Chapter 6: The Text Message
The rain started just as Ankita’s knuckles hovered before the apartment door. A soft, insistent patter on the corridor’s window. She could hear music inside, something low and rhythmic with a heavy bassline that vibrated through the wood. She’d sent the text. ‘Tonight.’ One word that had taken her two hours to type, delete, and retype. Her finger, adorned with a simple silver ring, finally pressed the bell.
The door opened almost instantly, as if someone had been waiting right behind it.
It was Smriti.
She was shorter than Ankita, with a sharp, pretty face and curious eyes that took her in from boots to damp hair. She wore a loose silk slip, black, that hinted at the curves beneath. A knowing, easy smile played on her lips.
“You must be Ankita. Come in. You’re letting the damp in.” Her voice was melodic, unfazed.
Ankita stepped over the threshold, her boots sounding too loud on the polished wood floor. The apartment was warm, smelling of sandalwood and the incense she’d seen burning on a shelf. The living room was neat, bohemian, but her eyes were pulled immediately to the half-open bedroom door at the end of the short hall. The light from within was a deep, honeyed gold.
“He’s in there,” Smriti said, following her gaze. She closed the front door with a soft click, sealing them in. The sound was final. “Nervous?”
“No.” The lie was automatic, her voice thankfully steady. She wasn’t nervous. She was terrified. And electrified. The conflict from the library was a live wire in her chest.
Smriti chuckled, a soft, intimate sound. She walked past Ankita, her bare feet silent. “Good. Don’t be. It’s just pleasure. Nothing complicated.” She paused at the bedroom door, looking back over her shoulder. “Unless you want it to be.”
Then she pushed the door open and went inside.
Ankita’s feet moved before her mind could craft another objection. She followed.
The room was exactly as described: dim, the air stirred by a lazy ceiling fan. The large bed was unmade, sheets tangled. And there he was. Samarth. He sat on the edge of the bed, forearms resting on his knees. He was shirtless, wearing only low-slung grey sweatpants. The glasses were off. His intense eyes tracked her from the moment she appeared, dark and unreadable. He didn’t smirk. He didn’t say a word. He just watched her enter his girlfriend’s bedroom, and the sheer weight of that look pinned her to the spot.
Smriti went to him, perching beside him. She ran a hand down his back, a gesture of casual possession. “See? I told you she’d come.”
Ankita’s defiance, her armor, rushed back. She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m here. Doesn’t mean I’m impressed.”
“You don’t have to be impressed,” Samarth said, his voice rough. “You just have to be honest.”
Smriti stood again, drifting back toward Ankita. She moved like water. “All that fighting. In class. In the library.” She was close now, close enough for Ankita to smell her perfume, something citrus and clean. “It’s just energy. Doesn’t it feel better to… redirect it?”
Ankita’s breath hitched as Smriti’s hands came up, not to push, but to gently uncross her arms. She let her. Smriti’s fingers found the zipper of her leather jacket.
“Let me,” Smriti murmured.
The zipper’s sound was obscenely loud. Ankita shrugged the jacket off, let it fall to the floor. Smriti’s hands smoothed over her shoulders, down her arms. Her touch was confident, exploring. It wasn’t like a lover’s. It was like a curator assessing a piece of art. Approving.
“Samarth talks about your temper,” Smriti whispered, her lips near Ankita’s ear. One hand slid around to cup her breast through the thin cotton of her t-shirt. Ankita jerked, a bolt of pure sensation shooting straight down her spine. “But he never mentioned how stunning you are.”
Samarth watched from the bed, his stillness more commanding than any movement. Ankita met his gaze, a challenge in her own. See? See how little you affect me? But her skin was on fire where Smriti touched her.
Smriti’s hands tugged the hem of the t-shirt up. Ankita lifted her arms, a dizzying surrender, and the shirt was gone, tossed aside. The cool air of the fan brushed her skin, raising goosebumps. Smriti’s eyes darkened with appreciation as she took in the black lace bra, the full curves it barely contained. Her hands settled on Ankita’s waist, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin just above her jeans.
“You can touch me, you know,” Smriti said, guiding one of Ankita’s hands to her own hip, to the silk of her slip.
The silk was devastatingly soft. Ankita’s fingers curled into it, feeling the warm body beneath. This was real. This was happening. Her hatred for Samarth was a distant echo, drowned out by the roaring pulse in her ears and the skillful hands on her skin.
Samarth moved then. He stood, a slow unfolding of height and power. He walked toward them, stopping just behind Smriti. He looked over her shoulder at Ankita, his eyes dropping to where Smriti’s hands were now unhooking the front clasp of her bra.
The lace gave way. Ankita didn’t look away from him. She let him see. Let him see the triumph and the shock in his own eyes as her breasts were bared to the humid room. A low noise escaped him, something primal and satisfied.
Smriti smiled, leaning in to kiss Ankita’s collarbone. “See?” she said against her skin. “No arguments. Just feeling good.”
Then Smriti turned her head, looking up at Samarth. “She’s ready.”
Samarth’s hand came up, not to touch Ankita, but to tangle gently in Smriti’s hair, a gesture of quiet affection that felt more intimate than anything else so far. He was looking at Ankita, though. “Are you?”
Ankita’s heart was a frantic drum against her ribs. The last vestige of her anger had melted, not into nothingness, but into a pool of liquid, shameless need. The shed, the library—they had been previews. This was the main event. She saw the thick outline of him straining against his sweats, and instead of fear, a sharp, conquering thrill shot through her. She’d handled big before. She could handle him.
She let a slow, deliberate smile touch her lips, the same one she used when she knew she’d won a debate.
“I was born ready,” she said, her voice husky, filling the room just the way he hated. Or loved. She still didn’t know which.
She reached for the button of her own jeans, her eyes locked on his. The game was over. The hunger had won.