Chapter 7: The Plumber in Her Bathroom
The morning came soft and grey through the curtains, and Ruby woke with the taste of something sour in her mouth.
She hadn't slept well. She'd lain awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, replaying the moment in the garden over and over—Mr. Dixit's fingers brushing hers, his voice low and steady, the way he'd said her name like it was a secret he'd been keeping for years.
Be careful, Ruby.
But she was tired of being careful.
She dragged herself out of bed and into the shower. The water was hot, almost scalding, and she stood under it until her skin turned pink and her thoughts went quiet. She washed her hair, shaved her legs, scrubbed herself clean. She didn't think about Mr. Sharma. She didn't think about the way he'd looked at her, or the way she'd let him. She didn't think about any of it.
She was good at not thinking. She'd had years of practice.
By the time she came downstairs, the house was empty. Anubhav had left for work—she'd heard him moving around at six, the front door clicking shut before she'd even opened her eyes. Mr. Dixit was in the garden again. She could see him through the kitchen window, his back bent over the rose bushes, his hands moving with the same slow, deliberate care he always had.
She made herself a cup of tea and sat at the kitchen table. The house was quiet. Too quiet. She could hear the clock ticking on the wall, the hum of the refrigerator, the distant crow of a neighbor's rooster.
She thought about the panties.
They were still in her pocket. She'd forgotten to take them out before her shower, and now they were damp and wrinkled, the lace edges frayed. She pulled them out and stared at them. Black lace. Small. Delicate. The kind of thing a woman wore when she wanted to be looked at.
She'd bought them three years ago. Anubhav had never seen them.
She shoved them back into her pocket and stood up. The tea was cold. She dumped it in the sink and rinsed the cup, her movements quick and jerky. She needed to do something. She needed to move. She needed to stop thinking about Mr. Dixit's hands and Mr. Sharma's eyes and the way her body had felt when she'd stood in that doorway, bare and wanting.
She went upstairs to clean the bathroom.
It was still a mess from yesterday—the wet floor, the scattered tools, the smell of grease and rust. She grabbed a bucket and a rag and got down on her knees, scrubbing the tiles until her arms ached. She scrubbed the sink, the mirror, the walls. She scrubbed until the bathroom smelled like bleach and lemon and nothing else.
She was on her hands and knees, her saree hitched up around her thighs, when she heard the front door open.
"Ruby?"
Mr. Dixit's voice. Low. Careful.
She sat back on her heels and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. "Up here, Papa."
His footsteps on the stairs. Slow. Measured. He appeared in the doorway, his face creased with something she couldn't read.
"The plumber's here," he said. "He says he left some tools."
Ruby's stomach dropped. "What?"
"Mr. Sharma. He's downstairs. Says he forgot his wrench."
She stood up too fast. Her head spun. "I'll handle it."
Mr. Dixit didn't move. He stood in the doorway, his eyes on her face, his hands loose at his sides. "Ruby—"
"It's fine," she said. "I'll give him his tools and he'll leave."
She walked past him. She could feel his gaze on her back, heavy and warm, but she didn't turn around. She didn't want to see his face. She didn't want to see the question in his eyes.
She found Mr. Sharma in the hallway, his canvas bag slung over one shoulder, his cap in his hands.
"Mrs. Dixit," he said. "Sorry to bother you. I left my wrench in the bathroom."
"I'll get it."
She turned and walked upstairs. She could hear him following her—the same heavy footsteps, the same slow rhythm. Her heart was pounding. Her palms were damp.
She pushed open the bathroom door and pointed to the wrench on the floor. "There it is."
Mr. Sharma stepped past her and picked it up. He didn't leave. He stood there, turning the wrench over in his hands, his eyes moving across the bathroom—the freshly scrubbed tiles, the lemon-scented air, the damp rag still in the bucket.
"You cleaned," he said.
"Yes."
"You didn't have to."
"I wanted to."
He looked at her. His eyes were dark and steady, and there was something in them that made her breath catch—not hunger, not exactly. Something else. Something patient.
"I'm sorry," he said. "About yesterday. I shouldn't have—"
"You didn't do anything."
"I stood in your doorway."
"You didn't touch me."
He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "I wanted to."
Ruby's mouth went dry. She should tell him to leave. She should push past him and run downstairs. She should call Anubhav. She should do any of the hundred things a good wife would do.
She didn't.
"I know," she said.
Mr. Sharma set the wrench down on the edge of the sink. He moved slowly, deliberately, the way he'd moved when he'd fixed the tap—careful, patient, sure of his hands. He reached out and touched her wrist. Just his fingers, light and warm.
"You're shaking," he said.
"I'm fine."
"You're not."
She pulled her hand away. "You should go."
"I should."
Neither of them moved.
The bathroom was small. The door was open. Downstairs, she could hear Mr. Dixit moving around the kitchen—the clink of a spoon against a cup, the soft creak of a cabinet door. He was there. He was close. All she had to do was call out.
Mr. Sharma took a step toward her. Another. His chest was close now, close enough that she could feel the heat coming off him, smell the tobacco and sweat and grease.
"I came back for my wrench," he said. "But that's not why I came back."
Ruby swallowed. "I know."
"Your husband—"
"He doesn't know."
"I didn't ask."
She looked up at him. His eyes were dark, unreadable. But his hands—his hands were steady. Still. Waiting.
"What do you want?" she asked.
"I want to look at you."
She should slap him. She should scream. She should do something other than stand here, trembling, her body humming like a live wire.
But instead she said, "The guest bathroom is downstairs."
He blinked. "What?"
"You said you needed to use the bathroom. The guest bathroom is downstairs."
A slow smile spread across his face. Not a leer. Not a smirk. Just—a smile. Almost gentle.
"I know where the guest bathroom is," he said.
Ruby's heart was pounding so hard she thought he could hear it. She stepped back. She didn't say anything. She just stood there, her hand on the edge of the sink, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps.
Mr. Sharma turned and walked out of the bathroom.
She heard his footsteps on the stairs. She heard him pause at the bottom. She heard Mr. Dixit's voice, low and muffled, asking something she couldn't understand.
Then the front door opened. Closed.
Silence.
Ruby stood in the bathroom for a long time. Her legs were weak. Her hands were shaking. She looked at herself in the mirror—her flushed cheeks, her wild eyes, her lips parted like she was about to say something she couldn't take back.
You're playing with fire, she told herself.
But the thing was—she liked the burn.
---
The afternoon passed in a blur.
Mr. Dixit didn't mention Mr. Sharma. He didn't ask about the tools, or the bathroom, or why the plumber had stayed so long. He just sat in the living room with his newspaper, turning the pages slowly, occasionally clearing his throat. Ruby made lunch. They ate together, the same as always. The same silence. The same careful distance.
But something had changed.
She could feel it in the way he looked at her—longer than before, softer. In the way his fingers brushed hers when she passed him the salt. In the way he said her name, like it was a question he was still trying to answer.
After lunch, she went upstairs to take a shower. A real one this time—hot water, steam, the works. She needed to wash the morning off her skin. She needed to feel clean.
She stood in the bathroom, the door cracked open just a little, the way she always left it. The steam curled around her, thick and white, fogging the mirror, dampening the walls. She let her saree fall to the floor. She let her blouse follow. She stood there in nothing but her skin, the gold ring in her navel glinting in the lamplight, her breasts heavy and full, her hips curved and soft.
She stepped into the shower. The water was hot—almost too hot—and she tilted her head back and let it run over her face, her neck, her chest. She closed her eyes. She breathed.
And then she heard it.
A sound. Soft. Almost imperceptible. The creak of a floorboard in the hallway.
Her eyes flew open.
Through the fogged glass of the shower door, through the steam that curled like smoke, she saw a shadow. A silhouette. A man standing just outside the bathroom door, his body framed by the gap in the door—the same gap she'd left open, the same door she'd cracked on purpose.
Mr. Sharma.
He was supposed to have left. She'd heard the front door close. She'd heard him go. But here he was—standing in her hallway, watching her through the steam, his breath coming in slow, ragged pulls.
Ruby's heart stopped. Then started again, faster than before.
She didn't scream. She didn't cover herself. She didn't reach for a towel or call for Mr. Dixit.
She turned. Slowly. Deliberately. Her body facing the door, water streaming down her chest, her stomach, her thighs. Her nipples hardened in the cool air. Her lips parted.
And she held his gaze.
The steam curled around her like a lover's arms. The water ran in rivulets over her skin. The mirror behind her was a fogged blur, but she could see him—his silhouette, his stillness, the way his hands hung at his sides like he was afraid to move.
For five seconds, neither of them breathed.
Then Ruby spoke.
"Aao," she said. Her voice was low. Steady. Daring. "Andar aao."
Mr. Sharma didn't move.
"Aao," she said again.
He stepped inside.
The door clicked shut behind him. The sound was loud in the small space, final. Ruby reached past the shower glass and turned off the water. The silence that followed was thick and heavy, broken only by the drip of the tap and the sound of his breathing.
He stood there, his back against the door, his eyes moving over her body—her wet skin, her dripping hair, the gold ring in her navel, the dark triangle between her thighs. His cock was already hard, pressing against the front of his grease-stained jeans.
Ruby stepped out of the shower. The tile was cool under her feet. She didn't reach for a towel. She didn't cover herself. She walked toward him, water trailing behind her, and stopped when her chest was almost touching his.
He smelled like tobacco and sweat and something else—something raw and male. His shirt was cheap cotton, faded blue, stained at the collar. She reached up and unbuttoned it. Her fingers were trembling. She didn't care.
The first button. The second. The third. His chest was hairy, his skin dark, his heart pounding under her palm. She pushed the shirt off his shoulders. It fell to the floor.
He didn't move. He just stood there, watching her, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts.
She dropped to her knees.
The tile was wet and cold against her shins. She looked up at him—his face, his eyes, the way his jaw was clenched like he was holding something back. She reached for his belt. Leather. Worn. She unbuckled it, unzipped his jeans, pulled them down over his hips.
His cock sprang free. Thick. Veined. Already leaking.
She took him in her hand. He groaned—low, guttural, a sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest. She leaned forward and took him in her mouth.
The taste was salt and heat. She sucked him slowly at first, her tongue tracing the length of him, her hand wrapped around the base. He tasted like sweat and soap. He tasted like a stranger. She sucked harder. Spit ran down her chin, dripped onto her breasts. He fisted her hair—rough, desperate—and pulled her closer.
"Fuck," he muttered. "Fuck, Ruby."
She moaned around his cock. The vibration made him shudder. She looked up at him—his head thrown back, his mouth open, his breath coming in ragged gasps. She'd never felt like this before. Never felt this powerful. This wanted.
He pulled her up by her hair. She stumbled to her feet, her knees weak, her mouth still wet. He turned her around—rough, urgent—and bent her over the sink.
The porcelain was cold against her stomach. She gasped. She could see herself in the mirror—her flushed face, her wild hair, her breasts pressed against the sink, her ass arched up toward him. She could see him behind her, his cock in his hand, his eyes dark and hungry.
He didn't ask. He didn't wait.
He pushed inside her.
She cried out. The sound echoed off the tiles, raw and animal. He was big—bigger than Anubhav, bigger than she'd expected—and he filled her completely. He paused for a moment, his breath hot on her neck, his hands gripping her hips.
Then he started to move.
Hard. Punishing. Each stroke drove her forward, her hips slamming against the sink, her tits slapping against the porcelain. She could hear the wet sound of their bodies, the slap of skin on skin, the grunt of his breath. She could smell her own arousal, thick and musky, mixing with the jasmine soap and the steam.
He fucked her like he hated her. Like he wanted to break her. Like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.
She loved it.
She pushed back against him, meeting each thrust, her moans growing louder. She didn't care who heard. She didn't care about Anubhav, or Mr. Dixit, or the neighbors, or anyone. She just wanted this—this feeling, this fullness, this fire.
He cursed in Hindi—filthy words she'd never heard before, words that made her blush and ache at the same time. His hand reached around and found her clit, rubbing rough circles while he fucked her.
"Come for me," he growled. "Come on my cock."
She did.
The orgasm ripped through her like a wave—hot, violent, consuming. She screamed. She couldn't help it. Her whole body shook, her thighs clenched, her cunt tightened around him like a fist.
He groaned. His hips stuttered. He pulled out—quick, sudden—and she felt his release on her lower back, hot and thick, spilling across her ass and the curve of her spine.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then he did something she didn't expect. He reached down and smeared his cum into her skin—slow, deliberate, his palm warm against her back. It felt like a brand. Like a claim.
She turned. Her legs were shaking. Her mouth was dry. She looked up at him—this stranger, this plumber, this man she barely knew—and she kissed him.
His mouth was rough. His stubble scraped her lips. He tasted like her—like her cunt, like her spit, like the salt of her own skin. She kissed him deeply, her tongue sliding against his, her hands tangled in his hair.
When she finally pulled back, his eyes were wide. Almost shocked.
"Ruby," he said. Just her name. Like a question.
She smiled. Slow. Daring.
"You should go," she said.
He stared at her for a long moment. Then he nodded. He pulled up his jeans, buttoned his shirt, grabbed his wrench from the sink. He didn't look at her again.
She heard his footsteps on the stairs. She heard the front door open. Close.
And then she was alone.
She stood in the bathroom, naked and dripping, her body still humming, her skin still flushed. The mirror was fogged. The floor was wet. The smell of sex hung in the air like smoke.
She walked to the sink and wiped the fog from the glass.
Her reflection stared back at her—a woman she didn't recognize. A woman with wild eyes and swollen lips. A woman who had just done something she couldn't undo.
She pressed her palm to the glass.
"Fuck," she whispered.
And then she laughed.
Downstairs, the front door opened again.
"Ruby?"
Mr. Dixit's voice. Low. Careful.
She didn't answer.
She just stood there, naked and smiling, watching her own reflection.
And she waited.