Chapter 3: The Mouth That Learned
The lamp flickered once, a tiny stutter of light that sent shadows skittering across the ceiling. Smriti noticed it, the way she noticed everything—the dust motes suspended in the amber glow, the faint creak of the building settling, the way Varun's breath had gone shallow and quick beneath her. His hands were still on her waist, fingers curled into the silk of her robe like he was afraid she might evaporate if he let go.
She could feel his heart hammering against her palm, a frantic, trapped-bird rhythm. His skin was warm through the thin cotton of his t-shirt, and she could smell the faint, clean scent of him—laundry detergent and something else, something that was just skin and heat and nerves. It was disarming, how real he was. How utterly, painfully human.
She pulled back from the kiss, just enough to look at him. His eyes were half-closed, his lips parted, wet and slightly swollen. He looked wrecked already, and she hadn't even done anything yet.
"You're thinking too loud," she murmured, tracing the line of his jaw with her thumb. "I can hear it."
He blinked, trying to focus. "I—what?"
"Your brain. It's screaming. I can practically hear the circuits overheating." She smiled, and it was softer than she intended, less of a tease and more of a reassurance. "You need to turn it off."
"I don't know how," he admitted, and there was something so raw in the confession that it made her chest ache. "I've never... I don't know what I'm supposed to do."
"You're not supposed to do anything. That's the point."
She shifted her weight, and his hands tightened on her waist, a reflexive grip. She felt the press of him against her thigh, the undeniable evidence of his arousal, and a fresh wave of heat rolled through her. It had been a long time since she'd felt this—the electric anticipation, the slow burn of wanting someone who wanted her back with such unguarded desperation.
She leaned down and kissed him again, softer this time, a slow, deliberate exploration. She took her time, learning the shape of his mouth, the way his breath hitched when she nipped at his lower lip. His hands began to move, sliding up from her waist, over the curve of her ribs, hesitating just below the swell of her breasts.
"Can I—?" he started, his voice a ragged whisper.
"Ask me," she said against his mouth. "Use your words."
His breath came out in a shaky exhale. "Can I touch you? Please?"
The please did something to her. It was so earnest, so desperately polite, like he was asking for permission to breathe. She took his hands and moved them up, pressing his palms against her breasts through the silk of her robe. His fingers splayed, cupping her, and she watched his face as he felt the weight of her, the softness, the heat radiating through the thin fabric.
"Oh," he breathed, and the sound was almost reverent. "Oh, God."
She laughed, a low, husky sound. "That's the general idea."
His thumbs brushed over her nipples, and she felt them tighten, the sensation sharp and immediate. He noticed—of course he noticed, because he was watching her face with an intensity that made her feel like she was being studied, memorized. His touch became more confident, more deliberate. He was a fast learner. She'd give him that.
But she wasn't done teaching.
She pulled away from his hands, ignoring his small sound of protest, and began to slide down his body. The silk robe fell open as she moved, exposing the long line of her torso, the curve of her waist, the simple black cotton of her underwear. She watched his eyes track downward, widening as he realized what she was doing.
"Smriti—" His voice cracked on her name. "You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to." She settled between his thighs, her knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his legs. The position was intimate, deliberate. She could see the strain in his jeans, the way his hips lifted slightly off the bed, an involuntary movement he couldn't control. "But I want to."
He looked down at her, and there it was again—that look of utter disbelief, like he was waiting to wake up. His hands were on the bed, fisted in the sheets, his knuckles white. His chest rose and fell in shallow, quick breaths.
"Tell me you want this," she said, her fingers moving to the button of his jeans. "And I'll stop if you don't. Just say the word."
"I want this." The words came out in a rush, almost tumbling over each other. "I want this, I want—God, I can't believe I'm saying this, but I want this."
"Good."
She unbuttoned his jeans, the metal cool under her fingers. She pulled down the zipper, the sound loud in the quiet room. He lifted his hips slightly, helping her as she tugged the denim down his legs, then his boxers, and then he was naked beneath her, exposed and vulnerable in a way that made her own breath catch.
He was beautiful, in a way that had nothing to do with polish or practice. He was lean, wiry, with the kind of body that came from sitting at a desk for too long rather than from hours in the gym. But there was a tension in him, a coiled energy that made her pulse quicken. And he was hard, achingly so, the evidence of his desire impossible to ignore.
He moved to cover himself, a reflex born of modesty, but she caught his wrist.
"Don't," she said. "Let me look at you."
His face flushed, the color spreading from his cheeks down his neck. But he let his hand fall, let her see him. The trust in that small gesture hit her like a punch to the chest.
She took him in her hand, and he inhaled sharply, his whole body going rigid. His skin was hot, impossibly warm, and she could feel the thrum of his pulse beneath her fingers. She held him for a moment, just feeling the weight of him, the silky texture of his skin stretched over the hardness beneath.
"Breathe," she reminded him, and he let out a shaky exhale.
She leaned down and took him into her mouth.
The sound he made was almost animalistic—a low, guttural groan that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest. His hips bucked, an involuntary thrust, and she pressed a hand to his stomach to hold him steady. His muscles were taut beneath her palm, trembling with the effort of staying still.
She started slow, taking him deeper inch by inch, letting her tongue trace the length of him. She was deliberate, methodical, paying attention to every shudder, every sharp intake of breath. His hands left the sheets and found her hair, not pulling, just holding, his fingers tangling in the dark strands.
"Smriti—I can't—you need to—" He was babbling, words tumbling out in a breathless rush. "If you keep doing that, I'm going to—"
She pulled back, just enough to speak. "That's the point."
She took him deeper, and he cried out, a broken sound that was half her name, half something incoherent. His hands tightened in her hair, and she could feel the tremors running through his body, the way he was fighting for control.
But she didn't want him controlled. She wanted him undone.
She increased her rhythm, finding a tempo that made him gasp, made his hips stutter against her palm. She could taste him now, the salty, musky flavor of skin and desire, and it only made her want more. She hollowed her cheeks, sucked harder, and he moaned—a raw, helpless sound that vibrated through her entire body.
"I'm—" he tried to warn her, his voice strangled. "Please, I'm going to—"
She didn't stop. She wanted to taste him, wanted to feel the moment he lost control, wanted to be the one who took him apart. It was a heady kind of power, but it wasn't about domination. It was about connection—the most intimate, unguarded connection two people could share.
He came with a cry that was almost a sob, his whole body arching off the bed, his fingers twisting in her hair. She felt the hot rush of him against her tongue, heard the broken sounds he made as the waves of pleasure rolled through him. She stayed with him, gentling her touch as he rode out the last shudders, until he sagged back against the mattress, boneless and gasping.
She pulled back slowly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. And then she crawled up his body, her silk robe trailing behind her like a pool of spilled moonlight, until she was face to face with him again.
His eyes were closed, his chest heaving. There were tears at the corners of his eyes—not from sadness, she knew, but from the sheer overwhelming intensity of the moment. She kissed him, and he tasted himself on her lips, a fact that made him groan softly against her mouth.
"Open your eyes," she whispered.
He did. They were hazy, unfocused, still swimming in the aftermath of his release. He looked like a man who had just seen the face of God and wasn't sure if he'd survived the experience.
"Are you okay?" she asked, and the question was genuine, not teasing.
"I don't know," he said, his voice hoarse. "I think... I think I might be dead."
She smiled, a real smile, the kind that crinkled the corners of her eyes. "You're not dead. Trust me."
He reached up and touched her face, his fingers tracing the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw. The gesture was tender, almost wondering, like he was trying to confirm that she was real.
"That was..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "I don't have words."
"Good. Words are overrated."
She shifted against him, and he felt the press of her hips, the damp heat of her through the thin cotton of her underwear. His eyes widened, awareness creeping back into his gaze.
"Wait," he said. "What about you? I mean, you didn't..."
"Not yet," she said, and there was a promise in her voice. "But I will."
She took his hand and brought it to her lips, pressing a kiss to his palm. Then she guided it down, past the curve of her waist, past the edge of her underwear, until his fingers brushed against the slick heat between her legs.
His breath caught.
"Now," she said, her voice a low, throaty whisper. "Now it's your turn."
She pulled him up, her hands gentle but insistent, until he was sitting upright, his back against the headboard. She positioned herself in front of him, her legs spread on either side of his hips, her back to his chest. His hands came up to steady her, one on her waist, the other resting on her thigh.
"I want you to use your mouth," she said, turning her head to look at him over her shoulder. "But not on me."
His brow furrowed in confusion. "Then...?"
She took his hand again, the one on her thigh, and guided it to her mouth. She took his index and middle fingers between her lips, wetting them thoroughly with her tongue. His eyes went wide, his breath catching as he understood.
"On your fingers," she clarified, her voice husky. "I want you to taste me on your fingers. And then I want you to use them. Inside me."
He swallowed hard. "I... I've never..."
"I know. That's why I'm going to teach you." She released his hand and leaned back against him, her head resting against his shoulder. She could feel his heart hammering against her back, the rapid flutter of his pulse. "Start with one finger. Go slow."
His hand trembled as he reached down, his fingers brushing against the damp curls between her legs. She guided him with her own hand, showing him the right pressure, the right angle. When he pushed inside her, just barely, she let out a soft sigh of pleasure.
"Good," she breathed. "Now curl your finger up. Like you're beckoning."
He did, and the sensation made her gasp, her hips arching against his hand. He was a quick study—she'd known he would be. He found the spot that made her shudder, and he pressed against it with an almost scientific curiosity, watching her reactions, adjusting his technique based on every sound she made.
"Another finger," she whispered. "Slow."
He added a second finger, and the stretch was exquisite, a sweet ache that made her toes curl. She could feel his breath against her neck, hot and unsteady, and she knew he was watching her, learning her, devouring every detail.
"That's it," she murmured, her voice fracturing slightly. "Faster now. And use your thumb—on my clit."
He obeyed, and the dual sensation—the fullness inside her, the friction against her clit—made her cry out. She was close, so close, the pleasure building in her belly like a wave about to crest.
"Don't stop," she gasped. "Whatever you do, don't stop."
He didn't. He kept going, his fingers moving inside her, his thumb circling with a rhythm that was almost perfect. She could feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter, her breath coming in short, sharp pants. His other hand was on her waist, holding her steady, and she could feel his lips on her shoulder, pressing frantic, open-mouthed kisses to her skin.
She came with a shudder that seemed to start in her core and ripple outward, wave after wave of pleasure crashing over her. She heard herself cry out, heard him groan against her shoulder, felt his fingers slow as she rode out the last trembling aftershocks.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. The room was quiet except for the sound of their breathing, ragged and uneven, slowly returning to normal.
Then she turned in his arms, facing him, and kissed him deeply. His hand was still wet, still pressed against her thigh, and she could taste herself on his lips, a faint, intimate echo of what they had just done.
"How was that?" she asked, and there was a genuine warmth in her voice, a tenderness she hadn't expected to feel.
He looked at her, his eyes still dazed, his hair a mess, his lips swollen. He looked utterly wrecked, and utterly hers.
"That," he said, his voice hoarse, "was the most incredible thing that has ever happened to me."
She laughed, a soft, breathless sound. "We're not done yet."
His eyes widened, a flicker of something—excitement, apprehension, pure unadulterated desire—crossing his face.
"We're not?"
"No." She kissed him again, slow and deliberate, and when she pulled back, there was a wicked glint in her eye. "We're just getting started."
She pushed him back against the headboard and straddled him, her silk robe finally slipping from her shoulders entirely, pooling around them like a discarded afterthought. She could feel him hardening again beneath her, the evidence of his renewed arousal pressing against her thigh.
And she smiled, because for the first time in months, she felt alive. Truly, recklessly, gloriously alive.
The night was far from over.
And she intended to make every second count.
And she intended to make every second count.
She started with his hands. They were still trembling, still slick with her, and she brought them to her mouth one finger at a time, tasting herself on his skin. The gesture was deliberate, almost ceremonial, and she watched his face as she did it—the way his pupils blew wide, the way his throat worked around a swallow he couldn't quite complete.
"You're going to need these," she said, releasing his fingers. "And these." She tapped his lips. "And this." She pressed her palm flat against his chest, over his heart, which was still racing.
He nodded, mute, his eyes tracking her every movement like she was a magician about to perform a trick he desperately wanted to learn.
She shifted off him, settling onto her back against the tangled sheets. The pillows were still indented from where she'd been lying earlier, before any of this started, before she'd made that reckless decision to text him. The whiskey bottle caught the lamplight, throwing amber shadows across the ceiling. One of her trophies—the Player of the Tournament award from last season—gleamed dully on the shelf, indifferent to what was happening beneath it.
She pushed the thought away and reached for him.
"Come here," she said, and her voice came out softer than she intended, almost fragile.
He moved over her, his weight settling onto his elbows, careful, as if she might shatter. His body was warm against hers, his skin slightly damp with sweat, and she could feel the rapid flutter of his pulse where his chest pressed against her breasts. He smelled like her now, like sex and exertion and something underneath that was just him—clean and warm and oddly innocent despite everything they'd just done.
"I don't know what to do," he admitted, his voice low. His breath ghosted across her collarbone, leaving goosebumps in its wake. "I mean—I know what I want to do, but I don't know how to do it right."
"There's no right," she said, and she meant it. "There's just what feels good. For you. For me."
He looked at her then, really looked, and something shifted in his expression. The nervousness was still there, a current running beneath the surface, but underneath it was something else—determination, maybe, or wonder. Like he was standing at the edge of a cliff and had just decided to jump.
He lowered his head and kissed her neck.
It was tentative at first, a soft brush of lips against her pulse point. But then he opened his mouth, and she felt the wet heat of his tongue against her skin, and she couldn't suppress the small sound that escaped her throat. He heard it—of course he heard it—and he did it again, dragging his mouth down the column of her throat, following the line of her jugular like he was mapping her.
"That's good," she breathed, threading her fingers through his hair. "Keep going."
He did.
He kissed his way across her collarbone, his lips leaving a damp trail that cooled in the air. When he reached the hollow of her throat, he paused, his tongue dipping into the small depression, and she arched beneath him, her hips pressing up against his. He was hard again—she could feel him against her thigh—but he didn't rush. He seemed content to explore, to learn the topography of her body with an almost scholarly focus.
His hands joined the expedition. They moved down her sides, tracing the curve of her ribs, the dip of her waist. His palms were warm, slightly rough from god knows what—typing, probably, the mundane reality of his day job intruding even here—and the friction sent sparks skittering across her skin.
"You're so soft," he murmured against her shoulder. "I didn't expect you to be this soft."
She laughed, a breathless sound. "What did you expect? Sandpaper?"
"I don't know." He lifted his head, and there was a ghost of a smile on his lips. "You're just so... I don't know. Strong. On the field. I guess I thought you'd feel different."
"I'm not on the field now."
"No," he agreed, and his voice dropped, going rough. "You're not."
He kissed his way down her sternum, pausing at the valley between her breasts. She felt the flat of his tongue against her skin, the scrape of his teeth—gentle, testing. When he took her nipple into his mouth, she gasped, her back bowing off the mattress.
"Like that?" he asked, his breath hot and damp against her.
"Yes," she managed. "Exactly like that."
He did it again, on the other side, and she felt the pull all the way down to her core, a sharp, sweet ache that made her toes curl. He was learning—god, he was learning fast—alternating between licking and sucking, gauging her reactions with each variation. His hand came up to cup the breast he wasn't working on, his thumb brushing over the sensitive tip, and she moaned, low and throaty.
"You're a natural," she said, her voice halfway to a gasp.
"Am I?" He sounded genuinely surprised.
"Don't let it go to your head."
She felt him smile against her skin. "Too late."
His mouth continued its journey downward, across the plane of her stomach, pausing to dip into her navel. His tongue traced the edge, a ticklish sensation that made her squirm, and he laughed—a low, rumbling sound that vibrated against her belly.
"That's not fair," she protested.
"Neither is being this beautiful."
"Flattery won't get you anywhere."
"It's not flattery if it's true."
She opened her mouth to respond, but then his lips reached the edge of her underwear, and whatever clever retort she'd been planning died in her throat. He paused there, his breath warm against the damp cotton, and looked up at her. His eyes were dark, almost black in the dim light, and there was a question in them.
She lifted her hips, a silent answer.
He pulled the underwear down slowly, sliding it over her hips, down her thighs, past her knees. She lifted her feet to help him, and then she was naked beneath him, completely exposed. The cool air of the room hit her skin, raising goosebumps, and she fought the urge to close her legs.
He didn't move. He just looked at her, his gaze traveling over her body with an intensity that made her feel seen in a way she hadn't felt in years. Not the way her fans saw her—as a symbol, an icon, a collection of statistics. He saw her as a person. A woman. A body that was warm and wanting and utterly, terrifyingly human.
"Tell me what to do," he said, and his voice was steady now, the nervousness burned away by something else. Something hungrier.
"Start with your fingers," she said. "You know where. And then... use your mouth."
He nodded, and his fingers found her again, sliding through the wet heat of her. She was slick from before, from her earlier orgasm, but she felt a fresh wave of arousal at his touch, her body responding to him with an eagerness that surprised her. He circled her entrance, teasing, and she made a frustrated sound.
"Don't tease," she said. "I'm not fragile."
He pushed two fingers inside her, and they both groaned—her at the stretch, him at the feeling of being inside her, even in this small way. He moved them slowly, pumping in and out, and she could feel the pressure building again, the coil of pleasure tightening in her belly.
"Good," she said. "Now your mouth."
He lowered his head, and she felt the first brush of his tongue against her clit. The sensation was electric, a jolt that made her whole body jerk. He pulled back immediately, alarmed.
"Did I hurt you?"
"No," she said, and she couldn't help the breathless laugh that escaped her. "God, no. Do it again."
He did. This time, he was more confident, more deliberate. He licked a long, slow stripe up her center, from where his fingers were buried to the sensitive bundle of nerves at the top. She moaned, her fingers twisting in the sheets, and he did it again, and again, finding a rhythm that made her thighs tremble.
"That's it," she gasped. "Right there. Don't stop."
He didn't. His tongue moved against her with a focus that bordered on obsessive, learning the exact pressure, the exact speed, that made her breath hitch and her hips buck. His fingers curled inside her, finding that spot again, and the combination was almost too much—the fullness, the friction, the wet heat of his mouth.
She felt the orgasm building, a wave gathering far out at sea, and she knew this one would be different. Bigger. More.
"I'm close," she warned, her voice breaking.
He didn't stop. If anything, he doubled down, his tongue moving faster, his fingers pumping in a rhythm that matched the frantic beat of her heart. She could feel the edge approaching, the point of no return, and she surrendered to it completely.
When she came, it was with a cry that she couldn't have suppressed if she tried. Her whole body arched off the bed, every muscle tensing, and she saw stars—actual stars, bursting behind her closed eyes. The pleasure crashed over her in waves, each one stronger than the last, and she rode it out gasping, her fingers digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
He stayed with her through it, his mouth gentling, his fingers slowing, until she finally collapsed back against the mattress, utterly spent. Her chest heaved, her heart pounding, and she could feel the sweat cooling on her skin.
He crawled up her body and hovered over her, his face inches from hers. His chin was slick, his lips wet, and there was a look of such profound satisfaction on his face that she almost laughed.
"That was..." He trailed off, shaking his head.
"Yeah," she agreed. "It was."
He kissed her, and she tasted herself on his lips, a heady, intimate flavor that made her shiver. When he pulled back, his eyes were soft, almost wondering.
"Can I ask you something?" he said.
"Sure."
"Why me?"
She blinked, caught off guard. "What do you mean?"
"I mean..." He searched for words. "You could have anyone. Literally anyone. Why did you text me? Why did you bring me here?"
She was quiet for a moment, considering the question. The honest answer was complicated—boredom, curiosity, loneliness, a desperate need for something real in a life that had become increasingly synthetic. But that wasn't the whole truth.
"Because you looked at me like I was a person," she said finally. "Not a player. Not a brand. Just... a person. And I hadn't felt like a person in a really long time."
He stared at her, and she saw understanding dawn in his eyes. Not pity—she would have hated pity. Just recognition. Like he understood exactly what she meant.
"That's the loneliest thing I've ever heard," he said softly.
"Yeah," she said, and her voice was thick. "It kind of is."
He kissed her again, gentler this time, and she let herself sink into it. Into him. Into the warmth of his body and the steady beat of his heart against hers. For the first time in months, she wasn't thinking about the next match, the next endorsement, the next interview. She was just here. Just present.
Just Smriti.
When they finally pulled apart, he was hard against her thigh, and she could feel the tension in his body, the effort he was making to hold back.
"You want to?" she asked, her hand sliding down his chest, past his stomach, to where he was straining.
"I want to," he said. "But I don't want to mess this up."
"You won't."
"How do you know?"
She smiled, and it was a real smile, the kind that reached her eyes. "Because I'm going to help you."
She reached over to her nightstand and pulled out a condom, pressing it into his hand. He fumbled with the wrapper for a moment, his fingers clumsy with nerves, and she guided him through it, showing him how to roll it on. When he was ready, she pulled him down on top of her, wrapping her legs around his waist.
"Go slow," she said. "And look at me. Don't close your eyes."
He nodded, and then he was pushing inside her, inch by inch, and she felt herself stretch around him, the fullness almost overwhelming. He was trembling, his whole body shaking with the effort of holding back, and she cupped his face in her hands.
"I've got you," she whispered. "I've got you."
He began to move, and the world narrowed to just this—the slide of skin against skin, the mingled rhythm of their breathing, the quiet sounds of pleasure that escaped them both. She watched his face, watched the way his brow furrowed with concentration, the way his lips parted, the way his eyes never left hers.
The trophies on the shelf seemed to watch from a distance, indifferent witnesses to something that felt, in this moment, more significant than any victory she'd ever achieved on a cricket pitch. The whiskey bottle gleamed in the lamplight, and outside, the city hummed with its millions of lives, none of them aware of this small, sacred thing happening in a bedroom on the eighth floor.
She pulled him closer, her lips brushing his ear.
"Let go," she whispered. "I've got you."
And he did.