Chapter 7: The Thigh Job She Mocked
The rain has softened to a whisper against the glass.
Not stopped—never stopped—but gentled, a steady hush that fills the room like breath. The storm has moved on, leaving behind that particular stillness that comes after violence. The kind that settles into your bones and makes you aware of every ache, every twinge, every place where someone else's body has pressed against yours hard enough to leave a mark.
Arusha hasn't moved.
She's still sprawled on her back where I left her, legs splayed wide, arms flung out like she's been crucified on Sonalika's sheets. Her chest rises and falls in shallow, ragged gasps. Sweat pools in the hollow of her throat, catches the dim lamplight, slides down between her tits in a slow, lazy river.
Her cunt is still open.
Still gaping.
Still leaking.
I watch a thick rope of cum—my cum—slide out of her and drip onto the sheets. It's obscene. It's beautiful. It's the most animal thing I've ever seen, and I can't look away.
Her thighs are slick with it. The insides, especially—those thick, smooth thighs that I've caught myself staring at across dinner tables, across coffee shops, across years of friendship I never had the guts to complicate. They're painted white now, streaked and smeared, and more is still coming. Still dripping. Still pouring out of her like she's a vessel that's been overfilled.
Even after Sonalika sucked her clean.
Even after Sonalika drank from her like she was dying of thirst.
There's still more.
"Look at her," Sonalika murmurs.
She's beside me now. When did she move? I don't remember. The last thing I recall is her mouth on Arusha's cunt, her tongue scooping out my cum, her throat working as she swallowed. But now she's here—kneeling on the mattress, her pale body luminous in the half-dark, her curls a wild tangle around her face.
Her chin is still wet.
"You did that," she says.
I try to speak. My throat is raw. Dry. Nothing comes out but a rasp.
"You fucked her so full she's still dripping." Sonalika's voice is soft. Almost reverent. "She's going to be feeling you for days, Hardik. Every time she moves. Every time she sits down. She's going to feel your cum inside her, and she's going to remember."
I look at Arusha again.
She's gone. Not unconscious—her eyes are open, blinking slowly at the ceiling—but gone. Somewhere else. That hazy, bred look I've only ever seen in porn, only ever fantasized about, is painted across her face like a mask. Her lips are parted. Her cheeks are flushed. And there's something in her eyes—something soft and broken and utterly surrendered.
"She's not coming back for a while," Sonalika says. "You broke her."
The words should horrify me.They don't.
"You filled her up so good," Sonalika continues. She's crawling now—moving toward me on hands and knees, her tits swaying with each movement. "So fucking good. I've never seen anyone come that much. You just kept going. Kept pumping. Kept filling her."
She stops between my legs.
I'm slumped against the headboard—when did I get here?—my spine curved, my head lolling, my arms limp at my sides. My cock is a useless, twitching thing between my thighs.Soft. Spent. Dripping with the combined fluids of two women.
Sonalika's knees spread wide on either side of my hips.
Her pussy is on full display.
Swollen. Glistening. Dripping onto the sheets beneath her. She's been wet this whole time—I can smell it, that sharp, musky scent mixing with the cinnamon from the dessert we never finished, with the sweat and cum and everything else we've done tonight.
She's staring at my cock.
That mean, hungry little smile curves her lips.
She doesn't touch me yet. Just kneels there, thighs spread, cunt dripping onto the sheets, and watches me with those brown-gold eyes. The lamplight catches the dried cum on her chin—flakes of it, crusted in the crease beneath her lower lip. She doesn't wipe it away. She wears it like jewelry.
"You know what you did, right?" she asks.
Her voice is soft. Conversational. Like we're discussing the weather instead of the fact that I just emptied myself into our best friend's cunt.
"I fucked her," I manage.
"You bred her."
The word lands like a slap. I feel it in my chest, in my stomach, in the base of my spine where my exhausted cock gives a pitiful twitch.
"You pumped her so full that she's still leaking." Sonalika gestures vaguely toward Arusha's sprawled body without looking at her. "Look at her. She's fucking pregnant, Hardik."
"She's not—"
"She is." Sonalika's eyes narrow. "You know that, right? You filled her up so good that she's carrying your fucking seed right now. It's swimming inside her. Looking for a place to settle."
My mouth goes dry.
I try to look at Arusha again—at her thighs, at the mess I made, at the way her cunt is still gaping and dripping. But Sonalika shifts, blocking my view. She leans forward, palms pressing into the mattress on either side of my hips, and her tits hang heavy and pale in the dim light.
"You don't get to look at her anymore," she says. "You look at me."
I look at her.
"Good boy."
The words hit different this time. Not praise—possession. She's claiming me now, the way I claimed Arusha. Marking her territory.
And then I feel it.Her foot.
It presses against my chest—the sole of it, warm and soft and slightly damp from the sweat of everything we've done. Her toes curl against my sternum. Her heel digs into the space just below my ribs.
I gasp.
"Shh," she murmurs. "Just feel it."
She keeps talking. That's the thing about Sonalika—she never stops talking. Words pour out of her like water, like music, like something she can't control. And right now, every word is a knife wrapped in silk.
"You fucked the living daylights out of her," she says.
Her foot slides up an inch. The ball of it presses against my solar plexus. I feel every ridge of her toes, every curve of her arch, every callus from years of dancing barefoot in her apartment.
"I've never seen anyone come like that. Never. You just kept going. Kept pumping. Kept filling her up until she couldn't take anymore."
Another inch. Her heel is at my sternum now, her toes brushing my collarbone. The weight of her leg is heavier than I expected—dense and warm and grounding.
"You're such a good boy, Hardik."
The praise should feel good. It does feel good. That's the problem. Every word lights up something in my chest, something hungry and desperate and pathetic.
"You gave her exactly what she needed. What she's been needing for months, probably. Years. You saw how she looked at you at dinner. You saw the way she was squirming in her chair."
I didn't see. I never see. That's the whole problem—I never see what's right in front of me until it's too late.
"All those nights she went home alone," Sonalika continues. "All those nights she touched herself thinking about you. And you never noticed. You never fucking noticed."
Her foot moves again. Her toes drag along my throat—light, teasing—and then settle just beneath my chin. I can smell her. Soap and sweat and the faint, musky sweetness of her cunt.
"But tonight," she says, "you finally gave it to her. You finally gave her what she's been too scared to ask for."
I should say something. Should defend myself. Should point out that Arusha never once told me she wanted this, that I never had a clue, that this whole night has been a fever dream I still don't fully understand.
But Sonalika's foot is resting against my throat now.
And I can't speak.
"You knocked her up," she says.
Her voice drops to a whisper—intimate and cruel and absolutely certain.
"You knocked her the fuck up, Hardik. And she's going to feel it for days. Every time she walks. Every time she sits. Every time she touches herself, she's going to feel your cum inside her, and she's going to remember what a good boy you were."
Her foot slides higher.
Along my jaw now. Her toes brush against my stubble, against the line of my chin, against the corner of my mouth. I can taste the salt on her skin—sweat and something else, something I don't want to name.
"A good boy," she repeats. "Such a good, perfect, obedient boy."
Her sole presses against my cheek.
I gasp. Take a deep breath in. And her foot is right there, covering my nose and mouth, and I'm breathing her in. Breathing in the sweat and the heat and the smell of everything we've done tonight.
It should be disgusting.
It's not.
It's the most intimate thing anyone has ever done to me.
Sonalika giggles.
The sound is bright and cruel and utterly delighted. She's enjoying this. Enjoying the way I'm struggling, the way I'm not struggling, the way I've gone completely still beneath her.
"Pathetic," she says.
Her foot presses harder against my face. My breath comes in short, sharp bursts through my nose. My vision is nothing but the pale curve of her ankle, the arch of her foot, the tips of her toes curling against my skin.
"You like this," she says.
It's not a question.
"You like being under me. You like being used. You like being told what a good boy you are while I press my foot into your face like you're nothing but a piece of furniture."
I should be offended. Should push her off, tell her to fuck herself, remind her that I just gave her and Arusha the best orgasms of their lives. But I can't. I can't do anything except lie there and take it.
Her foot is a warm weight against my mouth, her toes curled just under my nose. I breathe her in—sweat and soap and the faint, sharp tang of arousal that hasn't stopped leaking from her since this whole thing started. My cock twitches against my thigh. Useless. Spent. But still trying.
"You're pathetic," Sonalika says again.
She says it like she's savoring the word. Rolling it around her mouth like candy. Her toes flex against my lips, and I feel the ridges of them, the slight calluses on her soles from years of dancing barefoot in her apartment. The lamplight catches the clear polish on her nails—chipped now, from where she's been gripping the sheets.
"I just fucked two women," I manage. My voice is muffled against her foot. "That's not pathetic."
"It's pathetic that you're still hard."
She's not wrong. I glance down at myself—at the sorry state of my cock, half-risen against my stomach, slick with everything we've done tonight. It's like my body hasn't gotten the message. Like it doesn't understand that there's nothing left.
"You're like a fucking puppy," she continues. "Just keeps coming back for more. No matter how many times you get kicked."
I should be offended. Should push her off. Should remind her that I just gave her the best orgasm of her life—that I just bred our best friend so thoroughly that she's still leaking onto the sheets. But her foot is still on my face. And her eyes are still on mine.
And there's something in them I don't recognize.
Something soft.
Something that looks almost like fear.
Then Arusha moves.
Just her head. A slow, heavy turn against the pillow, like it takes every ounce of strength she has left. Her brown waves are plastered to her forehead with sweat. Her lips are parted. And her eyes—those hazy, fucked-out eyes—find us.
Find me.
Find Sonalika's foot pressed against my mouth.
Her hips buck.
It's involuntary. I can see it in the way her stomach clenches, the way her thighs tense, the way her cunt—still gaping, still dripping—clenches around nothing. She's watching us. Watching me submit. Watching Sonalika claim me the way I claimed her.
And she likes it.
Sonalika laughs.
It's that mean laugh—the one that makes my stomach clench and my cock twitch in equal measure. She's seen it too. Seen the way Arusha's hips moved, seen the way her eyes went wide, seen the way her whole body reacted to the sight of me under Sonalika's foot.
"Look at her," Sonalika purrs. "She's still coming. Just from watching."
Arusha's cheeks flush. Even through the haze of exhaustion, through the fog of endorphins, she has enough left in her to feel embarrassed. She turns her head away. But her hips are still moving—little micro-thrusts against the sheets, like she can't help herself.
"Pathetic," Sonalika says.
She's talking to both of us now. Her eyes flick between Arusha and me, and that mean little smile is back—the one that makes me want to fuck her and strangle her and worship her all at once.
"Two pathetic little puppies," she continues. "Both of you. Just desperate for attention. Desperate for someone to tell you you're good."
She opens her mouth to say something else. Something worse. Something that'll make Arusha whimper and me flush and both of us feel like the dirt beneath her feet.
But I don't let her.
I move before I can think—before I can second-guess, before I can remember that I'm supposed to be annoyed by her, frustrated by her, that we've spent years dancing around each other because we both know this would never work. I tilt my head. Press my open mouth against the sole of her foot.
And I lick.
Slow. Deliberate. My tongue drags from her heel to the ball of her foot, tasting salt and sweat and the faint sweetness of her skin. I feel every ridge, every line, every tiny callus. I feel the way her toes curl against my tongue.
Sonalika moans.
Loud.
It's not one of her controlled sounds—not the deliberate, teasing moans she uses when she's putting on a show. This is raw. Surprised. The sound of someone who didn't expect to feel what they're feeling.
Her cheeks go red.
I can see it even in the dim light—that flush spreading from her chest to her neck, up to her face, until she's pink all over. Her eyes go wide. Her mouth opens. Closes.Opens again.
"What the fuck," she breathes.
I don't stop.
I drag my tongue up her arch, following the curve of her foot, tasting the delicate skin there. She's so soft here. So impossibly soft. I've spent years imagining her—imagining this—but I never thought about her feet. Never thought about the way they'd taste, the way they'd twitch against my mouth, the way her toes would splay when I hit the right spot.
But I'm learning.
"Hardik—" Her voice cracks. "What the fuck are you doing?"
I look up at her.
Her face is a mess of emotions—embarrassment, anger, arousal, confusion. Her brown-gold eyes are wide. Her lips are parted. And there's something else there, something I've never seen on her before.
Vulnerability.
She's not used to this. Not used to being the one who's affected. She's the one who teases, who tortures, who demeans. She's the one who stays in control. And right now, with my tongue on her foot, with my eyes on hers, she's losing it.
"You're supposed to be annoyed," she says.
Her voice is barely a whisper.
"You're supposed to be pushing me away. Making some snarky comment. Being a brat."
I lick her sole again.
The sound she makes is almost a sob. Her hips jerk—actually jerk—and I see her thighs clench, see the way her cunt drips onto the sheets beneath her. She's so wet. So impossibly wet. And she's trying so hard to pretend she isn't.
"I thought you wanted me to be a good boy," I murmur against her skin.
Her nails dig into my thighs.
I feel them—those clear, pointed nails, sharp and precise, pressing into the muscle of my legs. She's not drawing blood. Not yet. But she's marking me. Claiming me. Leaving crescents in my skin that'll still be there tomorrow.
"Don't," she says.
"Don't what?"
"You're even more pathetic than I thought," she whispers.
But her voice wavers.
And her foot slides up.
Just a little. Just enough for her toes to brush against my lips, my tongue, the wet heat of my mouth. I open for her. Take her toes between my lips. Suck them.
She moans again.
Louder this time. She can't help it. Her body is betraying her—her hips grinding down onto nothing, her thighs shaking, her cunt dripping onto the sheets in a steady stream. She's so turned on she can't even pretend anymore.
"Fuck," she gasps. "Fuck, Hardik—"
I suck harder.
My tongue slides between her toes, tasting each one. I catalogue them—the big toe with its short, blunt nail, the little one that curls inward, the ones in between that are slightly longer than the rest. I've studied her hands before. Her fingers. But her feet are new territory, and I'm exploring them like a man possessed.
Her nails dig deeper into my thighs.
Four sharp points of pain on each leg. I feel the sting, feel the warmth of blood welling up, feel the way her fingers are trembling as they grip me. She's holding on. Holding on like she's afraid she'll float away.
"That's enough," she says.
Her voice is hoarse. Broken.
But she doesn't pull her foot away.
I keep working. My mouth moves from her toes to the arch of her foot, kissing and licking and worshipping like she's something sacred. She moans again—softer this time, almost a whimper—and I feel her body relax into the mattress.
"You're impossible," she breathes.
I don't answer. Just keep going. Keep tasting. Keep worshipping.
Behind me, I hear Arusha shift.
She's still watching. I can feel her eyes on us—on the way I'm bowed over Sonalika's foot, on the way Sonalika is losing control, on the way her own cum is still dripping down her thighs. She's watching the power shift. Watching the tables turn.
And she's loving it.
"Never saw this," I hear her mumble.
It's the first thing she's said since we finished. Her voice is wrecked—raw and hollow and utterly satisfied.
"Never saw Sonalika like this."
Sonalika's head snaps toward Arusha.
"Shut up," she says.
But it's not her normal snarl. There's no bite in it. Just... weakness. Embarrassment. A plea disguised as an insult.
"No," Arusha says. She's still hazy—still that fucked-out, bred version of herself—but there's a smile on her lips now. A mean one. "No, I don't think I will."
Sonalika's foot twitches against my tongue.
"Look at you," Arusha continues. "Look at the way you're shaking. Look at the way you're dripping."
"I'm not—"
"You are." Arusha pushes herself up on her elbows. The movement makes her hiss—makes her thighs squeeze together, trying to keep my cum inside. "You're dripping all over the sheets. You're so wet I can smell it from here."
Sonalika's cheeks go darker.
"You're one to talk," she snaps. "You're leaking down your fucking legs."
"Because your good boy bred me." Arusha's eyes find mine. "Isn't that fucking right, Hardik? You filled me up so good that I can't even feel."
The words make my cock twitch again.
Sonalika feels it. Of course she feels it. Her foot is still on my face, her toes still tangled with my tongue. And she's still wet. Still dripping.
Still so turned on she can barely speak.
Her foot twitches against my mouth, toes curling, and I feel the tremor run up her leg—through her ankle, her calf, the back of her thigh. She's shaking. Actually shaking. That mean little smile from earlier is long gone, replaced by something I've never seen on her face before.
Panic.
Not fear. Not quite. But that specific brand of panic that comes when you realize you're not in control anymore. When you realize the game has shifted and you're the one being played.
"You need to stop," she says.
I don't.
My tongue slides between her toes, tracing the spaces, tasting the salt and sweat that's gathered there. Her nails—those clear, pointed nails, chipped from gripping the sheets—catch the lamplight as her toes flex against my lips. I suck one into my mouth, rolling it gently with my tongue.
Her hips buck.
Hard. Uncontrolled. The kind of movement that has nothing to do with thought and everything to do with instinct. Her cunt clenches around nothing, and I watch—from the corner of my eye, past the curve of her ankle—as a fresh gush of arousal drips onto the sheets.
The wet spot is growing.
It's already the size of my palm, dark against the pale cotton, and it's spreading. She's been dripping this whole time. Since before Arusha, probably. Since dinner. Since the moment she decided she was going to ruin us both.
"Please," she whispers.
The word catches me off guard.
Sonalika doesn't say please. Sonalika demands. Sonalika takes. Sonalika says things like "you're pathetic" and "good boy" and "shut up" and means all of them as commands.
But this—this is different.
This is a plea.
I look up at her. Past her foot, past her trembling thighs, past the curve of her stomach and the heavy sway of her tits. Her face is flushed—pink spreading from her cheeks down to her neck, down to her chest. Her lips are parted. Her eyes are wide.
And wet.
Not crying. Not quite. But glistening. Like she's on the edge of something she can't name.
"What do you want?" I ask against her skin.
The words vibrate through her foot. She shudders.
"I don't—" She stops. Swallows. Her throat moves, and I watch the way her jaw clenches, the way her teeth grind together. "I don't know."
"You do."
"I don't."
"You do."
She yanks her foot away from my mouth.
The movement is sudden—violent, almost—and for a second I think she's going to stop. Going to climb off me, go to the bathroom, wash her face and come back with some sarcastic comment that'll make everything normal again. That's what she does. That's her pattern. Something gets too real and she retreats behind her walls.
But she doesn't retreat.
She switches.
Her other foot—the one that's been tucked beneath her this whole time, the one that's been grinding against the sheets—swings up. It's almost a kick. The sole of it slams against my face—not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make me gasp, hard enough to make my head snap back against the headboard.
And then her wet foot—the one I just spent five minutes worshipping, the one slick with my spit and her sweat—drops down.
Onto my cock.
I hiss through my teeth.
The sensation is overwhelming. Her sole is warm and wet and impossibly soft, sliding along my shaft with a friction that's almost too much. I'm still sensitive from everything before—from coming twice, from fucking Arusha so hard my legs gave out. Every nerve ending is raw. Every touch is electric.
But I don't stop her.
Can't stop her.
She presses down, grinding her foot against my cock, and I feel every ridge, every line, every callus on her sole. She's not gentle. She's not trying to be. This is deliberate—a punishment, maybe—and she's watching my face the whole time.
"You hate this," she says.
Her voice is shaky. Uncertain.
"I hate this."
She's talking to herself. Convincing herself. Her toes curl around the head of my cock and squeeze, and I moan—a raw, desperate sound that fills the room.
"I hate that you're turning me on."
The admission slips out before she can catch it. I see the regret flash across her face—that instant of panic, of self-betrayal—before she schools her features back into something meaner. But it's too late. I heard it. Arusha heard it.
And we both know what it means.
"Fucking pathetic," Sonalika mutters.
But she doesn't pull her foot away.
She slides it down my shaft—slow, deliberate—until her arch is resting against the base of my cock. Then she slides it back up. And again. And again. A steady rhythm that has my hips lifting off the mattress, chasing the friction, desperate for more.
Her other foot is still on my face.
The one that's been hidden—the one that's dry, mostly, except for the sweat that's gathered between her toes—is pressed against my mouth. Not quite covering it. Just... there. A reminder. A claim.
"Open," she says.
I open.
She shoves her toes into my mouth.
They taste different from the other foot—less salty, more musky. The sweat has gathered in the spaces between them, thick and concentrated. I run my tongue along each one, feeling the ridges of her nails, the slight roughness of her cuticles. They're bare and natural, and somehow that makes it more intimate.
Her wet foot keeps working my cock.
She's found a rhythm now—slow and torturous, her sole dragging up and down my length, her toes curling around the head every time she reaches the top. I'm leaking. I can feel it—precum dripping onto her foot, mixing with my saliva, making everything slicker. Easier.
"Good boy," she whispers.
The words come out broken. Like she's forcing them through clenched teeth. Like she hates how much she means them.
"Such a good boy for me. Letting me use you like this. Letting me—"
She breaks off with a moan.
Her hips are grinding against the mattress now—short, sharp thrusts that have nothing to do with me and everything to do with her own desperate need. The wet spot beneath her has spread. It's huge now, dark and glistening, visible even in the dim light.
"You're so wet," I mumble around her toes.
She yanks her foot out of my mouth.
"Shut up."
"You're dripping onto the sheets."
"I said shut up."
"You're so turned on you can't even—"
She slaps me.
Not hard. Not really. The sole of her foot connects with my cheek—a sharp sting that fades as quickly as it comes. But the message is clear. She's still in control. She's still the one calling the shots.
"You don't get to talk," she says.
Her voice is shaking. Her whole body is shaking. But she's trying—God, she's trying so hard—to hold onto her power.
"You don't get to say anything. You just get to lie there and take it."
Her wet foot starts moving again.
Faster now. Rougher. She's done being gentle—if she was ever gentle in the first place. Her sole drags up my shaft with brutal efficiency, her toes gripping tight, her heel grinding against my balls.
I groan.
It's too much. It's not enough. I'm oversensitive and desperate and completely at her mercy. My hands clench in the sheets. My hips lift off the mattress, chasing her foot, trying to find more friction.
But she's not done.
Her dry foot—still slick with my saliva—comes down on my face again. This time, she doesn't tease. She presses her toes against my lips and pushes.
"Open," she says again.
I open.
She shoves her foot deeper into my mouth. Her toes hit the back of my throat and I gag—a reflexive spasm that makes her gasp. But I don't pull away. I breathe through my nose. I relax my throat. I let her in.
"That's it," she breathes. "That's my good boy."
Her wet foot moves faster.
She's not even pretending anymore. This isn't about torturing me—it's about getting herself off. Her hips are grinding down onto the mattress in a frantic rhythm. Her thighs are clenching. And the wet spot beneath her—that huge, dark stain—has grown so big it's touching my knees.
"You're going to make me come," she says.
Her voice is high. Breathy. Almost surprised.
"You're going to make me come just from this. Just from using your pathetic fucking cock as a—as a toy."
I moan around her toes.
The vibration travels up her foot, through her leg, straight to her cunt. She shudders. Her eyes roll back. And her foot—her perfect, soft, torturous foot—keeps working my cock like it's the only thing in the world that matters.
"Look at you," she gasps. "Look at you letting me do this. Look at you just—just lying there and taking it."
Her other foot is still in my mouth, still pressed against my tongue, and I'm drooling around it—saliva dripping down my chin, pooling in the hollow of my throat. I must look pathetic. I must look wrecked.
I don't care.
"You're going to come," I manage.
It comes out garbled, muffled around her toes.
"You're going to come all over your own foot. All over the sheets. You're going to—"
"Shut up."
But she's close. I can hear it in her voice—that high, tight quality that means she's seconds away. Her foot is moving faster now, pressing harder, grinding against my cock with a desperation that matches my own.
"Shut up, shut up, shut up—"
Her orgasm hits.
It's violent. Beautiful. She screams—a raw, broken sound that tears through the room—and her whole body convulses. Her thighs clamp together, trapping her foot against my cock. Her cunt gushes, soaking the sheets, soaking my legs, soaking everything.
And her toes—her toes curl in my mouth so hard I feel her nails scrape against my tongue.
She's shaking. Shaking apart. And I'm shaking with her—my cock twitching helplessly against her foot, my own orgasm building and building and never quite arriving. I'm too spent. Too empty. There's nothing left to give.
But I can't stop.
I can't stop licking her foot. Can't stop sucking her toes. Can't stop worshipping every inch of her skin like it's the only thing keeping me alive.
"Fuck," she whispers.
Her voice is destroyed. Empty. Wrecked.
"Fuck, Hardik. What did you do to me?"
I don't answer.
Can't answer.
Because her foot is still in my mouth. Her other foot is still on my cock. And I'm still hard—achingly, painfully hard—and I have no idea how this night is going to end.
Beside us, Arusha laughs.
It's a soft sound. A knowing sound. The sound of someone who's been watching the whole time and enjoying every second.
"You broke her," she says.
I feel Sonalika tense.
"Shut up."
"No, really. You actually broke her." Arusha pushes herself up on her elbows. Her thighs are still slick with my cum, still dripping onto the sheets. "I've known her for years and I've never seen her like this."
"I said shut up."
"She's shaking. Look at her. She's actually shaking."
Sonalika's foot slides out of my mouth.
She doesn't look at Arusha. Doesn't look at me. Just stares at the wall—at the rain streaking down the glass—and breathes.Out.Out.
"I hate you," she says.
The words are aimed at me. But her voice is soft. Almost gentle.
"I hate both of you."
Arusha laughs again.
"No, you don't."
"I do."
"You don't."
"I fucking do."
But she's smiling.
I can see it—just barely, just at the corner of her mouth. That mean little smile she uses when she's trying to pretend she's not feeling something.
She hates me.
She hates that I made her feel something.
And she's never going to admit it.