“Oh god, Harshad… right there… don’t stop.”

The plea was a shattered whisper, torn from Shivangi’s lips as she braced herself against the polished wood of the hotel dresser. Behind her, Harshad was a solid wall of heat and muscle, his body moving against hers with a rhythm that was swiftly erasing every thought of floral arrangements and guest lists from her mind. Her heavy wedding lahenga was a forgotten crimson pool at her feet, and all that existed was the relentless, perfect friction of him moving deep inside her.