It wasn't raining. Not yet. But the clouds over Gurgaon looked like they were holding back moans.
Meera sat at the corner table of a quiet café, grading essays with a pen that had run out of ink three papers ago. Her hair was pinned back. Glasses on. Lips bare.She looked like discipline—until you noticed how often her thighs crossed.
He walked in like a punctuation mark her body had been waiting for.
White linen shirt, half-buttoned. Curls a little wet. Book in hand. Not reading. Just holding it like it had come from his body.
She didn't look up immediately. She never did. But he noticed her.
And he didn't just watch—he read.
Without a word, he took the table beside hers. Close, but not rude.
He placed the book on the table spine-up.Title: Women Who Come Without Touch.
Her eyes flicked up.
He smiled. Not cocky. Just honest.
"You look like you haven't come in years," he said.
Her breath stuttered.
"Excuse me?" she replied, voice sharp enough to snap chalk.
He leaned in, elbows on the table. Slow. Measured. Delicious.
"You teach young minds, don't you?"She nodded, guarded.
"But no one's taught your body yet."
She almost stood up.
Almost.
But the ache between her legs said: Sit. Listen.
"You're being wildly inappropriate," she said, cheeks flushing with heat she hadn't felt in a decade.
"And you're soaking through your panties," he replied, voice soft, cruelly gentle. "Which one of us is lying?"
Her mouth opened. Nothing came out.
He slid the book toward her.
"Page 19," he said. "Read it when you get home. Then call me. Or just come."
She didn't take the book.
She just stared.
And he walked out—slow, like he knew she'd follow eventually.
When she got home that night, she did what she swore she wouldn't:
She read page 19.
"She had been fucked before. Rushed. Praised. Forgotten.But no one had ever written their name inside her with their tongue.Until him.And now her thighs remembered him more than her mind did."
She dropped the book.
Her hand slid down between her legs.
And for the first time in her life—
She moaned without guilt.
Because the words didn't ask for permission.
They told her:
"You're allowed to come for your own pleasure now."
And she did.
Hard.
Loud.
Shaking.
Alone.
But not lonely.
Because he was already inside her—
In her mind.
In her ink.
In her need.