The next morning arrived with the same oppressive Mumbai heat, the kind that made every breath feel thick and lazy. Aryan had barely slept. His mind replayed Priya's moans on an endless loop—the wet slick of her fingers, the desperate rise and fall of her voice, the way her body must have arched and trembled on the other side of that thin wall. His sheets were still crumpled from where he'd gripped them, his release dried stiff on his skin even after a hurried shower.
He stepped out of his flat earlier than usual, hoping to avoid running into anyone. Especially her.
Fate, it seemed, had other plans.
The elevator doors slid open on the ground floor, and there she was—Priya Mehta, stepping in just as he stepped out. She was dressed in a simple cream-colored salwar kameez, the dupatta draped loosely over her shoulders. The fabric was light, almost translucent in the morning light filtering through the lobby windows, clinging softly to the generous swell of her breasts and the curve of her hips. A faint sheen of perspiration already glistened at her throat, trickling down into the deep valley of her cleavage.
"Oh, Aryan beta!" Her voice was warm, melodic, with that soft lilt that always made his name sound intimate. She smiled brightly, dark eyes crinkling at the corners. "Good morning! Heading to college early today?"
Aryan froze for a split second, heat flooding his face—and lower. Up close, her scent hit him like a wave: jasmine from her hair oil, mixed with the warmer, musky note of her skin warmed by the humidity. It was the same fragrance that had drifted across the balcony yesterday, now intensified, wrapping around him until his cock twitched traitorously in his jeans.
"G-Good morning, Aunty," he managed, forcing a nod. The elevator dinged behind her, doors closing as she stepped aside to let him pass. But in the narrow lobby, their bodies brushed—her full breast grazing his arm for a fleeting moment. The contact was electric. He felt the soft, heavy weight of it through the thin fabric, the faint hardness of her nipple pressing briefly against him before she moved.
Priya didn't seem to notice—or if she did, she gave no sign. She adjusted her dupatta, the motion lifting her chest slightly, drawing his eyes involuntarily to the way her kameez stretched taut over those perfect, rounded mounds. "Vikram left for his trip last night," she said casually, fanning herself with one hand. "The flat feels so empty without Rohan around too. You boys used to make so much noise playing games."
Her laugh was light, but Aryan's mind flashed to the noises he'd heard last night. His throat tightened. Did she know? Could she have heard him too—his ragged breathing, the slap of his hand on his cock as he came imagining her?
"I... yeah," he muttered, shifting his bag to hide the growing bulge in his pants. "Rohan's hostel life must be fun."
She tilted her head, long hair shifting to release another wave of jasmine. "It is quiet. Too quiet sometimes." Her gaze lingered on him a beat longer than necessary, dark eyes soft and knowing—or was that his imagination? "If you're free later, beta, could you help me with something? The AC in the living room is acting up again, and I'm hopeless with these things. Vikram usually handles it, but..."
Her lower lip caught between her teeth for a moment, a small, vulnerable gesture that made Aryan's pulse thunder. He could picture it—alone in her flat, her bending over to show him the unit, that round ass presented to him, the scent of her filling the room.
"S-Sure, Aunty," he stammered. "After college? Around five?"
Her smile widened, radiant. "Perfect. I'll make some cold nimbu pani for you. It's so hot these days." She reached out, patting his arm lightly. Her fingers were warm, lingering just a second too long on his bicep, tracing the muscle there before pulling away. The touch burned through his shirt.
As she turned toward the elevator, Aryan caught the sway of her hips, the way the salwar hugged her thick thighs with every step. He stood rooted, cock throbbing painfully now, pre-cum dampening his underwear.
Five o'clock couldn't come soon enough.
Or maybe it would come too soon.
He didn't know if he could control himself in her home, surrounded by her scent, her softness, her everything.
But god, he wanted to find out.