundation of everything that follows.”
“I know, Mama,” he whispered, his lips close to her ear.
His hands came to rest on her hips, his thumbs stroking the sensitive indentations there. He pressed forward, and she gasped softly as she felt him, already hard and insistent through the thin cotton of his pants, nestle into the deep cleft of her buttocks.
“Rohan… the curry…”
“Will not suffer for a few more minutes,” he said, his voice calm, certain.
His fingers found the knot of the apron at the small of her back. He didn’t untie it. He simply loosened it, just enough. His hands slid inside, beneath the protective cotton, to find the bare, warm skin of her waist. He smoothed them up her sides, feeling the indentations of her ribs, the swell of her lower ribs, until his palms cupped the full, heavy undersides of her breasts. They were warm, yielding, impossibly soft. His thumbs circled her nipples, feeling them pebble instantly under his touch.
A low, shuddering sigh escaped her. The wooden spoon continued to move in the pot, but its circles were slower, less precise. “You’re distracting the chef.”
“That’s the point,” he murmured, kissing the juncture of her neck and shoulder. He bit down gently, not enough to mark, but enough to make her jerk and push back against him. He ground himself into her, the friction exquisite even through two layers of fabric.
He released her breasts, his hands sliding back down, over the smooth plane of her stomach, lower. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his own pajamas, pushing them down just enough to free his erection. The warm air of the kitchen kissed his exposed skin. Then, his hands returned to her, gripping the generous flesh of her rear, spreading her cheeks apart.
She was ready. Always ready for him. Slick from the memory of the morning, from the anticipation of the evening. He positioned himself, the broad head nudging against her entrance. He didn’t push. Not yet.
“The cumin is in the small blue bowl,” she said, her voice trembling only slightly. “Toasted and ground. It needs to go in now, or the oil will get too hot.”
“Tell me,” he said, his voice a low rumble against her ear.
She reached a slightly unsteady hand to the array of bowls on the counter. Her fingers found the blue one, dipping in to gather a teaspoon of fragrant brown powder. As her hand moved over the pot, sprinkling the cumin into the hot oil, he pushed forward.
A slow, inexorable inch.
Sizzle. The cumin seeds crackled and danced in the oil, releasing a cloud of nutty, smoky fragrance that filled the kitchen.
Priya moaned, long and low, her head falling back against his shoulder. The spoon clattered against the side of the pot. He was inside her, that initial, stunning, full sensation of being stretched and filled. He held there, buried to the hilt, as she completed the task, her body vibrating around him.
“Now the… the tomatoes,” she breathed, her voice thick. “The puree. It will cool the oil.”
He began to move. A deep, withdrawing slide, then a gentle, complete return. A soft, rhythmic punctuation to the cooking. She fumbled for the bowl of deep red tomato puree, her concentration divided between the chemistry on the stove and the deeper, more fundamental chemistry between their bodies.
He poured it for her, his arm reaching around her, his hand steadying hers as she tipped the bowl. The crimson puree hit the hot spiced oil with a fierce, violent sizzle that mirrored the gasp she let out as he thrust home again. The mixture spat and bubbled, calming from a riot to a steady, thick simmer.
“Good,” she whispered, more to the curry than to him. She began to stir again, the motion of her arm causing her back to flex, her muscles to shift and clench around him in a way that drew a groan from his throat.
His hands slid back inside her apron, finding her breasts again. This time, he was less gentle. He kneaded them, his fingers sinking into the pliant flesh, spreading them, squeezing them together. He could feel the rapid, frantic beat of her heart through the softness. He pulled at her nipples, rolling them between thumb and forefinger, applying a steady, delicious pressure.
“Your hands,” she moaned, her stirring becoming languid, hypnotic. “God, Rohan, your hands. Do you know what they do to me?”
“Tell me,” he urged, his own breathing starting to come harder. His thrusts remained slow, deep, a constant, grounding rhythm amidst the growing storm of sensation.
“They make me feel… owned. In the best way.” Her words spilled out between soft hitches of breath as he filled her. “Not like a thing. Like a… a treasure. A beloved, well-used treasure. When you knead me like this… it’s like you’re checking your possessions. Making sure I’m still here. Still soft for you. Still full for you.”
He increased the pressure on her nipples, and she cried out, her hips bucking back against him, taking him even deeper. The curry burbled placidly.
“When you spread my ass open like you did…” she continued, her voice dropping to a husky, confessional tone barely audible over the music and the simmering pot. “Out there this morning. Or now… It’s like you’re insisting on seeing all of me. Not just the parts I show the world. The pretty teacher. The dutiful mother. You demand the hidden parts. The hungry parts. The parts that want to be taken and used. And you look at them… you touch them… with so much… appreciation.”
He was transfixed by her words, by the raw honesty of them. His movements became more deliberate, each slow thrust a confirmation, a physical ‘yes’ to her confession. One hand left her breast, trailed down her sweat-damp stomach, and found the apex of her thighs. His fingers slid through her slickness, finding the swollen, eager knot of her clit.
She jolted as if electrocuted. “Oh! There… please…”
He circled it, a soft, persistent pressure in time with his deep, penetrating strokes. “You like this attention,” he stated, his voice gravelly.
“I crave it,” she admitted, shameless, her body now undulating between his three points of contact—his cock inside her, his hand on her breast, his fingers on her clit. “The fucking… it’s… it’s a conversation. A conversation my body has never been able to have with anyone else. When you’re in me… slow and deep like this… it’s like you’re asking a question my very cells know the answer to. And the answer is always yes, more, yes, I am yours, yes, this is where I belong.”
Her monologue dissolved into a series of broken, melodic moans as he continued his tender, relentless assault. He watched her work through the pleasure, her skilled hands moving automatically through the next steps of the recipe even as her consciousness floated on a sea of sensation.
“The… the coriander powder,” she gasped. “And the turmeric. The red bowl. The yellow.”
He reached for them, his movements causing his thrusts to shift angle slightly, drawing a new, broken sound from her. He handed her the bowls. Her fingers, trembling, dipped into the vibrant powders—sunshine yellow and deep green—and scattered them into the simmering gravy. She stirred, the colors swirling and blooming into the rich red base, creating something complex and deep.
“The color is right,” she murmured, her eyes half-closed. “See how it has all come together?”
“I see,” he said, his own control beginning to fray at the edges. The heat of her, the tight, slick clutch of her, the overwhelming scent of spices and her skin, the feel of her body moving under his hands… it was a slow, sensual overload. “You are so beautiful like this. Serving me. Serving this. Taking me while you create.”
“It’s all for you,” she breathed. “Every spice. Every stir. Every moan. It’s all an offering.”
He bent her forward slightly over the counter, his chest pressing against her apron-clad back. The new angle was deeper, more intimate. His pace remained measured, but each stroke now carried a profound, soul-deep weight. His hand on her clit moved faster, matching the rhythm of his hips.
“The chicken needs to go in,” she whimpered, her fingers scrambling for the bowl of marinated pieces.
“Put it in,” he commanded softly.
She lifted the bowl, her arms shaking. With a soft grunt of effort, she dumped the golden-yogurt-coated chicken pieces into the pot. They landed with a series of wet, solid plops. She took up the spoon again, gently folding the pieces into the gravy, ensuring each was coated.
He folded himself into her, his rhythm becoming a slow, grinding circle, ensuring he touched every secret, inner part of her as she tended to the meal. Her monologue resumed, fragmented, torn from her by the dual intensity of cooking and coupling.
“The attention… it’s in the way you watch me… even when I’m just… stirring…,” she panted. “The way your eyes are on my back… on my ass… like you’re memorizing me. It’s in the way you… you use my body… but you care for it. You fuck my ass with this… this beautiful, gentle thoroughness… but you massage the ache away after. You fill me until I feel like I’ll burst… but you hold me while I… while I overflow.”
She was climbing, her voice rising in pitch, her stirring becoming erratic. The curry thickened around the chicken, bubbles popping with fat, rich globules.
“It’s the contradiction,” she cried out, her head thrashing side to side. “You’re my son! You’re my baby! And you’re this… this man who turns me inside out! Who makes me beg! Who makes me scream! Who cooks a meal inside me while I cook one on the stove! And I love every… horrific… wonderful… second of it!”
Her orgasm ripped through her, sudden and cataclysmic. Her body seized, the spoon clattering from her grip into the pot. Her back arched violently against him, and a raw, tearing scream was ripped from her throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated surrender that echoed in the tiled kitchen. Her inner muscles clamped around him in a series of frantic, fluttering pulses, a hot, rhythmic vise that milked him desperately.
It triggered his own release. It wasn’t the torrential flood of the morning. This was a slower, deeper welling-up, a profound geyser of warmth and possession. With a guttural groan that he muffled against her shoulder, he held himself deep and let go, pulse after thick, potent pulse spilling into her, a private, silent offering to match the one simmering on the stove.
They hung there, suspended, trembling as the waves receded. The curry continued to bubble, benign, aromatic. The radio played a sorrowful, beautiful alaap.
Slowly, carefully, he withdrew. A soft, wet sound. He righted his pajamas.
Priya, breathing heavily, her legs barely supporting her, picked up the fallen spoon from the curry, wiped it clean on the apron, and resumed stirring. Her movements were shaky, but deliberate. She added a pinch of salt, a sprinkle of dried fenugreek leaves, crushing them between her palms over the pot.
Rohan moved to the sink, washed his hands, his eyes never leaving her. He took a clean spoon from a drawer, dipped it into the pot, blew on it, and tasted.
The flavor exploded on his tongue—deep, layered, complex. The perfect balance of heat, tang, earth, and spice. It was, without question, the best she had ever made.
He came up behind her again, wrapping his arms around her waist, under the apron. He nuzzled her damp hair. “It’s perfect.”
She leaned back into him, a sigh of deep contentment escaping her. “It needed the right kind of attention,” she said softly, her hand covering his on her stomach.
He smiled against her skin. In the distance, the city lights began to wink on, one by one, as dusk settled into night. Inside the warm, spice-filled kitchen, their own world, private and complete, simmered on.
Inside the warm, spice-filled kitchen, their own world, private and complete, simmered on. The chicken curry, now perfect, rested on a cooled burner, its surface a tapestry of crimson oil and flecks of green cilantro. The radio’s melody shifted to a slower, contemplative instrumental, the mournful cry of a shehnai winding through the silence between them.
Priya leaned back fully into his chest, her weight a surrendered trust. “My legs are jelly,” she murmured, a breathless laugh escaping her.
“Mine aren’t much better,” Rohan admitted, his voice raspy. He kissed the crown of her head, inhaling the scent of jasmine shampoo and the faint, salty tang of their sweat. His hands, still under her apron, splayed across her stomach, feeling the gentle, spent tremors that rippled through her core. “You turned the stove off, right?”
“Before you even… finished,” she said, the words lazy and satisfied. “Safety first.”
He chuckled, the sound vibrating through her. They stood like that for long minutes, entangled in the aftermath, the only movement the steady rise and fall of their breathing slowly syncing. The intense, focused energy of their coupling had dissipated, leaving a thick, honeyed languor in its place. It was a different kind of fullness, one that seeped into the bones.
Finally, with a sigh that was half-reluctance, half-contentment, Priya stirred. “It needs to rest. The curry. For the flavors to marry properly.” She turned in his arms, the apron twisting between them. Her face was flushed, her eyes heavy-lidded and dark. She looked utterly ravished, beautifully wrecked. A strand of hair stuck to her damp temple. He smoothed it back.
“So do we,” he said.
She nodded, a slow, deep movement. Her hands came up to frame his face, her thumbs tracing the line of his jaw. “My beautiful boy,” she whispered, the words loaded with a meaning that transcended the maternal. It was an incantation. A recognition.
He captured her mouth then, a slow, deep kiss that tasted of turmeric and her, a kiss that was less about hunger and more about sealing a pact. It was long, and quiet, and when they broke apart, they were both breathless for a new reason.
“Come on,” she said, her voice soft. She untied the apron at her neck, letting the straps fall. She didn’t remove it; she simply let it hang open from her waist as she took his hand. Her bare feet were silent on the tiles. His followed.
They left the kitchen’s bright sanctuary for the softer gloom of the living room. The balcony doors were still open from the morning, and the cool night air drifted in, a relief against their heated skin. The city was a panorama of silent, twinkling grids beyond the glass. She led him to the large, cushioned sectional, the fabric a deep, worn navy in the dim light.
She let go of his hand and the apron finally slid from her hips, a puddle of checked cotton on the floor. She stood before him, fully naked in the semi-darkness, illuminated by the ambient urban glow. She was a statue of pale marble and shadow, the curves of her body—the heavy, drooping fullness of her breasts, the swell of her stomach, the powerful thighs—rendered in monochrome. She was not a girl. She was a woman, in the full, uncompromising glory of that word. Every line, every softness, spoke of a life lived, of years that had shaped her into this specific, breathtaking form.
Rohan just looked. He drank her in, as he had on the balcony, as he had in the kitchen. This was his ritual. His worship.
Priya saw his gaze and a small, vulnerable smile touched her lips. She didn’t cover herself. She presented herself. This was her offering.
“Sit,” she said, her voice a gentle command.
He sank onto the middle cushion of the couch, the soft material yielding beneath him. The loose cotton of his pajamas was the only barrier left on his body. She knelt on the floor before him, not on the rug, but on the cool hardwood, the position one of deliberate, profound submission. Yet her eyes, looking up at him, held not subservience, but a fierce, joyful power.
Her hands went to the drawstring of his pants. Her fingers, long and elegant, teacher’s fingers that had graded a thousand papers, worked the knot with a focused delicacy. She didn’t rush. Each movement was measured, intentional. The string came loose. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband, and with a smooth, downward pull, bared him.
He was soft, spent, resting against his thigh. The skin was sensitive, almost startlingly so in the cool air. She didn’t go for him immediately. Instead, she leaned forward, placing her hands on his knees, and just looked. Her gaze was clinical and adoring all at once. She studied him, the shape and weight of him in his calm state, with the same attentive care she had given the simmering curry.
“You are so perfect,” she whispered, not to him, but to the sight before her. Her breath ghosted over his skin, raising goosebumps.
Then she bent her head.
It was not a taking. It was a receiving.
Her lips, full and soft, pressed a single, chaste kiss to the very tip. A benediction. She lingered there, her breath hot, her mouth just resting against him. Rohan’s head fell back against the couch, a shudder traveling the length of his spine. This was different. The frantic, desperate energy of earlier was gone, burned away in the kitchen’s heat. This was something else entirely. Something deeper, and infinitely more dangerous to his composure.
She began with her tongue. A slow, flat lap from the root to the tip, a languid exploration of texture and taste. She was tasting him, tasting the faint, clean salt of his skin, the lingering essence of their previous union. Her tongue was wet, warm, and impossibly gentle. It traced the thick vein that ran along the underside, circled the flared crown, delved into the small slit. Her movements were not designed to arouse, not directly. They were designed to know. To memorize.
His hands, which had been resting on the couch cushions, lifted almost of their own volition. They hovered for a moment, then slowly sank into the rich, dark mass of her hair. It was loose, falling around her shoulders and his thighs like a silken curtain. He didn’t guide, didn’t push. He simply held, his fingers weaving through the strands, feeling their weight and slide.
As her tongue continued its lazy, worshipful circuit, he felt a responding stir within him. A slow, thickening warmth that had nothing to do with urgent need and everything to do with the sheer, overwhelming sensation of her devoted attention. He began to harden under her ministrations, a gradual, inevitable rising.
She felt it. A soft hum of pleasure vibrated from her throat, the sound traveling straight into his core. Her lips parted. She took just the head into her mouth, sucking gently, her cheeks hollowing. It was a soft, pulling pressure, a mimicry of a deeper act rendered in miniature. Her tongue swirled around the sensitive ridge.
One of his hands drifted from her hair, down the side of her face, his thumb stroking the high arch of her cheekbone. He could feel the movement of her jaw. Her eyes were closed, her lashes dark fans against her skin. She was utterly absorbed.
He was swelling fully now, filling her mouth. She adjusted without breaking rhythm, taking more of him. It was a slow, seamless descent. Her head began to bob, a gentle, rocking motion that was less about friction and more about envelopment. Each time she descended, she took him a little deeper, her throat working openly, without gagging, a skill born of intimate, patient practice.
Rohan’s breathing deepened, becoming a audible tide in the quiet room. The city’s distant murmur, the faint sigh of the wind through the balcony door, the wet, soft sounds of her mouth on him—they composed a new, secret symphony.
His free hand found her shoulder, slid down the smooth, cool skin of her arm, and came to rest on the back of her neck. He could feel the muscles working there, the effort she was expending to maintain this slow, deep, peaceful rhythm. It was an effort of love.
“Priya,” he breathed, the name a prayer.
She heard him. Her eyes fluttered open. She looked up the length of his body, her gaze meeting his. In the dim light, her eyes were black pools, unreadable and deep. But the emotion in them was unmistakable. It was love, yes, but a love so vast and complex it bordered on terrifying. It held devotion, a primal satisfaction, a touch of awe, and a quiet, unshakeable happiness. She held his gaze as she took him to the back of her throat and swallowed.
The convulsive, muscular clutch of her swallow around the head of his cock made him cry out, his hips jerking involuntarily. She didn’t pull back. She relaxed her throat, accepting the small, unintended thrust, her eyes watering slightly but never leaving his. She was showing him. Showing him she could take all of him. That she wanted to.
She released him with a soft, wet pop, a string of saliva connecting her lower lip to his glistening skin. She was breathing through her mouth now, her own arousal evident in the flushed skin of her chest, the hardened peaks of her nipples. “Look at you,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “Look at what you do to me. What I get to have.”
Then she bent again, and this time there was no gradual descent. She opened her throat and took him, whole, in one smooth, deep slide until his pelvis met her lips, the coarse hair at his base brushing her nose.
Rohan saw stars. A white-hot lance of pure sensation shot from his core to the synapses of his brain. His fingers tightened in her hair, a reflexive clutch. She was there, fully, deeply embedded in her throat. He could feel the incredible, tight heat of her, the faint flutter of her pulse around him. She held him there, buried, not moving, just letting him feel the sheer, impossible fact of it. Her body was a miracle. Her willingness was a gift that stole his breath.
After an eternity of suspended, breathless sensation, she began to move. She established a new rhythm. Deep, achingly slow withdrawals until just the head remained between her lips, followed by even slower, deliberate sheathes, taking him back into that swallowing dark. It was a rhythm of profound intimacy, one that spoke of endless time and absolute focus. There was no goal here but the act itself. No frantic race to climax, but a shared journey into sensation.
His hands, almost of their own volition, began to wander her body. They left her hair, her neck. They cupped her face as she moved, thumbs stroking her stretched lips, feeling the shape of himself within her. Then they drifted lower, over the slope of her shoulders.
He reached for her breasts.
They hung heavy and full before him, swaying gently with the motion of her body. In the low light, they were pale moons, the areolas wide and dark, the nipples rigid, begging for attention. He cupped the right one first, his hand encompassing its soft, pendulous weight. It filled his palm, spilling over the edges. He groaned at the feel of it. So incredibly soft, yet with a firm, giving density beneath. He lifted it slightly, weighing it, appreciating its heft.
Then he bent forward from the waist, an awkward, yearning angle. He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. His mouth found the hardened peak.
The moment his lips closed over her nipple, Priya moaned around his cock, the vibration traveling its length like an electric current. The sound was muffled, guttural, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure. Her rhythm stuttered for a second, then resumed with a new, more urgent undercurrent.
He suckled. Not with the frantic hunger of an infant, but with the deep, savoring appreciation of a connoisseur. He drew the nipple deep into his mouth, his tongue laving the stiff bud, tracing its rough texture. He used gentle suction, pulling at the very core of her, a mimicry of the pull she was applying to him. His other hand came up to her left breast, kneading the lush flesh, his fingers spreading, squeezing, molding it. He marveled at the contrast between the soft, pliable skin and the surprising firmness of the gland beneath. He squeezed harder, watching the pale flesh blanch under his pressure, then flush darker as he released.
He switched sides, his mouth moving to her left breast while his hand tended to the right. Each nipple received the same devoted, thorough attention. He bit down gently, and she cried out around him, her body shuddering. He soothed the tiny bite with his tongue, then sucked harder, wanting to pull the very essence of her into himself.
He was lost in a feedback loop of sensation. The hot, tight, rhythmic pull of her mouth and throat on his cock. The heavy, sweet weight of her breasts in his hands and mouth. The taste of her skin, a faint salt and the clean, milky scent that was uniquely her. The sounds she made—wet, choked, desperate sounds of pleasure that told him more clearly than any words how much she loved this, loved being used by him in this tender, exhaustive way.
He released her nipple with a final, soft pull and leaned back, panting. His hands continued to work her breasts, squeezing them together, then pulling them apart, watching them sway and jounce with her movements. He pinched both nipples simultaneously, rolling them between his thumbs and forefingers.
Priya’s eyes flew open, wide and wild. She released him with a gasp, a strand of saliva snapping. “Yes! Like that! Don’t stop looking at them. Don’t stop touching them.”
Her voice was wrecked, raw from use. She didn’t wait for a response. She dove back onto him, taking him deep with a renewed fervor, her hands coming up to cover his, pressing them harder into her flesh, showing him how she liked to be squeezed.
“You see?” she gasped, pulling off again for a moment, her lips swollen and glistening. “They’re for you. All of this is for you. Every inch. Every drop. Squeeze them until they ache. Suck them until they’re sore. I love it. I love your hands on me. I love your mouth on me. It makes me feel… real.”
She took him back into her mouth, her tempo increasing incrementally. It was still slow, still deeply sensual, but there was a building urgency now, a tide beginning to turn. Her eyes remained locked on his hands as they worshipped her breasts, a look of such profound happiness on her face it was almost painful to behold.
Rohan was drowning in her. In the physicality of her, in the emotional enormity of her surrender. He felt his climax building, not as a sudden eruption, but as a vast, deep pressure spreading from the base of his spine, a slow-motion avalanche of feeling. He tried to warn her, his voice a strangled thread. “Priya… I’m going to…”
She heard him. Her eyes flicked up to his, and in them he saw not permission, but a fierce, joyous demand. She took her hands from his, placing them on his thighs, and doubled her efforts. Her head bobbed faster, her throat working, swallowing him deeply on every downstroke. She was pulling it from him, demanding his surrender as completely as she had given hers.
He could hold back no longer. With a shout that was part sob, part roar, he came. The release was cataclysmic in its depth, a seemingly endless series of pulses that poured into her willing, accepting throat. His hands clenched on her breasts, his back arching off the couch. Stars exploded behind his eyes, and the world narrowed to the feeling of her milking him, swallowing relentlessly, taking every shuddering jet of his essence deep inside her.
It seemed to go on forever. When the last, weak spasm passed, he was boneless, collapsed against the cushions, utterly drained in every conceivable way. His hands fell from her breasts, limp at his sides.
Priya stayed with him until he was completely soft, gently cleaning him with her tongue, her movements now tender, almost maternal. Finally, she released him and sat back on her heels. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her chest heaving. In the dim light, her face was a portrait of serene, sated bliss. She looked at him, her eyes soft and shining.
Without a word, she climbed onto the couch beside him, her body cool against his feverish skin. She curled into his side, her head on his