Chapter 14: Double Exposure
The flight back was a study in silence. Sid, across the aisle in Business, never glanced back. Anya watched the clouds, her body still humming with a shameful echo. Rohan’s villa photos glowed on her phone, each one a verdict. At baggage claim in Mumbai, Sid finally met her eyes, his message clear: My room. One hour.
The door to his suite clicked shut, sealing them in a sterile, silent world. “Breakfast,” he said, gesturing to a covered tray, his voice stripped of all pretense. He didn’t touch her. He circled her, his gaze a physical weight. His hands came to her blouse, undoing each button with a slow, deliberate precision that felt more clinical than seductive. The fabric parted, revealing her skin inch by inch.
Her breath hitched. This wasn’t the rooftop’s violent passion; this was a cold, consuming dissection. He pushed the blouse off her shoulders, let it fall. His thumb brushed over her nipple, and she flinched. “Look at me,” he commanded, his voice low. He unfastened her trousers, peeled them down her legs, leaving her exposed under the flat hotel light. His eyes travelled over her, pausing at the junction of her thighs. “So fucking perfect,” he muttered, more to himself.
He took a small pat of butter from the breakfast tray. “Turn around.” His voice left no room for refusal. She turned, facing the floor-to-ceiling window, her reflection a pale ghost over the city skyline. He knelt behind her. The cool, greasy slide of the butter against her most sensitive skin made her gasp. Then his mouth was on her, his tongue a ruthless, lapping heat, working the melting fat into her, spreading her open. She cried out, her hands slapping against the cool glass for balance. “Sid…”
“Quiet,” he grunted into her flesh, his hands gripping her hips, holding her still for his tongue’s deep, probing strokes. Her knees buckled; the pleasure was too acute, too shamefully welcome after the torment of the flight. He stood, his own clothes shoved down just enough. He turned her back to face him, his eyes locked on hers as he lifted her, her legs wrapping around his waist, and lowered her onto his cock in one deep, filling thrust against the window. “Watch,” he breathed against her ear, nodding towards their reflection. “Watch me fuck you.”
And she did. She saw his face, a mask of focused intensity, and hers, twisted with a pleasure that looked like agony. With each powerful upward drive, her breasts shook, a lewd bounce captured in the glass. “Harder,” she heard herself beg, the word a filthy secret. “Fuck me harder, Sid.” He complied, pounding into her, the windowpane shuddering. “Tell me what you see,” he growled, his pace relentless.
“I see you… owning me,” she moaned, the admission tearing free. He swore, a harsh, gratified sound, and his rhythm fractured. He came inside her with a final, grinding thrust, his shout hot and damp against her neck. Her own climax ripped through her silently, a seizing internal convulsion that milked him dry. He held her there, pinned against the city, both of them panting, slick with sweat. Slowly, he let her slide down until her feet found the floor, her body trembling, his spend already leaking down her thigh. He stepped back, zipping himself up, his breathing returning to normal. He picked up his phone from the bedside table, opened the camera app, and pointed it at her, still dishevelled and exposed against the glass. “Again,” he said, his voice cold and clear. “From the beginning.”